The Big Red Machine,Bob Shreve and a dead barber.

In 1971 and 1972 I had the experience of a lifetime.

My hair was kinda big in 1972.

I was rocking an afro or as we Jewish kids called it back then a Jewfro.

 My dad was raising money for the Kid Glove game that benefited little league baseball in Greater Cincinnati.I was allowed to be the bat boy for the celebrity game before the Reds played the Indians in an exhibition game.Celebrities included local D.J.s and TV news anchors and Bob Shreve of the Past Prime Playhouse.A late night staple on Channel 19 that showed "B" movies along with Bob and his cast of shtickmeisters to fill air time on late Saturday nights.I was assigned to hand out bats in the Cleveland dugout.I knew that across home plate as the game went on were some of the members of "The Big Red Machine".Every time I stepped out onto the field I looked up in awe at the huge stadium that would be the home of 3 World Series Championship teams.
I approached Bob Shreve with a bat and told him how I loved watching his show every Saturday.He told me how much fun they had doing the show and was very appreciative of my compliments.
I have no memory of who won the game.But after it was over I was allowed into the Reds dugout.As I crossed home plate I got a huge lump in my throat.I stepped down into the dugout and can only say that it reminds me of the scene in the movie "Field of Dreams" when Ray Kinsella sees all the players on his corn field and starts realizing they are some of the legends of the game and he is in total awe.I had a baseball,a glove,and a Bick ballpoint pen(Sharpies?) and as I stepped down into their special sanctuary I silently walked up to each and every player that was milling about.Bench,Perez,Morgan even Sparky ,the manager .I really wanted Pete Rose but he was too busy being interviewed by a few reporters so I kept my distance.As my time in the dugout came to a close I heard a loud voice calling out to me from a few feet away,"Hey kid come 'ere".I turned to see Davey Concepion sitting on top of the bench between a few players.He was motioning for me to come over to him.I hurried over to him to see what he wanted."Hey kid?", he asked."Yes Mr.Concepion?",I replied quizzically.He scratched his head with his voice loud enough so many of the surrounding players could hear him."I was being set up and didn't even know it.Me innocent,in awe of the greatness surrounding me had no idea."Kid let me ask you a tough question?",he prodded with a somewhat thick Spanish accent as he reached toward my 'fro of curly hair.
"Did you barber die?".The dugout erupted in laughter.I think I laughed.I didn't answer him as much as I remember myself being in awe of all these guys who were my heroes sharing a laugh with me even if it was at my expense.
Life went on after that day and I took my signed ball and glove home and instead of placing them in a case to save for the rest of my life.I continued using the glove.The ball I don't remember what happened to that artifact.I still collect baseball cards and memorabilia but the true memories are in the experiences not in a piece of paper or a ball but in your heart and mind.
Being the butt of a joke for one of the greatest teams that ever played the game of baseball and witnessing them compete in all those games in the 70's will stay with me forever.

Sauce me dang it !!!

