July 30^th, 2004

Just when I think there's nothing more I could possibly add to my ever expanding Links page, I'm proven wrong. So, I've uploaded a dozen more, all easily recognizable due to the ** next to their shiny new entries.

This time around, it's all bloggers, or artists, or—in several cases—artists who ARE bloggers!?! Take the dauntingly titled and self explanatory Mike Wieringo's Daily Sketch Blog—that's right, “DAILY”!! It's not enough that this guy is tremendously talented, oh no; it's not enough that he's fast enough to shoulder the monthly task of beautifully delineating Marvel's prestigious FANTASTIC FOUR comic, uh uh; but in his spare time, he's also dropping in a drawing a day for us Internet folks—AND including snappy patter to accompany it as well!?! Hey Mike, you're making the rest of us look bad!! Geez! Luckily, your stuff is such an absolutely pure delight that, well, I'm inclined to forgive you, okay? I can be big that way...

Then there's Scott Saavedra. Now, I've never met Scott, but I don't imagine any of you familiar with the way I happen to look at things will be at all surprised to learn that I've long felt a kinship with the man responsible for that wonderful mixture of history and hilarity known as Comic Book Heaven. Luckily for us all, Scott is now bringing his deliciously skewed take on funnybook foibles to a computer near you. Hey Scott, how about that Mort Weisnger, huh? What'd you, me, and that OTHER Scott do without him, I wonder?...

Okay, you've probably never heard of Tom Jackson—I know I hadn't, at least not before he wrote me a note the other day, commenting at length on my Al Wiseman tribute from last year. Turns out Tom was a good buddy of the famed Dennis The Menace artist—and a cartoonist himself as well. Oh, he didn't do comics, or newspaper strips, but in his 72 years so far, has managed to dream up some swell single panel gags, goofy greeting card illos, and similar laugh-inducing line drawings. Factor in some nifty stories, told by someone with a lifetime of experience and served up with a lively helping of wackiness, the sort you'd expect from an artist long obsessed with drawing silly pitchurs, well, you've got yourself one folksy, fun, and friendly Internet destination, believe you me!

There's also a fine tribute to Lois Lane artist supreme, Kurt Schaffenberger to be found, and ones spotlighting several newer artists as well. Go. Look. But, um, don't be confused by what may appear to be some poor alphabetizing on my part. For reasons neither Lynn nor I fully understand (okay, okay--let's be honest, I don't understand AT ALL), when I try to insert fresh names onto my list, there are certain places that, try as I might, as I type new inductees into the Hembeck Hall Of Hits, the link from either above or below stubbornly take over, not allowing the new link to take hold. So, in several case, I've had to...approximate the proper location of said name. At the very least, I do my very best to keep that all important first letter in its proper place.

Speaking, by the way, of relocations, let me make note that I've moved Heidi MacDonalds The Beat blog up from amongst the Comics Bloggers and into the rarefied air of Daily Destinations. It only made sense—after being around for only a very short time, it's become blatantly obvious that this is THE place for breaking news. And when no big bombshells are being dropped, well sir, the amusingly idiosyncratic tone of the information as dispensed is well worth the price of admission (such as it is). Fact is, about the only flaw I can find in Heidi's weblog is the rather, shall we say, sparse listing of creator links to be found running down alongside her always golden prose. There are, it turns out, several key omissions that come immediately to mind, one in..ahem.. particular...

Lastly, there was a fellow I saw on TV last night. He was talking and talking and talking, and then, midway through, he mentioned something about a website. He seemed like a nice enough guy, so I thought, gee, I might just add his site to my links, too. I figure, hey, maybe he'll notice and do the same for me, y'know?

(And Heidi, if good ol' John Kerry decides to swap links, maybe you might consider it as well, hmm? ...)

July 27^th, 2004

I hear tell the Dibny's have been having a rough time of it lately.

Huh. Funny thing, I've just recently been reading the third volume of DC's Silver Age FLASH ARCHIVES, and while today's readers have borne witness to the unspeakable acts that have torn the Elongated Man's marriage to his beloved Sue asunder for now and (presumably) all time, I'VE been blissfully wallowing in their more romantic beginnings, reading about the exciting—and, ahem, decidedly G-rated—events surrounding their now long-ago honeymoon way, way back in 1961's FLASH #119.

So don't look for me to complain about the tawdry goings on in IDENTITY CRISIS, not when I can so happily bury my head, ostrich-like, in a deluxe, over-priced reprint volume! And believe me, the thrill of rediscovering comics I first read over (gulp...) four decades ago can be quite the rush--especially as this compendium features the very first issue of FLASH that I ever picked up off of the newstand, number 122 , also from 1961.

