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.

Dear Tom Wolfe

Dear Mr. Wolfe,

            It’s been over twenty years since I read your first novel, Bonfire of the Vanities. That is, until I re-read it here in prison last week. And I have to tell you, the story made a lot more sense to me now than then.

            Back then, during my first read, I was a young, successful trial attorney, a partner in a small litigation firm in East Tennessee. I was in the middle of a large bank fraud case pitting shareholders of a failed bank against their board members as they sought to recover staggering financial losses after their bank was taken over by the FDIC.

            I picked the book up and read each night to unwind from the day’s proceedings. Scotch in one hand, TV tuned to ESPN, I’d read a few pages and laugh at the travails Sherman McCoy created for himself. My wife was nearly full term with our first child. I’d watch her attempt to lift herself out of a chair, a petite frame with a twenty pound ball strapped to her front, and read your words and think, where does this guy in the white suit come up with this stuff?

            Those days were so long ago. I’m over fifty now, divorced from that young woman, alienated from our two sons, four years into a thirteen year sentence for embezzlement. I read your book again. This time, I didn’t laugh as much. This time, I knew what Sherman McCoy felt. I knew because I’d been there. And I wondered, how did you know what it was like: the arrest, the loss, the shame, despair, and guilt? How did you know and why didn’t I pay attention all those years ago?

            Rationalization. I guess it’s part of the deadly sin of pride, but we rationalize way too much when it comes to our behavior. We know what we’re supposed to do and yet, so often doing the right thing is the furthest thought from our mind. We’re quick to hold others in contempt for their foibles and failing, but ourselves? We kind of give a quick wink.

            I was arrested at my office. For a number of years I’d been living a lie, taking money from work. It was small amounts at first, a thousand here or there. But, as the years progressed the amounts grew. I became like Santa Claus after a while. Any friend, coworker, or family member who needed anything could come to me. And I rationalized away my behavior. After all, I’d tell myself, I was a good employee in every other way. No one worked harder. And, I was active in my church and community. I was keeping our local Meals on Wheels afloat, I’d remind myself, to offset the guilt that was starting to grow in the dark recesses of my mind.

            I re-read Bonfire and came to Sherman’s explanation for his ‘drinker’s insomnia.” He needed to tell his wife what he’d done. Instead, he acted as though all was right in their world. Then, in the middle of the night, he’d awaken. His heart pounding, his mind racing one thousand miles an hour, he would be racked by guilt, and shame, and fear of being caught.

            Those words, that description, was my life. There were the 4:00 a.m. puffy, bloodshot eyes, the six scotches before bed to help me shut down, the paranoia every day at work that “today’s the day” they get me. And, there was the pleading and the deal making with God each morning on my commute. “God, I don’t want to lose my wife and kids; I don’t want to go to prison. Get me out of this. I’m a good man. Please get me out of this.”

            But actions have consequences. As I said, I was arrested at work, denied bond (too many assets, I was deemed a flight risk), I was hauled away to jail. I turned in my navy blue blazer, khaki’s, oxford shirt with Jerry Garcia tie, and Kenneth Cole shoes for a two piece puke green jail jumper (v-neck and elastic waist) with “Jackie Chans” (cheap plastic shower shoes).

            The jail stunk. It smelled of sweat and excrement and rotten food. They threw me in a cell by “reception” (funny choice of words I thought) to “make sure you don’t off yourself.” And every fifteen minutes, in that eight by eight cell with the dirty yellow bulb staying on, an officer came by and said “You alright in there?” I’d say “yeah,” but I wasn’t. I knew it was all gone.

            I thought about that as I read Sherman tell his lawyer, “All I can tell you is that I’m already dead … your ‘self’ is other people, all the people you’re tied to, and it’s only a thread.” Sherman knew so much. He knew what it was like sitting in the cesspool that is a jail. He knew what it was like to defend yourself against men who quite frankly don’t give a shit, who will beat you senseless over a perceived snub or a twenty cent ramen noodle.

            Soon enough you too have to learn not to give a shit. Weakness is death in here, so you lash out and try and become what you’re not capable of being: unempathetic, devoid of compassion, atonement, and kindness. But some of us can’t live like that.

            Somehow, you understood that. Your words, “He ain’t got the heart for being on the wrong side of the law. I don’t care who you are, sometimes in your life you’re gonna be on the wrong side of the law, and some people got the heart for it and some don’t,” rang truer than you may know.

