Category: Writing

Baseball fans have been getting plenty of exercise this summer—jumping up and down from the Mariners’ bandwagon. The team swings between looking playoffs-bound—to just plain bound—as if the players’ need more fiber in their diet.

But back in the seasons of the early 1980’s, the M’s were a team with a solid lock on last place, mathematically eliminated sometime in spring training.
They were a franchise that measured its crowds in the hundreds, not the thousands—playing in a cavernous sarcophagus called the Kingdome.

It was during those days that I had an exciting job as a fledgling TV writer and producer—and it was my assignment to dream up broadcast commercials. Because the Mariners were still a new expansion team, the roster was often comprised of castoffs, rookies and fading stars on their last, cleat-scarred legs. My job? Don’t sell the game of baseball. Sell the athletes that played it, and show them as loveable and funny personalities.

In that regard, one of our first TV spots featured an undercover swat team hiding in some bushes outside the home of the Mariners’ speedy leadoff man, Julio Cruz. When Cruz’s car pulled up and he went inside, the swat team made their move. After serving him with a search warrant, the cops combed his residence, finally finding what they’d come for: dozens of stolen bases from the preceding season. (The commercial won no awards).

In another bit, a player named Lenny Randle—wearing a top-hat and tails—pranced around the locker room singing a song about an upcoming marketing promotion called “Jacket Night”—sung to the tune of “Mack the Knife.”

If the spot seemed goofy, it was not as embarrassing as later that same season when the same Lenny Randle—playing third base—dropped to his hands and knees in an attempt to blow a slow-rolling ball foul. He was not gusty enough. The ball stayed fair.

Nowadays, the Mariners’ promotion people occasionally induce fans to the ballpark with bobble head nights, Moose posters and post-game fireworks. But back in the 80’s, it was tee-shirts, ball caps, bats—and those aforementioned jackets.

One year, we featured a player named Tom Paciorek as Jacket Night’s on-camera pitchman. He began by excitedly telling viewers that everyone who arrived at the park early would receive a free pair of funny-nose glasses. An off-camera announcer interrupts by saying, “Excuse me, Mr. Paciorek. You’ve got it wrong. It’s not Funny-Nose Glasses Night. It’s Jacket Night. Everybody gets a jacket, not funny-nose glasses.”
A dejected Paciorek shrugs and says, “Well, that’s just great. So what am I supposed to do with 40-thousand pairs of funny-nose glasses?” The announcer is blunt: “That’s your problem.” End of commercial.
But when the Jacket Night game finally rolled around, the Mariners’ front office was surprised when hundreds of people arrived asking for funny-nose glasses instead of jackets. So the following season, the team gave the people what they wanted—and staged

Major League Baseball’s first—and so far only—Funny-Nose Glasses Night.

The disguises came in handy for fans that watched their team suffer another loss in a season where they were going nowhere—except to the showers.

But over time, things began to change. The teams got better; they got competitive; they got Griffey—and a new stadium.
And this year—with players like Robinson Cano and Felix Hernandez—maybe this bandwagon can roll right into late September.

On the other hand, if a couple of weeks from now the M’s start to slip and slump, you’ll be able to tell if management is starting to give up hope.

What’s a kid in diapers to think?
From the time we arrive and our first toys are offered to us, very likely at least one of them will be some form of a bear. And they are always huggable and cute.

There are, of course, Teddy Bears—named for President Teddy Roosevelt. (The President Fillmore “Milly Bear” was not commercially successful.)

There are Paddington, Berenstain and Care Bears—not to mention Winnie the Pooh, which comes in all forms including the disturbingly named Baby’s First Pooh. (I am sorry to say I am not making that up.)
From one of those Toy Story movies comes Lots O’ Huggin’ Bear. Sounds a lot cuter than Lots O’ Maulin’ Bear, which is actually the more accurate behavior of your average ursine mammal.

Only later are kids informed that bears are, in fact, not good sleeping companions, and if you go nighty-night with a real one—not a toy—you are likely to wind up inside of him by morning.

Despite the fact that holiday-giving toy bears wearing graduation outfits, wedding clothes and Cupid’s bow and arrows are very popular, they are reportedly not so friendly when confronted in the wild – even when clothed.

Except maybe one.

Smokey Bear has been the Advertising Council’s mascot since 1944, making him 70-years-old, and Medicare eligible for the past five.

Kids in the 1950’s and 60’s could not escape Smokey’s fire prevention message.