Turns out I did one of my Classic Cover Redos of this very issue several years ago, and reading this issue again prompted me to do one of my snazzy little write-ups about it. I'm gonna post it over in that recently all too moribund area of this site in the next day or so, and I'll be sure and tip you off to its appearence so that you can zap your way on over to learn a smidgen more about the debut of one of the more minor members of the Flash's famed Rogue's Gallery, the Top. But right now, there IS one particular—and peculiar--aspect of the lead story that I'd like to deal with here.

Specifically, Anton Previn, who had the distinction of being the very first gay character I'd ever encountered in the pages of a comic book.

Okay, okay—so I never realized he was gay until my most recent rereading lifted a veil off of my no-longer eight year old eyes. And, frankly, there's no telling indication in John Broome's script that this character—the world's foremost designer of women's fashions, don'tcha know—is anything other than a talented French man, one who Barry (Flash) Allen met and befriended five years preceding the events that play out in this tale. But, oh, those not-so-subtle Carmine Infantino drawings! His rendition of Anton stands out in much the same way Richard Simmons might at a Hooters!...

Given that tell-tale sway, does Barry REALLY believe his old pal, Anton, is looking for some ladies, hmm?...

With a name liberally borrowed from the then-popular composer, Andre Previn, clueless police scientist Allen introduces his steady sweetie, Iris West, to the continental clothier, polka dot ascot and all. Or maybe he wasn't so clueless after all, as Barry sure didn't seem worried one bit about leaving the lovely girl reporter in the company of the famed French designer...

And how goes that transformation anyway?...

Magnifique, apparently! My initial thought was, now wasn't that a mighty clever plot device utilized by the FLASH crew, all to give the hero's love interest a four color makeover? Neat. All hopes of this seeming logic is dashed, however, by the next two—and LAST two—panels of the story...

Huh?

Go to all this trouble, and then the entire situation is—whoosh--reversed in a single panel? And all because, illogically, Barry found himself tongue-tied, and Iris couldn't just come right out and ASK him what he thought? No, that'd be too easy, far, far too easy. Sigh...

And that, friends, was the very last we readers ever saw of Barry's old friend, Anton—AND it was the last time I saw any vaguely homosexual characters in the pages of a DC Comic for many a year.

But it wasn't all that long after that Little Freddy picked up a copy of SUPERMAN'S GIRL FRIEND, LOIS LANE#26, and had his first encounter with the joys of cross-dressing!

But that's a story for ANOTHER time...

July 26^th, 2004

It's no secret that I'm a big fan of the comics medium. And one of the ways I've chosen to share my affection for the field is with my ever-expanding Comic Arts Links page.

Then, in months past, we learned of my undying allegiance to those four lovable mop tops, and in an effort to spread the word, I subsequently posted a semi-comprehensive page spotlighting the crème de la crème of Beatles Links.

But you know what else I like?

Comedy.

Stand-ups, sitcoms, silent era clowns, and modern day rep companies—I love 'em all! If they make me laugh, well, then they're all right in my book! And, as it turns out, they're on my website as well. That's right, lazies and gents, boys and churls, allow me to introduce you to Hembeck.com's all new, chucklicious Comedy Links page!

256 separate chock fulla yocks Internet destinations to start with, with more to surely follow! Stand-up comics from Woody Allen to Bob Zany, sitcoms spanning Addams Family to Zorro! (...Okay, okay—there are no “Z's” and it actually only goes up to WKRP In Cincinnati—I just got carried away in an alphabetical frenzy, okay? Hey, it happens...)

Jack, Lucy, and Bob—together again. But besides that trio of bona fide legends, you'll find some new favorites as well, such as the hilarious Jim Gaffigan, the passionate Lewis Black, and fellow comics' geek Patton Oswalt. Fact is, I tried to include as many comedians—or sitcom personalities (like the Professor and Mary Ann)--who boast their own sites as humorously possible.

Turns out most of the individual sites are officially sanctioned, while a majority of the ones devoted to the various television shows are, conversely, fan-run. My initial plan was to indicate which was which, but I ultimately decided to just let you find out for yourselves! More fun for you? Maybe. But easier for me, definitely! Hey, YOU try posting 256 links at a time and see if you're not looking for a little break, okay?...

Some comics or shows merited two or more entries, and some have none at all. Milton Berle, Garry Shandling, Jimmy Durante, Chevy Chase, and Chris Guest are just a few notables who aren't represented with their own little corner of the net. Most egregiously, there isn't a single webpage focused on Soupy Sales! Hard to fathom...

As for the sitcoms, well, I relied a bit more on my own personal tastes in this particular category, listing almost exclusively programs I myself have followed over the years. Thus, since I never quite developed the habit of watching Friends or Everybody Loves Raymond—or Mr. Belvedere, The Brady Bunch, or Full House, for that matter—those otherwise popular programs don't (currently) appear in my listings. Who knows, though—maybe someday. Besides, you can always go to Sitcoms Online and find a link to Charles In Charge if you're desperate! (And if you're searching around for Scott Baio laff-fests, well, YOU finish the punchline—it'd be too cruel if I did!...)

