Troy Day

I need a break from my book, but I feel like writing, so I’m stopping here for a minute. Hope everybody’s good.

* * * * *

I’ve written a lot about holidays I don’t like, seemed like a good day to tell you about my FAVORITE non-traditional holiday. It’s Troy Day, and unless you were in a VERY specific place, at a VERY specific time, you’ve never heard of it, but you’re welcome to celebrate it with me. It comes in handy from time to time.

Troy Day started in one of my earlier lives, the one where I was an Air Force radio/television broadcaster in the Pacific.

At the time, I was half of a morning drive-time radio show in Tokyo (whaddup Jakey!!!!!!!). Over the weeks/months/years that the show existed, we’d built up a fair amount of popularity and a VERY sizable audience across the Kanto Plain; mostly because we’d dumped the rule book pretty early on, and just had the most fun we could without going to jail.

(That’s a pretty ironic sentence if you know the whole story. I’ll have to remember that sentence later. Sorry readers, that’s an inside joke. I’ll try to keep those to a minimum)

Anywayanyway … shortly after 6am every morning, we used to get the first wave of music requests. Two groups of people called at this time, most mornings. Group A, was the school kids at different bases who were getting ready to go to class, and wanted a shout out, or to hear their favorite top 40 song first thing in the morning. The Jake&Stew show was all about playing whatever somebody specific wanted to hear because … well, it sucks enough to be away from home, and this was the pre-Ipod period of history, and a radio request seemed like a simple enough thing to give somebody when you are sitting in a roomful of music with a gigantic transmitter outside.

Group B was the Japanese chics who liked our voices, and wanted us to come party with them. Also a very fun group, but they have nothing to do with Troy Day.

One morning, during this early time, Troy called.

Most live radio jocks that actually get to TALK to listeners will tell you that they have their favorites. No matter how big your audience is there are ALWAYS people who listen faithfully, and call frequently, that you come to think of as “regulars.” Some “get it,” and only call periodically for something specific. You talk to them, and over time get to know them because … well, you talk to them on the phone all the time. Those are the “good” regulars.

Others call too often, request the same thing over and over, and basically annoy the shit out of you. You’ll usually take their calls, but after awhile they get to be somewhat like stalkers, very scary people who you can feel in the room before you even pick up the phone. You hate those people, because they’re unnerving first thing in the morning.

Troy was my all-time favorite caller. He only called twice ... two days in a row. He was an elementary school kid who wanted to hear a particular song. Nothing wrong with that, BUT … he stood out because he was incredibly polite, very articulate, and obviously bothered by something.

I wrote down his request, and asked him a couple of questions; generic stuff like how old he was, what base he was calling from, and what grade he was in. He politely answered, but called for his mom when I asked what school he went to.

I heard her pause, then yell the name of his school from another room, which seemed a bit strange. I teased him a little bit about being in the sixth grade and not knowing his school name.

He took my teasing good-naturedly, and then explained that this was his first week. His family had just moved to Japan from a base in Europe, and he was still the “new kid.” Something about how he seemed to take it all in stride really stayed with me. He’d been the new kid before, as most military kids have, and he understood his place in the world. He knew that he’d be the new kid for a while, and then somebody else would take the baton and he’d eventually make new friends, and figure out where he’d fit in.

He then explained that his dad was deployed with “the Ship,” and his mom hadn’t finished unpacking all the boxes and stuff, so he was going to come home and help her out after class that day. Really sweet kid.

Things in MY life sucked at that moment. I was in the middle of listening to my marriage break up a little more every evening, I was drinking too much, working too hard at my other job, and pretty much wasting oxygen that some more worthy human could have done more effective things with. I asked him how much time he had before he needed to leave to catch his bus. He said awhile; so I asked him to hold on, while the on-air song ended, so Jakey and I could talk to him live on the air. He seemed pretty excited about that, so he held.

Jakey was just potting our mics up to talk awhile before we started the next song, so I cut him off to tell him about the caller on-hold. I slid the note with Troy’s request to an intern to go pull the song, while I told Tokyo about this very cool young man who’d called in with the request for our next song. Jakey put the call through, and for the next ten minutes, one of the world’s largest cities was introduced to my new friend Troy.

We asked him about his class, his teacher, his favorite subjects, and if there were any cute girls he liked.

The kid was born to talk on the radio.

He was witty, and charming, and a lot of fun. Jakey and I both shared anecdotes about being the new guy, and he asked us questions back … GOOD ones.

