Man or Woman; Boy or Girl

Reaching high for tasks at your new level, and what will you see and feel when you arrive there? We don’t know do we, because we’ve never been there before, have we? An other’s experience is just another experience. Try as you may, an altitude of your own is what life calls for. Every moment can be so excitingly lived, when every moment of the new is savored. Yours, as always it is meant to be. Condition, attitude, posture are the creative substance of the new. Yours not mine.

One child is seen at the beach running up and back, in and out of the surf; while another, maybe even a brother or sister of the frolicking sibling, stands there, allowing the tide to bring the water in and out between their toes, creating wells of sand outlining their feet. Neither had ever been at the beach before that day. Both will come away with a new experience permanently etched as part of who they became during this one very special day. The smell, the touch, and the feel of nature have become a new altitude for each of them. I particularly remember the difference in the way the two children described their day at the beach.

“I raced the water up and down and in and out, all day long”, was the frolicking child’s report.

The second child quietly came forth with the genuine emotion of pure truth. A tear dipped its way down the side of a cheek, which God had carved seemingly from porcelain delight. Then as quietly as a four year old could possibly offer sound, the purity of truth emerged.

“I was standing in my Daddy’s shoes, in the sand. They were too big for me, just like the boots he used to wear in the marines. He was there for me all day, just like he used to be before he had to go away.”

Was this a new and special height? Certainly the child accepted a posture, presented without reason. But if ever in that child’s life, a time comes when a feeling of truth must be put on display, those moments relived in her Daddy’s boots, at the beach and in the sand, will be there at an altitude not beyond reach or comprehension.

Focus on Focus: A Simple Approach on How to Become Anal

If you were to sleep that way, by the time morning rolled around total paralysis would have set in.

Of course I had the fun advantage of watching her, and listening as she feverishly prepared to read the two-line commercial script. Armed with her trusty marking pen (ink is a no, no at best) she sat there, scribbling notes, upon notes, upon notes for almost every word on that poor little piece of paper. Katherine Hepburn did less marking on her script for the African Queen. Hitchcock would have had her placed in a strait jacket. It was her first visit to Kalmenson & Kalmenson, and as is our rule, all first timers receive a little extra special attention. When the actors are on the young side, as she was, a more than average active anticipation grips them with some unexpected flop sweat. Translation, they’re worried about making a good impression.

Under normal circumstances at our Burbank studios, I rarely find myself involved with the actors as they study their scripts. I might bop in to the reception area to see who’s arrived, and to make sure all have signed in and are aware of the correct role they will be playing. But on this day I found myself enthralled by this gal’s total naiveté. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a given for actors to study their scripts. In this case, however, her studying was an actual entertainment. As a matter of fact, my interest in what she was up to was caused by two of the actors who had given up their own script preparations, in lieu of the verbal, and visual entertainment this lady’s hilarious ruminations was providing. Under lined; over lined, dashes, commas, ellipsis, parenthesis, quotes, brackets, and a multitude of notes in the margins on both sides of the paper. She was a whirling "sitting" Dervish.

Not before or since had I experienced such a concerted display of deceitful study habits. Everything she thought was the correct thing to do was in essence a true dis-abler. While the intent of her unbelievable focus was indeed righteous, the end result produced a read, which honored the writer’s exact punctuation, but eliminated any chance of producing the conversational realism the advertising creative had in mind. She had figured out exactly how to read the words according to the way the sentences had been punctuated. The more she studied, the more disoriented she became.

Self Inflicted Wounds

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“What do they mean by that?”

A few minutes went by and it was her time to enter the recording booth to be auditioned. I called her by name and requested she follow me towards the booth. She didn’t move. I made the request again. This time she responded with her request for a few more minutes of study time. I mean this gal looked crazed. I began to feel my emotions turning from amusement to concern. Young people with bulging eyes have a way of disconcerting everyone around them. The other actors in the reception area rolled their eyes in disbelief. She had been working on her script for a full twenty minutes. Each time I came out to get her, she relinquished her time to the next actor in waiting. And as she studied she became visibly more and more physically disturbed. By the time our lady finally agreed to enter the recording area it was because there was not another actor in sight.