So, enjoy.

And now if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go get to work compiling that eternally upcoming Pop Music Links page. (Do I list the vocalist of “Woolly Bully” under “Sam”, or under “ Sham”, I wonder, hmm?...)

July 23^rd, 2004

Yeah, that's right--we went to go see "Spider-Man 2" last week.

I made a concerted effort to walk into the theater totally oblivious of what was about to unspool up there on the big screen after I'd paid my—ouch--$8.50. Oh, sure, I knew Dr. Octopus was the villain de jour, but beyond that, I conscientiously avoided reading any and all previews and reviews of the film, watching any of the commercials that permeated the tube in recent weeks, or checking out any of the tantalizing clips the primary cast members brought along with them whilst on their inevitable tour of the talk show circuit.

(The single breach of my “ignorance is bliss” approach came unexpectedly when, after promoing his co-starring gig in that new Robert Redford vehicle, Regis turned to Willem Dafoe and said, “Glad to see you turn up in the new Spider-Man movie, Willem”, to which the chagrined star smiled nervously, raised his finger quickly to his lips, and mock-pleaded, “Shh—it's supposed to be a surprise.” Sigh. Not any more. Thanks, Reege...)

Since we didn't get out to the theater until about ten days after the much ballyhooed opening, avoiding all the hype certainly wasn't easy, but for me, it was downright imperative. Y'see, I find that I enjoy a movie—or a TV show, or a comic, or a book—a whole lot more if I haven't been exposed to the Cliff Notes version right beforehand. And “Spider-Man 2” was one movie I wanted to enjoy. (I WAS, however, aware of the overwhelmingly positive critical reaction the film elicited, both from professional critics and long-time comics fans alike, a fact I garnered from review headlines and opening sentences alone, as I dared venture no further, justifiably fearful that important details would indeed be revealed...)

Don't misunderstand me. Despite what you may think, I'm not someone that gets all excited at the prospect of running out to see the latest comic book movie. If such was ever the case—and yeah, admittedly, maybe there was a time--well, the third Batman movie surely cured me of THAT! In fact, there's a whole handful of funnybook based films, both big and small, that I've never got around to seeing quite yet. Some—like the second X-Men and the Hulk ones--will in all likelihood eventually get the once over. Others—like the FOURTH Batman one, the two (soon to be three) Blades, LXG, and “Hellboy”--most likely never will. Hey look, as a rule, they usually don't come close to capturing their pulp paper source material with any true degree of heart--AND are often lousy movies in and of themselves, anyway. So, until Spidey 2 became imminent, I hadn't looked forward to taking in a specific super-hero film in years.

Heck, I didn't even look forward to Spidey 1! After it was out about a month or so, and hearing surprisingly decent word-of-mouth, I cautiously went in with only the lowest of expectations, and came out delighted with witnessing what I then considered—after the initial Chris Reeve Superman flick—the best cinematic interpretation of a costumed character in the annals of the silver screen.

And now the consensus seems to be that the second one is significantly BETTER? Could such a thing actually be possible? Or would I then go in, full of unrealistic and unattainable expectations, only to have them dashed, not unlike the way I did midway through that second Batman movie, round abouts when I began to get more than my fill of Danny DeVito's tedious squawking?...

NO!!

Incredibly—or perhaps, more fittingly, amazingly--”Spider-Man 2” WAS better than its precursor! I'd even be willing to state for the record that it's superior to my long-time sentimental favorite, the aforementioned “Superman The Movie”! And why not? The filmmakers had the richest source material in all of super-herodom to draw upon, very intelligently cherry-picking some of the most memorable moments from the immortal first hundred Lee/Ditko/Romita issues, spotting them judiciously throughout an exciting yet emotionally charged scenario.

But wait—this isn't Ebert.com that you've stumbled into. So, no, this isn't gonna be any sort of traditional review, just some random impressions from someone who—yes—bought HIS copy of AMAZING SPIDER-MAN#1 fresh off the stands when it was first issued. Okay then, now that we've established that I'm old, let's proceed, shall we?...

