Me and The Promise

I was an eighth grader when I purchased the album Darkness on the Edge of Town. Actually I purchased the cassette. Probably at Korvette's in West Orange. Maybe at the music store on Bloomfield Ave. in Caldwell. Probably at Korvette's because it would have been 50 cents cheaper.

I had a little yellow Panasonic tape player that served as my stereo, even though it wasn't actually a stereo. One speaker. The seven or eight bucks I spent on Darkness had a negative impact on my ultimate savings goal, which was the $100 or so it would cost to buy a boom box.

From the first drum beats (duh-duh dum-dum, duh-duh dum-dum) that led me into Badlands, I just knew I was listening to something different from anything my ears had ever heard before. I was 15 years old, living in the most affluent of New Jersey communities, so I'm not sure what the lyrics meant to me. But I knew I liked the stuff like, "Poor man wanna be rich, rich man wanna be king, but a king ain't satisfied 'til he rules everything..." It sort of made sense. Maybe not.

I just knew that it was moving me.

Next came Adam Raised a Cain, which sent chills down my spine. I grew up on Jim Croce, the Beach Boys and Simon and Garfunkel and wasn't really prepared for this kind of anger.

And I loved it. Why? Not sure.

I won't take you song by song through the album because, chances are, if you're reading this you know all about it. I won't say Darkness became "the soundtrack to my life" (even though it's true) because that's become the most ridiculous of Springsteen cliches. But I will tell you this...

I listened to it over and over. Thirty-two years later, I can still sing every word without hesitation. Not only from the studio album, but also from the bootlegs I started collecting later in high school and college. For example, in Prove it all Night, on the album it's "I've been working real hard tryin' to get my hands clean" while on the bootlegs (circa '78) it's "I've been working real hard, to get my hands clean." Years later, when me and my buddies would be singing out loud to the album, we'd often inject the subtle changes from the bootleg lyrics, simply to pronounce our superiority over what we considered to be pseudo Bruce fans. You know, the folks who shout "Born to Run!" and "Hungry Heart!" throughout a concert.

I think it was the live performances of Darkness that made this album my favorite of all-time. And it's been cool to hear Springsteen during his recent interviews admit that these songs, while full of...darkness...come to life in a different way when performed live.

Again, if you've made it this far into this post, you know that in the studio, songs like Badlands, Prove it All Night, Promised Land and the title track do not even come close what you experience live. I do not know that I can say the same thing about Springsteen's other albums. I've never really needed to hear Born to Run or Jungleland live. Not that I don't enjoy those songs live. But there's something different about the songs on Darkness. I can only describe it as emotion.

I'm not even sure it's the lyrics that strike the nerve. I have these 25-year old memories of laying on my bed in the house where I was living in Germany in the summer of 1985, listening on my walkman to a bootleg version of Racing in the Street, which runs for more than 10 minutes. I remember how I could feel Gary Tallent's bass line deep in my soul. How I could close my eyes and listen to each note of Bruce and Steve Van Zandt's electric guitars. And how I would actually get a lump in my throat, sometimes a tear in my eye as Roy Bittan carried the piano "out-tro" on and on and on... I once read how Pete Townshend of the Who mocked Racing in the Street because it was just the quintessential Springsteen song about cars and girls. But it's not.

I realize that now. It's not about cars and girls. I don't think so.

Today Springsteen releases The Promise box set. I've heard the whole thing already and it's a dream come true for any Springsteen fanatic. You've got cuts you've heard on outtake bootlegs. You've got songs that were handed over to others. What newer Bruce fans may not realize is that, if you were from Jersey, back in the late 70s and early 80s scoring a ticket to a Springsteen concert was like getting a ticket to the Super Bowl. How many folks do you know who've been to a Super Bowl? Telling someone, "I saw Bruce live" was akin to that. It was a badge of honor.

As an aside, the next best thing back then to going to see Bruce was going to see Southside Johnny at the Asbury Jukes, usually at a college somewhere. My first-ever concert was Southside at Princeton's Dillon Gym. My second-ever concert was Bruce at the Garden. I can thank my brother Bob for both of those experiences, and I'm forever in debt. Can you imagine being a 21-year old recent college grad and taking your 16-year old brother to a Bruce concert? Back on point, in the late 70s, Bruce was handing over songs to Southside. Songs like Talk to Me and Hearts of Stone. Great songs that Southside sung soulfully. Well, on The Promise, Bruce unleashes at least half a dozen songs that, when you listen to them, you say "Southside."