(In rapid-fire order)

SHE: Where do I stand? What will I do next? Nothing on the script you gave me tells me what to do next. I like to study what is expected of me. You know I am a professional actress.

ME: Good to know.

There was an array of things going through my mind that I could readily have instructed her to attempt to do at that moment; being a gentleman made any further expression of what she could do, outside the realm of my normalcy. I’d like to report, at that precise moment, I was under the impression she was sent there as a put on. In my mind I knew it was an impossibility for anyone to be as anal-retentive as she was displaying. But she had to be real, anxiety moisture had formed on her upper lip, this was going to be an adventure.

Instructions:

When I point to you, slate your name and start.

“I prefer to have you slate for me; in that way it better serves to precipitate my character development.”

Young lady, will you please do as I ask? Slate your name.

“I’d be far more responsive if you spoke to me in a more civil manner and tone; like referring to me by my given name.”

I did abide by her wishes, done only after I killed my microphone, and completed calling her a variety of heavy-duty expletives. We proceeded with this joyous encounter. She began reading through the script without waiting for my direction. Her performance was an over blown emotional mess. In addition, every other phrase had a mispronounced word or two, or an incorrect understanding of the punctuations and grammatical meaning of the script itself. Keep in mind she had a grand total of two lines to read; not exactly a heavy duty test of a persons mental acuity.

“I’d like to go out and study the script some more”, she requested.

When I told her it would be impossibility, and I had already given her more time than anyone else on this call she became indignant.

“How do you expect me to focus, when I’m not being shown professional courtesy?”

“Thank you for coming in, I said.”

Without a word she turned and left the booth. As I was reentering the booth with the next actor she barged her way back in, grabbed her hieroglyphically altered script ruminations and left while saying:

"I don’t share my notes with anyone.”

“Not to worry”, I responded. “There will never be a chance of that happening to you around here in the foreseeable future. Congratulations on your ability to focus.”

Her face had the questioning look of, was that a cut? Was he being serious or merely once again showing disrespect for my talents? I did think about her for a few fleeting moments after her revealing audition. Can you imagine the degree of familial ingredients it took in order to so corrupt this seventeen year old females well being? In one single afternoon she succeeded in doing irreparable damage to her career. Her colleagues in the waiting room judged her as being freaky. Freakyness is taken seriously when the concern is what the outcome might be. In other words, hire a freaky person, and assume the outcome will be freaky. If you’re casting an ensemble, your prayers go out, asking for guidance in order not to hire a freaky actor. Some would say, that in itself is impossibility. Think about her overall desire for extreme focus. Almost all of us in the artistically creative world attempt to train ourselves to be single minded. By this I mean specifically “tuned in”, on each and every project, regardless of monetary importance. Almost any method for achieving focusing skills would be better than the seventeen year old gal described earlier on in this narrative. What she accomplished was outweighed by the determent of her method. The finest, and most accredited actors, the world over have a marvelous talent for indiscriminately accepting assistance from the colleagues around them.

The What’s Missing?

What our young lady missed while developing her abilities to focus was the development of her own place as a human being. Just examine the simplicity of truth casting, and the answer reveals itself without a great deal of explanation.

He is a nice guy, raised in a nice family, lives in a nice neighborhood, has nice relatives, and nice friends. He decides upon graduating from a nice high school, after suffering a fall from his motorcycle, in which he got a goodly hit in the head, that he was going to become a nice actor. He found some new and very nice friends at the nice acting school in a new neighborhood.

Every day they all studied together, and in the evenings worked out on a wide variety of scenes. After their workouts ended they all joined in at the local coffee house, and continued their in-depth theatrical conversations, often into the wee hours of the morning. Their focus was a constant, and dedicated study of their chosen craft. Money and fame for each of them was as distant as the stars they yearned to emulate. Time was not of the essence in governing their pursuits.

