Viking Hand, A World Cup Trip and Two Sad Notes

Those who know me might be surprised, even amused, by this next piece of information, but I have it on scientific authority, at least according to my brother, that I have Viking blood in me. Perhaps that explains my repeated viewing of the Kirk Douglas-Tony Curtis 1958 movie "The Vikings" and my interest in watching the current History Channel mini-series, "Vikings."

I have, as does Bernie, what is called Viking Hand or Baron Dupuytren’s disease. Here’s a link describing it (http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC1305903/), but the long and the short of it is that on the palm of my left hand a small nodule has appeared recently. Its occurrence is usually limited to people of European descent, from areas where the Vikings are known to have traveled in their marauding and trading days. 

According to the National Institute of Health, “The Viking age of exploration, trading, and colonization lasted nearly 300 years. They raided as far as Newfoundland to the west, the Mediterranean and its many ports to the south, and the Caspian Sea—by way of the rivers of Eastern Europe, such as the Volga and Dneiper—to the east.” The Viking Hand could have could have easily been impregnated into my ancestors’ gene pool in Central Europe, by a Viking or by someone whose foremother a Viking ravished. 

While my sister Lee doesn’t have Viking Hand, not yet at least, our family has always believed she displays evidence of a Tatar invasion. Her high cheek bones, slightly slanted eyes and darker skin tone are traits not shared by any others in our family. 

For those who haven’t stopped laughing at the image of me running around as a Viking, let me remind you that Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis were both nice Jewish boys cast as fearless Norsemen.

World Cup Trip: The World Cup is almost over but I was amused by a recent article in the travel section of The New York Times. Here’s how it was described: “Instead of taking an expensive direct flight to the World Cup in Brazil, Seth Kugel, the Frugal Traveler, took a cheaper and more adventurous journey through four countries over 16 days.”

I found it quite extraordinary that The Times would think anyone but the richest of people, or those retired, would have 16 days to gallivant around before attending soccer games, the ostensible purpose of traveling to Brazil. 

Sadder Note: As you might have read or heard, Louis Zamperini died last week after a 40-day bout with pneumonia. Zamperini is the former Olympic runner who, as a World War II bombardier, survived a plane crash, 47 days afloat in the Pacific Ocean in a rubber raft and then two years of inhumane treatment in a Japanese prisoner of war camp.

Gilda and I listened to the Laura Hillenbrand book of his life, “Unbroken,” while driving through New Mexico last month. It is kind of eerie to now know we were thrilled by Zamperini’s exploits at the very moment he was fighting, ultimately unsuccessfully, for his life.

A Sad Note, Closer to Home: Here’s an example of why I am uncomfortable with most social media:

A few days ago I received an email from LinkedIn encouraging me to contact someone I knew who was registered on the business/social media site. Trouble was, he passed away several months ago. It was, to say the least, quite jarring to see his smiling face being used to hype LinkedIn. 

I realize LinkedIn cannot keep abreast of the passing of any of its users. But that reality does not condone or endear the service or that of any other social media to me. 

A Debt to Stephen Colbert, A Package from Restoration Hardware and Soccer-Mania

I’m indebted to Stephen Colbert, actually we all are, for putting into context the ascension of Josh Earnest to White House press secretary this week. Speaking last Thursday with Earnest’s predecessor, Jay Carney, Colbert noted that Josh Earnest had the perfect name for the job. “His name literally means ‘just kidding, but seriously,’” said Colbert.

I’ve been to Washington dozens of times but stepped inside the White House only once. I enjoyed a visit most do not experience. As a graduate journalism student in pre-Watergate early 1972, I gained entry to the West Wing and the press office as part of my research for a paper on pack journalism.  I interviewed several White House correspondents including Peter Lisagor of the Chicago Daily News and Robert Pierpoint of CBS. I had hoped to meet with Richard Nixon’s press secretary, Ron Ziegler, but he passed me off to one of his assistants whose name is lost to me and history. Years later Ziegler’s and my paths crossed again—Ziegler was head of the chain drug store association and I attended conferences he presented. 

The White House press room was rather drab back then. The offices of Ziegler’s staff also did not compare favorably to the more elaborate Hollywood versions we’ve grown accustomed to seeing on The West Wing and other portrayals of the seat of power of our government. 

I doubt I’ll ever gain entry to the press room again but it’s nice to recall walking through the gate on Pennsylvania Avenue up the circular driveway to the White House and going where relatively few have gone before and after. As I wrote once before, I even had the “pleasure” of getting a presidential wave from none other than Nixon himself. As I was leaving the White House Nixon was walking back from the next door Executive Office Building. He waved to me, and only me, as I was the only person on the White House grounds at the time. I waved back.

