Circle Game

 First, I wasn’t hearing it. I had 19 different things on my mind, but then I did, and C.J., it was magnificent. It was genius. He built these themes, and at the beginning, it was just an intellectual exercise, which is fun enough, I guess, but then in the fourth movement, he just let it go. I really didn’t think I could be surprised by music anymore. I thought about all the times this guy must’ve heard that his music was no good...

Jed Bartlet (Martin Sheen), The West Wing, "Galileo" (2000) 

There are certainly a few things that focus a person. One of them is to have a nurse hold out an IV bag containing this week's bi-specific chemo/immuno infusion and confirm - "Jim Greer, (birthdate) 71..." One can have nineteen different things on their mind and suddenly eighteen of them are bullshit.

The one thing that does not fade away as the nurse accesses the new "IV Port" surgically implanted in my chest is that the fourth movement has been played, for all of the world to see. What is left is reflection on the themes I have built in my life - bicycles, hockey, police work, family. We are, as Joni Mitchell wrote, captives on a carousel of time.

It's easy to write them in that order, because it's the way I built them. Bicycles were part of life from almost the beginning. Riding around our little neighborhood in Southhampton, PA with friends, tinkering (until she passed in 2015 my mom bought me a screwdriver every Christmas, as a reminder), and exploring ever larger circles of my home town.

We moved to Pittsford, NY in 1964 and had an even bigger, more rural environment to explore. My parents bought me an "English" bike - 26 inch wheels and three speeds in the rear hub. My brother Dave chose a purple Huffy Sting Ray, with high-rise handlebars, a banana seat and a 5 speed derailleur. I loved my new ride but the exposed shifting mechanism on the Sting Ray - there was technology to fire an imagination. It began a lifelong obsession.

1968 Schwinn catalog.

I bought my first ten-speed bike with paper route money, a blue Schwinn Continental.
27" wheels, down-tube shifters, hooded brake levers... There was no place I couldn't go - up hills, long rides in the farmlands surrounding Rochester, to work at Ward's Natural Science in the Village...of Pittsford, near the high school. This was not just useful technology. It was freedom.

I also bought skates, a particular kind. A very special kind.

Western New York introduced us to what actual winter looked like, and with it to skating. And hockey. We grew up on the frozen ponds surrounding our neighborhood, and one winter convinced our dad to build a rink in our back yard. My brothers chose wisely - Dave a forward, Mike a defenseman - the "tools of ignorance" fascinated me and I became a goaltender.

I didn't play organized hockey until, giving in to an insistent father's "suggestions" I tried out for the new high school team, expecting to be an early cut. By whatever fates I'll never know the young volunteer coach, a retired Rochester American professional named Don Cherry (you might have heard of him) thought I had some skills. For the next three years I improved from a fair pond hockey player to an established high school starter.

But, I needed goalie skates. As you can see, they are different than those worn by the other players. They are built lower to the ice surface, and are honed flat. Oh, that big plate on the side? The puck still hurt like hell after a "kick save, and a beauty." This is what they looked like, circa 1970.

Which takes us to a day in the fall of 1975.

My youngest brother was trying out for the new high school team - the Pittsford High I'd graduated became Pittsford Sutherland, his school, the new one, Pittsford Mendon... Named after the streets they were on. My dad - "There aren't any war heroes in Rochester they could name them after, for Christ's sake?"

 I took my brother to try-outs and sat down with a book. I was on hiatus - my mom refused to let me say I'd dropped out - from Northeastern University in Boston where I studied criminal justice, preparing for a career in law enforcement. I was working nights as a security guard at Xerox Corp. (1970s Rochester, remember) to make money for the cross-country bike trip I had planned during the Bicentennial summer, which left my afternoons free.

The team's goaltender situation was...fluid. The young coach, in his first years of teaching after growing up on Long Island, consulted with his senior players about how to solve his dilemma. I would later learn the conversation went something like this: "See that guy standing there," one of them said, pointing at me. "He was Pittsford's starting goalie when they went undefeated and won the league championship."

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship that has outlasted time, distance and difference of opinion. Two and a half years later, in the booklet distributed at the season-ending banquet, I was "Asst. Coach Greer, who rode his bike across the country last summer and will complete his studies at Northeastern University this spring in anticipation of a law enforcement career."

At that point, it was just an intellectual exercise, which was fun enough. 

To be continued...     

   

Easy Read

 "I was in line behind this man, he was very skinny. I love skinny people, we are all God's children, but he says, 'How small is a small?'"