It was on one of these evenings he bounded into the classroom brimming with excitement, and needing to share the word. He had booked a voice over commercial, and the pending success was over powering. I doubt if anything in this life can match the robust charge going through a person when they experience their first, first. Everybody was all ears, waiting for his details about the gig.

“Well, it was all about this nice kid waiter in a restaurant who comes to the aid of a woman who is choking on a piece of meat that went down the wrong way. I don’t know why, but they cast me as the nice kid waiter’s voice, as he talks about what he did to help this gagging lady. They called it a Public Service Announcement for the Heimlich Method. I really didn’t even know what I was talking about, but the gagging lady reminded me of my Mother. It was really weird. The director told me to speak as if I was talking to my Mother. Lucky I was there. “

“What do you mean, lucky you were there,” someone asked.

He had been interning at Gold Star Recording Studios, located at Santa Monica and Vine Street, where the voice over was being recorded. When the producer received word their actor would be a no show, for whatever the reason, the owner of the studio; Stan Ross recommended his young intern to read the part. Stan had given his stamp of approval; he’s studying to be an actor, and he is a genuinely nice young man, Stan allowed.

Our young guy, whom everyone liked, jumped in and did his thing without reservation. He listened to what the director asked him to do and he attempted to do it. Certainly luck had played a part in his success. But, what if it had been the young lady I described earlier on? She wouldn’t have had a chance. To begin with she wouldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes working in the professional surroundings of the Gold Star Studio. If she had questioned the director of the Heimlich spot similarly to the way she had questioned me prior to the audition, she would have become privy to the most complete and unabridged dictionary of profanity known to man. And the last thing she would have heard would have been instructions from Stan’s partner, as a directive ordering her never to enter the premises again.

Note: The gig was responsible for getting our guy into the Screen Actors Guild. I’m sure he will recognize the story when he reads my journal. As for our young lady who didn’t care for the way I spoke to her; she’s never been heard of again.

Comparing Notes

I suppose it was an obvious thing to happen at a memorial service for the likes of Robert Easton. Sixty-four years or more of building credits is understandably mind-boggling. The scroll of names of the people he had coached through the years appeared in an endless parade on a full size movie screen, which had been set up in order to chronicle, and celebrate his lifetime. The afternoon was just what Robert Easton’s adopted daughter Heather (Perry) had planned it to be, a full and complete celebration of a mans life.

The affair was held at the Sportsmen’s Lodge, in the San Fernando Valley. About two hundred invited guests gathered together at the luncheon, which transpired for about four hours. There were many highlights, but the most endearing for me were the short tributes presented by Forest Whitaker, Juliet Mills, Maxwell Caldwell, and John Travolta; all of them having been coached many time by Robert Easton.

Admittedly, I do dread any thought of attending or participating in presentations having to do with death. This however turned out to be one of the more pleasant experiences. Cathy and I both had the highest degree of admiration for Robert Easton. I can’t imagine anyone who might be considered a finer gentleman. In an industry known for its relentless volume of disappointments, Robert Easton for a lifetime managed to bring cheer and great tidings to all those he touched.

Robert Easton added to the lives of all around him. Thankfully he included Harvey Kalmenson.

The Artist (Aren't we all?)

Viewing and reviewing is not my reason for going to the movies. (Yes, I still call them the movies).

I wonder if anyone much younger than me ever thinks of them as movies. The term movies originated just for the reason one might think; before there were movies, what you had to look at were a stack of still pictures (photographs) stacked together, and fitted into a mechanical device, which would be activated by placing a penny or two in a slot at the side of a viewing machine; the penny then somehow miraculously freed up the hand crank at its right side. What you did was view and simultaneously cranked the lever; the faster you cranked, the faster the photo cards flipped. Some kids enjoyed whistling as the pictures fluttered by. Adventurous kids would venture out to an amusement park where some of the machines, rumor has it were stocked with a variety of rather risqué visuals. These machines remained prominent for many years after the advent of talkies. As an aside, I can’t recall what this form of smut was labeled, not that I, da harv would ever have asked for it by name.

