First Pitch

Yesterday was opening day and it wasn’t lost on me that the first pitch of the first game of the 2013 baseball season occurred the night before, on Easter Sunday. How appropriate. Easter is the day of hope and renewal. It’s the day we Christians consider “the big one.” It’s the day we know God has final say and nothing is bigger, or more permanent than Him. Simply put, Easter says “God is.” He’s life, love and hope.

            The funny thing is, I see baseball in much the same way. Baseball isn’t merely a game. It’s a metaphor for the ups and downs of life and ultimately for the miracle that is God and what took place on Easter. No matter how bleak and dismal things may appear, when I see that cut diamond and the fielders take their positions, when I watch the pitcher wind up and deliver that very first pitch, I know there is a reason to hope.

            Baseball. I have an aunt who turns sixty-nine this year; she’s eleven years younger than my dad. They are different as can be. Yet, there my dad and I were in 1968, around my ninth birthday, sitting in Shea Stadium with my aunt watching a young New York Mets pitcher named Tom Seaver face Willie Mays and the San Francisco Giants. Forty-four years later and I can still smell the grass; I can still see Seaver’s wind up. That night, I became a Mets fan. Not a season has gone by that I haven’t believed on opening day that my Mets would win the World Series.

            It was easy back then. A season later, 1969, the Mets shocked the sports world by winning the World Series over the vaunted Baltimore Orioles. Earlier that season, a famous Chicago politician scoffed at the Mets chances of even catching his beloved Cubs. “A man will walk on the moon before the Mets ever win a pennant.” July, 1969, I sat transfixed in my living room as astronaut Neil Armstrong uttered the immortal words, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” as he stepped onto the lunar surface. The mayor of Chicago was never better at predicting the future.

            The Mets won and a ten year old boy had his faith rewarded. There was no heartache, no lost season. There was only joy. I decided then and there that God was a Mets fan.

            Opening days came and went after the miracle of 1969. And there were more lost seasons, more disappointments, than successes. The Mets only made it to the post-season one more time until I was a married man a few years removed from law school. For most of those years – 1970 until the early 1980s, baseball was disappointment and heartache. Great players arrived too late in their careers to lead the Mets to victory, young players didn’t meet expectations; and I saw – as my heroes like Tom Seaver were traded – that baseball was a business, not a passion. Yet every opening day I believed this was the year.

            I vowed when we had children that they too would love baseball. Sure enough, shortly after our older son was born I came home with a Mets sleeper. A dozen pictures were taken of our little man in that orange and blue striped outfit with “Mr. Met” prominently displayed. Nine years later that “onside” was pulled out of a zip-lock bag and put on our second son.

            Dinners were filled with talk of baseball. It was the Mets, always the Mets, in our house. When our younger son was just over three he sat patiently on the couch as I watched the 2000 Mets get first one, then two, and finally three ninth inning outs to beat the Giants and advance in the playoffs. I lofted my young son over my shoulders and ran through the living room yelling “Mets win! Mets win!” His shrieking shouts of glee, “Daddy’s crazy,” rang through the house.

            Baseball mattered in our house. It was a bond between my sons and me. And, it helped define the seasons of our family. Every spring, every opening day, was met with anticipation and hope. Spring turned to summer and trips to games which had been scheduled back in the heady days of spring when we all believed this was “the year” were upon us. Those road trips: to DC or Baltimore, Atlanta or Philadelphia and yes even New York, became part of the family atlas.

            Summer trips to Seattle included a Mariners game. A business trip to Indianapolis included a triple A game. We’d head into Richmond – or Lynchburg – for minor league action. Visits to my folks in Raleigh would mean a Durham Bulls or Zebulon Mud Cats game. Baseball and summer were woven into our family’s DNA.

            Opening day. I began a family tradition with our first son. He was eight and in third grade. I sent a note into his teacher. “I will pick him up at noon;” simple, declarative words. But, it was opening day. We would get hot dogs, popcorn and chips, and set up stadium chairs in the den. We’d rise for the National anthem, baseball hats over our hearts, then watch the first pitch. It would begin, a new season, as we – just father and son – would watch game after game on opening day. Before dark, we’d have a catch.

