mommy why is the doctor chasing me?

It was 1964 or 1965 and we were going to see Dr.Bernie Gillman for our checkups and shots. .As I am writing this my left arm is aching.But for some reason when we entered the small office on the corner of Section and Reading Roads in Cincinnati's Roselawn neighborhood we were told that his partner and fellow pediatrician Dr. Jerry Rauh was covering for Dr.Gillman that day.
We had no problem with that as my mom and dad were friendly with the Rauh's dating back to their childhood .
As we waited I played with the toys .
Going to the doctor had become old hat to my siblings and me.We were always taking some sort of medicine for sore throats or viruses.I had asthma and chronic bronchitis that was not helped by the fact that my mom was smoking two packs a day of Pall Mall unfiltered cigarettes in our presence.Years later she told me that on nights when I would be in bed wheezing with the vaporizer going full steam ahead that she would be sitting in my room reading and smoking Pall Mall's the whole time.That was obviously before any surgeon general's warning labels were introduced about the ill effects of tar and nicotine.
Back to Dr.Rauh pronounced like the ow in ouch.
Then the nurse ushered us into the room for the checkup.
It was all going pretty well.I stuck out my tongue said "AHHHHH".Dr.Rauh listened to my breathing with his cold stethoscope.Did the reflex test with the rubber triangular thing .Checked my ear ,nose and throat with the light on the portable microscope thing.Made me drink some liquid for polio I think.Pricked my arm  with some 4 pronged thing for a  tuberculosos tine test.Then pulled out a needle possibly a tetanus shot.
This is basically when all hell broke loose.I saw the needle then willed my 4 year old body off the table and ran out of the checkup room screaming.The doctor stunned didn't know how to react my mom followed.
The nurse hearing the commotion entered the fracas.I was heading for the front door but someone shouted out to the nurse to ,"Block the door".I turned to my right and headed for a table in the opposite corner of the waiting area.The adults were trying to coax me out but I was pretty damn agitated and not budging.Eventually the table was moved out and I think kicking and screaming I was brought by force back into the checkup room where against my will(arm still throbbing here) I was administered the vaccine.
There is also the possibility that Dr.Rauh had my mom re-schedule additional shots for the next week when Gillman was back in town.I can only imagine the reaction of other kids and parents in the waiting area.
Not something to boost their morale heading in for their visit with Rauh.
I probably owe Rauh a drink or two if I ever run into him back in Ohio.I am sure he had a couple that night after my hijinx that day. Eventually I had to come to terms with my fear of needles when allergy shots were given to my siblings and me weekly by our Mom on orders of an allergist and the results of his scratch tests.
A few years back I had to take my daughter for blood work at age 4 and remember holding her down as the lab tech stuck her with the needle.There would be no running of the bulls that day in the Smith Kline lab in Rye Brook ,New York. On my sons visit at age 5 to get his checkup he looked the nurse in the eye with a cold stare and stated "I am not afraid of needles".The first two shots went down pretty well.On the third a tear formed in his eye and he had a pained expression on his face but he faced his fears head on and that is really
what I took away from the experience.In my mind it was much worse than I what the reality of the shot was actually.
This past year I had to have three surgeries ,countless MRIs and multiple cortisone injections .Remembering my son's brave statement to the nurse helped get me through the anxiety.
I took my son to one of my doctor's appointments last year and upon seeing the doctor pull out a large needle to inject me with cortisone he started laughing.The doctor and I were both a bit surprised.
"Dude why are you laughing?",I asked. He replied,"Cause you always see me get shots now the tables are turned".
Should I make a run for the door?
I rolled up my sleeve and held out my arm and took my shot.
Dr.Rauh that one was for you.......... Dr Gillman passed away years ago......Dr. Rauh passed away this week I will miss them both. Many nights my mom would call them at home and they would stop by our house to help steer all three sick kids on the road to recovery.

