Birthday

            A little story – I had just finished a five-week trial, my first big case as a lawyer. I was defending four prominent local citizens who served as directors in a small East Tennessee bank. The bank failed – part of Tennessee’s 1982 bank run that led a few lawyers to suicide, ruined a number of politician’s careers, and led young lawyers like me into battle after battle in court.

            Here I was, less than four years removed from law school and I was trying a multimillion-dollar shareholder suit. Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t in over my head. I was a good, aggressive trial lawyer. I wouldn’t quit and I didn’t like to lose (two traits that helped me survive my early days in prison). I was in court eight to ten hours each day; then, to the office for three to four hours (plus weekends). Finally, home to an eight-month pregnant wife.

            The jury stayed out a day and a half. Finally, a little after lunch, they came in with a verdict: for the defense on all counts. My clients were vindicated. I drove home and walked into a completely cleaned house and huge meal (a new recipe she was trying – beef stroganoff). I didn’t know what “nesting” meant until later, that surge of energy right before birth.

            I settled in to watch the NIT final. It was a little after eleven when she told me her water broke. “It’s too early.” I said (we were three weeks from his due date). We went to the hospital got her in a room, and less than three hours later I saw him born. He was beautiful. And I held him moments after he took his first breath. I looked at him and knew there was a God. And I don’t know why, but I leaned in close to him and sang my favorite Bob Dylan song, “Forever Young.” It was for me, every wish I had for my precious son.

            There are a thousand memories like that floating in my heart and head right now. There’s the time I was the only dad in the pool during “Mother-tot” swim and he and I swam circles around the others. There was 1993 and my beloved New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup, their only one since the 1940s. It was nearly 1:00 am and I went up to his room and picked him up and carried him down to our living room. As the players skated around the ice and Natalie Merchant’s song, “These Are Days” played, I held him and told him this is why we stay loyal to our teams, to our families – it’s for days like these.

            For so long we were inseparable. He thought I was perfect – the perfect lawyer, father, husband. Maybe that was the problem. Or maybe, I led him to believe the world was black and white. Either way, my arrest changed us. It destroyed a family and for that I am solely responsible. Someone asked me a question about my “ex” the other day and in a moment of unimaginable honesty I told her I live with more heartache over my ex and my sons than anyone knows. There is nothing that prison could do to me that cuts me quite like that.

            My older son turns 26 tomorrow. He is a remarkable young man – An honors graduate of a prestigious liberal arts college and a soon-to-be law school grad. He married his college sweetheart who is as beautiful as she is brilliant. He has his whole life ahead of him – a great job already lined up; a young wife who loves him. And I miss him terribly.

            Birthdays, anniversaries, so many memories. Those are my real prison sentence. But, like Paul in his letter to the Romans put it, “But we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.”

            Maybe Paul Simon explained it better. I found myself singing this song as I ran this morning:

            “Oh little darling of mine

            I just can’t believe it’s so

            And though it seems strange to say

            I never been laid so low

            In such a mysterious way

            And the course of a lifetime runs

            Over and over again

            But I would not give you false hope

            On this strange and mournful day

            When the mother and child reunion

            Is only a motion away.

            Happy Birthday son. I love you. Dad.

This is our Year

Last night, the New York Rangers defeated the Washington Capitals in playoff game 7.  It reminded me of an incident years ago, an incident I’ll never forget.

I’m a sports nut and I find many life lessons, shall we say, in sports.  With the exception of football, I am a New York fan through and through.  And that is tough at times; especially when your baseball team (the Mets) can count only two World Series Championships, your basketball team hasn’t won since 1973, and your hockey team, well. . .

Patience.  I think about that word, that virtue a great deal.  I’m not a patient man.  And yet, with my teams, I have the patience of Job.  Every spring I prepare for baseball knowing “this is our year”.  And every year – except for two – my heart is broken by October.  And still, as winter rolls in I say “wait ‘til spring.  We’ll get em next year.”

And then there’s hockey and the New York Rangers.  I discovered hockey as a little boy, eight or nine years old.  Ironically, I can’t even skate.  But watching those guys fly around the ice, I was transfixed.  And the Rangers?  They played at Madison Square Garden; their jerseys were red, white and blue; and they were New York’s team.  It was then I learned of the curse.  “Rangers haven’t won since 1940”, I was told.  It didn’t matter.   I knew they’d win.

And year in and year out they wouldn’t.  Not in the ‘60’s, or the ‘70’s, or the ‘80’s.  Years would come and go and the Rangers wouldn’t win.  Not once in all those years did I give up on the team.  “That’s what a fan does”, I’d tell myself.  And I’d always know there was next year.

Time moved ahead to 1994.  We were living in Virginia.  It was spring and the Rangers had the best record in hockey.  A future hall of famer – Mark Messier – had signed with the Rangers at the beginning of the season and he had promised “the cup” would come to New York.  All season it seemed that way.  The Rangers were unstoppable.

We only had one son at that point.  He turned six during the hockey season and he was a “little Larry”.  Every night, as we sat down to dinner, we’d talk sports.  I’d tell him about memories of baseball, football, basketball and hockey games.  And I’d tell him “this is the year the curse is lifted . . . the Rangers are gonna win.”

The playoffs began and it looked as though once again the Rangers would break my heart.  More than once they faced elimination; more than once Messier would come out and “guarantee” a victory.  Sudden-death overtime games, it didn’t matter.  Somehow the Rangers survived and lived to play one more day.

I would sit up late into the night and watch every second of every game and then the next day replay it for our son who’d sit spellbound as I described yet another improbable win.

And then it came down to game 7, in the Garden, for the Cup.  Our six year old was fast asleep but I’d promised him “I’ll wake you when we win”.  The clock ticked down, so slowly it seemed.  And then there was just thirty seconds left.  “What are you doing?” my wife asked as I ran up the stairs to lift our sleeping son in my arms.  “I promised him.  He needs to see this,” I said and I held him close as the clock clicked down, “10, 9. . .”  They panned the arena and old men, men from the era of World War II and Korea; large lumbering construction workers, wept with joy.  Fifty four years and the Rangers finally won!

Natalie Merchant’s song “These Are the Days” played on the Garden sound system and Messier and his teammates skated around the rink with the Stanley Cup above their heads and I, I held my son close and whispered over and over “I told you they’d win.  You always have to believe.”

That message resonates with me.  Sometimes it sounds like a tired cliché, but the truth is, you have to be patient and believe.  It’s a sports metaphor, but I’ve come to understand through this experience, it’s also a definition of faith.  “Be patient and believe.”

Last night, the Rangers won another Game 7 playoff game.  I couldn’t help but think of 1994 and wonder, with so much facing me, could this be the year?