It's like being able to relive a part of my life.

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered HBO for one night ($1) so I could watch the documentary about the making of Darkness on the Edge of Town. In this weird way, listening to Bruce talk about the album has helped me understand what I was feeling, yes, back when I was 14.

What Bruce was singing about, turns out, is the thing I've struggled with my entire adult life. And that's the guts to stand up for what you believe in. Darkness did not come out for three years after Born to Run because Springsteen was fighting against a manager who enticed him into signing a bad contract. Springsteen didn't want anyone controlling his writing or his music.

For my entire professional career as a writer, I've let others call the shots. It's how I've put food on the table for my family. There have been times when I've stood up for myself, insisted that its my story and they need to be my words, but many more times when I've compromised because of what needs to be done to please the guy who writes the checks.

Thankfully, Springsteen had the guts, the faith to stand his ground...yeah, I'm plagiarizing.

Not many of us do. And maybe that's why Darkness remains my album.

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The Power of Having a Friend Like Johnny

Here's the "speech" I delivered last night, at the Ninth Annual John P. Salamone Memorial Foundation Golf Outing. What an honor to be a part of this event. All thanks to Johnny's dad, Bud Salamone.

Eight years ago, we stood on the putting green at Essex Fells Country Club, under a cloudless blue sky, and prepared to participate in the first John P. Salamone Memorial Foundation golf outing. I remember how Johnny’s dad, Bud, could barely speak as he welcomed everyone to the event. There was not dry eye to be found.

I remember how everyone came to the outing, check books in hand, looking to help out. The tragedy of September 11^th was still so fresh in all of our minds, it was almost like therapy, to be a part of the event, to contribute to a foundation named after Johnny.

But more than anything, I remember how when the crowd had thinned out, a handful of us lingered at the bar with Bud. It was Johnny’s old posse. It was Kenny Turnbull and Tommy Paranzine. It was Greg Vassallo and Pete Veritas and Brian Campolatarro. Slowly the tears turned to laughs as we began to tell Johnny Stories. Remember The Time when??? stories.

I think a group of us sensed something during that part of the evening. That, even though this was just the first year we’d gotten together to remember Johnny, that this outing HAD TO BE an annual event. For one thing, it was great to see Bud’s face, as he heard a few tales about his son that I’m sure he’d never heard before. I mean, what father wouldn’t be proud to learn that his son was a shark, a hustler, a con artist?

But the after-hours stories, I think, made it clear to us, to Johnny’s closest friends, that the power of HAVING a friend like Johnny, had to outweigh the sorrow of LOSING a friend like Johnny. And that this golf outing was going to endure, if only for the group of us to take a break from work and family and everything else, and get together once a year to remember and celebrate all that Johnny brought to our lives during his time on earth.

As I drove home, back to the shore, that night, a few things crossed my mind. One was this: As long as we could keep this event going, I was going to be a part of it. Another was this: how the hell did Johnny Salamone become a member at Essex Fells Country Club? Didn’t anyone on the selection committee get wind of the way Johnny terrorized me, probably the only member of Essex Fells Country Club he knew back in the day?

Seriously, as we stand here today, I can’t help but think back to my first rides on a school bus down Green Brook Road, from Essex Fells to West Essex. Understand, half the kids I went to elementary school with ended up in places like Montclair Kimberly Academy, Newark Academy or Delbarton. Why? Because West Essex had drugs…And Italians.

Walking through the doors at West Essex for the first time for an Essex Fells kid is about as intimidating an experience as you can imagine. I mean, a seventh grader from Essex Fells doesn’t typically have a hairy chest, a tattoo and a pack of Marlboros in his back pocket. OK, that’s an exaggeration, but it was kinda scary for those of us from the Fells.

I know, more than anything, I wanted to fit in with the cool kids. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – there was Johnny Salamone, to make sure I was never, ever, ever going to be cool. In fact, the cooler I wanted to be…the less cool Johnny would let me be.

During the feeling-out process at West Essex, where kids from four different towns are suddenly merged into one school, most kids seek acceptance, a group of kids they can hang with, eat lunch with, maybe play on teams with. Very few kids are willing to step up and be leaders. My group…many of whom are here tonight…well, we had Johnny.