My memory is that his official name was Smokey the Bear. But in fact, his middle name is not ‘the’, and never has been.

“It’s simply not true,” said a spokesman I called. “You must be thinking of the singer, Smokey the Robinson.”
What I DO recall was that Smokey wore dungarees and a forest ranger hat, but no shirt. His contemporary however,—Yogi Bear—wore a tie, but no shirt or pants. This has been a major reason for my years of psychotherapy.

(A tie only. Yogi? What was the point?)

Smokey’s obsession is, and always has been, preventing forest fires, which has recently been broadened to wildfires, so that people who live in arid climates will also pay heed.

A song, Smokey the Bear, came out in the 50’s wherein the lyricists added ‘the’ into Smokey’s name to make the song work better rhythmically. This is reportedly the same reason the 70’s band Parliament added the same to their hit song, “Tear the Roof Off the Sucker (Give up the Funk).”

I remember Smokey’s voice in those early public service announcements being very gruff and threatening: “Remember! Only YOU can prevent forest fires!”

Really? Only ME? What about the neighbor kid down the street? He was a pyromaniac if ever there was one. He didn’t just play with matches—he played with blowtorches.

Anybody remember the Sahara Forest? No. Because that kid burned it down.

Over the years, I’ve noticed that Smokey’s voice became less threatening. He started to sound more gentle and reassuring. Maybe he’s discovered forest mushrooms.

He’s still shirtless though, and if he’s got tattoos, you can’t see them for the fur. He’s become Smokey Bearable, and far less scary.

But make not mistake about, Smokey’s new mellowness should not trick us into thinking that all bears in the wild should be trusted. They are bears, after all, and you should know what to do if you encounter one—even it’s wearing pants and a hat.

Make an irritating noise walking through the forest, compelling the bear to flee. One idea: Wear your fingernails long and carry a small blackboard.

Keep your distance. If, for example, the bear is in the North Cascades area of our state, you should be somewhere in Southern California.

Stand tall. The bear will be less likely to attack if it thinks you are bigger than him.
If the bear is a 12-foot grizzly, remember to wear a really, really tall stovepipe hat.
If all else fails, start moving as fast you can – backwards. Moonwalking saves lives.

After all, it is far better to scat—than to become such.

Walking home from school one day, I saw the sign posted prominently on the door of a saloon called “The Palace.” It read: NO MINORS ALLOWED!

I remember feeling a sense of outrage. Why, I wondered, would hard-working guys—who daily risk their lives deep below the earth—be so singularly ostracized? Shouldn’t the person who misspelled miner be the one not allowed?

The fact is signs have always confused me—raising more questions than they answer.

Like STOP for example. Why? Maybe fewer drivers would comply if they had an explanation.

Some signs are just fine. WELCOME for example. Hard to have a problem with that one. Especially a sign that reads: WELCOME MINORS AND MINERS!

Others are placed simply to announce and identify a place:
ENTERING WEST SEATTLE.
LEAVING DES MOINES.
EXPERIENCING BURIEN.

Certainly those warning signs that let you know what’s coming are helpful:

CURVES. SHARP TURN. SUDDEN PLUMMET.

But many signs are noteworthy for other reasons—from where they are placed, to their spelling, to their content. Keep an eye out and you’ll start seeing them everywhere:

NEW AND USED ANTIQUES.
FIRST CHOICE ELECTRICAL. CALL US NEXT TIME.
WILLOUGHBY’S DRY CLEANERS. DROP YOU PANTS HERE.
VIDEO ONLY: MORE THAN JUST VIDEO.

Here’s a sign you sometimes see at crossings with a yellow light: STOP WHEN FLASHING! It’s hard to make sense of that one. If a guy were flashing, why would he stop? It’d make it just that much easier for the cops to catch him.

When my daughter was young, ordinary road signs would catch her eye. Her comments about them were always insightful. “Why,” She would ask, “Would anyone have to put up a sign like NO SHOULDER DRIVING? It’s way easier to steer with your hands.”

Another questionable one is WRONG WAY. A warning sign—or a street sign like
S.W. ADMIRAL WAY?

And then there’s SLOW CHILDREN. OK, maybe kids aren’t always going to make the honor roll—but does it need to be made public on a road sign?