At first the stacks of cards contained a series of beautiful nature scenes, replete with animals that appeared to be moving across the small screens your face and eyes were pressed up against. The stereo optic gadgets of the late eighteen hundreds were the for runner for what many of the Eastern European immigrants referred to as “fency shmensy” (translation in the 1920's; "The Cat’s Meow”). During the same time period, the late eighteen hundreds, “The Movieola” was invented as well. And if you’re interested, its still in business today; from hand crank, to electric, to digital.

What the still photographs, the stereo optics, the silent movies, and the talkies all experienced from one degree to another, was the introduction of off color content. Today we refer to it as porn. Amazing how something’s never change. Supply and demand rules.

The artist in all of us, everyone, almost without exception is singing the praises of the very new and inventive movie “The Artist”. Late the other evening, Sunday, February 26, 2012 at the celebration of the eighty-fourth Oscar presentation, the movie “The Artist”, was awarded the Academy's choice for Best Picture 2011. I agree with all out there who share a similar expression of appreciation. Personally, I found the film a work of charm. But I would have been surprised and deeply disappointed if my evaluation was anything other than that. I wanted to like the movie even before seeing it. Perhaps my reasons won’t surprise you.

Many years ago, it was pointed out to me, along with an assemblage of other desperately naïve young "wannabes", that with in each of us, our own continual silent film runs as our personal reflection of yesterday, and as a new film of each moment we’re in. We looked at each other, and stared at each other, and began to whisper, first to ourselves, and then almost as a chorus; what in the world is this man attempting to convey? Even us high school kids aren’t that likely to be duped. After all, the guy is a high school teacher, not a star, or a household name. Of course there were a couple of students who broke out laughing, assuming our teacher was actually attempting to bring some humor into our adolescent environs. Then the unexpected; the room grew still. Our teacher stood to the side of his desk, in front of us. And then the silence became difficult for us to handle. Our teacher remained positioned, stoically remaining in exactly the same spot. All of our tenth grade eyes had become his to do with what his inner strength, without the use of words, commanded from us.

“Silent films are really not that silent”, he said.

And so our high school introduction to acting had begun.

“Each of you formed an opinion of what was going on in the moment. Regardless of whether or not confusion took hold, I never the less had conveyed a message. What do you think I was thinking, or had going through my mind as I stood there before you?”

A couple of students noticeably shrugged their shoulders; no sound, just shoulders being shrugged.

“There you go…you’re doing what I did. No sound; emotions conveyed without a word.”

And much later on in the year:

“ So the real question is, how silent are silent movies?... not very. If there’s a ringing in your ears, you can hear it. The guy next to you is at a complete loss. You move to answer the phone, and he thinks you’ve lost your mind. He might even laugh at you. He’s heard to say, 'That kid's taken too many hits to the head'. What in the world is going on here? Oh nothing much. This is called acting. Well actually it’s a parcel of my life’s work.”

Still for some of us; but there are no words. What are you talking about?

“This is a portion of my class that will introduce you to the art of showing emotion”.

Life inside an acting class where no words are spoken, or even allowed is a sight to behold. What are you thinking about is always the major question of the day. Our teacher was a man with a rubber face. His ability to show us his emotions without uttering a word was difficult for any in the class to believe, at first. It was a pretty large group of students, some thirty of us in what was known as “Beginners Acting”. We were in the tenth grade. Most of us were age fifteen. If I remember accurately, the class was two thirds female. I signed on as a lark, in order to get out of anything, which might require real thinking, I thought.