Somewhere deep in my brain is burned an image of an egg roll from The Mandarin Chinese restaurant on Reading Road in Cincinnati,Ohio.Before I learned how to speak or walk in 1960/61 I had sampled the cuisine of far off Asia right in North Avondale my home "hood".
But the reason egg rolls are stamped in my psyche are because on one such occasion before me and my attentive Mom sat a dish of hot mustard that my parents would mix with the sweet duck sauce to give the rolls the "heat with the sweet" flavor so popular with today's chefs. I screamed and wailed at my Mom and kept pointing at the Yellow pungent sauce. I was relentless in my infantile efforts to savor the concoction that looked like some sort of succulent pudding in my young innocent eyes.
At this point Mom could have gone in a few directions with my boorish behavior.She could have moved the sauce away from me,moved me away from the sauce,handed the sauce to the waiter to get it off the table.Mom went in a fourth direction.
Look I think that it was safe to assume that after a rather long day of mothering 3 young kids Mom deserved a cocktail or five. Especially those fruity kinds that are on the menu with bright pictures of each one and little pink umbrellas and plastic palm trees or pelicans floating in them.Maybe a chunk of pineapple or some shaved coconut.As I sit here writing this I am being transported to the beach in the Bahamas for a Pina Colada with a float of 151 rum on top or Caribe Coconut rum.
................Reggae interlude................. swaying palms,........... a dang coconut just hit me in my head.............Okay back to the story.
Mom handed me the spoon filled with the MUSTARD! I screamed and wailed as my sister Jeanne described it to me recently as ,"Strong enough to shake the Great Wall of China ".
I got some water and maybe even a bit of sweet sauce to deaden the painful burning sensation that had taken over my infant mouth.The meal went on as usual.I think my Dave who was watching the mayhem asked my mom if he could get a drag off her cigarette and was cashing in on her being  slightly  stressed   from my screaming and a few cocktails .Mom relented big bro puffed and luckily Family Services did not come into the home to investigate.My brother and I survived.He never smoked another cigarette in his life and went on to become a cardiologist and played tennis for Georgetown University.He also ran in 3 or 4 Boston Marathons.My sister after seeing me in such pain went on to become a Nurse Practitioner. Two professional healers in my family.
Oh well I never had a healing calling .I did however become obsessed with all things at 5 alarm chili heat level.The more spicier the more attractive.At 12 my brother took me to a taco shop for my birthday.I ordered one with the hottest hot sauce on the menu.On the first bite I knew the habaneros had won but after drowning my tongue in Pepsi I finished the hell hot taco and never looked back. Over the years I have become somewhat of "foodie" specialist of hot sauces.For our wedding my friend Dan Katz gave us 30 hot sauces that he schlepped from New Orleans to New York City . Best gift ever .......for me.Dan had of course witnessed me once guzzle an entire bottle of Tabasco sauce at Chili Time Restaurant in Cincinnati after a night out with the boys.Hot sauce really has a use in almost every meal.I keep a bottle on the table in our kitchen.Plus a jar of chipotle powder.Every once in a while my wife moves it back into the cabinet where it does not belong.
It may seem trivial to be writing about a condiment.
Passionate love affair is a word that I don't easily use to describe most anything so work with me here people.When I travel around the USA or overseas I make it a point to always visit a food market on the first day to familiarize myself with whatever different foods and beverages are consumed in that locale.
Blah blah beer,wine,snacks and hot sauce .My wife went on a business trip a few years back to Mall of the America in Minnesota.They had a hot sauce shop. She approached one of the clerks and asked which was the spiciest hot sauce for sale.
The clerk reached for the key to a cage where under lock and key the hottest of all hotties was locked up to protect the innocent amateur hot sauce shoppers/tourists from casually strolling in to gander at the cute short thick bottle with the nuclear bomb caution label.
The clerk warned her to use it sparingly.He mentioned that a man had died from ingesting a spoonful of the potion which contained an infusion of habanero peppers.They basically strain out all the ingredients except the oily essence of habanero peppers."Use a toothpick",he suggested.
Recounting this advice to me my wife truly seemed concerned for my physical safety.So I went into the cabinet and retrieved a toothpick.
I slowly dipped the toothpick into the bottle and pulled it carefully out of the bottle and towards my mouth.I had even placed a beer as a chaser next to me in case the heat was too great for even my mouth to endure. As soon a the tip of the toothpick hit my tongue it felt as if
Mount Haleakala had just erupted in my mouth.Wanting to be a man I would not really let on that I was in pain.I took a sip of beer and did not swallow.The beer inside my mouth would help put out my tongue.It wasn't working! Maybe a Chinese fire brigade would have done a better job? Peanut Butter,Ice cream,Milk,Yogurt all would have worked better but I am a man so a beer is a bit more macho.Tequila or Whiskey even more so. In my head I was screaming for my Mommy. The same Mommy that many years before had handed me the spoon of hot Mustard and sent me down this long,dark path to capsaicin Hades.
Had I not learned at the tender age of zero not to play with fire? Apparently not!
I am sure when I told this tale to my Mom that she delighted in being the one to introduce me to
all things spicy.
A few years back I went looking for that bottle and could not locate it anywhere in our home.
I can only imagine some unsuspecting friend or family member without the benefit of a lock and key pouring Da'Bomb on a Taco or some other culinary delight.
My daughter has recently become enamored with my Chipotle sauces and I feel somewhat proud that a Red Hot Chili Pepper torch has been passed to a new generation of Weiland's.
As I reach over to pour some heat on my food I take a bite and a tear comes to my eye.
Is it the nostalgia of seeing my daughter follow in my footsteps (food cravings) or is it because this particular Habanero is burning my mouth,nasal cavities and eyes .
A bit of both I guess .

Deep Below West 10th Street Chapter One

This is one of those things that really is very hard to convey to the reader.If you have ever seen the video from SNL, "Lazy Sunday" you can see the front of my apartment at the beginning of the video (I will post the link to Lazy Sunday at the bottom of the page).

This was no ordinary city dwelling but a subterranean cave. The cave at 207 West 10th Street was my first real apartment in New York City(5 1/2 years). Through a rental service I did a short trial stay in a 5th floor walk up apartment for 2 and a half months where the guy who lived there was off doing opera in Italy.I had 2 roommates that grew up together in Connecticut. Mark was a sort of Keith Hernandez/Tom Selleck looking guy. Linda was older than Mark and to me she had an older sister vibe. Linda had split up with her boyfriend Brendan or as her friends nicknamed him "The Arena" after the Brendan Byrne Arena.Now known as Continental Airlines/Meadowlands Arena.They would get stoned and then hook up.We lived above a Korean grocery and First Wok Chinese restaurant at 78th Street and 3rd Avenue.Roaches had taken over the kitchen and I was afraid to turn the lights on at night cause they would scatter in all directions.With no A/C in my room that had one tiny window facing a wall in an alley I was roasting in the August heat of a concrete jungle.My window fan blew hot air.Two cold showers a night did not really help. But hell I was living in New York City and I would endure the heat,the roaches,the fornicating stoner roommates .Whatever NYC threw at me I could handle it.I survived living in the biggest frat house at Ohio State so co-existing with 70 -80 people was second nature.
As my trial period was coming into it's final few weeks I started to search for other options with the rental service Roommate Finders.One thing that I really wanted was to live in Greenwich Village.My first night ever in New York as a tourist was spent with my boyhood pal Phil Napoli walking the streets of the Village.The streets were teeming with life ,...........and bars .Coming from Cincinnati,Ohio I had never experienced a place anywhere that prepared me for the Village.Not visiting my brother and sister at Georgetown.Not even the nightlife on High Street at Ohio State where my big bro was in med school.
So the rental service gave me some names and phone numbers.Normally I remember every minute detail but I think that some of the places I checked out were so bad that I have blocked them out or made no impression at all.But when I walked into Mike Skaar's office on the opposite side of 10th Street I knew I had found my new home.Mike and his business partner Jerry were very welcoming and un-business like.I had spent part of that summer before moving to New York on August 15th working as a rental agent in my cousin David's apartment complex Clifton Colony by the University of Cincinnati.I was learning the ins and outs so to speak of the rental game.I also realized that being honest and basically nice to people made my days more enjoyable and made it easier to get clients.Mike and Jerry were not bullshit artists.Mike showed me across the street.He explained that Jerry and himself had been hippies.Jerry I think was a schoolteacher.They bought this 6 story building and many of the tenants were students.Many were from Scandinavia.Mike was from a Swedish background.On the basement floor they had converted an office space into 7 bedrooms of varying sizes with a patio out back that had some trees and 1 hour a day of sun kind of like in jail when you get an hour in the yard.The smallest cave was about the size of a small walk in closet.Twin bed on a platform with drawers underneath and no window.The biggest room was in the back and had a queen size waterbed built into a platform and A/C in a window facing the back patio .Because it was below street level there was no sunlight.It was a cave like existence.The closet cave rented for 250/month.The waterbed cave was 500/month.My cavemmates were from all over god's green earth and from all walks of life.Nuns,Vietnam Vets, Marines back from the Mideast conflict in Lebanon,Divorcees,Alcoholics,Video techs.
Japanese,SouthAfricans,Italians,Danes,South Africans escaping apartheid,Long Islanders!Then there was me a simple innocent kid from Cincinnati, Ohio.
My first night on 10th Street was October 31st.The Village hosts a massive Halloween parade every year with upwards of a million people taking to the streets to either march in the parade or join in the revelry.It was around 8p.m. when I ventured out to have dinner and not realizing their was a parade going directly in front of my house I stood there for a full hour staring at the men that were dressed in drag on the street in front of my building.It was like going to a runway show at Fashion Week except this one was choreographed like a lavish Broadway show and it had no real women.I guess that in my rush to live in the Village I had not researched or really gone west of Seventh Avenue....ever!So I didn't realize that Christopher Street which was one block south of 10th Street was the hub of the gay community in New York City.I can use an old cliche here when I say that I had friends that were gay,frat brothers that were gay,my mom was an actor/writer/director and many of her co-artists were gay.
I ended up looking at it this way.There were plenty of women in New York and in my immediate vicinity I would have little or no competition in meeting them except.............. maybe from my lesbian ex-girlfriend from Ohio but I am saving that story for my next chapter.