            Every year, every opening day, ten years through our older son’s teens and then our younger son’s elementary and middle school days, there we were. Opening day was spring. Opening day was family. But opening day couldn’t survive an arrest. I was wrong. I realized, when I told my son baseball mirrors life. Nothing in baseball compares to divorce or imprisonment. Baseball isn’t life. Life is harsh, and unforgiving, and tear filled. Baseball is always about next spring, next opening day.

            Maybe that’s what draws me back each year. Just before Christmas, the reports start filtering in from the mid-winter baseball owners meeting. It’s hot stove league time and trades, contract extensions, and manager hirings run across ESPN’s sports ticker. It’s cold and drizzling outside, the days dreary and gray. But, the sports network breaks into its broadcast with news from Peter Gammons or Buster Olney on a huge signing. The report always begins with “All-star pitcher,” or “MVP runner up …” and I hold my breath and wait, hoping its news on my Mets.

            Even when it’s not (after all, the Mets owner, Fred Wilpon, with millions owed to the Bernie Madoff trustee, has begun the process of cutting salary and rebuilding the franchise with young ball players), I still listen intently calculating the relative merits of the move. I look at my calendar and smile. I know there are only sixty-one days until pitchers and catchers report, only sixty-one days until the Grapefruit and Cactus leagues rebud into existence.

            Five World Series have come and gone since my life unalterably changed that hot August day in 2008. Five opening days followed each winter. And each time, as each opening day approached, I began to feel more hopeful. That’s opening day, that’s the first pitch; I knew it: hope.

            I used to tell my sons baseball was a metaphor for life. I forgot so much of my rationale for that philosophy as I struggled with the heartbreak of separation and divorce, and the daily battles inside prison as I tried to negotiate my way around violence, ignorance, and filth. Then, spring would draw near. Days would lengthen, Lent would begin and somehow each day my thoughts would go back, back to earlier springs, earlier opening days, earlier first pitches. I hear the words from Psalm 27 about waiting, waiting for the Lord, or Micah telling anyone who would listen he would be lifted out of the darkness. In my mind’s eye I smelled it, the fresh grass from the infield.

            I wasn’t so far off when I told my boys that on the seventh day God created baseball. After all, it’s about hope, and miracles, perseverance and faith. And, it’s about renewal every spring.

            I saw the first pitch yesterday and I knew, this is the year.

Bernie, Jack and Me

I lead a peculiar life in prison. I have remained – at least for the first three years anyway – above the daily fray of theft, two-bit violence, threats and general disrespect from larger, more violent men.  As I’ve written before, Darwinism – “survival of the fittest” – plays out daily in places like this.  That I’ve remained unscathed and only been a recorder of the abysmal conditions here is one of those things I have counted as a blessing from God.  Oscar Wilde, as I previously noted, was quite right when he wrote “what seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.”

Survival of the fittest.  So often that is thought to be the biggest, the strongest, the cunning predator over the weak prey.  I have discovered that brains, education, and your crime, may in fact place you in the realm of “fittest” in this screwy world behind wire.

Which led to a funny revelation for me the last few weeks.  As Bernie Madoff’s wife and son peddled a book attempting to get them public sympathy (at the price of more scorn heaped on Mr. Madoff) guys started calling me “Larry Madoff”.  Newspaper accounts of Madoff’s Ponzi scheme, his wife’s “I didn’t know” mea culpa and his liquidation trustee’s multiple suits against anyone ever connected with him (at least the attorneys will be paid in full!) appeared on my bunk and guys would ask for my thoughts.

Then, last week Jack Abramoff appeared on “60 minutes” and the guys lined up to hear my pronouncements on the man convicted of corrupting congress and cheating his clients – various Indian tribes seeking gambling compacts – out of $45 million.  Ironically, Abramoff served less than four years in a medium security Federal prison.  He now works as an accountant for a pizzeria with a $24 million restitution order on his back.  Of course, he lives at home with his wife, children and dogs – same house, same everything – just as he did before his arrest.  So, naturally I was called “Larry Jack” for a few days.

And the questions always followed the same lines:
“Do you really think Madoff’s wife didn’t know?”
“Why do you think she hasn’t divorced him?”
“Does it piss you off that both their wives stayed while yours dumped you?”