We laughed and talked for a bit, and then I asked him to introduce the song he’d asked for. He was flawless. We wished him good luck at school, and told him that if he ever needed anything, he’d made two VERY powerful friends on the radio, and he could call back anytime. I declared it Troy Day, and said that anyone who met Troy at school had to ask him something about himself, and do whatever they could to make him feel at home. We started his song, thanked him for his request, and disconnected the call.

AND EVERY PHONE LINE LIT UP.

The first call came from one of our dear friends, a public affairs officer at Troy’s base, asking if there was anything SHE could do to make Troy day a success …

One of the teachers called from the school, she’d been listening in the lounge, and was now late for class because she didn’t want to leave before the segment was over, and suddenly the day’s show was about being the new guy. Everybody had a story, and they were in a sharing mood.

Geralyn, the PA officer, took on the challenge of getting some special stuff for Troy’s class that day. The teacher arranged for Troy’s teacher to call us, and Troy Day started taking shape.

On air, we talked about Troy Day, and being the new guy with caller after caller after caller. Suddenly, people were greeting us with “Happy Troy Day,” and sharing their stories. After about an hour, Geralyn called to tell us that the bakery had donated cake with a Troy-themed message, and ice cream for all the sixth grade classes. The fire department was chipping in a ride on their new fire truck, and the entire base … everyone not deployed with “the Ship,” was getting into the mood of an unplanned holiday.

Near the end of the show, we got a live call from Troy’s classroom. A full-fledged Troy Day party was underway, which I’m not sure, but I think replaced a spelling test of some sort, and Troy had almost instantly gone from “the new guy” to being “big man on campus!”

That night, at the NCO club, I was starting my traditional binge for the evening, and heard a group at a table nearby toast “to Troy day, and being the new guy.” I felt good.

Troy called the next day.

“Hey guys, I don’t want a request or anything, I just wanted to say thank you for yesterday.”

I’m a Scrooge at Christmas, and pass on most of the other tinsel and drivel-filled forced fun days. But every now and then, when shit just … WON’T go right, and I’m fucking up everything I should be navigating ever so smoothly (like writing this book) … I grab a handy beverage, hold it up for just a second, and silently give a toast …

… to Troy Day.

Peace,
--Stew.

My Funny Valentine

I like art, even though I don't understand it and can't create it very well. Today's picture is a piece called "broken heart."

I'm not a fan of Valentine's day. It reminds me of ... well, stuff I'd rather forget. But for reasons I fully understand, THIS song got stuck in my head yesterday. For all my ranting about technology, I love youtube. It actually improves my universe. Luther, fat/skinny ... I miss you, bruh.



Hope your day is nice.

Peace,
--Stew.

The Experiment

I’ve written this blog over about 25 times now. I’m still not happy with it, because there’s a LOT to say and I’m not sure I picked the right way to say it.

I toyed with the notion of using hurdles as a metaphor. That one was actually kinda funny, it might come in handy again, someday.

I tried sarcasm, cynicism, an appeal to common sense, humor, seriousness, a historical tact; some of which even made the cut, and I even wrote a page or two that was pretty militant.

None of them really got to the heart of expressing MY thoughts on the significance of having two black coaches in the Superbowl.

At the core of my thoughts is this idea: The NFL’s product has suffered because of a corporate stereotype that has existed about the ability of black men to coach the modern game.

When the NFL reintegrated in 1946, I contend that talent became the single biggest factor in who made it to the league.

In the 61 years since, the league has become roughly 70% black.

I’m not sure what the single biggest factor is in becoming a head coach. I don’t know what it used to be, I don’t know what is now, and I don’t know how it will trend in the future.

I DO know that it took a very long time for the first black guy to get a shot.

Ultimately, championship rings are the gold standard for assessing the quality of an individual man’s ability to coach at every level.

If you don’t get to coach, there is no chance that you’ll ever earn a super bowl ring for coaching the championship team.

Until this year, to ME ... as a fan of the professional game, the idea of black men coaching has felt like an experiment.

Since 1989, when Al Davis put Art Shell at the helm of the Raiders, it has felt to ME like if one of these men didn’t prove himself capable of winning the big one, the experiment might end, or worse … be judged a failure.

I could be overstating it. The FACT is that black coaches are becoming MORE common in the NFL.

But that’s the way it felt to ME, as a guy who watches football because of the game, itself.

So when Mr. Smith won in Chicago, I was proud of him not just because he’s a nice guy, or because he showed more fortitude than I am in possession of by sticking with Rex, I was proud of him because his accomplishment INSTANTLY put the experiment on a different level.