Two links
1. Google maps link below: windows below sidewalk to left of entry door were mine.Stairway going down to the left of the windows was our front door.
http://maps.google.com/maps?q=207+west+10th+st.10014&oe=utf-8&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&client=firefox-a&um=1&ie=UTF-8&split=0&gl=us&ei=Bc-xSp-0JZivtgfZ8pmSCA&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=title&resnum=1

2. Lazy Sunday video :
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xEum4kO88LE&feature=related

The Jew and the Wasp

So here it was 1999 and I was competing in my usual round of summer tournaments on the USTA-Eastern men's circuit.I had done pretty well in a grass court event at Forest Hills making it through the first 3 rounds to get into the quarterfinals and facing one of the top seeds.
I had lost to a highly ranked player Ed Perpetua but felt as if I could at the least win a round or two in the National grass event at The Rockaway Hunting Club which is the oldest Country Club in the USA.I noticed on the tournament form that the matches began on......Yom Kippur. Holiest day of the year for my people.They were giving exemptions to Jews to play on Sunday before the tournament began.I was going to be away that weekend and in my tennis mind the option for me was play on Monday(the holy day).It seemed logical to me to act as if the the day of atonement would survive without me.My ancestors from Poland,Russia,Lithuania,Nelsonville,Ohio and Cincinnati were not there to tell me to stay home,pray,fast,eat later,put away my rackets!My parents were in Ohio so it was up to me to decide how to live my life.I chose to play tennis.My opponent Randy Vigmostad had world class skills.I fought as hard as I could but that wasn't enough to beat this guy.I got 3 games in 2 sets.I had played Randy 13 years earlier and got 1 game in 2 sets so! I did better?.................
I still got my ass whooped.After my match my friend Chris Gilroy asked me if I wanted to grab a bite in the clubhouse of the Waspiest country club in the good old United States of America on Yom freakin' Kippur the holiest of all Jewish Holy days.You know what I figured I had already broken the sin barrier so........I went for the gusto.I didn't only have lunch.I had the friggin'buffet lunch.All the goddamn food and drink that I could eat.I had a burger(no bacon) and I think I had a second helping.Dessert....I had pie.After stuffing my face I went back with Chris to the courts and helped him warm up for his next match.I grabbed a soda from a cooler by the court and popped it open and took a sip.I went back to continue the warm up and after ten more minutes Chris went on his way.I noticed a yellow Jacket on my soda can and I shooed it away and grabbed the can to guzzle the sweet nectar.What I felt next was akin to getting stabbed in my throat.Another wasp was inside the can and I swallowed the little S.O.B.! My friends who were with me court side thought I was joking.I went into the locker room and stuck my finger down my throat to extract the stinger.Mark Harrison one of the players gave me a Benadryl which I quickly swallowed in case my throat closed up.I started guzzling water to flush out the wasp.I sat at the tournament desk for a half hour so they could monitor me in case I stopped breathing or swallowing.I have never been shot or stabbed but this seemed like it was pretty close to that pain level.When I got in my car I kept drinking water and had to pull off the highway a few times to find a bathroom.I picked up my daughter at daycare and still could not talk.I could whisper.When I got home and I explained to my wife my dilemma.Dinner at my cousin Martha's was in an hour to break the fast.I could lie.I could call in sick.I could tell the truth.The truth shall set you free.I opted for the truth and a martini or five to dull the pain.We ate.We laughed.We reflected.One guy wanted to use my story.Sorry dude it is all mine.On the holiest of Jewish holy days a Wasp taught me a lesson in the Waspiest place in America. Have I played tennis on Yom Kippur since then? Did I go develop full leg cramps once a few years after because I did two and a half hours of hitting lessons without eating or drinking?
......No comment.
Nowadays on the holiest of days I rest,I pray,I reflect,I wait to eat and slowly ,cautiously sip that first Martini (with 3 olives) and I remember to laugh..............even about my friend..... the Wasp.