Note: From that point on I took every class that remotely had anything to do with the theater. The dye had been cast. From that fateful day forward, and as I sit here now, communications, and emotion, have been the driving force in my life. During the very first week we all recognized a simple fact. This class was the real thing. Our teacher had come from a family of thespians, as he put it. What he taught was in his blood. This wasn’t the same as when I was in the fourth grade as a ten year old. I’m sure many of you did what I did. We were precocious kids, to say the least. But this wasn’t the fourth grade, and this wasn’t an amateur night teacher. This was a live, living, breathing, classically trained actor, who was a dedicated man with a goal. I doubt if Ben Strife was his real name. Like many before him, he had come to Hollywood in search of an acting career. Like many before him, it wasn’t to be the way he had envisioned it. The silent movies that my Dad and his brothers were so enamored with, it turns out, were not as silent as they may have thought. At a time when gadgetry has taken a stronghold on our lives, and the cell phone has reached epidemic, and more addictive proportions than any device known to man, we find ourselves returning to the simplicity of wonderment shared by the honest telling of a story. Bravo to the producers of “The Artist”; the question remains in my mind: How silent was it?

Query questions for Americans, be they Democrats, Republican, or whatever.

PREAMBLE:

My very few words that follow were stimulated by a lifetime of beliefs (mine) in the United States of America (my country, and yours as well). Wearing the uniform of our American army during a war has perhaps given me, and a very select group of comrades, men and women, an unequalled opportunity to serve, and be counted as part of what I believe to be the most altruistic nation in the history of the world.

The questions (mine), which follow, have lingered within my mind set for all the years of my adult life.

• Why do young men and women serve in the United States Military for 20 years, risking there lives protecting freedom, receive only 50% of their pay at retirement, while Politicians hold they’re political positions in the safe confines of the capital, and receive full pay retirement after serving one term? It doesn’t make sense.
• Staffers of Congress family members are exempt from having to pay back student loans.
• Governors of 35 states have filed suit against the Federal Government for imposing unlawful burdens upon them.
• For too long we have been too complacent about the workings of Congress.
• Many citizens had no idea that members of Congress could retire with the same pay after only one term.
• Congress specifically exempted themselves from many of the laws they have passed (such as beingexempt from any fear of prosecution for sexual harassment) while ordinary citizens must live under those laws.
• Congress exempts themselves from the Healthcare Reform... in all of its forms.

Somehow, it doesn't seem logical. We do not have an elite that is above the law. I truly don't care if they are Democrat, Republican, Independent or whatever, the self-serving must stop.

My name is Harvey Kalmenson, I am a proud citizen of the United States of America.
I believe in equality. I don’t believe our elected officials, regardless of party affiliation, are paying a legitimate homage to my beliefs as stipulated in the constitution of the United States.
While they bask, I take task after task in an honest attempt to overcome the debacle they so recklessly have placed me in.

In short, I am thoroughly pissed off. I have never missed voting in an election, and I will be there to evoke my rights, once again in November. Please join me.

HK

You Had To Be There! I Was!!

They're never going to believe you, but you tell it anyway. After all, you were there, and besides it gives you so much absolute fun to recall the complete absurdity, or total charm, of a past moment, of a past era, of another day. You may have been much younger then, or it might be recollections of a day not yet mature enough to be called yesteryear. Never the less, though you’re not Moses, it is yours to once again “behold these truths.” A pratfall, a handshake, a misgiving, disbelief, uncontrolled laughter, a thrill, a spill, a chill, an honor bestowed, or a simple misunderstanding of intentions; all yours to relate, all yours to keep enjoying as part of who you were, who’ve you become. And even perhaps, a guide to the wonderment of what is in store.

There you are telling, someone a story from your past, and by the expression on their face you know they’re having a great deal of trouble believing you. All of us have had incidents, when recounting becomes hard to believe. You know the old cliché, “Truth is stranger than fiction.” These kinds of stories often begin with, “you’re not going to believe this; wait until you hear this one; I saw it with my own eyes; trust me, Hollywood couldn’t write a better ending.”