Then my cynicism kicked in. Lovie's team had some weaknesses. The AFC is statistically much better than the NFC, and it wasn't a stretch to think this year's Bears could have lost to either team in the AFC championship.

That COULD HAVE been very bad for me, as a fan.

Here’s how the cynic in me works. I’m one of those people who believe “almost succeeding” after breaking a barrier actually does more harm than good.

The moment right before you actually BREAK a barrier, is when your argument is at its strongest. There's usually no evidence for or against what you're trying to do, there's only opinion and belief.

If you fall on your face right after you break the barrier, your opponents have cause to redouble their efforts against you. Your failure provides the opposition with evidence that they were right all along. Not proof, mind you ... but evidence.

For example, in 1995, when Shannon Faulkner became the first woman accepted to the Citadel, a military academy in South Carolina, then dropped out a week later because it was too hard … I think she actually provided ammunition to the naysayers who believed a woman had no place at their venerable institution.

That experiment didn’t succeed until Nancy Mace GRADUATED in 1999.

More optimistic people will “correctly” argue that without Miss Faulkner, there could BE no Miss Mace. They’re probably right in some academic sense, but there’s a grand canyon of perception between academia and real life.

So when Mr. Dungy won in Indianapolis, I actually breathed a sigh of relief because it guaranteed that the experiment would succeed.

In the time since the Super bowl, I’ve actually done a LOT of research on race and the NFL. I’m a nerd, that’s the kind of stuff I do.

It was fascinating, in a lot of ways that I discussed in some of the 25 drafts that didn’t make it.

But I’ve settled on this … it took 18 years to prove that a black guy could be a “successful” coach in the NFL.

There are tons of bonus points, because both men in the guarantee round are standup guys who have earned the respect of their teams, their opponents, and the game, along the way to proving their worth.

If you’re interested in some of the history, I’d love to chat about it sometime. It’s REALLY fascinating.

In the meantime, I couldn’t be prouder of the way the experiment turned out.

Congratulations.

Great

Sunday’s Superbowl was an historic event for me on many levels. Later this week, I’ll get back to the significance of the day for me as a black guy. First, honor requires that I take care of another piece of business.

I owe Peyton Manning a public acknowledgement. I’m one of those naysayers who doubted his greatness.

There’s something of a shoulder chip that goes with being a Nebraska fan. Although we were favored by 13 ½ points going into the 1998 Orange bowl against Tennessee, an admittedly lucky win vs. Missouri earlier in the season had most of the nation’s premiere sportswriters rationalizing that Peyton Manning’s pedigree and knowledge of the game would be the deciding factor against my “overhyped” Huskers. Never mind that WE were undefeated and had one of the fastest and strongest defensive lines in the country, if not of all time. Never mind that it would be the final game for one of the greatest coaches to ever step on the field, Tom Osborne. Never mind that we’d faced similar talk two years earlier against the up and coming Florida Gators, PEYTON was going to be the factor that would keep us from the National Championship.

HA!

In our half of the 1997-98 NCAA Championship, my Nebraska Cornhuskers pounded the poor chap on our way to a 42 – 17 drubbing. Led by virtual unknown Scott Frost at QB; one of the best combo quarterbacks in Husker history, and joined by Grant Wistrom, and Ahman Green plus a cast of role players, my Cornboys out hustled, outthought, and outplayed Archie’s son.

I decided then and there I didn’t like him. Press clippings and pedigree be damned—win or shut up.

He seemed nice enough, but I’ve never had any respect for the guys who choke in the big one.

In fairness, Peyton’s numbers were still impressive. When we trounced him, he held a total of nine SEC/NCAA records. He was a four-year quarterback who’d just missed out on the Heisman trophy, and he’d rolled through the SEC to get to a game with National Championship implications.

But I have no love for also-rans.

If you are not a champion, you cannot be the greatest. Period.

That’s a Stew rule.

Its why Elway (my arch-opponent), Aikman, and Bradshaw are always ahead of Marino on my list of greats … even though I’ve never had a ton of love for two out of the three.

Its why Barkley’s “just” a big-mouth, instead of being the greatest forward of all time to me.

It’s why I love the Chiefs, but don’t pretend it’s because of their greatness. You MUST win the big ones to be “a Great.”

So as Peyton stumbled against the Pats, and still managed to put up record-breaking seasons year after year, he’s “just” been OK to me.

Until Sunday.

The other truism of my sports philosophy is that once you win … you ARE a champion. No excuses, no stats, no personality conflicts, no doubt.