My grandmother taught me how to hitchhike...my dad helped too!

It was the summer of 1968 and we had just finished playing tennis and swimming .My dad and I went for a walk in our neighborhood.About 7-8 minutes in to the walk and probably realizing that I may not be up to the task of completing the 1.6 mile loop to the top of Rose Hill and Beechwood Avenues in Cincinnati's North Avondale my dad proposed an alternative.
Dad said if I stuck out my thumb that soon enough someone would drive by .They would stop,ask where we were headed and take us home safely.
Hitchhiking tip #1....it is easier when you know the people that give you the ride.
It helped that this was the same neighborhood and streets that my dad had grown up on as a young boy.Basically everyone knew everyone.
So we stuck out our thumb at the first car that passed and as promised by dad our ride was secured.Another time my dad's hitchhiking/negotiating skills got us a ride home from an NBA game in Cincinnati.For some reason I do not remember.Broken down car, no snow tires,empty gas tank?Oscar the" Big O" Robertson was coming out of the game and dad approached the big guy. It turned out my mom was in a dance class with his wife and this translated to a connection and we hitched a ride in his MGb.My brother and  me contorted into the back seat for the better part of 15 minutes.
Hitchhiking tip#2....make sure there is ample room in the car for you to sit (not in the fetal position)Tip # 2A......asking people you don't know but can convince them you do to get a ride is acceptable and in my mind hitchin' a ride after all.
So I began to delve deeper into the hitchhiking phenomenon that had entered my consciousness.I sought out advice from a higher authority.There was no Ask.com or Google to consult.No hitchhiker blogs or forums.Like the one I read about in the Sunday NY Times travel section on August 9Th 2009.The source was .....Grandma Emma Pastor a.k.a. Mamoo.
She probably had been doing it all her life.Growing up in Cincinnati without a car I can imagine Mamoo sticking out her thumb when rides were scarce and money for the trolley was scarcer.
As a teenager she had told me on a number of occasions how she went to this place or that place."But Mamoo",I would say,"You don't drive".Then she would fill me in on her M.O.(modus operandi).She would spot a neighbor getting into their car and as they pulled away Mamoo would stick out her thumb.Once at her destination she would find her unsuspecting ride home.She would start up a conversation with someone she had sized up in let's say the supermarket.Then as she checked out she would watch them as they left the store and then go towards where their car would exit the parking lot and then her hitching digit would protrude.
At the time I thought I had the coolest Grandma in the world.I never really had to use my thumb since I had a car,a bike,my parents.I also found that when stranded I would use it as an opportunity to train for my tennis by running to any destination.After moving to NYC in the 80s I frequently walked or ran everywhere.Which leads me to the next bit of advice.
Hitchhiking tip #3......getting rides from strangers may be hazardous to your health.
In 1989 my Grandma Mamoo passed away and with her she took all of her great stories of life and growing up in Cincinnati.Tales of renting real estate to hippies during the late 60s.Working with a guy named Alvin Youkliss(Great-grandpa of the fiery Red Sox player Kevin..Go Yankees!) tales of my Grandpa Roy going hunting and fishing with gangsters.Her tales of romance from boyfriends before my Grandpa Roy(oversharing?),life during the Great Depression and two World Wars.
Which leads me to this next conclusion.....................
Hitchhiking tip #4...........write down all the stories that are told by engaging older relatives.Once they leave this earth you can't ask them to retell their tales.
All Photos � 1950-2007 David S. Weiland. All Rights Reserved.

Welcome to the "Jungle".....Bob's jungle

When I moved to New York in the 1980’s Hall of Fame player and coach Bob Ryland would speak at great lengths with me about how he played tennis at "The Jungle” in Harlem.

It was a proving ground where many young players mixed with older more experienced players. Sitting on the benches between the sets of courts you could pick up a game or sit and listen to players games get verbally picked apart by other bench squatters. I did end up spending a limited amount of time at the real jungle on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard.

Most days I spent practicing were at Midtown Tennis Club or East River Park along the FDR Drive (Bob's jungle).

I became the king of the FDR jungle in the mid 80s.

Eventually I stopped going altogether because of traveling to many tournaments that took up the better part of a week and weekend.

Country club tennis as Bob called it was not a breeding ground for tournament players. The public parks are where Bob"made his bones" as a tennis player even practicing with the legendary pro Pancho Gonzalez in the L.A. public parks.

Getting to Bob's jungle was not easy.Walking there meant going through Alphabet City which was a rough neighborhood back then.

Public transportation to Bob's jungle was not a great option .Bob actually had a pre-game ritual which at first seemed crazy until I realized that the foot bridge to his jungle had been knocked out by a car.

The ritual involved crossing 6 lanes of the FDR highway and somehow avoiding getting grazed by a car doing 65mph.

It was that or walk a half mile north to the next bridge. So I reluctantly at first chose Bob's path.

Once safely on the other side there was a mix of relief and adrenaline pumping nausea that reduced the time needed to warm up on the court before a match.

I guess that is a bit of an understatement.