Perhaps most importantly, the villain was, simply stated, better. WAY better! In the original, I was dually disappointed in the cheesy looking costume and the over-the-top portrayal Willem Dafoe utilized as the Green Goblin. In contrast, Alfred Molina made his characterization of Octavius's startling metamorphosis into the marauding Dr. Octopus a believable one, at least in context. And oh, who would've ever thought that the once-seemingly impossible to realize visual presentation of an adversary sporting such a complicated set of abilities would be brought to life so convincingly and vividly? I've never been a big special effects guy, but I couldn't take my eyes off of Doc Ock, particularly during the magnificently staged fight scenes. More often than not, even in the best the genre has to offer, I find the battle sequences ultimately tiring, and usually generic, regardless of the hero. Not this time. Uh uh. There were no “cheats”—we saw EVERYTHING! No quick cuts, no tussles hidden under the cloak of darkness. All the action was shown clearly and without relying on any shadows to hide technical shortcomings. Honestly, I'm far from being any sort of expert on CGI, but it appears to my unschooled peepers that the computer generated material was more smoothly integrated with the live action sequences than in the first film.

Another plus: a more effective and extensive use of Spider-Man's rich supporting cast. J. Jonah Jameson—who essentially cameoed in the first go-round—got to show his stuff, to hilarious results (“Miss Brant—get me a violin!”). Betty Brant herself got name-checked, Robbie Robertson was able to plant a seed, silently hinting at his suspicions of Peter's double life (even if he was, by movie's end, one of the few cast members NOT to see Tobey Mcguire unmasked...), Aunt May got herself a substantial upgrade of her screen time, making the best of it to portray a surprisingly strong, dignified woman, not the tiresome one-note clueless old biddy the character has devolved into over the years in the comics. Why, even dead ol' Uncle Ben showed up! (And is it just me, or does the present day Cliff Robertson look uncannily like the previously mentioned loose lipped Regis Philbin? Your final answer should be forthcoming...)

Why, even Dr. Curt Conners is spotted, armless lab-coat sleeve pinned up appropriately! Only the young John Jameson comes across as a totally blank slate, but the pair do offer some intriguing options for the third installment: with Harry—who had less to do this episode than last but who'll no doubt more than make up for it next outing—set to assume the mantle of the Green Goblin, one suspects he'll call upon yet another member of Spidey's classic rogue's gallery to serve as his accomplice. Could it be the Lizard? Maybe. Man-Wolf? Frankly, I doubt it, but hey, the possibility at least exists...

And all those classic moments—Spider-Man no more, lifting the massive chunk of debris heroically off his back, even reviving that somewhat specious Aunt May-Doc Ock connection! Well, at least there was no marriage proposal involved! And the term “tiger” slipping out of the lovely lips of Mary Jane, and those wonderfully Stan-like moments such as Spidey on the elevator and Peter at the laundromat—they were all there, along with a plethora of iconic Ditko/Romita poses that seemed to magically spring to life right up there on the big screen! Wow! It was almost enough to bring a tear to this ol' fanboys..sniff..eyes!

All this would've meant next to nothing if the story, the acting, and the direction weren't all so accomplished in their own right—and so clearly heart felt. But they were. Kudos to all involved !(...and unlimited Mars bars to boot...) Running nearly two hours, I distinctly recall thinking during the breathtaking climactic sequence on the elevated train that, wow, of all the many comics inspired films I'd seen over the years, this was the only one that not once did either my mind wander off during a dull action sequence, I didn't groan over a piece of misplaced or inappropriate humor, or recoil at some obviously unnecessary bloodshed. (Outside of the doomed group of doctors vainly attempting to operate on the Dr. Octopus's newly fused mechanical tentacles, I don't recall any out and out bloodletting—and thankfully, there was no gratuitous swearing or sexual asides. Not that I'm against either, mind you, but not here, not now...)

Yeah, I loved “Spider-Man 2”, absolutely loved it. From the exquisitely realized opening pizza delivery sequence and on through such minor but nonetheless inspired touches as a street musician's unique rendition of the hokey but hallowed cartoon theme song, it all worked for me.

Julie liked it. Lynn, too. I sometimes get complaints from the family that I only ever drag them out to see comic book movies, but I counter that not totally unjust accusation by saying, yeah, but only the really, really good ones!

So yup, you guessed it--no way I'm killing the good buzz of Spidey 2 by even CONSIDERING a trip to the multi-plex to witness the abomination that is sure to be “Catwoman”! That's one I'll be sure to give a miss—AND a hiss!

Or, more to the point, to Halle with it...

Would you label me a hopeless geek if I told you that my favorite film of all the many classics that the late Marlon Brando appeared in was, um, “Superman The Movie”? (You WILL believe the greatest actor of his generation can convincingly wear a white spit-curl!...)

Okay, okay—I never said it was my favorite Brando flick. Fact is, I love that movie in SPITE of the producers misguided insistence on such dubious stunt-casting, lining up the erstwhile Stanley Kowalski to play Jor-El, Superman's doomed Kryptonian daddy. My favorite Brando flicks would have to be the two standards, “On The Waterfront” and, of course, “The Godfather”, both undisputed cinematic gems, and far better showcases for the revolutionary thespian's talents--even if the impending destruction of an entire planet WOULD generally seem to serve as ripe ghrist for heavy-duty dramatics.