"It's small. The Mediums are medium, the Large is large. If you have to ask how small a small is you're not hungry enough, come back later. GET OUT OF THE LINE." 

The late John Pinette, at a Phoenix, AZ Dairy Queen.

I monitor my Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) dashboard periodically - meaning I look a couple times a day, to see what's cooking. Usually, it's "Eight-Balls." Zeroes. A few times a month I make a sale or three, or someone reads some pages. When your marketing budget is k-cups and internet access, even something weekly is worth celebrating. Then, there are moments...

Yesterday, someone picked up A Matter of Principle and read it. I mean, they read it. They blew through 477 pages (out of 497), the last twenty of which they polished off today. Holy cow.

There are several explanations for this much, this quickly. Here is the most plausible, derived from several comments and reviews from other James Greer novels.

Principle is an easy read.

How easy is easy?

Amy Painter is a straightforward kind of character. She is happy to share with the reader what's on her mind, and in her heart. She does hero things but doesn't require notice, or accolades. She is a professional without driving the point home unnecessarily.

And fully capable of making a point.

The story isn't complicated. It's believable, a reader can point to people they know who would do the things the characters are doing. They know people like Amy who have stood up when being counted mattered. Then, they look at the trade-offs in their lives and say:

"I'm not hungry enough."

I don't take "It's an easy read" personally. In fact, I glory in it. If it only takes you a day to see what Amy Painter does when confronted by bullies, it leaves you more time to discover what happens to Karen Sorenson when she goes undercover on a sailboat in the Bahamas. 

As Time Goes By

 Play it, Sam. Play...As Time Goes By. Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman), Casablanca, (1942)

Our phone rang, twenty five years ago. I want to recall I was sitting in our dining room, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. In the great scheme of things... Right?

The caller was Sue O'Brien, at the time the editorial page editor for The Denver Post. Okay - "Oh...hello?"

There are several ways to tell this story. Start from the very beginning - a mild temper tantrum, a published letter to the editor of rival Rocky Mountain News? A stray comment from my wife - "There's a writing contest The Denver Post does every year. You should enter." Defying all previous life experience and actually sitting down, reading the list of entry requirements, writing something... No, this is the best way.

Daughter Katy and I are at a Rockies game, back when they actually might contest the outcome for more than an inning or two. We're wandering the lower level, probably getting a hot dog, and my cell phone rings. It's Sue. There is a problem with the column I've written as a Colorado Voices essayist, one scheduled to appear in a few days on the editorial section of the paper. It has been OTBE'd - overtaken by events.

Timothy McVeigh (The Oklahoma City bomber) was set for execution, but there was some sort of procedural wrangling involving (shocking, I know) discovery foul-ups by the FBI. My column was a review of the record - he did it and everyone knew it - and WTF was the justice system waiting for? In a sane world there was only the sentence of death to carry out. Etc.

Except, between the time I'd submitted the column for publication and...then, the procedural niceties had been addressed and the sentence was going to be carried out. The writing was stale.

Not to worry, she said. Together, we re-wrote sections that expressed surprise things had taken so long, that even the defense's submissions seemed muted because he'd obviously confessed to his attorneys, and that the sooner he was no longer with us the better for everyone. Satisfied that the writing was once again meaningful she wished Katy and I a pleasant day at the ball game and we hung up.

That's when it hit me. Sue O'Brien was a whirlwind, a force in public Colorado halls, a woman pioneer in jobs usually filled by men. She'd been in TV, had been a tenured CU professor, had important jobs for governors Dick Lamm and Roy Romer (his campaign manager) and now oversaw the editorial page of an established major American newspaper. And... We'd just worked together to rehabilitate something I'd written so it would appear under my byline. Me, a patrol sergeant at a modest police department with an entirely normal family life.

Sue was also the kind of gruff and straightforward that any cop would admire. During the initial phone call, to tell me I was one of twelve (I think) successful applicants who would write six columns each in the 2001 Voices cycle, my expression of glee was apparently insufficient. "This is an honor," I said, somewhat blandly.

"You're goddamned right it is," she snorted. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

As an alum I had a chance to do a guest column from time to time. I wrote one questioning the conduct of the Tattered Cover book store and the sanity of the Colorado Supreme Court. "You aren't being fair," Sue said. Then she printed it. Two weeks later, a card appeared in my work mailbox - Colorado Governor Bill Owens had liked my opinion piece. "Keep writing," the note said. 