            I realized I didn’t have the heart for it. And, I realized I couldn’t be like most of the men in here. I lost everything: freedom, wife, sons, friends, career, wealth, and for a long time I thought “I’m already dead, my heart just doesn’t know it”. I had a decision to make: quit or fight back. I loved that about Sherman. He too was all set to quit until his “friend” tried to persuade him to leave his building.

            Friends. I knew dozens and dozens of people. I got locked up and all of them, save one small handful, bailed. I decided not to quit. It was the toughest decision of my life and there are days even now when I wonder if I made the right choice. But, I couldn’t, I can’t quit.

            This entire episode has been life changing and it’s taught me a few things. A major life lesson is you find out who you really are, what’s at your core, when you’re put in a place, an environment, like this that is (pardon my crassness) completely fucked up.

            And, you don’t have to be like every other guy going through this. Most of the men in here come from lousy homes, lousy schools, lousy economies. They’re poor, ignorant, and alienated from the American dream. And for all their bravado they quietly acquiesce to their life’s lot. They can’t see beyond this place and the shitty existence they knew before. Prison to them is just another stop on their train to nowhere.

            It’s depressing, but it also makes me angry enough to fight back. I teach, GED prep, college tutoring, and creative writing. Yes, I write. I write blogs about this experience and the complete failure of the criminal justice system. Face it, there’s not “justice” in the system and no “corrections” going on in here. And I write stories about broken people. One think I’ve learned from this is we’re all broken in some way. But, there’s redemption when you come face to face with your brokenness and overcome it.

            I write this letter so you would know that Sherman McCoy matters. His story isn’t too farfetched (just look at the headlines about CIA Director Petreaus!) I’m still not sure how you knew the nuts and bolts of jail or what guilt and shame are like. But, you do and your man Sherman lived it.

            Earlier in this letter I told you my thoughts on rationalization. It’s “the glass house” effect. We are quick to pass judgment on others all the while we cut corners and try and have things “our way.” Sherman wasn’t a bad guy. But, this isn’t about being good or bad. It’s about doing the right thing even when no one is watching.

            Thank you for Sherman McCoy and all the other characters you create with their foibles and biases, desires, and idiosyncrasies. Your books capture life, our sarcastic way we screw up and, hopefully, get it back together and go on.

Opening Day and More

Thursday was Opening Day for this year’s baseball season. It was also my older son’s 23rd birthday. Opening Day was always a big deal to my sons and me. I love baseball and turned them into fans. Every year on Opening Day, I’d pick my sons up early from school. We’d grill bratwurst, make burgers, popcorn, nachos, you name it and watch games on ESPN. At some point in the afternoon we’d head outside for a game of catch. During the late afternoon seventh inning stretch, we’d get up and stretch. My kids looked forward to Opening Day almost as much as I did.



I love baseball. I think on the seventh day when God rested, He actually planned the game out. It is a perfect game, mathematically precise, statistically in-depth, artistically beautiful. It is a game played by men who remember when they were boys. Opening Day symbolizes hope. It’s a new season and anyone can win.


Thursday, as the first pitch was being thrown out, Opie was called to medical. Two weeks ago he had been hospitalized for three days with a severe respiratory infection. He came back to the building about ten pounds lighter and weaker, but after a few days of rec and weights, he looked back to normal. Opie’s a big, muscular, healthy kid - 6’1” about 205 lbs. As I’ve written before, he was raised in prison. He’s been in and out of prison (including juvenile detention) since he was ten.


Anyway, he went down to medical not knowing why he’d been called (normally you get a pass the night before). Fifteen minutes later he was back. He had tears in his eyes. Opie is a product of prison. He knows you don’t show emotion in here. This was serious. This was something you don’t hold tears back.


Opie found out he has a serious illness. I’m not putting the disease out there, but it was enough for me to stop and pray for him. The doctor in this dump just told him. No counselor was available. Just, inmate ________, you have ________.


As I sat and prayed about Opie, I thought about my older son. He and Opie are the same age. My son lived a privileged life. He had everything handed to him. He had parents who loved him. He took part in every school opportunity. He saw the world and went to an exclusive four year college that cost close to $200,000.


Opie grew up with a crack addict father in housing projects in Milwaukee. He was the only white kid in his class and was regularly picked on and beaten up. He started committing crimes when he was seven. He’s had more fights than everyone I know on the outside combined.


But, Opie is a sweet kid. What little he has I’ve seen him share it all. I’ve seen this “incorrigible” felon give the last of his food away to a guy he barely knew who was hungry. I don’t know if I would do that. I’m not sure my sons would do that.