Leaving my answers to those questions for another day, both stories got me thinking.  Take Bernie Madoff.  His wife said “he was a wonderful man who got in over his head and was afraid to admit it.  It took on a life of its own.”  I get that.  Like Bernie, my intention was never to steal for twelve years.  I know why I wrote the first check.  I know what I was feeling, what I was dealing with.  And, I knew it was wrong.  But once you cross that line it gets easier and easier until you want to stop, but the fear of getting caught, of admitting what you’ve done, paralyzes you.

Like Bernie, death seemed a better solution than facing failure.  It was a George Bailey moment he – and I – faced.  Only Frank Capra didn’t write the ending; a judge did.

Then there was a comment from Abramoff.  He told the interviewer his pride blinded him.  He was, in his mind, a highly moral man, a pillar of the community.  The money, the access, the perks, corrupted him.  It was true as Bob Dylan so poetically put it, that “all he believes are his eyes…and his eyes they just tell him lies…”  There’s a reason the Bible warns us of the dangers of pride.  As Jack Abramoff spoke, I could only shake my head in agreement.

Bernie, Jack and me.  I told a friend in a letter this week I’m a better man for going through this.  I’m a lot lonelier, but I’m also a lot less judgmental and more merciful.  I’m not sure what Bernie’s doing, but Jack – well, he appears to be a different man as well.

Soviet dissident and political prisoner Mihajlo Mihailov said “whoever follows his inner voice and saves his soul, learns empirically that, so long as the soul is not lost, the most important is not lost.”

Bernie and Jack are not simple, black and white, good versus evil men nor are their circumstances.  The guys understand that about me.  But, it applies to everyone.  Perhaps there’s a little of Bernie and Jack in all of us.

Madoff, Mandatory, Mandela and the Magi

Bernie Madoff – convicted con man currently serving a 150 year federal prison sentence for the theft and loss of billions – received some devastating news this week. His elder son, Mark, estranged from him since his arrest, committed suicide the other day. Mark took his own life while his two year old son napped in an adjoining room. His death was staged on the second anniversary of Bernie Madoff’s arrest.



It was a tragic ending to a family drama that has played out on the pages of business journals, daily papers, and celebrity rags. Mark, as I noted, was estranged from his father. He was a party to numerous lawsuits by the Madoff trustee seeking to recover part of the billions lost in Bernie’s scheme. He was also the subject of an ongoing federal criminal probe into his involvement in the Madoff con.


Mark Madoff always professed his innocence, always said he knew nothing of his father’s wrongdoing. He couldn’t forgive his father for destroying his career, his future. He couldn’t forgive his mother for standing by his father. “That’s what you do when you love someone. That’s what my vow means”, she told him.


Mark told anyone that would listen that he was innocent. “My dad lied and betrayed me as well,” was his common refrain.


Yet, people talk. It’s painful and embarrassing to be the fodder of community gossip. It’s stressful to see your name in the paper and have every purchase you ever made, every decision you ever took, scrutinized. Over and over Mark heard “you were paid over $400 million working for your dad. You really think you were that good an investment counselor?”


I feel for the Madoff family. In many ways, my own circumstances parallel theirs. Almost every person who hears my story begins with the same question “How can she [my ex] claim she didn’t know? She sure enjoyed it while it was going on.” I tell everyone that will ask she knew nothing. It doesn’t matter. What she knew – or suspected – is between her and her conscience. But, people whisper and she couldn’t handle the public evaluation. So unlike Mrs. Madoff, she fled.


I used to worry a great deal about what other people thought. I was raised by parents – a mother especially – who obsessed on what other people thought of my actions. After my arrest, every time I appeared in court an article showed up in the paper. Within days of the article, a “love” letter arrived from my then wife – “you a—hole. People are talking about us . . . .”


Here’s what I learned. People love to talk a whole lot about other’s misfortunes. We’re somehow wired to feel better about ourselves when other folks’ indiscretions come out. Perhaps that’s why so much time is spent in the New Testament warning believers’ gossiping is a sin.