Sue passed away two years later, the victim of cancer. At her funeral Dottie Lamm, former First Lady of Colorado, told the story of Sue bringing a "dime bag" - marijuana - to the Governor's mansion, to help with Dottie's nausea during chemotherapy. At the time, depending on the amount, that was a serious act. Apparently, Sue was just brassy enough not to care. Even the priest conducting the service broke into unrestrained laughter.

On the wall of my study hangs a framed example of the column Sue said was her favorite of mine, presented to each of us at a luncheon after our gigs were over. It is a celebration of the Colorado Avalanche Stanley Cup win in 2001, the great Joe Sakic to Ray Bourque Cup pass. I glance at it from time to time, to remember.

I've written millions of words since my last work for The Denver Post. But that phone call, that voice... An assurance from one of the tough people who made up Colorado journalism at the turn of the 21st Century, that I was a good writer who deserved whatever success I enjoyed.

Twenty-five years on, I wish I could send her one of my books and tell her what that all meant to me. 

 

The Right Side of an Inch

 

Rule 1.3 - Division of Ice Surface

1. A red line, 5.08 cm (2 in.) wide, will be marked 3.35 m (11ft.) from each end of the rink, parallel to the end boards. This line will extend across the rink and be known as the Goal Line

   Official rules of ice hockey

    

   
   
    A game of inches.

   Much has been made, in the immediate aftermath of the US victory over Canada in the Men's Hockey final, of how the teams played. Some commentators (partisans on either side of the contest) have written that the Canadians "dominated" the game, or at least the second and third periods. A few have gone so far as to claim that Canada was "the better team," having outshot Team USA, and that the Americans won by virtue of a hot goaltender and little else. A very few then grudgingly observe that the final score reflected: USA 2, Canada 1.

   One would be remiss to ignore the wonderful opportunities the Olympic Games affords to expand lexicons. During one of the curling matches involving the USA women, an announcer suggested that the stone placement had such narrow tolerances that it put our team "On the wrong side of an inch." This was immediately appealing as a way to say a lot by saying a little.

   In hockey, an accomplished team with a balanced attack and defense is often described as having a "Two Hundred Foot Game." That is, they are proficient the entire length of the rink. To be that, it requires six players working in harmony. One of those players - the goalie.

   The goaltender doesn't guard the net, even though their crease (the "blue paint") is immediately in front of it. It's the tendie's job to mind the line, to see to it that the puck doesn't cross (completely) that horrible "wrong side of an inch." That 5.08 cm that divides victory and defeat. Twenty-four square feet (6'x4' goalmouth) that is two inches deep.

   In essence, hockey is about defending that thin red line in the blue paint at your end of the 200 feet, and attacking their red line in their blue paint. How a team does it... There are no style points. A beautifully crafted, superbly drawn up, exquisitely placed goal counts the same as something that ricochets off the helmet of a player, bounces off the ass of the tendie and dribbles a millimeter over the goal line.

   Who is responsible for guarding that line? As a former tendie, it would be easy for me to say it is the goalie's job. It isn't, entirely. It's up to all six players to make that happen.

   Sometimes, teams do it by dominating possession of the puck. If my team has it, it's very hard for the other team to score. Simple, right? Except - no style points there, either. Skate around all you want. Team Canada can tell you where one miscue can lead.

   The other is by accepting that, either in one game or generally, your tendie is the best player on the ice. So, you try to make sure that, while the other team is working itself into a lather shooting the puck at him/her, you are making them take low-percentage shots. 

   The goalie is generally responsible for the shooter - that is, everything being equal their job is to stop the present shot on goal. Most competent NHL tendies will stop almost every shot made from a reasonable distance. The other players' job is allow them to see the shot, cut off any passes and gain control of rebounds.

   Really good goaltenders are expected to dazzle even jaded fans with a "sparkling save" from time to time. They anticipate a pass across the ice and appear at the last minute to stifle what looked like a sure goal. They foil a breakaway. They make two or three saves in quick succession at their "doorstep." Maybe they even steal a sure goal with reflexes, or acrobatics.

   Guys like USA goalie Connor Hellebucyk? All of it, all day long.

   So what does his team do? The opponent can shoot the puck at him repeatedly and so long as he can see it, can anticipate the play and the rebounds are managed as a team - fire away. They'll only get tired of it. Maybe it will make the other team press harder, become frustrated. Maybe they make one pass too many. Maybe they try to be too perfect, and miss the net instead. And maybe, in overtime, one of the best players on the planet indulges a bad position and the fabulous goalie's team is off to the races and Gold Medal Glory.