When my daughter was learning basic math, she was intrigued by the greater-and-lesser than symbols (>>>) or (<<<). So when we would come to a curve in the road—rimmed with a series of signs indicating those same symbols (>>>) or (<<<)—she would logically state, “The people that live on that side of the road are greater (or lesser) than the people who live on the other side. Perhaps that’s correct. Who knows?
Whenever my wife is parking downtown in an underground lot, she always looks for the words LOW CLEARANCE OVERHEAD—figuring there’s a sale going on.

In Bend, Oregon—where I grew up—there’s a sign as you approach town: BEND AHEAD. Or is that BEND A HEAD? Why?

And there’s another small town farther down the road called “Burns.” You know will be going in the right direction when you see the sign reading: BURNS LEFT LANE. But who would volunteer for that? Better bring the ointment.

There’s also a town in Oregon named “Boring.” It doesn’t help that there’s a sign leading there that reads: BORING TWO MILES. Must be true. I nearly fell asleep at the wheel last time.

And farther south along Highway 26, near Mt. Hood, lays a small hamlet named “Zig Zag.” The road sign—ZIG ZAG TWO MILES—has resulted in numerous driver arrests and countless Breathalyzer tests.
Thanks goodness Washington State doesn’t have town names like that.

Humptulips does not count.

Meanwhile, even now as a grown young woman, my daughter still keeps an eye out.
Her latest? END CONSTRUCTION. She says, “I must agree. They should be done
with it by now.”

I just mailed out the last of my Labor Day cards yesterday. If Hallmark sells Labor Day cards, I’ve never seen them—so this was a job I had to myself. It was hard work, but isn’t that point of a Labor Day card?
A friend helped me do the artwork and the printing, but the wordsmithing was mine:
To an exotic dancer: “Happy Labor Day! Work it, girl!”
To a mom: “Thanks for having 13 hours of it following 9 months of pregnancy!”

To Mrs. Olson, a grade school spelling teacher: “Happy Layber Day!” That ought to drive her sufficiently nuts.

While Labor Day has been a big deal holiday in this country for well over a hundred years, it doesn’t seem altogether inclusive because it leaves a lot of people out. I mean, while the idea of the Labor Day weekend is to honor working people, what about everyone else?

Shouldn’t there also be “Indolence Day”—a holiday saluting the idle, listless and slothful who live here too? Like newspaper columnists, for example.

But Labor Day is a good time to reflect back on the occupations we’ve held on the pathway of life—a pathway often strewn with some odd co-workers. (If you cannot recall having any odd co-workers, you are the odd co-worker.)

When I was a teenager, I got on at a neighborhood supermarket one summer. Before that I’d only mowed lawns and delivered newspapers—so this was a big deal.
My first day on the job, I was shown the ropes by a strange, spooky older guy named William. I had the feeling that if William had his way, he would show me some actual ropes. He looked like he knew a lot of knots that were hard to escape from—plus, he had that certain serial-killer look about him.

“They mostly have me stocking shelves at night after the store closes,” he muttered in a low Freddy Krueger voice.

“Gee,” I thought. “Hard to figure why they wouldn’t want such a cheery guy out front greeting customers.”
Luckily, I was assigned to work the daytime shift—when William was home asleep in his coffin.

Murray, the meat department butcher, was just the opposite. He was an affable, friendly chap who sang and whistled merrily—as he hacked cow parts into sirloins, short ribs and rump roasts.
One day during our lunch break, Murray invited me to stroll down the street to a sandwich place. Along the way, I noticed Murray was still wearing his blood-spattered apron. He said he didn’t want to slop mustard on his new pants.

But my favorite co-worker was a kid my age named Jim. From the moment we met, we
spent our work hours thinking of shtick.

An example was Jim on the store’s intercom: “Attention please! Would the owner of a car with the license plate 752EET46102Q8552GDWAM0001P please move your vehicle? Your license plate is blocking the road.”

OK, it was an old gag, but we thought it was really hilarious. The store manager was not as amused, but put up with it.

Another time I announced: “Attention shoppers! There is currently a 14 cart back up in aisle 9. We recommend aisles 7 or 9 as alternate routes.”

The manager finally told me that if he ever heard me on the intercom again, I’d be back to mowing lawns and delivering newspapers. I got the message—and during the rest of my time in that first real job, I gained genuine respect for honest toil—and for those who do it everyday.

So if Labor Day isn’t in the upper tier of the most eagerly anticipated holidays of the year, it still seems like a pretty good one to keep around—and not just so stores can offer big savings on mattresses, tires and hot tubs.

Time to wrap this up. The family’s in a hurry to pick out our Labor Day tree.