And even though the entire Colts organization, ESPECIALLY Mr. Dungy get my respect for their performance against ‘da Bears …

Peyton Manning, the Great … gets a photo.

Congratulations Peyton,

Welcome to Greatness.

Peace,

--Stew.

34.

34.

Sweetness.

Growing up in Kansas City, I absolutely fell in love with my Chiefs. It was the early 80s, and they were the home team. I still love them in the way a man ONLY loves his football teams.

SOME women don’t understand that a football team has typically been in a man’s life since his childhood. (I'm always stoked to run into those that DO!) As companions, if they’re lucky, they’ve been through good AND bad times together.

Together, they’ve experienced good girlfriends/great coordinators, bad girlfriends/horrible head coaches, and personal tragedies/god-awful seasons. And they’ve been there for each other like best friends are supposed to be. It’s a very interdependent relationships. A football team NEEDS great fans. That collection of men feeds off our energy; not just in the stadium, but in the newspaper, and the local clubs, and in the traditions, and in the way an entire city wears their colors during a streak. And we fans live vicariously through their great hits, and suffer through their agonizing defeats. Without it, a team cannot succeed … even if it wins. It’s one reason Los Angeles has never been able to hold on to a team of its own.

There is NOTHING like the way a city that loves its football team FEELS the day after an important loss. Everything is gray, even when the sun is shining. There are fewer smiles to go around, and people are a bit more abrupt than the norm.

Even in small town America, where your team might represent a high school, or a college, that team carries the soul of its fans onto the field; underneath the pads and paint, between the cleats on each shoe, and between every rep in practice, or the weight room.

But sometimes, we men look across the room, and something about a team that DOESN’T belong to us, catches our eye.

For me … it was Sweetness. #34. Mr. Walter Payton.

Later today, the great, great, great, grandkids of the most exciting football team to ever grace a field will step under the Superbowl spotlights to revive a legacy that cannot be matched.

The 1985 Superbowl Shuffling Bears.

You will hear from Mr. Mike Singletary, conscience of the greatest defense of all time. He will speak about his comrades—Dent, Wilson, Hampton, Marshall. There’ll be words about, if not FROM McMahon, Perry, Gault, the whole gang …

But I want to take a moment, to remember Sweetness. Ran too pretty, died too soon.

I’m pulling for the Bears today, but more than anything I’m happy for the coaches. I’ll love the game, but it’s not my Chiefs.

But for Sweetness …

Nothing but Love.

Why I am an American

Growing up, I discovered the teachings and writings of the Honorable Prophet Elijah Mohammed, peace be upon him, and Malcolm X. Like most teachings, I didn’t believe everything these men had to say—but there was enough to keep me studying. There are many things about Islam that don’t appeal to me.

I am not a Muslim, although I have a great deal of respect for their teachings, and particularly the application of those teachings as demonstrated by some of the specific successes of the Nation of Islam.

Over the years, I’ve developed my own set of beliefs about patriotism, and nationalism, and the concept of being an American.

They’ve become part of who I am, but not something I necessarily talk a lot about. But several recent conversations about illegal immigration, and how to handle it, have driven me back to these foundational beliefs (for me) and redrawn me to those thoughts and ideas from long ago.

In one of those discussions with a friend, here at my home, the question of “what is an American” was a topic of the moment. Patrick Buchanan, a man I consider a radical right winger, but whose thoughts and ideas I both respect, and on certain levels can appreciate, has written a book called State of Emergency.

His basic premise is that America is being “invaded” by Latin America, and our nation itself risks destruction from within. He further contends that as we acquiesce to the language demands of Spanish-speakers, we destroy one of the elements that make us a nation—namely, our common language.

I see his point, and it drives me immediately to a moment 30 years ago this week, when my father, mother, and I sat down in front of a 12” black and white television to watch “Roots.”

One scene that has stuck in my mind for the subsequent three decades is the brutal moment in which newly kidnapped and brutalized African Kunte Kinte is whipped to a bloody pulp until he accepts that his “name” is now Toby. Here is the rubber meets the road moment that for me defines “how” to guarantee your nation is monolinguistic.





If I were to accept that adoption of a single language is, in fact, part of the truest path to building a nation, I would have to concede Mr. Buchanan’s point and see this moment not as the brutal thing that it is, but rather an important step on the path to creating an “American.”

I’m not with Mr. Buchanan on this one.

I oppose illegal immigration for reasons COMPLETELY different from his, but my disagreement could leave me with the question “what DOES make a person an American?”

It doesn’t.