I learned through my own experience not to give a damn about what other people think. We all screw up. Even my ex, who I still love dearly, needs to face the fact she isn’t perfect. Same goes for my sons. They are wonderful, strong, loving boys, but, it’s time they “nut up”. At the end of the day, what my ex and sons need to learn, what Mark Madoff couldn’t quite grasp, is it doesn’t matter what they say or write about you. What does matter is we all screw up and we all need those people, who in good times claim to love us, to love us when the world seems out of control.


It’s not about being right and well regarded. It is about love and forgiveness.
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There are approximately 8,000 inmates in Virginia still covered under the “old law” (pre – 1995 when parole was abolished). Each year these guys come up for a parole hearing. That is really a misnomer. There is no “hearing”. Guys are called into the lead counselor’s office and sit in front of a TV. On the screen, a young woman with her face buried in a laptop, confirms the name and DOC number, then asks four or five silly repetitive questions:


“You’re still in here on a first degree murder charge?”


“You were rejected for parole last year?”


Approximately two weeks later, a letter arrives from the board. In all but 2% of the cases the letter reads “denied”. The reason: “severity of crime”. There was no hearing. The parole examiner (the pretty young bureaucrat with the laptop) sent email summaries of the cases to board members. No “blood and flesh” face to face with the inmate, just electronic summaries and, in most cases, denial.


Prior to parole being abolished an inmate in Virginia made early parole in about 50% of the cases. Today, parole cases almost always have to wait for their mandatory date.


How does it work? Take my fifteen year sentence. Had I been “parole eligible” I would have had a parole hearing after two years. Even if I was rejected, odds were better than 50-50 I’d be out at my next anniversary. With earned good time credits applied (30 days good time for 30 days served) my mandatory release would occur after less than eight years.


There has been a lawsuit going on in federal court over Virginia’s parole board. The inmates lost the initial battle but an appeal is underway. The case focus revolves around the argument that the board denies parole candidates their due process rights by the lack of hearing and relying on rubber stamped grounds (“severity of crime”).


A few guys make parole every year, but they aren’t “violent” inmates. DC has done 38 years. He has 5 more before he mandatories on his murder 1 sentence; Black’s done 16 years. Three to go to mandatory on his murder sentence. Tyrone: 30 in, 7 to go on his armed robbery sentence. Powers: 14 in, 14 to go on his murder 1 sentence. Malik: 23 in, 4 to go. The list of guys I know who can’t get out early because of the severity of their crimes goes on.


Here’s a question to ponder: If all these guys committed crimes so serious that they can’t be released early, what are they doing at a low custody corrections center? Each one of the men I mentioned deserves another chance. They deserve parole.
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Nelson Mandela, as I’ve written before, is an amazing man. He survived over 26 years in South African prisons. He was no saint, he’ll tell you that. He was a serial adulterer, fathering numerous children out of wedlock. He committed and supported acts of violence against the apartheid regime in South Africa.


Yet, this man maintained his dignity throughout his imprisonment. He did not become an icon, a revered hero, for his actions before his arrest. He became so by the example he set in challenging apartheid from his cell. He held strong, he endured, he overcame, he defeated the prison.


For many of the men I’ve met in here Mandela is living proof that you can never be broken by prison if you keep your mind free.


Time Magazine got it wrong with its choice for “Man of the Year”. In the hearts and minds of prisoners around the world, Nelson Mandela set the example for properly enduring prison. As long as I remain behind these fences, he will always be my man of the year.
____________________________________________________________________________________As you enjoy your holidays, remember that the Magi found the light of the world in a broken down barn. He didn’t come into the world in wealth and power, but in poverty and humble origins.


And the word was spread by outcasts and nonconformists, most of whom ended up in prison and executed. The good, decent, law abiding society rejected Him. It was the prostitutes, the possessed, the lepers and the tax collectors that flocked to Him.


The Magi went to find the new King, but it wasn’t as the folks in power expected. He came for the broken, the troubled, the oppressed, the law breakers. He brought salvation, forgiveness, redemption and hope to those in dire need. That may be a boring message when you think you have everything, when you think you’re “livin’ the good life”. But, for a guy in prison, it’s the most amazing liberating message ever received.


John 1: 1-14. Merry Christmas!