I’ve learned through knowing Opie that you can’t be too quick to judge someone else. When you least expect it, humanity is present.


I don’t understand God. Opie has had a lousy life. He doesn’t deserve this. As I said, I don’t understand God. But, I trust Him. Those of us close to him rallied around him. He called his grandmother. He went out in the sun.


I was worried when he first got the news how he’d handle it. I should have known better. As I said earlier, you can’t be too quick to judge.


This morning E decided to get his back tattoo done. A few days ago he went into the other building to get the outline done. Two nights ago another guy was busted in the wrong building getting his back tattoo.


E spent the morning in 4B getting his work done. After noon count, he went back. He got caught. They packed E up and sent him to the hole. He’ll be there a minimum of five days.


What did the tattoo cost? $325. It will also cost E his job as a maintenance employee. He may be thrown out of college (you can’t stay in college with a conviction).


Big S and I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen. He has half a Chinese dragon on his back. He lost money. He’s probably lost his job and maybe lost his schooling.


I miss Opening Day with my boys. I’ll never forget the start of this baseball season.

Convict Cable

Prison has cable and prisoners have TV’s. To a good many people, that will come as a surprise. Our prison here is on “Corrections Cable”. We get basic channels, bare minimum, and the inmates pay for it, not individually but with the “slush fund” the prison collects from overcharging on commissary (for a detailed explanation on the commissary and cable contracts read my previous post – “Contracts 101”).



TV watching is a prime past time in here. Inmates can buy a color TV (13 inch) through commissary for over $200. The TV is specially manufactured for prisoners. It’s made out of clear plastic so officers can see inside to make sure there’s no contraband stored in the case. The same TV in a catalog lists for $89.


You order your set, wait two weeks and then you walk across the compound to personal property and pick it up. The property officer puts “security” stickers around the case (stickers removed, you get an alteration charge) and engraves your name on the set to prevent theft. You also need to order a surge protector, coaxial cable (to hook your set up to cable) and a headset. Prison rules prohibit you from watching your set without headphones. After spending your $300 for the full “set up” you’re ready for TV.


Of the 96 bunks in this building, there are 92 individual sets. We get the four major networks (ABC, CBS, NBC and Fox). Then there are the specialty channels: CNN, TBS, TNT, CW, A & E, Univision (Spanish), PBS, Health Channel, ESPN & ESPN2, BET, Spike, and Lifetime.


The two “eye opening” prison experiences for me have been watching guys line up for ice cream on Tuesday nights and seeing all the sets tuned to Lifetime. There is something off kilter about guys sitting on their beds, eating butter pecan ice cream, intently watching “Army Wives” on Lifetime. To be fair, most guys watch Lifetime because the women are hot.


The other big channel is Spike. Spike is all bikinis, guns, cars and action movies. Two weeks ago, Stallone’s newest “Rambo” came on Spike. From the corner of the building, P or V or E (pick a letter; it’s someone’s name!) yelled out “Rambo on 10”. Within nanoseconds 50 sets turned to Spike.


You can spot the child molesters. They love cartoons (no joke) and avoid any show with bikinis (Spike had “Ms. Hooters” contest on a month ago, the “game guys” all had “You’ve Got Mail” on).


TV is really mind numbing. There are guys that lie in bed all day (except for meals and bathroom breaks) switching from “Jerry Springer” to “Wife Swap”. They know every channels programming schedule by heart. Their TVs remain on 24/7 except during “standing counts” (there are only 3 of these each day).


If you are shocked that prisons allow inmates to have TVs and cable, think of the alternative. 96 guys living on top of each other, many guys angry at the treatment they received in court, feeling wronged, pissed off at the world. Guys with kids put in bunks next to child molesters; Bloods next to Crips; and you hire two female COs to keep the peace. TV does more to keep the building quiet than 10 Cos could do.


I used to be a big TV guy before I got arrested. Now, I check the scores on ESPN at 5:30 in the morning and then the local news and headlines. With the exception of an hour a night, my TV is off. There are too many books to read, stories to write, crossword puzzles to work, law work to handle; to dull my mind with TV.


Don’t get me wrong, I love a couple of shows. Besides sports and news my “picks” for TV: any Gordon Ramsey cooking show; “The Mentalist”; “The Office” (Tuesday night 3 hours on TBS, just an FYI); “The Closer”, “Rizzoli and Isles”, and “House”. I’m just trying to keep my mind fresh to get through each day. Gotta go, “Big Brother” is coming on.