Then it’s off to the egg hunt.

If you’ve traveled by plane lately, you know that airport security is tighter than a pair of Spanx.
The airport people want you to take off your shoes, coat, belt and watch. What’s next? Probably shirts, pants, funny nose glasses and toupees.
Then you’re scanned—and sometimes felt down (or up depending on your preference).
And then if you ever do get on the plane, you’re admonished to sit down, click on your seatbelt, turn off your cell phone—and have “a wonderful flight.”

So I offer now for your consideration—and lessened aggravation: traveling by train.
First of all, the Seattle King Street Station is conveniently located right alongside some tracks. It’s where the trains that annoy Mariner’s play-by-play announcers arrive and depart.

At the train station you buy your ticket, you go board. Sometimes you go through an X-ray machine, but it’s usually a breeze—unless you’re dressed in a suit of armor. Then you merely explain you’re traveling to a Renaissance fair, and they wave you on.

On the minus side, the train station offers few of the amenities of the Sea-Tac airport. For example at the airport, after you are forced to surrender your bottle of water at the security gate—you can then walk to a souvenir stand or bookstore—and buy the same bottle of water you had to give up earlier, but at 18 times the price. You don’t get that same convenience at the train station.

Once on board the train, there is no attendant standing at the front of the aisle going over safety procedures. Instead, a voice comes over the speaker system telling you to read the safety brochure for yourself. No oxygen masks should be expected to drop down—and there is no mention of what to do in the case of a water landing. However the brochure does mention that if the train should tip over, you should get out on the side that is not facing the ground. Great advice.

There is also an announcement asking all passengers not to remove their shoes while on board. I’m not sure if the request is for safety reasons—or air quality.

The last time I took the train to Portland, we departed almost 20 minutes later than scheduled. But the conductor came through assuring everyone that we would still arrive in Portland on time. I guessed that maybe the engineer knew a shortcut. Or maybe he was going to take advantage of a strong tailwind. But, sure enough, we arrived right on schedule.

When you travel by plane or freeway, you miss so many of the real scenic wonders of our Northwest landscape. But by train you can clearly see back yards—with old cars on blocks, discarded couches, rusty chest freezers and hot tubs that have become planters.
You also have the chance to admire the works of some of our nation’s finest artists—particularly those who work in the field of graffiti.

Plus, when you travel by rail, you get to see cows—lots and lots of cows. And occasionally a cow with graffiti on it.

On a train, you don’t have to wear a seat belt—you’re actually encouraged to get up and walk around. It’s not expected that the train will hit an air pocket and suddenly drop a thousand feet.

There was even a featured movie on my trip. Granted, it was not a particularly current film as you might see on a plane flight—but still, it was a movie. By the way, did you know that Laurel was the skinny guy and Hardy was the larger man?

So if you’re a bit nervous or annoyed with air travel these days, try going by rail. It’s tough getting to Europe by train, but worth a try.
And despite what you may see in the movies, there are rarely people running around having fistfights on the roof of a moving train.

That sort of thing only happens on buses.

No one knows for sure when singing was invented.
Maybe it happened during caveman days, when Trog said to Ogg: “Remember yesterday when you were discovering fire and you burned your hand and started screaming real high? Well I must tell you ya—it sounded real good! In fact, all the women in our tribe want to know if you can do it again—except this time, put words to it.”

Since then, the theme of saying “goodbye,” has been a constant in music, poetry, literature and movies. It is generally regarded as the hardest task in life, except for doing your own taxes—and changing a newborn.
However, getting far less attention is the difficulty of saying…“hello.” Especially when you have to say it more than once.

Now it may be true that it’s not so tough to say “hello” to someone you know well. A simple “Hey!” or “Yo!” will suffice. Maybe just a nod or a smiling grunt is good enough. You can do that all day with someone you really know.

Even a fist bump is generally OK, except for heads-of-state and the clergy.

But things get trickier when you encounter not-quite friends—like in the workplace.

For example, you might step into the elevator and run smack into Lou, the guy who works in another department down the hall. You know really nothing more about him—so you may go with: “Good morning, Lou. How ya doin?”

OK, that initial ‘hello’ was not difficult—and you even remembered his name. But maybe five minutes later, you head into the restroom—and there’s Lou again.

Now it gets more challenging.

“Hey Lou, long time, no see!” That’s a pretty good one—and nearly witty.

Or maybe: “Hey Lou, what ya been up to since the elevator?”