You think you’ve picked out the right shirt, the right jacket, the right sneakers, there’d be Johnny to say, “Bradley, what are you wearing? Are those Garanimals?” You think you’ve done a good job with the Clearasil, covering the big pimple on your face, there’d be Johnny to say, “Nice zit, Bradley.” You want to look cool in the junior high cafeteria, when you’re first hoping the girls will notice you. Forget about it.

Nine years ago, I wrote a little tribute about Johnny for espn.com, remembering a teammate. One of the stories I told was about the game – if you want to call it a game – Johnny invented during school lunch.

It was called “Fresh Bait.” The game went like this. During lunch, if you put your hands down on the lunch table, anyone in the group was allowed to pound it with a closed fist while yelling, “fresh bait!” I don’t remember anyone in the group being very good at the game, except Johnny. You’d be finishing up your tater tots, and without thinking about it, you’d put a hand down on the table to suddenly feel Johnny’s fist, bashing it.

You could not help but feel the pain. You’d want to kill Johnny. But when you’d look up at him, all pissed off, Johnny would shrug and say, “You know the rules, Bradley.”

Bradley, Bradley, Bradley.

In fact, I never remember Johnny calling me by my first name, though he did refer to my mom and dad as Mary and Jerry. And our coaches were never Mr. Albanesius, Mr. Ortiz or Mr. Silva. They were Hughie, Tony O and Felipe. And Johnny could do spot-on impersonations of each of them. There was Hughie’s angry face. Tony O’s perplexed look, and Felipe’s Spanish accent. We’d lose a game and were supposed to be upset during the busride home, and there’d be Johnny imitating the coach. Making us all laugh.

I don’t want to make it sound like Johnny wasn’t a serious athlete. He was. He was a great competitor, and an even better teammate. But it was almost like he had a sense, even back when we were kids – when we believed the wins and the losses meant so much – that what really mattered was the time we spent together. That when it was all over, it was those moments on the bus, or in the lockerroom, that we’d remember most of all.

Johnny was right. And that’s why we do this every year. And why we need to keep doing this every year. So we never, ever forget Johnny and those moments we shared together.

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South Africa: Days 25-31

Done.

Later today, I get picked up by my driver Dolf and taken to the airport in Johannesburg to begin the long trip home. I should be walking in the door of my house around 12:45 p.m. I can't tell you how good it will feel to be home.

I used to have road trips that lasted this long, back in my days at the Daily News, when I'd embark on Yankee spring training for six weeks, or the baseball post-season for five weeks.

Those were different times in my life. Single in the beginning. Married with no kids at the end. And as much as you missed being home, you never felt like you were leaving all that much behind. I was always able to get my wife Linda down for a few days during spring training.

So this was different. I missed my son Tyler's 14th birthday and his graduation (I like "promotion" better) from 8th grade. I missed his entire Babe Ruth baseball season. I missed the end of my son Beau's Little League season and wasn't there to coach his travel team in the playoffs. But more than anything, I just missed being there for the day-to-day stuff that Linda and I have to tag-team. Driving kids around. Making them breakfast. Walking my dog.


So, it will be good to get back to those things, and to Manasquan Beach for obvious reasons. My summer has not yet started.

Hard to describe this journey properly. It was at times physically exhausting, working late nights, packing and unpacking my bags, moving from one place to the next. In each location there were places to be driven (thanks to my employers for taking care of all the rides) and assignments to tackle. There were scenes to be absorbed and history lessons to be learned. And then there was the task of writing it all in a way that would make sense to my readers.

I am lucky to do something I love for a living. Some call it "journalist" or "reporter" but I prefer "storyteller." I know all too well that I talk too much. It's a trait I've had since I'm a boy. I was the kid who had "disrupts the class with his chatter" written on his report card. In college, my fraternity brothers would roll their eyes when I told yet another tale. It got to the point that they'd look at me at times and say, "Go ahead, Brads, we know you've got a story to tell."

Well, who'd have thought I'd be able to tell stories for a living? Lucky guy, I am.

My final full day in South Africa was spent in a van, driving about eight hours from Durban, a large city on the Eastern coast, to Johannesburg. It was me (the American), a Canadian, an Englishman, a Mexican, two Argentineans, and our South African driver Jan. It was wide open country, similar in topography to Montana and Wyoming. Rolling fields and incredibly shaped mountains. Our group shared some laughs as we reminisced about our month together. I think the entire group realized that I'm ready to go home. Probably more than anyone else.