Funny thing—looking back, I can only recall seeing a handful of other Brando films. There was the disappointing “Missouri Breaks”, and three other of his most legendary performances :” Apocalypse Now”, “A Streetcar Named Desire”, and “Last Tango in Paris”. I saw those pair of seventies releases when they first came out, and the film version of the Tennessee Williams play during the late sixties. Being as young and naïve as I was at the time, I don't think I fully understood or appreciated the high-level emotional content included in those decidedly adult stories, especially the latter two. But, at the very least, I had a better handle on what exactly was behind all those butter jokes Johnny Carson was incessantly peppering his monologs with...

But the FIRST Marlon Brando movie that I ever saw—maybe not the best, but in some ways the most iconic—was “The Wild One”. I still have a vivid memory of casually walking into the room where my mom was watching it—I was probably 8 or 9 at the time--and being quickly sucked into its provocative scenario of a gang of rebellious motorcycle thugs invading a generic , stiflingly quiet, all-Americn fifties burg. And the scene where the leather-clad cyclists surround the painfully wholesome Mary Murphy with their bikes, circling with an ever building frenzy, only to have Brando swoop in and rescue her before things get irrevitably out of hand—WHOA!! That little tableu made quite the impression on me, lemme tell ya!...

And if that weren't enough, just to bring this all back around to comics—yes, like most everything ELSE that happened to me growing up in the sixties—my very first exposure to MAD magazine came in the form of the paperback collection, “Son Of MAD”, which I picked up not long following my wide-eyed viewing of “The Wild One”. After all this time, who's to say if it was either a motivation, or merely a coincidence, but included within was their parody of the film, suitably retitled “The Wild 1/2”. To say that I was mesmerized by Wally Wood's spot-on art would've been an understatement. Wood's definitive interpetation of the young Marlon, cap and all, lives on strongly in my mind's eye. In fact, his caricature seemed to turn up in much of the artist's work for the satiric publication as the decade drew to a close, and as a result, I've always associated MAD's anti-authoritarian bent with the actor's similar leanings . Why, Wood's imagry effected me so strongly, that there were times I found myself seeing it in other, totally unexpected places....

Y'know, Wood was still alive—if far from being in top form—when “SupremanThe Movie” was initially released. Sadly, the film never received a proper comics' adaptation, but man, couldn't you just picture the one-time EC whiz bringing it to life on the printed page? Seeing him do Super Brando would've been worth the price of admission alone!

Didn't happen. Wood died before contract squabbles edited Brando out of the sequel. And now Brando himself has left us. Can't say I was ever a great admirer of the man, though I certainly recognized his talent. As the years went on, he became known as much for his odd behavior and family travails as he did for his early triumphs on the big screen, but when a true legend passes, you're pretty much obligated to stop for a moment, consider why he had that rare appellation bestowed upon him, and—if you're me—figure a way to somehow tie him into the four-color world.

Well, I guess THAT mission's accomplished, eh?

My not-so-brilliant career as a girl's intra-mural soccer coach came to an end last week, not with a bang, but with—wouldn'tcha know it--the proverbial whimper.

For those who came in late, a quick recap. Five seasons ago, my daughter Julie convinced me to heed Coach Pat's pleas for an assistant to help with his team of nine year old girls. Since no other parent stepped forward, and I was most likely going to be attending all the practices and games anyway, I volunteered at her urging, if somewhat warily. I'd never played soccer on an organized team myself, y'see, just messed around with the game in various friend's backyards when I was a kid. And—stop the presses--I'm far from being your typical jock, but y'know, once I got involved, I found the whole experience to be fairly enjoyable.

My technique was to pretty much stay quietly out of the way, and just do as Coach Pat asked of me. This guy really knew his stuff, people, so all I had to do was follow his simple instructions during practice, and things were swell. More dauntingly, though, he had to go out of town two or three times that season, leaving the squad in my care on game days, and lemme tell ya, it made for a couple of highly nerve-wracking Saturday mornings, particularly that first one. But—Hallelujeah!--we all made it through, and I pretty much thought that'd be that. Much to my surprise, however, Pat announced after the last game in June that the NEXT season, he was planning to switch gears and coach his younger son's team. That left an opening on the girls' side, and despite some early protestations, yup, I wound up filling it.

And as hard as that may've been to believe—and to folks who actually knew me, it WAS—even more amazingly, my group of now-ten-year olds lost but a mere single contest that first year. Oh, sure, we had our share of games ending in a tie, but only a single, solitary loss. One. All of a sudden, I was REALLY having fun!...