Who needs the running of the bulls in Pamplona to get your heart racing?

Once there I was greeted by a crazy mix of Lower East Side tennis nuts.

It was like West Side Story meets West Side Tennis Club.

I have to say as I sit here that I miss the eclectic aura of Bob's jungle.

Families barbecuing next to the courts playing loud music on boom boxes blasting Salsa music.

Junkies and homeless people coming up to the fence to beg for money or smokes.

Seaplanes landing in the East River.

Subways rumbling overhead on the Williamsburgh Bridge.

Boats, cars, motorcycles and helicopters rocking my senses.

When leaving the city to play in a tournament it was very hard at first to concentrate without any noise.

I missed the Riff Raff!

Midtown Tennis Club's rooftop courts were noisy (especially at rush hour) but Bob's jungle was bedlam.

I miss the guys selling flavored shaved ice off a cart.

Sour sop and Guanabana were my favorite flavors.

My strokes got fine tuned on the cracked courts at Bob's jungle while I played my favorite sport to the rhythms of a Latin beat. .I miss seeing a husky,beer bellied tall guy named Juan Baez chain smoking then going out to kick some young guys butt with his slice and dice routine.

Angel (do not know his last name) was another guy that was every bit as talented as any guy I saw on the Satellite tour.

He regularly beat up on me when I first arrived on the scene.

In 1986 I beat another tough guy from Bob's jungle named Jose in the finals of the park championships and felt a bit like Kung Fu snatching the pebble from his master's hand and leaving the Dojo for good.

Under the noisy Williamsburgh Bridge I made my tennis bones on that day.

After that I rarely made it back to cross the FDR. I heard Juan Baez died of a heart attack while playing on the courts at Bob's jungle.

Eventually they fixed the foot bridge so the FDR dash was no longer needed. Bob moved uptown.

I moved out of Manhattan altogether.Now years later it all seems like a dream.

Get Bob Ryland in the International Tennis Hall of Fame
BobRylandWorldTour.Com

Standup 101 to Seth Schultz' Pips on Sheepshead Bay,Brooklyn

A few years back I woke up in a cold sweat.A recurring dream that left me wandering through the halls of Walnut Hills High School in Cincinnati jolted me again.In the bad dream I had not finished a test in Algebra and therefore was denied my diploma.I think Mr.Iacobucci would probably laugh if he knew his class still torments me.How did I overcome my weekly hellish nightmares of being mathematically challenged?Therapy?Prescription drugs?Crawling in a dark hole clutching my blankie and sucking my thumb while shivering in a pool of sweat until I let out a primal scream and force the overly cranky old man two houses away to call 911 again !I searched deep in my soul to find a way to let go of this gut wrenching feeling.The answer it turned out wasn't very complicated.Make fun of myself.Accept my faults in a very public way.Others had made fun of me with ease all my life.So...what was so tough?
Ever since I saw Chevy Chase’s delivery on Weekend Update on Saturday Night Live I was sold on the art of delivering a good one liner even if the bulls eye was pointed directly at me. Growing up in Ohio I never realized how many bitter, sarcastic people there were in the world.Then I migrated to New York. Bitterness and sarcasm are worn as badges of honor in New York. Bitter? Not me a simple country boy from Ohio.
I followed Don Rickle's  comedy act from as far back in my life as I can remember. 

On my parents honeymoon Rickle's even picked on my dad when they were seated in the front row.

Rickle’s liked my dad as a target so much he invited my parents back the next night as his guests and went off on dad again.

Dad…and mom loved it.

I had been on stage since starting as a 5 year old in a play called 'Weather or Not" dressed as a Native American boy with my buddy Chris Kraus for Kay King's Mini Mummers theater troupe then onto doing musicals and theater classes in high school were challenging and fun.

Doing plays also kept my actor/director/writer mom happy about my involvement in her craft.

I was never ever really the class clown. Although I could deliver some one liners when necessary and once even lifted a Weekend Update bit for a performance in a theater class. 

 My teacher Marlene Schmalo was unaware of the source and encouraged me to follow the comedy trail.I didn't listen to her.

But growing up in Cincinnati there must have been something in the water because I had heard of about 8 or 9 guys I knew of that felt compelled to try their hand at stand up comedy.

Saw one guy that I had played in a boys tennis tournament on Comedy Central (Tom Agna) then another younger kid from my high school on David Letterman (Bobby Tessel).

If they made it to the big show then couldn't I make it?

I know that the general route on the road to success as a stand up comic (my math nightmare therapy) begins with open mikes.

Performing in front of fifteen mostly jaded pissed off other wannabe comics and maybe 3-4 real customers is not a great way to spend a cold Tuesday night in Brooklyn's Sheepshead Bay section where a rowdy drunk tries to walk on stage and grab you.

Or being the final performer of the night in a "juice" bar with no one watching you but the waitresses.

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

But performing in a sold out night club on a Saturday night in New York City's Greenwich Village and "killing" the room is a great night.

Believe me that the high you feel is possibly better than any feeling in the world.

Getting to the point where you do "kill" a room requires a lot of the lonely nights as I mentioned above.

Also taking the time to develop some material that you can use in your "set". When I moved to New York I went as a spectator to two comedy clubs on a semi-regular basis. The Comic Strip and Comedy Cellar were my destinations for a night of laughs.

On a few occasions I accompanied two friends of mine to some open mike nights and wondered what it would be like to be up on stage doing stand up. Had been on stage as an actor as mentioned earlier so I was not intimidated being in front of a large crowd of people.

But being remotely funny was another matter entirely.