It was my first day of basic training. We were in Fort Lewis, Washington. Almost the entire company of men was from Southern California. It was early in January, and this area, very near Seattle was known for experiencing inclement weather. During the four months of basic training there were only a total of four twenty-four hour periods when it didn’t rain. To make a long story short, cold and damp was the order of the day. With the exception of ten of us, the entire company of two hundred guys was drafted into the service. We were almost an entirely civilian army.

I was one of the ten men who had volunteered for the draft. An injury had ended my thoughts of baseball for the time being, and I wanted to get through my pending obligation to serve, at as young an age as possible. I was nineteen years old. At around 4am on that first morning of service to our country, the consistency of the Seattle weather held true to its reputation. The rain fell as we prepared to scamper outdoors to the parade grounds for what is commonly known in the service as "First Call"/"Reveille". I don’t recall the guy’s name; for the sake of this narrative, let’s call him “Benny”. I do remember Benny was proud to let us all know he went to Beverly Hills High School. Please don’t take this as a downer to the school. I’m merely reporting what I remember about Benny, and his Mama's boy naïveté. Like all of us, Benny forced himself from his bunk (army cot), stood up, staggering as he did so, and made his way to the end of the barracks, in order to look out the window. After doing so, Benny turned away from the window with a smile on his face, and began his trek back to bed, as he put it. Benny shouted to us,” It’s raining guys, we’re not going to have to go out there today.” Benny was now back in bed with the covers pulled over snuggly. As our platoon sergeant came into the picture, we knew something special was in the offing. Without hesitation our sergeant motioned for us to be quiet. He then pointed to four of us, and continued with his soundless direction; One guy at each corner of Benny’s bed cot. His gesturing was precise and priceless to see. Our sergeant waved both of his arms in an up and over motion. In a flash Benny was upside down on the floor with his cot on top of him. Benny got to his feet and allowed,” But it’s raining”! To which our sergeant replied, “So in Beverly Hills you don’t go out in the rain”?

Poor Benny, he had become a marked man. From that day forward at the most inauspicious occasions Benny would be subjected to the chant: “Take the day off Benny, cause it’s raining out there.” The guys could be merciless.

There have been times in my life when I’ve said to myself,” Take the day off Benny, (Harvey) cause it’s raining out there.” Imagine those words as the title of a down home country lyric, and you’re en-route to the good old fashioned feel sorry for yourself sort of conundrum life has a way of unsystematically throwing at all of us, usually when we are most unprepared for it. You had to be there, and I was, too often perhaps. Benny had no one to talk to about his plight. When you think about it, it really wasn’t Benny’s fault to begin with. Unlike da harv (me), he was drafted into the army.

Interesting comparisons can be made.

Benny, and da harv, same age;
da harv volunteered to serve;
Benny was taken into the service after trying every way possible to avoid the draft.
At home in Los Angeles, Benny was considered unfortunate, while I (da harv) was considered to be immature, foolish, and a flag waiver.
(I mean there was a war going on, why would anyone volunteer to be killed?)
Benny grew up in a family where work meant nine to five. Dawn and the Kalmenson family awakening occurred at the same hour each day. As a child I never remember sleeping in, not that I wanted to.

What a difference a half century can make. The Benny’s of the world no longer have to worry about the draft. They are free to sleep in without penalty. Da harv remains stuck in his almost worn out time lock. If I had it to do all over again, there I’d be, waving the same flag, and considering myself lucky for my personal moment to do so. Today, the fellows and gals, who find themselves duty bound to serve us, and the country God blessed them with, are now exemplified as heroes and heroines.

In my era the general public was barely cognizant of our departure from their society, or our ultimate return. There were no parades, no banners, and rarely a celebration-taking place. Vets received no thank you; none was expected. We were thirteen years away from our first Super Bowl extravaganza. Half time at a game was a great time to go to the bathroom. Come to think of it…there was no instant replay. But on the plus side we didn’t have to worry about entertainers from other countries making obscene gestures while our children were glued to the tube.