From Tony Trabert to Bob Ryland...... my tennis heroes

It was sometime in the late 60's I think at the Armory Field House at the University of Cincinnati(UC). My dad had told my brother Dave and  me that we  were going to see his old high school mate Tony Trabert play in an exhibition match .I don't remember any of the match. But after it was over dad brought us up to the court to meet Tony. As Tony reached out to shake my hand I remember dad telling me not to wash my hand because I was shaking the hand of a legend. I knew very little about tennis history or it's greatest players other than Rod Laver and the ones I saw on television.
Marion Anthony"Tony" Trabert was a graduate of Walnut Hills High School in 1948.My dad Richard "Dick" Weiland was class of '47 at Walnut. Tony won the state high school championships 3 times while at Walnut.
He went on to UC where he won the NCAA title in 1951.After this it was onto the world stage where in 1955 alone he won 3 of the 4 major events .The French,Wimbledon and US championships.
Okay enough facts and numbers.I had been playing tennis for a few years and meeting Tony was a life changing experience for me.Hitting against the backboard or hitting with my neighborhood buddy Josh Harkavy took on new meaning. Josh was a lefty and tactically very smart with great quick hands. Josh had that tricky lefty serve and I would imagine I was Trabert fighting hard to win points against the two-time Grand Slam year to year champion Rod"The Rocket" Laver.
For me every time on the court with Josh was a victory for us righties.My dad is a lefty so I had to keep this fact on the down low.
Maybe Josh thought I was a bit overly competitive.....I was that way at everything.In 1972 Josh (unseeded) made it all the way to the finals of the Boys under 12 city championships.
I will give his coach some of the credit.But competing against myself,Stevie Brown(see earlier writings) and Jeff Zinn (google Penn State men's tennis) toughened Josh up for his run to the finals.
So Josh "Laver" Harkavy had done it.A few years prior to this my big bro got to the finals in the under 12 and under 14 divisions.Trabert from Walnut Hills had  won Wimbledon!, Dave got to the city finals, Josh 'The junior rocket" as well .
I practiced even more against the wall on the back of our house.Tony won a bunch of imaginary championships in the spring and summer of 1972-73 in my backyard.
I did get to the Boys under 12  final in 1973 only to see a familiar face across the net....Stevie Brown.
See the entry "Searching for Stevie Brown but finding Bob Ryland " to get the rest of that story.
I have heard it said you learn more from your losses than wins. Ask Tony Trabert about that one.
He is a world champion and learned how to channel adversity into ultimate success.
I know after losing a match I usually work five times as hard to make sure it never happens again.
Stevie were you dreaming Trabert dreams like me? Even into my mid-teen years I remember as I would practice and compete that I would imagine what it was like to be Tony.I really never saw him play save that one exhibition. I never saw his technique but my dad kept the bar high  by mentioning Tony whenever I got a little too over confident. Had I won a state title dad would remark. No, I would reply .I would go back out to the wall to bolster up my strokes.
After my move to New York I went into the tennis business as a full time coach.It was in New York that  I  met  Robert "Bob" Ryland at the Midtown Tennis Club where we both worked as  teaching pros .
If you google Tony Trabert you will see that there are many entries on the great champion from Cincinnati.
The International Tennis Federation  has an event named after Tony.There is a sweater named after him! Tony has been on the cover of Sports Illustrated.  Tony was the lead commentator for CBS' US Open coverage for many years . Tony worked incredibly hard to achieve his titles and all the recognition that came along with them.Tony was inducted into the International Tennis Hall of Fame in 1970.
Bob Ryland traveled a similar but much different road. If you google Bob Ryland you will see my website set up for Bob and a couple entries about Bob from NBC-Philly and the Arthur Ashe Tennis Center.
Bob worked every bit as hard as Tony growing up. Bob's dream was to be able to compete on the world stage in tennis. He had the skills but his skin color got in the way. Bob's mother was black and this was enough to keep him out of the whites only genteel sport of tennis.