In the winter of 1994 I noticed that New York University offered a workshop in stand up comedy through it's Adult Education program.

Comedy 101 would be a proper description.

I had seen Punch Line" with Tom Hank's and Sally Fields. Sally's son was in our class he said the movie made him want to do stand up… a few weeks later he dropped out!

One guy in particular that I talked to a lot in class was Rich Guzzi.

He was an energetic fast talking guy from Long Island and he had some pretty good material. He also started doing open mikes before the class final had taken place.

Rich kept me motivated  to spend time writing and be prepared for our big night.

I have played tennis matches in front of a few hundred people.

Performed in plays in front of 500.

Given speeches in front of up to two thousand .Compared to getting up in a dark club in front of 100 people those other events paled in comparison.

Many of us were very nervous that night at Stand Up NY.

 Some guys had a drink to calm their nerves.

I was nervous that a drink might make me forget ...everything! One guy Lou even taped his "set"list to the stage floor in big letters. Another class member looked down at his material taped to the stage during his set and said, “ maybe this guys jokes are funnier? Nope! I think he’s going to bomb! These jokes aren’t funny at all!”

Poor Lou!

When I got up there and did my set I remember looking out and seeing my family, friends and co-workers at the tennis club in the crowd.

No pressure.

Down match point in the third set of a tennis match.

Breathe, bounce the ball and keep your feet moving.

Don’t take things too seriously.

After all it’s comedy.

I calmly delivered my "set" and remember people laughing.

Have a videotape to prove it.

Then it was over and I had that drink.

Best Corona I ever had .We all celebrated at a bar after the show and then parted ways to go out into the world of comedy and life.

Rich Guzzi mentioned an open mike night at a place called Pips in Brooklyn.

Pips was known as the first comedy club in America. 

Seth Schultz was the owner and the club's Master of Ceremonies.

He was also a great guy that took us under his wing.

Over the next year Seth helped me develop material and confidence in my ability to become a comic. Seth let me show up 2-3 nights a week to perform.

I looked up to him like an older brother.

It hit me like a bomb shell when Seth announced he was selling Pips.

After he sold the club he moved to L.A. and I never saw Seth again in person.

I looked for other places to perform and feel as comfortable flexing my comedy muscles but none will ever be as special as the small club on Emmons Avenue.

I even went Pips after it was sold but without Seth it was not the same.

Seth made it onto an episode of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" with Larry David.

He made a film about his friend Andy Kaufman from "Taxi" fame.

It was assumed that big things were going to happen for Seth.

He died a couple of years ago.

Rest in Peace my funny friend.

I did some auditions at comedy clubs in Manhattan and worked out of a cabaret club called "Roses Turn".The atmosphere was low key and unpredictable like Pips.

My wife got to see me on a night when I was performing to a full house… I "killed".

Was happy that my life partner had witnessed a room full of strangers laughing at my stories (mostly about us) and I did not drop any f-bombs in my act.

More and more I realized I wanted to spend any spare time with my family so I packed it in.

It has been over 10 years since I got up on stage to do stand up.

Wait…That sounds like a confession in a 12 step program!

Kids, work, being a devoted husband and too many late nights all contributed to the demise of my comedy "journey".

I don't really recall the last time Algebra woke me up quivering and screaming "IACCOBUCCI" in the middle of the night.

So I guess comedy cured my night terrors?
And to my friend Seth who is up in God's country.Thanks for the smiles!

How can I ever repay you buddy?
Fred"Wildman"(my stage name)