You might even use your mutual venue in the restroom as subject matter: “I guess we both had a little too much coffee this morning, eh Lou?”
Or perhaps, “Welcome to the loo, Lou.”
The third time you run into him though, it really starts getting awkward. After all, you don’t really know the guy—and it’s really risky trying to say more than you know for sure:
“Hey Lou, how’s your wife?”
“I’m not married.”
“Right. Talk to you later.”
So it’s safest to keep that third greeting a traditional one, even if lame: “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Also available: “You don’t have a twin, do ya?”
“Getting to be a habit, eh Lou?”
Or, “I’m getting a powerful feeling of deja Lou.”

Let’s face it, by then you’re tapped out. Another encounter in the same day is out of the question, so you’ve got to do anything to avoid it.

If you have a desk, stay there the rest of the day.

If you do have to walk down a hallway, always carry a cell phone so you can pretend to be talking to someone. If Lou strolls by, you could wave slightly—but keep going.

Otherwise, keep a coin, pen or plastic comb at the ready. If you see Lou coming toward you, casually drop the object to the floor and stoop over to pick it up, thereby appearing not to notice as Lou approaches.
Of course, Lou could throw a wrench into the plan if he stops to say, “Dropped something, eh?”
Nuts! Now you’re just going to have to quit your job and move on to another company.

Meanwhile—to whoever (or is it whomever?) may read this initial writing (or is it righting?) …Or at least took the time to skip to the end: “Hello! Until we meet again.”

I just ran across an old thank you card I’d once written to my Aunt Gertrude. I was eight-years old and I’d penned to her: “Dear Auntie, thank you for the birthday card you sent me with only five dollars in it.”

The reason I still have the card is because my mom intercepted it before it was mailed. I still don’t understand what was wrong with my simple words of gratitude.

When our first daughter was born, I briefly considered naming her Gertrude, after my (only five dollars) aunt, but my wife vetoed it immediately.

“It’s out-of-style,” she insisted. “She’ll be called Gert or Trudy. Might as well send her straight to a senior center.”

It is true. Names go out of fashion as surely as hairstyles, leisure suits and high-gluten foods.

I recently – and reluctantly – had to inform my friends Fred, Harold and Edna that their names were not hip anymore. And they replied, “Thank you – PAT.”

Girl’s names that are out now include Mildred, Agatha and Dorothy – unless you are REALLY hip parents, in which case they ARE cool names again.

Town names for newborns are now de rigueur. Names like Brooklyn, Madison and Austin. However, some city names are slower in becoming popular for newborns, such as Newcastle, Renton and Kingsgate.

But surprisingly, “Factoria” Jenkins was born just last week. Her parents had hoped to have her at Overlake Hospital, but she came early at the Nordstrom Rack.

My friend, Clyde Hill, has no comment.

According to a research site, the name Gertrude – like my five-buck aunt – was once quite trendy: in 1907. In that year, thousands of girls were given the name. But within a few years, no girls were given the name. Except for two boys: legendary football tackle Gertie Smith and mafia don, Trudy Rizzo. No one ever gave either of them a bad time about it.

For other boys, Ernest, Clifford, Leonard and Herbert are as obsolete now as My Space. And someone should give the great Seattle Mariner designated hitter, Edgar Martinez, the bad news about his first name.

Richard has also fallen way down the list. I will not tell you why in print.

If a kid does have a traditional name, it’s now important to spell it differently: Carl should be spelled Karll or Caarl. Ben should be Benn or Behn. Jane should be Jayyne or Jaine. And so on. I mean, so “awne.”

It’s confusing. Just as soon as a name is labeled as out of style – it comes roaring back. Adolph still isn’t in vogue, but Oswald is – along with Alfred, Linus, Otto and even Roscoe. And Alice, Beatrix and Millie have suddenly become hip.

Bertha? Not yet. Especially for big tunnel boring machines.

For girls, it seems like certain flower and plant names can’t go wrong: Fuchsia, Daisy, Rose, Violet and Iris. Not as appealing so far are Nasturtium, Crocus and Skunk Cabbage.

Pansy has not yet caught on as a boy’s name.

But wait a week.

If you Google (or Bing, in deference to Microsoft) the words “Big Bertha,” the first thing that comes up is the name of a golf club. Next, comes the name of a super-heavy military howitzer, followed by a Guinness world record-holding cow. All of those Big Berthas share the ability to generate some degree of effective movement.