I wasn’t home when UPS dropped by, but we were overwhelmed by Restoration Hardware’s latest marketing effort. Nine, count ‘em, nine beautifully photographed and printed catalogs, a 3,300-page deluge of style and sophistication weighing a combined 11 pounds, 2 ounces. 

In case your home was spared, each catalog was themed: Furniture, Leather, Interiors, Small Spaces, Upholstery, Rugs, Linens, Bath and Lighting. In the past, the books arrived separately. Restoration Hardware claims sending the catalogs out in one batch was more environmentally friendly than separate shipments. 

Sorry to say, they’ll be recycled on Friday.

Soccer-mania, I’m also sorry to say, has not inhabited my being.  

Almost 30 years ago when Dan started playing youth soccer, and then matriculated to an all-star traveling team and then his high school varsity, there were predictions real football would sweep the nation and United States citizenry would come to appreciate the sport the rest of the world did. I didn’t buy it then and still don’t, except that with immigration bringing more foreigners, legal and illegal, to our shores there is bound to be more enthusiasm for soccer. 

American football has all those concussions to scare parents away, but heading a soccer ball or an opponent when both go up for a ball also produces concussions, so there’s no safety factor to sway allegiance to one sport over the other. 

Soccer, I’m afraid, will have no wider draw than hockey, which, I believe, is a much more exciting game and, to my knowledge, not tainted by allegations of game-fixing. 

Enjoy the World Cup while the frenzy lasts, and let’s hope the U.S. team beats or at least ties Germany Thursday. 

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLL

To some degree, to a very small degree, I know how Robert Green feels. He’s the goalkeeper of England’s World Cup soccer team who muffed a seemingly easy save, allowing the United States to secure a 1-1 tie in their first round match on Saturday.

I never played goalie, but in college I headed a ball past a keeper. Too bad he was protecting my team’s net. Ouch. Had it been the deciding goal in the intramural game, I would possibly be scarred for life. But my Brooklyn College house plan (like a fraternity but without national affiliation or dormitory privileges) had already given up too many scores to win the game when a high kick came soaring towards our goal. Playing fullback, one of the defensemen, I retreated towards the net, positioning myself where I thought the ball would land. I miscalculated. Instead of hitting my head square, the ball skidded off the back of my crown. Right past our goalie. GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!

I never really liked soccer. Like most yuppie parents I brought our son Dan to soccer tryouts when he turned 7. Dan really wasn’t too enthusiastic a player back then, even when he “made” our city’s traveling all-star team two years later. Everyone “made” the team. The better players went onto the A team. Dan was placed on the B team. He played fullback, like his dad, only Dan turned out to be the politest of defenders. If a ball rolled between him and an opponent, Dan exhibited his own brand of sportsmanship by not interfering with that player’s forward motion. It was frustrating to watch, especially since schlepping him to practices was quite inconvenient. On a positive note, Dan was no worse a player than most of the others on the team.

Early October 1987 proved to be pivotal in Dan’s athletic development. His team was playing a four-game weekend tournament in Yonkers. It was a pitiful showing, made all the more gloomy by torrential rains (unlike baseball, soccer is played in the rain). His team lost the first game something like 11-3, the second game 10-2, the third game 13-4. As he waited to play the final game, Dan asked me if he could be goalie. I told him to ask the coach, who quickly said, no, he was still trying to evaluate the team’s goalie. Near the end of a 10-0 rout, the coach relented and allowed Dan to play the last five minutes in goal. Now, with no one except himself as the last line of defense, something inside Dan clicked. He attacked the forwards charging at him. He dove in the mud to make saves. The coach took notice. From that mucky, yucky finish, Dan became the team’s starting goalie, a position he didn’t relinquish even after elevation to the A team and through high school varsity.

I loved watching Dan in goal. He was decisive. Athletic. Demanding of himself and his teammates. He played hurt. One tournament he played four games before the coach realized he had fractured his wrist. White Plains won all four of those games.

I didn’t get to see any of Dan’s high school varsity games because of work. So I made a point of getting to the state sectional match against Mamaroneck in Dan’s senior year. I arrived at Mamaroneck’s field during half-time of a 0-0 game, found a seat in the bleachers and waited for the teams to emerge. Dan didn’t come out. Someone else was in goal. Turns out, Dan had injured his leg thwarting a breakaway. My disappointment, as well as Dan’s, was made even more palpable by a 1-0 overtime loss.

To my knowledge, that was the last organized soccer game Dan played. He shifted his athletic allegiance to Ultimate Frisbee, first at college and then at the club level (http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2010/02/ultimate-serendipity.html). In a little less than three weeks his Boston-based frisbee team will travel to Prague to compete in the world championships. The tournament won’t get the same international attention the World Cup is generating from South Africa, except, that is, among Ultimate’s fanatical base of players and supporters.