When we got back to hotel, we made a quick turnaround. One of my colleagues had made plans for us to eat at an authentic South African restaurant in the township of Soweto. It was a small place, sort of like a hole-in-the-wall restaurant you'd find in Newark, with a buffet. We filled our plates and laughed a lot. After dinner, our driver Dolf (a police officer by trade) took us to a Shebeen (these are illegal drinking establishments...they originated in the days when alcohol was forbidden to black people). It was, basically, family's garage in a part of town that was a bit downtrodden. Certainly not a place you'd go without someone with local know-how. Dolf had asked a couple of policemen to escort our group to a Shebeen. And this was it.

We were the only patrons, so they had to set up shop for us. Large bottles of beer were served. Music was turned on. Soon, our hosts were asking us if we'd pose for some photos. Next, they were asking us if we'd put our signatures on their wall. Such lovely people. Suddenly, power was lost. The music went off and the whole place went dark. I figured it was time to go.

But no. Our hosts arrived almost instantly with battery-operated lamps. They did not want us to leave. Is there a moral to this story? I don't know. It was just a nice memory to take home. A family opening their garage to a group of strangers who were looking for a few laughs.

Farewell, South Africa. Thanks for opening your arms to me for a while, but I think you understand it's time to go home. Peace.

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South Africa: Days 20-24

So, all the crew went on a safari today, except for me and "Luke from The Magazine." We both had things to do, so we couldn't join everyone for a day of animals and fine dining. That's fine, I got my own personal safari at Pumba a couple of weeks ago, and today I had my own adventure.

Took a little walk on the wild side. Now, I know my parents read this blog, and though they're pretty hip for their age, I'm pretty sure they're not familiar with Lou Reed. But anyway, I was badly in need of a haircut, so I left the compound known as City Lodge and went for a walk.

We have been warned by our security task force that leaving the compound is not safe, but the truth is, during the daylight, it's fine out there. Remember, I was in Luanda for 12 days. I know where I should not be walking, and outside this hotel is a long, long way from Luanda. It's fine. Really.

I was not sure if there was a place to get a haircut, but I figured I'd give the strip mall a shot. Was hoping there would be a South African "Super Cuts," or maybe a South African "Sal's Barber Shop." As I've lost most of my hair, and have grown less fond of the hair I do have because it is wiry and gray and has a life of its own, I am not particular when it comes to haircuts. My normal instructions are "short" or "very short."

Well, there was no Supercuts and there was no Sal's. So, I ended up in a "salon." I was greeted by my stylist "Beyonce," who sent me back to get my hair shampooed, rinsed, conditioned, rinsed, massaged with something tingly, rinsed, and I think that was it, but there may have been one more step. It was wonderful, really. So, then when "Beyonce" came back to retrieve me, I began to notice she had some interesting...ummm...characteristics. One of which was...a deep voice.

"Beyonce" was a dude. Now, listen, I'm cool with it. "She" was pretty appalled at the state of my hair, probably since I'd hacked it up with a trimmer, trying to tighten up my sideburns and creating a big mess in the process. When I said "short," Beyonce said, in her deep voice, "Let me try something ok? If you don't like it, we can go shorter." I was not going to argue with Beyonce.

So, in the spirit of the World Cup, Beyonce gave me a modified Cristiano Ronaldo Faux Hawk. The whole thing took about 20 times longer than when I got to SuperCuts or Carmen's in Manasquan. There was some cutting. There was some trimming. There was Beyonce backing away and staring at her work for a while. There was this "fine trimming" around the ears. And then, just when I thought I was done, I was sent back to the shampoo area, for more stuff. And then, as I tried to walk to the desk to pay and leave, Beyonce told me she was not done. She said she needed to style it. To apply some "product." Again, who was I to argue. Have a look.

Anyway. Home Stretch.

Eleven days to go on this fantastic journey, though, truth be told things have slowed down considerably as more and more countries (including my own) have gone home.

The emotional roller coaster (mostly highs...with only one low... in my opinion) that I went on for the first two weeks, left me pretty wasted. So much pride, so much joy, and so much heart ache and emptiness when it was all over. I'm glad my brother and my nephew are built for it.

Three more rounds to go.

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South Africa: Day 19

"If they are brave enough to play, then you should be brave enough to be in the stands."