Bob won the Chicago boys high school prep title in 1937 and was the finalist in the Illinois High School championships in 1939. Then it was on to college for one year before he entered  World War Two where Bob served in the Army Air Corps special services. In 1945 Bob was stationed at Selfridge
Two times Bob won the American Tennis Association championships. The first time Bob was champion there is a picture of Bob with his proud father looking on. It reminded me of the photo of Arthur Ashe with his father after he won the 1968 US Open and his proud father embraced him.
 However there would be no opportunities for Bob or any black tennis champions to compete at Wimbledon, the French or the US championships. Eventually tennis opened it's doors to the black players.
Althea Gibson and Arthur Ashe are very recognizable names that have transcended the sport of tennis.
Bob Ryland? The Jackie Robinson of tennis ? I guess so. Sad that Bob has to be referred to as the Jackie Robinson of tennis.
That's right Bob Ryland was/is the first black professional tennis player.
Bob was not allowed in to the US championships until he was well into his 30's as an amateur player.
He lost in the first round of his first tournament ever on grass.
Bob kept competing while working his day job at the post office and practicing with the great Pancho Gonzalez. In 1959 a promoter named Jack March made history in Cleveland,Ohio when he selected Bob to compete in the World Pro Championships at the age of 39. Most tennis pros have already packed it in and are off playing golf by the age of 39. Bob eagerly competed in his second opportunity on the world stage.
He did lose that match but by helping to break down the color barrier in tennis he had won so much more.
In 20007 the International Tennis Hall of Fame(ITHF) hosted an exhibit at the US Open called  "Breaking the Barriers". Bob was included in the exhibit.
His picture was featured in the center of the exhibit and he was interviewed for a documentary for the exhibit.
As the two week event drew to a close theere was a cocktail party to celebrate the exhibit.
Mayor David Dinkins gave a short speech. As I surveyed the room I noticed that Tony Trabert was seated near the front door. My two tennis heroes in the same room ! Tony was representing the Hall of Fame in his role as President of the ITHF.
If I could have only gotten these two great champions together then my night would have been perfect.
 A short while after the presentations were over I noticed that Tony was heading outside to make his way to the Ashe Stadium. I introduced myself as Dick Weiland's son. I had met Tony the previous year with my son at the Open but I am sure that he meets many people. I mentioned my dad was sick and Tony showed genuine concern for his classmate from Walnut. That was where our discussion ended. I regret not bringing Bob and Tony together.
After the exhibit closed I filled out a form to nominate Bob for the Hall of Fame. Many great champions have been blessed to be inducted into our sports Holy Grail.
It is now 2009 and I have a distinct feeling that Bob will never ever be enshrined in the Hall at Newport.
Bob is 89 and it seemed  as though 2009 was the perfect year since it was the 50th anniversary of when he broke the pro tennis color barrier.After the list of inductees was published I noticed no Bob on the list. I was told by someone at ITHF that he 2010 was a possibility. Will Bob's day ever come? To be excluded from the sport because of skin color during his playing days was hard enough. Now is the time for all the honorable members of the selection committee at the ITHF to do what is right and place Bob into the Hall of Fame.
I looked over the list for 2010 and Bob is still not there.
If not now then when?
Bob is a proud man. Since the day I met him he has always told it like it is.As Bob would say ,"that's the way it is Fred". I asked Bob if he was ever bitter that he never got to prove himself in the big leagues of tennis.
No he said," not bitter". This was as much a loss for the sport of tennis as it was for him.Now is the time to make amends. So to my two heroes let's get together on this thing. To fellow Walnut Hills High School Alum Tony Trabert and the ITHF  selection committee  I say, "do what's right".
Tony my hero.... make me proud.
To my coach,mentor and friend Bob Ryland I say, " keep the faith".
From the wall in back of my old house in Cincinnati I started dreaming of tennis greatness. Although I personally never achieved those heights it is now my dream that another can reach the summit.