I guess if I had to choose between recalling Benny’s incident, or a degenerate flipping me the finger at half time, I’d have to go with Benny. But then I guess you would have to have been there.! I was!!!

Sobering Up

A guy once told me how he never wanted to sober up. I wondered what the hell he was talking about; was he nuts? His demeanor didn’t resemble someone under the influence of drugs or alcohol. As a matter of fact, in today’s parlance, I’d categorize him as pretty much together. Of course it's what I would say today, being the kindly older gentlemen, that I have become.

Offering me the unsolicited advice was our high school custodian, Mr. Gross. In those days every school had one. I never knew his first name, or where he lived, or whether or not he was married or had children of his own. What we all recognized early on was that Mr. Gross was the key and essential figure for our schools ability to run on time and efficiently each and every day of the year. Succinctly stated, the man was in charge of almost everything. He was the man who could make or break the principal's performance rating. Above all…he loved baseball. Most of the school year Mr. Gross was seen, but not heard. But when we entered our spring semester, it was baseball season, and Mr. Gross never missed a practice or any of our home games. As a matter of fact when we played an away game, he would get continual updates by telephone from other custodians around the league.

I personally became directly aware of Mr. Gross’s involvement after one particular away game. The school bus carried us back to the campus, and as we pulled in, I caught sight of Mr.Gross standing directly in front of our locker room building, waiting for us with a huge smile on his face. He wasn’t alone. I found out much later on, he had given out an account of the game to many of the students that afternoon. It was like a pep rally when I exited the bus. I had no inkling of what my day would turn into when I left for school that morning; it was to become the highlight of my young life. It was the very first game I pitched as a member of the schools varsity baseball team. Since I wasn’t scheduled to pitch that day, my Dad was not in attendance for the monumental event destined to transpire.

The Monumental Event:

It was the bottom of the third inning, our starting pitcher had loaded the bases, and there were no outs. I had been warming up in the bullpen for a brief few minutes when I got the call from our coach. “You're in Kalmenson”, was all he said as he left the mound.

Here’s the Hollywood ending. It was amazingly all over in no more than ten minutes. The first batter I faced attempted to bunt the runner in from third base. When his attempt failed, I thought to myself about how little confidence his coach had in him. With bases loaded and nobody out, and at such an early time in the game, bunting wasn’t a very smart thing to do. My confidence level shot up. In nothing flat I had him out on strikes. It was then that our shortstop and second baseman came to the pitchers mound for a confab. Our second baseman broke the tension by saying, “Think of the headlines, Harv. Short to second to first and you’re out of the inning.” I threw the next pitch very high and tight so as not to let the batter get comfortable at the plate. Two pitches later, a ground ball was hit to our shortstop, George “Sparky” Anderson. It went as prescribed by our second baseman, short, to second, to first for a double play. My team and coach were all over me as I returned to our dug out, as high on life as could ever be perceived.

***

I was a kid of sixteen, participating at a high level of high school sports, and in general parading around school in my letterman sweater, under the impression I was indeed a "big man on campus." It was difficult to fight back the swollen head syndrome. Think about it, even some adults develop over active egos, when expansive degrees of acclaim come their way; deserved, or not, earned or merely by being in the right place at the right time.

My head was filled to capacity with the dreams of a young man yet to accomplish anything of real substance. Like many teen-age boys, our values are unduly misled by the extent of our God given athletic prowess. By that I mean just because a guy can throw a baseball shouldn’t qualify him as the towns advice giver. But it happens. The local newspaper does a story on you, and the next thing you know your popularity around the school campus soars. Added into my mix was another pleasurable ingredient. My Father never missed seeing a ballgame when I was scheduled to pitch. And since he was my biggest fan, and as I recall one of the most ardent baseball enthusiasts I’d ever met, it served me well as a confidence builder.