   Full strength hockey is played six-on-six, not 5 on 5. There are no style points. Shots on goal are a metric, and not a very precise one. Dominated?

   Not when you control the right side of a two-inch red line on the ice.

   Congratulations, USA Hockey. We're proud of you.  

Picking Your...Preferred Medium

 “There are two motives for reading a book; one, that you enjoy it; the other, that you can boast about it.” -Bertrand Russell

No promises.

Okay, maybe I can't promise that you can announce at your next - whatever - that you've read my latest book and people will be impressed. There is a real chance that someone will say, "Who?"

That don't confront me. I wrote something that says things about small minds, tough people, and that sleepless nights and angry dawns can give way to hope of the most basic kind.

And then...

I've mentioned Zack Mayo a couple of times (A Sequel to Embrace). You know, Richard Gere screaming at Lou Gossett, Jr - "I got no place else to go!" That Zack's larger story was never told is a shame.

I didn't do the same thing to Amy.

Pick your poison - Kindle, Audible or print. Amy is an admirable character. Boast? I do - about a person who lives out many of the challenges readers will recognize from their own struggles. And I got to enjoy where I left her, this time. 

Closing the Circle

 When people show loyalty to you, you take care of those who are with you. It's how it goes with everything. John Cena

I've explained how "Amy3" - A Matter of Principle - came to be in other posts and blogs. In announcing here that the Kindle version is available for purchase, let's chat. If you buy it, then read it (one does not necessarily follow the other) I'd be interested in knowing what you think I meant by this story.

Ultimately, this sort of book is what happens when an author adores his character, and wants to know that they will be fine in his absence. Go ahead, read that again. I'll be right here.

Back? Given what you've read here recently, you might conclude I'm wrapping up my writing career in anticipation of...no longer writing. Let's get that out of the way. No.

Writing is therapeutic. It's energizing. Writing cops keeps me in touch with a past I cherish, a present in which I am intensely interested and with friends I admire. I'm going to keep writing.

But, eventually a character deserves a long and happy life in peace. How Amy gets there was interesting to write, and expresses one way out of the maelstrom. Along the way, you get to see Amy the hero. Amy the fighter. Amy the wife, the mom, the friend.

Amy Painter was the first character I created more than twenty years ago, when I began to explore fiction writing as a job. Much of what I hoped to say about women in policing I've said through her. In making her real I've had a ton of help. I've noted those folks over the years, and will never forget the role they played in making me a writer.

I hope you like A Matter of Principle. I do. 

Not the Result We're After

 Somebody back East is saying, 'Why don't he write?' Timmons (Robert Pastorelli), Dances With Wolves, (1990).

It's been a couple of months since I've visited these pages to add something new. There is a reason.

In early October I took what I thought would be a routine screening "Tube Ride" - an MRI - to mark five years since diagnosis and treatment for ocular melanoma. It turned out to be anything but routine.

"Concern for metastatic disease" read the first line of the radiologist's report. The cancer has apparently reappeared, this time on one of the bones in my spine. Additional tests confirmed this concern.

This cancer is rare and unpredictable, usually spreading to the liver or lungs. Not mine. There are no statistics for prognosis because things don't usually happen this way. Even the clinical studies from specialized cancer institutes don't mention eye-bone transfers.

They will treat this disease with radiation first (the process is fascinating), followed by some form of immunotherapy, chemotherapy or something new if I'm the right kind of mutant... Or, something. There are so many unknowns that the only thing I know is that I preferred the years when the radiologist's report was clear sailing.

I have no real symptoms, just the occasional twinge in my back - one might expect something similar for a man in his 70s who grew up playing hockey. This will change as the radiation treatments take hold, followed by whatever glories chemo brings.

I'm writing this for a couple purposes. First, as a writer, it is often important to get things out of my head so I can sleep at night. This is one of them. I also find this a comfortable way to let friends know what is going on, introvert that I am. Then you can feel free to reach out, say a prayer, or silently revile the fates that visit this malady on too many of us.

Speaking of that, it is the holidays and many of you will be engaging the prayers of the season. If you are so inclined, how about offering up something for the members of my family. As I told the oncologist in a recent conversation, I have done what she asked because I have a personal stake in the outcome. But, my family can only watch, hope and wonder why this, now.

But, don't feel sorry for us - our sense of humor, at least at this point, is intact. Discussing the possibility that I would become ill enough to require emergency services, a strange and horrifying thought led to:

"Please don't let Joy bite the paramedics."