Searching for Stevie Brown but finding Bob Ryland

1976 is a year I will never let slip away from my memory.It was when I turned 16 and got my driver's license and independence.1976 was a year in which I went to see the movie “Rocky” with my tennis buddy Stevie Brown that inspired me to dedicate myself to fitness/tennis and never giving up on my dreams .
“Rocky” had me getting up before school every morning to run a 1.6 mile loop around my Cincinnati neighborhood .I even went so far as to ingest the raw egg diet of Mr. Balboa before many of those early morning training sessions..
I joined a gym and did weight training every other day .
Stevie Brown and I were headed in opposite directions on the tennis court in 1976.Stevie with his smooth classic strokes was the star of our high school team.
Me with the mentality of a brick wall was content to hit balls until my opponents either got bored ,frustrated or just plain angry with my ability to return every ball sent my way until the cows came home.
My defining moment in tennis was in 1973. Reaching the finals of the boys city championships .It was a dream I had envisioned since my brother had done it twice .
I never dreamed of winning .Getting to the finals was the “vision” .
That is where Stevie entered the picture ..On the other half of the tournament was a name I didn’t bother to look for or expect to lock horns with at all .
I beat a cocky kid in the quarters named Andy Porter who was talking about who he was going to play in the next round in the car ride to our alternate match site .As if beating me was a foregone conclusion .Only problem for Andy Porter was I wanted to win the damn match more than him .
The guy I faced after Porter was a pushover .Then came trouble with a capital "T"(or "S")
A year younger and about a half foot shorter than me . Stevie Brown kicked my butt .
I was not cocky .I didn't assume I would beat Stevie .I had achieved my goal of getting to the finals just like big brother Dave .
In 1976 I had let that memory fade pretty far away .Rocky was calling out to me .
Stevie now Steve was on his way to leading our high school team to the city and state championships.I was drinking a lot of raw eggs and humming the Rocky theme “Gonna Fly Now”.
Many years had passed and I don’t really know what happened to Steve. "Rocky” was still around in some shape or form (or Rambo).I was working at Midtown Tennis Club in New York and noticed an article on the wall about Bob Ryland who was a pro at Midtown.
The headline “Arthur Ashe’s dream : to beat Bob Ryland “ hit me like a sledgehammer .
The article said Bob was the first black professional tennis player .
Jackie Robinson of my sport ....sledgehammer again !
After a few weeks I got up the courage to ask Bob to hit with me .I should have kept my mouth shut.
It was the most torturous one hour of tennis I ever encountered .Bob only hit the ball that day with sidespin on both forehand and backhand .If I did get in position to hit a shot it was out of sheer luck .
Like Micky the trainer in “Rocky”made him chase a live chicken all over the yard Bob’s shots were like hundreds of chickens and with each missed shot my frustration boiled over .
I yelled at him to," play tennis like a man" .He laughed and continued to torture me with his sidearmed missiles .
After that I asked Bob to help coach me for some USTA men’s events .
Bob’s answer was “NO” .
He mentioned an event in Brooklyn that I should enter on an indoor linoleum court.
Not the tennis I grew up with in O-H-I-O.
That court was faster than greased lightning and I lost 6-0,6-0 to a guy named Michael Clarke.
I pretty much begged Bob on the subway ride home to help me get some game.
Bob finally agreed as we passed under the East River and back to the safety of the slow clay courts at Midtown Tennis .
One day as I was relaxing before teaching junior groups Bob walked by me with a tennis ball hopper filled with 100 balls . “Let’s go”, he said and motioned to the court.
I jumped up and quickly followed the “Master” onto court 3 .
Bob then proceeded to hit balls to the farthest reaches of the court and simply said ,”hit the ball as hard as you can”.
I did and 100 balls and 10 minutes later I was gasping for air and sweating profusely.
I limped off to teach my class that day .Over the next few months Bob repeated that drill and added other drills along with some sound technical advice .
Since most of my lessons were hitting lessons I could practice Bob’s methods .
Most of the pros at the club could not understand my desire to play and train in my free time since I was already working seven days a week.
I was searching for my defining moment. Where are you Stevie?
1985 was a year in which I lost eighteen first round USTA men’s matches.Ouch! Bob’s advice was simple ,”hit the ball hard and don’t be afraid”.
Winning was never discussed .Losing was not hitting the ball hard .I obliged.
That all changed when I accompanied Bob to the US Open to see Bruce Foxworth .
Bob was helping Bruce get through his early round matches .
Bruce was a cool customer on the court .He listened to Bob and was winning against some big name guys .
As we left the grounds one day I mentioned my desire to get to the Open as a player .
Bob shook his head ,”maybe one day ...keep hittin’ the ball kid “.
Stadium Tennis Center in the Bronx.In the shadows of Yankee Stadium is where my defining moment emerged .
Bob gave me a simple strategy ,”hit the ball down the middle of the court”.Down the middle until my opponent got bored , frustrated or angry with my ability to get every ball back in play until the cows came home.
My opponent was Michael Clarke of the earlier 6-0,6-0 linoleum smashfest at my expense .
This time with Bob in my corner the score was 6-1,6-1 for me.
Maybe 1973 was not my defining moment in tennis . Steve Brown had moved on to bigger and better moments and I guess that I had as well .
I have heard it said that you learn more from losses than from your wins.
I learned to fight harder . To train harder and develop a more complete game .
I learned that in my first year of tournament play when I lost seventeen times in the first round of USTA-Eastern men’s events .I thought about quitting many times during that year .Each time I lost I would speak to Bob and his first question would be ,”when is your next tournament ?”.
I never said to him ,”I quit” .
Instead I started entering tournaments in groups so after one was over I would be ready to move right into the next event .
Bob had the discipline of a champion and his mindset was rubbing off on me.
Not just in tennis but into all areas of my life .
If you think like a champion and train like a champion then eventually you will become a champion.
I spent many years searching for a way to erase the loss to Steve Brown.
In 2009 and many years removed from that loss in 1973 I am now honored that I could compete against my friend in such a meaningful match .
I never found a way to erase that loss but instead I found a tennis legend that changed my life .
In 1985 Bob Ryland helped me to look beyond Steve Brown.......and Rocky.
Arthur Ashe's hero when he was growing up was Bob Ryland now I know why.