It wouldn't last. The teams are reconfigured regularly in the Fall--though I managed to hold onto a core group of players each time. Years two and three saw our records—which, in the non-competitive league we played in, weren't officially kept, please understand—fall to about .500 or slightly below for each season. Then came this year, and the news that Coach Pat was rejoining our ranks—AND taking back his daughter (natch) and her pals, the twins, perenially the three best players on our team. Still, I was able to assemble a decent group under my tutelage—I think it was my tutelage, in the final analysis, that'd leave something to be desired. The kids were getting older, but despite my best efforts, my limited expertise wasn't keeping pace.

The end result? My first year, we had only one game we lost. My last year, we had only one game we DIDN'T lose—and that one, we tied! 0-0. (Oh, during the recent tournament, we also had a pair of 0-0 ties, one of which ended in a 2-1 victory, but only due to a post-game, sudden death kick-off--but those were severely shortened contests, and the win didn't come via the traditional method.) In fact, let's take a look at the scores of this Spring's eight regular games (and four tournament contests), and see if you can detect any sort of pattern emerging, okay?"...

3-0 loss.

0-0 tie.

1-0 loss.

3-2 loss.

10-0 loss.

0-0 tie, 1-0 loss. 1-0 loss, 0-0 tie (decided by a shoot-out, won by us, 2-1).

3-0 loss.

1-0 loss.

...and finally, a 4-0 loss.

Notice anything in casually perusing those stats? Such as the fact that, over the entire nine week Spring portion of our schedule, we managed to score but two measley goals the traditional way in all that time. Two. Dos. And, as fate would have it, BOTH in the same game! A game, I should additionally note, in which our opponents scored—that's right—THREE goals! Add 'em all up, and it was 27-2 for 2004—and, oddly enough, that was an improvement of sorts over the Fall of 2003! Aside from that one 10-0 blowout (in which our star goalie was home sick), we stayed close in more games than we did in the earlier half. But, for the life of us, we just couldn't score, and it wasn't because the kids were anywhere near as bad as this record would have you believe. Nah, it was me. Me, and the fact that more often than not, we were perpetually undermanned, girlwise...

Let me tell you about the last three games. That'll pretty much sum up the sorry situation we were laboring under.

8:30, Saturday morning. We're facing off against the team that captured first place in the previous week's tournament. And at game time, 9 players have shown up. That's 9 of 15, and two less than the 11 generally required to field a team at this age level. But, the way it goes is, we have 9, they play 9, all in an effort to keep things even-handed. All fine, as far as that goes, but usually it also means the other team has several kids luxuriating on the sidelines, just waiting to go in, as subsitutes for tired players, a perk we rarely if ever enjoyed the latter half of the schedule.

They beat us 3-0, but considering they probably took close to thirty shots at our goal—and we took maybe three at theirs—I considered it to be a moral victory that we weren't thoroughly embarrassed by what was probably the most polished team we encountered this Spring. All credit to Kelly, our goalie—a newcomer this year, but the best I'd ever had playing the position—who even had the rival Coach gushing with praise. Without her? Brrr—I don't even want to THINK about it...

But then things started to get complicated...

It was three days later, early Monday evening, when the phone rang. The Coach whose team we were supposed to play the last game of the season against, a week from the upcoming Saturday, was calling. Turns out, his home field where we were supposed to play his squad was going to be unavailable for soccer usage starting THIS Saturday. A Football Camp was reconfiguring the area for their own purposes, since when the town of Poughkeepsie leased the series of fields to them, they surely never imagined the soccer season dragging on as long as it did (Why? Getting a late start due to weather considerations was the primary reason...). So, we had to play this Thursday, or not play at all...

Now, the good news here is, our practice time also fell on Thursday evenings, so you'd figure it wouldn't be an awfully difficult task to redirect the girls over to the out of town field to play an actual game that night rather than just messing around with too-little, too-late drills on our own home greenery. So I told him, okay, I'd call everyone in a little while, and get back to him later. I was just sitting down to dinner, y'see...

Not ten minutes later, the phone rang again. Julie answered it, and quickly realizing it wasn't one of her buddies, soon handed it over to me. My first thought was that the Poughkeepsie Coach was calling me back, but that wasn't QUITE the case. It was the Coach of the East Fishkill team we were pencilled in to match up with THAT Saturday, the second-to-last game of the season. A whole slew of his team was going to be unavailable this upcoming weekend, it turned out, so he wanted to know if we could possibly reschedule the game for the night they had their regular practice sessions.

Yup, you guessed it--he wanted to play us that upcoming Thursday evening, too...

Well, I explained the situation to him, and after several phone calls back and forth between the three of us, we ultimately agreed to play his team the FOLLOWING Thursday, and the Poughkeepsie team this week. I'd just deep-sixed our last pair of practices, but that was a far better choice than dumping the last two games. Or, so I hoped...