These were the words spoken to me by an old friend who works with my brother. I wasn't sure if I had the toughness to go sit in the stands today, but these words got to me.

So, I'm going to take a two-hour ride in a van with a bunch of my colleagues who are going to work. And I'm going to watch. I stand by what I wrote yesterday. I'm admittedly biased. Whatever happens today, my pride is intact. I'm in complete awe just being here.

I'll go back to being a know-it-all eventually, but for now I'm a know-nothing, completely blind to what's going on. Blinded by love and admiration. Nothing can change that.

The photo above was taken by my niece Kerry on Christmas Day, 2008. It's Rob and Michael playing ball with my two sons. This photo is in my office and is one of my prized possessions. What's funny is that I'm way more in awe of Rob and Michael than my two boys are. I remember that day so well, because the four of them returned from the park drenched in sweat.

To Tyler and Beau, they're just Uncle Rob and Michael, and when they're playing ball together, they might as well be some kids in the park. There's a purity in that I can't really describe. If my boys were here, they'd have no problem sitting in the stands today. They wouldn't consider it some act of bravery. They'd just be wanting to go to the game, and probably wishing they could go on the field at halftime and kick the ball around. I'll try to keep that in my heart today.

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South Africa: Days 15-18

There's no way I could be any more distracted.

Trying to stay focused on what I'm supposed to be doing here while something else is going on that not only has my stomach churning but also has a good part of the USA's stomachs churning...not easy. As my old friend Bruce Springsteen sings, "Some day we'll look back on this and it will all seem funny." But for now, not much funny about it.

I want to write a little bit today about the emotions I've been feeling, mostly the overwhelming pride that literally brings me to tears once or twice a day (no lie). But I don't think everyone gets it. Some do. Many don't.

Something happened on Wednesday that took 12 seconds and it totally changed the perception that Americans would've taken away from this event. In 12 seconds, Americans went from a bit angry and very frustrated to, quite simply, overjoyed. But if those 12 seconds had not happened, while I'd have been sad, my pride would not have been altered even a little bit.

It's said often that it's not the results that really matter, but the journey. I've witnessed a four-year journey from close range. I know the sacrifices that have been made, the hard work that's gone into it. I'm pretty close to a couple of incredibly dedicated guys.

My pride was intact, regardless.

In my line of work, I'm often asked to analyze, to critique, to break things down. But in this case, I refuse to do it, and I am trying my best to tune it all out. It's not easy, but I'm doing my best.

I know not all my friends can get on board this train, where it's all about love and hope, where there's no room for criticism. I don't expect everyone to jump on.

Just understand it's the ride I'm taking. The journey.

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South Africa: Days 12-15

Getting brave.

Not sure if was a touch of boredom -- not a lot happening the last three days -- or just that I was trying to be a nice guest here in South Africa, but this afternoon, I ate a worm.

To be more exact, I ate a Mopane (Mo Pah Nee) Caterpillar (worm, I dunno). It was fried, I guess, and covered in some kind of red sauce. It was crunchy, chewy, gamy, nasty. I thought it would be rude not to try it when our driver Jan ordered it up for the table, but after me and my two colleagues each choked one worm down, we noticed Jan wasn't exactly digging in. "No, I don't like it," Jan said with a smirk. "But a lot of people do!" With that, Jan chomped one down, then handed the rest of the order over to the folks at the next table. They left the dish alone.

Again, not a lot going on the last few days here. Work and hotel meals. The restaurant serving the Mopane was in downtown Johannesburg, and music filled the air and local artists and craftspeople were selling their stuff. It was a pleasant lunch break, all in all...except the worm.

And then it was back to work in Mission Control. It's been good to catch my breath here after traveling around the country for the better part of a week, but working in the International Broadcast Center is kind of a drag. I do get to go to a game tomorrow. Not "that" game.

Big day tomorrow, obviously. Huge day, actually. 'Nuf said.

I'm going to write in the next few days about the amazing side trip my nieces, Kerry and Ryan, took to Kenya to see their little sister Beatrice, a young lady they've been sponsoring for the past year for an organization called Oasis for Orphans.

Kerry has promised me photos of "Little Bee" but in the meantime, check out this video from Christmas 2009, where Beatrice introduced herself to my brother's family. If you enjoy that one, here's another taken a year ago where a soccer field was dedicated.

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