Goldy Goldman

It was  early in  1973. I was a part of the Sunday basketball leagues at JCC in Cincinnati.

I only remember one other player on my team, Mark Goldman.

 I was all of 5 feet tall and probably 90 pounds. Goldy may have been a bit shorter and a bit bigger. I remember what he lacked in speed and mobility he made up for with good hands. Although I lacked speed as well I could play good defense because I wanted to win to a degree that I would do whatever I could to keep the man(boy) I was guarding  from getting open. I was also used to competing in tournaments as a tennis player so whether it was long hours practicing or just spending hours on the court playing matches I put a tremendous amount of pressure on myself to win every time I competed.
Right now I want to apologize to every single guy that I have competed against or played on a team with in my entire life especially Goldy. Maybe not everybody but definitely Mark Goldman.
Goldy died on Saturday November 28th ,2009 over the long Thanksgiving weekend. Just a few weeks back he called me to catch up on our lives.The last time I had seen or spoken to him was 25 plus years ago. It was probably during my time as a Sammy at Ohio State University.
Keith Gud my roommate was most likely hanging out with us that night at a bar on High Street.
Good times were had by all.

 But quite  a few years earlier Goldy  experienced my competitive personality firsthand on that winter  day in 1973. Our team was down by 7 points with somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 seconds on the clock.
Maybe it was extremely unrealistic to think we would come back but I did especially because as a 12 year old sport fanatic I was  generally unrealistic  in my expectations.

Still thought the Reds would win a World Series every year.

I had just witnessed them fall short a few months back.

Seeing Pete Rose fly out to end Game 7 against Oakland was a heart breaker but ...those guys never gave up.l
(see 1975-76 World Series Trophy on Pete Rose Way).
For some unexplained reason as Goldy our point guard brought the ball up the court he decided it was the right moment to set up at half court and take a "Hail Mary".

The old wing and a prayer shot. 

Goldy’s shot was not even close and the other team got the ball back and eventually time ran out .
I flashback to the scene in The Bad News Bears when Tanner Boyle angrily snarls at Timmy Lupus after he drops an easy fly ball.
Now mind you Goldy was no Lupus. Goldy had skills.

Lupus not so much.at all.
I remember yelling at Goldy .There may have been some four letter words.

It is entirely possible that a 5 foot curly haired kid who weighed 90 pounds lost his temper enough to squarely punch a shorter stockier point guard.
Unaware that the said point guard had a mouth full of braces.

The ensuing mayhem that took place on the first court at the JCC must have looked ridiculous to all in the gym.

Goldy was chasing me all over the gym.

He was pissed.
I was pissed. 

I don't remember if he caught up to me.
One of us had a good sized cut on his finger.

The other one a sore mouth.

Eventually we made up and the season went on.

We did not win the league that year.
When I spoke to Goldy during the 2009 MLB post season I had no idea that a few weeks later he would be gone forever.

He wanted to get a group of guys together from the old JCC for a game of basketball or softball.
We talked for somewhere between 30 minutes and an hour and I think he had to go because he was on his way to referee a football game. He seemed to really enjoy the job.

Plus he had a ticket broker business 
Goldystickets.com .

During the Yankees playoff run I was on his site daily checking out his tickets and also thinking of possibly selling my seats through his website.
Goldy and I had connected through Facebook. I had asked him to post some pictures on his page.
He eventually did post some of himself. Sure he had gotten older like the rest of us but It was good to see him as a grown  up man.
I know he had taken some knocks lately in his life and had been through a tough divorce.

But he was taken too soon.

He still had  so much to offer.

Let us not ever take our lives for granted.

Goldy's death has further reminded me to "seize the day".
I still laugh  when I think of Goldy chasing me through the gym at the  JCC. 

Obviously not funny at the time but now 36 years later it ranks up there as one of my most memorable and humorous moments.
Goldy if I could right now I would pass the ball to you  anywhere on the court and see you set up at and  heave the shot and pray for a swish or a bank shot.

Then celebrate with you as if we had won the NBA title for the Cincinnati Royals or the NCAA Championship for the Bearcats of U.C.