Dad wasn’t there on my monumental first day, because I wasn’t scheduled to pitch. He got the complete story that evening when he came home from work.

When our second baseman had encouraged me to think of the headlines in order to get me to relax under those game conditions, I doubt if he ever perceived the extent of the press I would receive the very next day. The banner lead in headline read: “Kalmenson Comes Through”. Unbeknown to me was my Dad's early on adulation over my baseball accomplishments that day. The newspaper accounts of the game was clipped and duplicated in order for Dad to send it out to all of his brothers on the east coast. In addition, for many years, he carried a copy of the article in his wallet, as a memento. The original of the article remains in my possession, and is framed and hangs on a wall in my office; more as a remembrance of my Father than as an ego feeding depiction of a teenage exploit.

Prowess displayed during a moment of a person’s life may help in the building of ones confidence, but it may also act as an ego stimulant. Certainly, confidence and ego are not the same, although many people have assumed the two must go together. Both can be bruised, and deflated. Both may become over done, as in an enlarged ego, or the person who is over confident. Don’t get the idea I knew what was happening during the monumental event I’ve described. I’m reporting what I truthfully recall to be the case during my teen-age years.

While I find myself smiling as I recollect the glory of a past event, there are other truths to behold. Recollection can make a man or woman shudder. I’m sure many of you out there can identify with being embarrassed over the recall of an adolescent occurrence. It may be a thing you did, or said without thinking.

There is also what I refer to as “Pride Recollections”. These are things you’ve done or said which somehow give you a warm feeling about yourself. They are yours to make wholesome use of, whenever you like. It can be a wow moment, like saying to yourself, I never thought I could pull it off, but I did. I studied for that damn test, and I aced it. One of my favorites, as told to me by a rather prominent actress. When inquiring about a certain role, this actress was told, “This play isn’t for you”. And then she went on to star in it, a movie was made, she starred in that also, and now long ago retired, she recalls the expression on the face of the individual who told her she wasn’t good enough in the first place.

For me personally, it’s an occurrence that transpired just before I was to graduate from the same high school where Mr. Gross remained on as school custodian. It had been a full two years since Mr. Gross made the remark to me about never wanting to sober up.

It was the year of my eighteenth birthday. My thoughts were generally and in particular almost entirely self-centered. I guess that’s what a teen-age boy is all about. First and foremost, upon turning eighteen, a guy had to worry about being drafted into the military. That probability of course doesn’t exist today. Along with wondering about an athletic scholarship to college, or being fortunate enough to sign a baseball contract, complicated the package weighing heavily on my daily mindset.

It was mid morning of a regular school day. I was sitting alone in the schools senior circle, an area reserved for only those students in their final year. Rarely was I ever alone at school. The welcomed solitude was not only appreciated, it was necessary for contemplation over what my future would hold. I was sitting there staring at nothing in particular when I felt the presence of a person standing along side.

“You look as if you’ve sobered up”, Mr.Gross said.
“Are you okay?”, he asked. I explained how I was caught up with thoughts of what the future would hold for me.
“Life can be a sobering experience at times, regardless of what you’re attempting to do,” he advised.
“Well two years ago you told me how you never wanted to sober up,” I replied.
“I said I never wanted to sober up. I didn’t say I could stay happy all the time. What I meant was life throws things at you. I found out a long time ago, I loved this school, and I especially loved baseball. Each time something crappy happened in my life, I dug in even deeper to my work at school and the joy brought to me by baseball”.
And with that Mr. Gross walked away, after shaking my hand and saying good luck, and God be with you.

A stranger taking the time to show interest in a kid’s welfare is everlasting isn’t it. Like Mr.Gross before me, I never want to sober up. A quickly dealt injury instantly removed any thoughts of an athletic scholarship, or a baseball contract. The contemplation process became simple.

Hello, Private Harvey Kalmenson. It was sobering, but not for long.