I shovelled down the rest of my ever cooling dinner, my head spinning at the prospect of the chore that I knew awaited me. Sure enough, I spent nearly the next two hours trying to track down all my players, explaining the intricacies of the various scenarios before us, all the while attempting to determine if we'd indeed be able to assemble enough girls to put a proper team on the field (7 is the official minimum allowed). After I was confident—however falsely, as it turned out—that we'd have 11 or 12 available for each game, I called back the two Coaches, and told 'em things were a go. THEN I went and poured myself a nice hot cup of tea. What for? Folks, by now, I had me one throbbing headache, no lie...

And for all that trouble, what do you think happened the following Thursday? It rained. Oh, not right away. We actually played the first 30 minutes under threatening, but dry, skies. 9 girls showed up—well, 8 plus Julie. See, she had this big, big Earth Science Regents exam early the next morning—her first ever Regents—and she'd gotten a sudden and debilitating case of nerves minutes before the game, and pleaded illness. But I knew I'd surely need her—someone ALWAYS disappointed me by not showing up, and this was certain to be no exception—so I dragged her along, despite her protests. Once there, she reluctantly shlepped out on the field, but her mind was elsewhere. She performed the role of ballast, and all things considered, I was happy—no, lucky--to have her.

The rain began during halftime, a light drizzle at first, but that wasn't nearly enough to halt the proceedings. It was that bolt of lightning 6 minutes into the second half that put the kibosh on matters, leaving us with a truncated 1-0 loss. Walking off the field, a thought occurred to me:

"And Kelly, now that you and your sister have been made to suffer ANOTHER loss overseen by hapless ol' Coach Fred, just what are you going to do?"

"Why, go to DisneyWorld, of course!"

Yup, the girl's whole family would soon be off on an early vacation. Great for them, but for me? Well, we'd then need someone else to take on the always undesirable goalie duties next week for what would turn out to be the final game of my questionable Coaching career. Uh oh...

(Though I'd long made up my mind to quit following the dismal Fall showing, I hadn't told anybody associated with the Wappingers Soccer Club until just after the recent tournament. I was graciously thanked for my time, commisserated with for my problems, but tellingly, NO attempt was made to persuade me to change my mind. Oh, my Assistant Coach, Janice, was disappointed. She'd hoped to team up with me again next year, but since she was never quite able to attend more than half of either the games or practices (in four years, I didn't miss a single one—meaning, either I'm really, really responsible, or my life is really, really dull. Truth to tell, it's probably a little bit of both...), she wisely knew that an assistant's slot was all she'd realistically be capable of. But next year, I'm sure she'll find someone else she can share her not-insignificent expertise with—at least, occasionally...)

So finally, it was June 24^th. The day before had been Julie's 8^th Grade class trip. School was now done. Over and out. Earlier that very day, Lynn had lined up the annual End of the Year Girl Scout activity for her troop--in this instance, a visit to a local horse farm for some riding lessons. That was scheduled to go from 12:30 until 2:30. After which, Julie's pal Courtney—also a member of our soccer team—came home with us, and I chaperoned them as they swam in our pool for most of the time between 3 and 5 (this seemingly mundane fact becomes important later). After they dried off, they hastily donned their red and black uniforms one last time, and we all headed over to the field where we'd participated in the tournament just weeks earlier.

Originally, we were told the game would start at 5:30 (meaning, folks should arrive around 5:15), but just the night before, in confirming matters, the coach called to let me know that he himself couldn't make it so his assistant was going to take over, and, oh yeah, the game might not start until closer to 6, since that was when the referees were available. This too is an important fact, as was my decision NOT to call everybody with this updated information. My noggin ached at the very thought. Just show up early and wait, I figured. Most of our girls arrive late anyway...

My first miscalculation became evident when two of my girls—including one I felt confident could handle the goal for us during part of the game—informed me that, due the change of starting time and later plans they'd already made, they'd have to leave after the first half! Yikes! So, supplied with this latest bit of information, I trundled up our equipment and dragged it over to the bleachers, there to wait for the rest of my girls to show up. I expected 11. (Of the original 15, the 4 I DIDN'T expect included one who had broken a finger earlier in the month, one who was having some personal issues that had essentially shut her down most of the Spring, and two who were—remember?--frolicking with Mickey and friends in the Florida sunshine).

What I GOT was 8. Two of which had to leave midway. Our opponents? 15 girls (out of, I later heard, a possible 22, making me wonder just how THIS team came to conclude that they'd lack enough girls to play us the past Saturday. Probably only had, say, 8 or 9 available, I'd guess. Hardly enough...)

We'd do okay to start, but I was really hoping for one more, so we'd have the minimum 7 to get us through the second portion. Among the most blatantly missing— Assistant Coach Janice's daughter (and, natch, the Assistant Coach herself). One of the moms tried calling her on her cell phone, and we were assured by a third party that they were on their way even as we spoke, so that made me feel somewhat better.