Goodbye to Sal

Last Sunday night with my wife and our 9 year old boy I went to see our friends Sal and Angela Zavaglia
Sal has been ill for the past few years with cancer.My son has always looked up to him like a 3rd Grandpa.
In 1995 when our daughter was but a few months old we were looking for a caregiver to help us out with our new baby.The Westchester Child Care Council referred us to Angela . When we visited Angela to interview her as a prospective babysitter we knew right away that we had found the right person to help us raise our child.Angela offered us food,espresso,home made wine.It was a warm family atmosphere.
Angela was referred to as Nonna by the kids she cared for.Nonna is the Italian word for grandmother.
The kitchen is the center of activity in their home. Olivia our daughter quickly picked up the culture and language of her own Italian great- grandparents through her time spent with the Zavaglia's.
Sal and his son Tony ran a landscaping business and would spend their lunch hours with Angela,Olivia and her friend who I will call "Eve".Olivia and Eve became good friends at Nonna's.
Nonna and Sal's grandchildren visited from Canada and helped with Olivia and Eve.
Over the first 6 years they became our family.Olivia got bigger and did not require a caregiver yet we would still find time to bring her to Nonna's.Then our son was born and we started the cycle all over again. Our little guy became attached to the Zavaglia's and Sal would teach Matt about gardening and show him all the cool gadgets that they used in their landscaping business.
Nonna watched over Matt and Olivia with love and affection for the past 14 plus years.
Sal taught me how to make homemade wine. Sal also took me to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx.
The Bronx' Little Italy  is a great place to shop for espresso,bread and cheeses from Italy.
I would say about fifty percent of my knowledge of Italian cuisine was given to me by my wife Sandra Spinelli and her family. The other fifty came from the Zavaglia's .
Sal is from Gioiosa in the Calabria region of Italy on the Ionian Sea .Nonna grew up in the next town.
From Italy to Larchmont.
Larchmont.......home of Wall Streeters . Home of the head of the US Treasury Secretary
Tim Geithner....Joan Rivers.....Lou Gehrig.....Norman Rockwell and our friends Sal and Nonna.
My son and my wife went up to the family room where Sal had been sleeping in their home .
Nonna told Sal that Matt our boy had come to see him .Sal reached out his hand for Matt and then my son hugged Sal.
Later that night at our house Matt could not fall asleep.He tried laying down with my wife but was still stirring.Then came down while I was watching Sunday Night Football.
I asked him if something was on his mind and walked him back up to his room .
As I tucked him in to bed he told me he was worried about what we were going to do if Sal died.
He started to cry. His whole body was shaking as he imagined a world without Sal.
When his crying subsided we spent some time talking about a similar talk I had with my mom when I was an eight year old.I had imagined life then without my parents and I remember feeling overwhelmed with sadness and fear.My mom helped to calm me down.Now it was my turn.
Mom passed away six years ago and when she died I felt the sadness of my eight year old self return.
As the week went on our world returned to it's normal routine. Late Thursday night as I was headed to sleep I noticed on our phone's caller ID that Nonna had called at 12:45 p.m. Thursday.It was too late to call their house so I figured that I would call in the morning.
I hoped it was Nonna taking me up on my offer to drive her somewhere or to pick up some stuff from the store. On Friday morning as I walked by the answering machine next to our computer I noticed a new message. I pressed the play button and my worst fears had come true.
Nonna was weeping her way through the message that Sal had died.She had taken the time to call us in her darkest hour.
Matt had woken up especially happy yesterday and I could not bring myself to tell him that his Sal was gone.I let Sandra know. Olivia had been without her cell phone for 10 days due to a bad battery.I had gotten it replaced by Sprint finally and handed it to her Friday morning.To a teenager being without their phone for a day is like a day of detox .Being without one for ten days is like detox boot camp
I didn't want to wipe the cell phone elixir euphoria off her face. But she had to know since her friends at school knew the Zavaglia's.When Sandra told her she was very upset.At school she did run into Sal and Nonna's next door neighbor and they commiserated about Sal.
Picking my son up at school was difficult .He was so happy and I knew that in one moment with one sentence sadness would be brought into his world.
I turned off the radio and put on some James Taylor." Winter,spring ,summer or fall .All you've got to do is call and I'll be there.You've got a friend".
It calmed my nerves. As my wife and daughter puled up to our driveway I knew Matt was about to to be saddened.It was best that we were all together .Matt took the news hard .Who wouldn't?
Last night we went by their house to drop off some food and spend time with their family .
I think Matt saw how Sal's family although very upset by his loss was still able to laugh and love each other and life would go on.Matt laughed a little .He cried some too. As we left their home he clutched my hand and we made our way home .He kept Sal's rosary card with him all night.Staring at his picture.
To Sal our dear friend. We will miss you. As your rosary card stated ," You are not gone but merely in the next room. When we speak of you we know that you will be with us always".
Rest in eternal peace.

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