Then comes Seattle’s Big Bertha, the tunnel boring machine that is now sitting underground as motionless as a set of dinosaur bones.

The Department of Transportation says the problem with the $80 million stationary behemoth is that it has “leaky seals.” That was exactly the same excuse the Seattle Aquarium used when they temporarily shut down a few years ago.

So now, with Big Bertha being out-paced by slugs and glaciers, progress on the underground tunnel dig is progressing at the rate of zero feet per day. Or less.

It doesn’t help that Bertha was named in honor of Seattle’s only female mayor from 1926, Bertha Knight Landes. “Gee, thanks a lot for the swell tribute,” Mayor Landes might say. “Could you have considered “Big Greg (Nickels) instead?”

So while the gigantic boring machine sits as idle as a Sonics fan, why not try and make some money on it? Why not add Big Bertha to the area’s major tourist attractions? Seattle already has a very popular underground tour – why not introduce another one?

Charge a healthy admission fee to hikers, joggers and bicyclists who would love to take a gander – and bring in food trucks and souvenir vendors hawking plastic Big Bertha Pez dispensers.

And what a memorable setting for small weddings, bar mitzvahs and kids birthdays.

Marketing the venue would be easy:

Need a fun spot for a bachelor party? Let Big Bertha entertain you!

How about renting it out as an off-leash area for family dogs? (Clean-up not included).

Plus, it’d be a nifty spot for taking prom photos too – a romantic setting – in a tunnel-digging-project sort of way.

Yes, there will be push-back from transportation officials and the like, but what’s so wrong with trying to make the project pay for itself, while Bertha lies inert, in earth?

The D.O.T. says the earliest they will get Bertha moving again will be September. Perhaps, but have they really tried everything?

WD 40 got my lawn mower working last summer.

Duct (duck) tape can fix about anything.

And Remember on Happy Days how Fonzie would give the jukebox a whack – and it would suddenly start playing?

In any event, let’s root for Bertha to be a big bore again someday – the Kim Kardashian of tunnel digging.

You go girl!

I am one of five brothers. Our ranks are down to four — my younger brother, Sean, died recently after a sudden illness. He was only in his fifties, an age that sounded positively ancient when we were kids, but now seems far too young.

Hundreds of people showed up for his memorial service. There was a bit of the requisite teary eulogizing, but mostly the day was about remembering what a rollicking, fun character he was.

We grew up in a family where the occasional spanking was not unknown. When we were about to “get it” our Old Man (in his forties) would solemnly say, “Alright, get a stick.” The words sent a chill through all of us – except for Sean who took it as a challenge.

So while the rest of us would try to get by with thin reeds or twigs, Sean would present the gnarliest big stick he could find — preferably one riddled with nails and barbwire. That was Sean — always courageous and unyielding.

He wound up frustrating our dad so much, the Old Man gave up spanking us and just sent us to bed without supper. But that was no problem for Sean, who always kept a huge stash of snacks and candy under his bed.

One time, we came across an old barrel with a locking lid. We realized immediately that it was tailor-made for giving rides. One brother would climb inside, the lid would be secured — and the ride would begin at the top of a short hill in our front yard. One brother would push the barrel off — with the rest of us standing at the foot of the hill to stop it.

Until the day came when we goofed up and, with Sean inside, it got away from us. It careened end over end down a steep gravel embankment, off a small bluff and then finally coming to a thudding climax into a juniper tree.

We ran down to the motionless barrel, terrified at what it contained. But when the lid came off, Sean tumbled out laughing delightedly and eager for another ride. Fearless. Scrambled, but fearless.

In recent years, Sean found great passion for refereeing high school football and basketball games, with a style distinctly his own.

During a particularly tense basketball game, a heckler sitting high up in the stands was really giving it to him. “You miss every call, ref! I can see the game better up HERE, than you can down THERE!”

Finally, Sean blew his whistle and called a timeout. Incidentally, Sean was a very big guy — 6-foot-6, 280 pounds. So when he stopped the game and climbed up into the stands, the guy began shrinking in his seat.

But Sean merely sat down next to him and looked around the basketball court. Then he announced loudly to the crowd: “You know what? He’s RIGHT! You really CAN see the game better up here!”

The place erupted in laughter — and the game resumed. The heckler had been rendered heckleless.

Sean was bigger than life — bigger than three of them — a gentle, if not genteel, giant.

If there is a Heaven, he surely resides there.

And I’ll bet he can see the game better from there, too.