Except, they never showed. Sigh...

My eight girls played the first half tough, and as we approached the 30 minute mark, there was still no scoring. Our less experienced yet gutsy goalie was doing great, but noticing our girls were starting to get demonstrably tired—no subs, remember?--I called out to the ref, asking how much time was left. A minute, she said. So I waited, and waited, and waited. And then, just as the other team snuck past our defense and scored a goal, the whistle was blown to end the half. Huh. Seemed like a bit MORE than a minute to me, but what are ya gonna do? That's just the way our luck went all year.

Well, our two early departees were soon on their way, leaving us with but six players. While we could've always borrowed several players from the other team, it had always seemed the less desirable way to go, the two times I'd been forced to avail myself of our opponents help in the past. After all, if we were all of a sudden to do well—hey, it COULD happen!--was it us, or was it the reinforcements? Win or lose—okay, lose—the prevailing mood amongst my players remained, let's do it on our own. So, casting aside that option, we had to get REALLY creative.

And that's how I ended my alternately illustrious AND ill-fated soccer career with the 16 year old brother of one of my players manning—yes, actually MANning—the goal for the second half! He volunteered, y'see, having plenty experience playing on several organized teams previously. The other Coach didn't object, so the two refs agreed to pretend it never happened, and were even willing to waive the shin-guard requirements—and maybe most importantly, Brianna, who hadn't played goalie in almost two years, but was going to be my last possible alternative (the other two hadn't shown) sure didn't seem to mind these unique turn of events either! Yup, we went out breaking all sorts of rules!!

And despite his best efforts—and he WAS good--the other team scored 3 times on him. His defense—including sis--was clearly exhausted, leaving him out to dry time and time again. We fielded 7, y'see, but I told the other team to stay with 8—I felt I was making them jump through enough hoops as it was. (I later found out that they hadn't won a single game all season either, so at least SOMEONE went home happy ...)

Finally, it was over. I gave out the standard year end medallions to the remaining players, plus some cute little soccer ball piggy banks I'd bought for the girls at a dollar store earlier that day. Any notions of delivering a heart-felt and long-winded valedictory speech as my coaching career irrevitably slipped away had sensibly been scuttled by common sense, as most folks seemed anxious to get out of there. I spoke a few moments with Brianna and her friend Christina—as well as their folks--though. They'd been with me all four years, so I half-jokingly gave them the old Dorothy/Scarecrow speech. Y'know, “I'm gonna miss you most of all...”

Brianna's mom chuckled, but suddenly, her daughter ripped off her jersey—this ain't the pros; she had a shirt on underneath, please be advised—and then, in frustration, threw it on the ground and began stomping up and down on it! I had to laugh. It wasn't meant as anything personal, but who could really blame her? It was that kind of year...

Soon everyone had left, with only one mystery left to be solved: what exactly had happened to my Assistant and her girl?...

The answer awaited me (ironically) on my answering machine when we arrived home! She'd gone to the wrong field, y'see. Actually, she'd gone to THREE wrong fields. And she didn't sound particularly happy...

Now, I'm reasonably certain that I told her the right venue, really I am. In fact, just to make sure folks didn't get the various town fields mixed up, I specifically instructed people to go to where we'd had the tournament, since we'd only played there the one time all year, and just a few weeks back at that. But whether she'd been responsible for the mix-up or not, the thing that made me feel rotten was discovering that she'd called to confirm the time earlier in the day while I was out with the horse-riding Girl Scouts! Had I noticed the blinking machine while I'd stopped home during the afternoon, I could've steered her in the right direction, and she—and her daughter—wouldn't've been denied the chance to see the team one last time.

Color me shamefaced.

Well, we spoke the next day. Luckily, she was understanding, and she came by later to pick up the medallion (and piggy bank, AND box o' candy, chosen 'specially for her). And except for getting the medallions out to a few other stragglers—including the Disney twins—that's it. I turned in my player ratings yesterday, and soon I'll drop off the all the excess equipment—cones, first aid kit, goalie shirt, and assorted whatnot.

Am I glad I did it? Yeah, you bet. But maybe, just maybe, I should've quit a year earlier, y'know? That's easy to say now, I suppose. All I know is that NEXT year, I'll be the one receiving a phone call, not the one making a dozen of them everytime things needed rearranging, and I'll be the one having to worry about getting just one player to a game, not the one wondering when—and if—another dozen or so are going to show up before the whistle is blown. Ah, bliss.

So, while this may mark the end of the Adventures of Coach Fred, join me right back here in September for the all-new, all-true exploits of Soccer Dad Fred!

I bet you all just can't wait...