BobRylandWorldTour.com/pdf

Happy Mother's Day Mom , Marcia,Sha Sha

I dedicate this to my Mom :
I want to thank my mom for giving me life. Her love was unconditional and I will always know that she was my biggest fan and supported my hopes and dreams .
She nursed me and my siblings through our various childhood ailments .She carpooled countless trips to school,sporting events,and endless other activities of my youth .
When I wanted to learn tennis she got me a lesson with our pro .When I (as a six year old) did not like some of the instructions given by the pro she became my personal coach . I was not always the easiest guy to be around .But my mom put up with my adolescent mood swings. When she once gave me a haircut (a buzzcut) at twelve years old. I swore ,"that she would never ever cut my (insert four letter expletive).... hair again!!!" . She didn't . Thanks for respecting my wishes Mom .
I loved to see my mom perform on the stage .She took her craft seriously and was on her way to big things as an actor , writer and director . I loved to see my parents dance .They were always the best dancers at parties and I was always proud to see people in awe of their moves.
When I went on the satellite tennis circuit my mom once showed up at a tournament and was my warmup partner before my match . After I lost she drilled me on the court to improve for my next event.After I won a match the next week with her watching I knew her helping me had paid off .
In 1988 she became paralyzed below the waist.Gone were her days of dancing with dad ,playing two sets of tennis with our family,climbing mountains with my brother in some far flung place,trekking off to Italy with my sister.Simple everyday activities became chores and she handled them with grace .When my wife and I got married it was too difficult for her to make the trip to our wedding.I was very sad that paralysis had taken away my mom's independence. My wife Sandra never saw my mom when she was able to walk, play tennis or dance . Eventually mom gained some strength back.
She even learned how to drive a van with the aid of hand controls.
Being in a chair did not stop her from being creative .She produced a documentary with my Aunt Lois on how to deal with being paralyzed .They won an international award for the video . When she proudly accepted the award in Los Angeles I was there by her side and was never more proud of her . When my daughter was born she made a few trips up to New York to see her cute Olivia.
On every family trip to Cincinnati our first stop was always to see my mom . Getting unpacked could wait .Seeing friends could wait .Getting Skyline chili could wait . As time went by and Mom got more frail it became apparent that each  visit could be our last one to see  our  beloved  Sha Sha (as her grandchildren called her)  .
In 2003 my siblings and I took our families to beautiful Sanibel Island for spring break .During that trip it became clear to us that mom was struggling badly.My brother Doctor Dave flew back to Cincinnati to check Mom into the hospital.
I never believed my Mom would die .To me she was always bigger than life.
My mom had slipped into a coma on a Sunday night at her home.
The news that she had died two days later came from my sister Jeanne , a nurse practitioner who was with her at the end.
Over  four hundred people came to her memorial service at Hebrew Union College.
Standing room only.Mom would have loved it.
Mom I miss your love,support,warmth,humor,smiles,phone calls ,letters,visits.I even miss your sadness .I would rather have your tears and sadness than not have you at all.
After five and a half years I still miss you Mom,Marcia,Sha Sha and think of you often.I put the colorful urn on the mantel at our ski house in the Pocono Mountains so you are with us always on our weekend retreats.

On your special day we wish you love.

Jerry! Jerry!

It was 1971 and I had just met Hubert H. Humphrey(HHH) the Vice-President of the good ol' USA under LBJ . At an after party for the event for HHH I was being introduced to many politicians and political "types" . I was getting a few autographs to accompany the one I got from HHH on his American Airlines ticket jacket . A younger adult came up to me and said,"hey you want my autograph ?".

"Who are you?",I responded . Someone overheard our exchange and came up to fill me in .
"This is Jerry Springer and he is running for city council " , the guy explained .
I shook my head and as any 10 year old autograph hound would do I held out the pen in my hand and let Jerry sign .
Many years later Jerry would use that same hand to sign a check that would get him in a load of hot water but this "John Hancock" was most likely one of the first that Jerry had ever signed .
I still have the autograph tucked away in a closet somewhere in my house .
A few weeks passed and I forgot about Jerry and all things beyond the fourth grade that mattered to me at the time...UC Bearcat basketball, Batman and any type of  candy.
My dad came home from work and announced we were having a guest for dinner that night .
It was some guy running for city council and he was helping him raise money .
A little while later in walked Jerry Springer .No chants of "Jerry,Jerry".No Steve the security guy holding back crazy men going after the women they love after discovering they have been cheating on them with their brother's girlfriends .
I don't remember what we had for dinner.My mom probably made a brisket or chicken with herbs in a white wine sauce . Jerry eats with with a knife and fork just like every other civilized human being (not including Springer show bizarros).
Okay so dinner is ending and my mom who was an actress mentions that she is holding a Psychodrama theater workshop in our basement after dinner . She wonders aloud if Jerry would like to join in .My dad probably was not too excited to see this exchange between my mom and "The Ringmaster" take place . Jerry instantly accepted her offer. After dinner the theater people started filing in and must have been wondering why the guy who ran for U.S. Congress in the last election was in our basement as they entered their weekly angst fest .
I had to witness this class first hand so I plopped my ten year old frame on the floor and watched closely as the group was led through a series of "drama drills" I will call them .
At one point I remember seeing Jerry laying on the floor and I think they were telling us to pretend to be babies or something and I started laughing .I did not get kicked out so it must have been okay to giggle .
What if Steve from the "Jerry" show ran in grabbed me and pulled me out of the room?
Jerry left the class and I went back to my life of UC Bearcats,fourth grade french and pixie stix.
He got elected to city council that year and never looked back . Actually he looked back once a few years later cause he wrote a check to a "massage" parlor and got caught. My heart broke.Say it ain't so Jerry for the love of all things pure and decent in this world say it ain't so! Jerry? Did you ever hear the expression ?....... Cash is king!I guess not.
I was there the night in 1975 when Jerry got re-elected to city council after he had resigned in disgrace only a short year earlier . I remember Jerry and his wife only a few feet away from me as he tearfully made his acceptance speech.Cincinnatians are very forgiving people.
The years passed and I moved away from Cincinnati .Jerry moved on to become mayor then local TV anchor then the "Ringmaster".I moved on with my life focusing on college life(beer,girls,fraternity,Buckeye football),UC Bearcat basketball, and rock and roll (no more candy).
Jerry inspired me to get into politics as a young boy. I worked as a page in the Ohio Senate when I was a student at Ohio State .Then served as sergeant-at-arms for the Young Democrats .I even once contemplated running for the Ohio House of Representatives. Then I made my big move......I tended bar at the Governor's mansion.Then I got invited to an Inauguration party.I met the Governor and a famous Astronaut senator. I reached my 21 year old hand into my suit pocket for a pen and paper to get an autograph. A piece of Jolly Rancher candy was stuck to the paper(I guess I still was into candy)
I grabbed a cocktail napkin and like any 21 year old autograph hound would do I held out my paper and pen.