He repeatedly asks this question in his book, and my answer takes me back to the Prophet, and Malcolm, and the thoughts of my youth.

I am an American because I choose to be, and because I have the geographic standing to make the claim publicly.

I further happen to believe I earned my status as an “American” by volunteering to pick up a rifle, and joining the military in defense of this country.

I am one of the fortunate ones who served, but never saw combat. But in my opinion, it is my service to this country that cements my claim that I am in fact indisputably an American.

I don’t believe anyone else has to serve if they don’t want to, and I allow for an infinite list of acceptable reasons that some other descendant of slaves can choose to call him or herself an American.

This is mine.

But in this “black history month,” it’s a question that I pose to others. I have told you why I believe I am an American.

You may not be willing to take on such a question for yourself. I respect your privacy. But if you’re comfortable enough to tackle the question, I put it to you….

What makes YOU an American?

On Black History Month

Every year, I struggle with the concept of Black History Month.

Intellectually, I understand the need for it. It is true that in THIS country, a lot of the accomplishments of the descendants of slaves (my preferred term) have been underrepresented in some of the traditional oral and written histories of how the country came to be.

Functionally, I’m not sure that donating a month to a very poorly defined concept of ANY sort of history is the best way to get those accomplishments added to the tradition.

In theory, it would seem that the “point” of black history month should be to further the inclusion of those accomplishments into mainstream history.

But somehow, the month has come to be something entirely different.

In my experience, it’s always turned into a rehash of the same few stories as a detached alternate griot-styled retelling of a few key events. This has managed to turn into an exercise that has become both counterproductive, and unfortunately, in MY opinion, actually detrimental to any sort of improvement in the inevitable daily interaction between the descendants of slaves and “everybody else” who lives in America.

WHAT THE UNITED STATES NEEDS MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE TO IMPROVE RACE RELATIONS IS A CONVERSATION.

There are some VERY legitimate questions, AND answers from BOTH SIDES that can only come from one of the knock-down, drag-out discussions where you leave bloody, but hugging.

The whole thing reminds me of those days in a relationship where you both know it’s close to being “over,” but nobody wants to put the issues on the table. There obviously ARE issues. That’s why you can’t sleep at night.

But facing an issue usually means that someone is going to lose face. And nobody wants to be the one. And one day, you get fed up enough to either propose marriage, or propose divorce.

Sadly, as two groups—people with black skins who live in America, and people with white skins who live in America ARE married, and have been fucking … in the sense that our futures are inextricably linked … for centuries now.

We are tied together culturally, economically, socially, religiously, linguistically, politically, psychologically, ecologically, nationally, legally, and increasingly internationally.

If that’s not a marriage, I don’t know what is.

At some point in my life, I became “the black guy.”

Even in a room with more than the usual quota of dark-skinned people, I seem to be the one that white people with race questions feel comfortable enough to ask. It’s a mantle that has never bothered me.

I grew up in the Midwest, and have always spent a significant part of my life in integrated environments, even if I was the element that earned them that definition.

I don’t have an individual chip on my shoulder about my ethnicity. I believe that I am associated with a collective of people that have virtually equal amounts of excellence and repulsiveness in our midst. Further, I believe that in America, most descendents of African slaves are pretty firmly planted in the middle.

I DO believe that ignorance, hate, racism, and discrimination exist. I believe that they sometimes live together, but can accept that often they are exclusive of each other.

I do NOT believe that every person who doesn’t like ME, dislikes me because of the color of my skin. Some do, and its ok … I don’t like everybody, either.

So here’s what I say to you, black AND white, as another “Black History Month” begins … ask your question. Get an answer. Meet. Talk. Decide. Find "the black guy/chic" or "the white guy/chic" in YOUR world, and engage them in a conversation that matters.

If there's no one in your universe that will field your question---bring it here. I believe EVERY question has SOME legitimate response.

I’ve quoted George Santayana in this space before. His comment is one of the most versatile and important sentences ever uttered…

“Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

I’m a history buff. I BELIEVE in looking at history for clues to tell me what will happen next.

Here’s what I see, from fairly RECENT history about the possibilities for US.

1. Shiites and Sunnis
2. Serbs and Croats
3. Hutus and Tutsis

All are/were “separate” groups that lived in the same space. In each case, their co-existence was something held together for long periods of time by external forces, sometimes national ones. And when that external force was removed, the VERY FIRST MATCH lit a fire that destroyed, or seriously incapacitated their societies.

I don’t want that for ANY of us.

We have a complicated past, and a potentially stellar future. One won’t change, the other … could.

Peace,
--Stew.