The Woes of Facebook

I love Facebook. It is a vehicle wherein I can reconnect with old friends I have wondered about though out my life. It has also allowed me to make new friends of common interests, some of whom I have grown to love although I have never seen them face to face. It lets me share photos and keep up with family members where ever they live in the world. Among my group of friends are people living in six of the seven continents.

All that being said, Facebook does have its dark side.

I am not talking about salespeople or predators or anything of that sort. I am talking about people with real problems toward whom I should be compassionate and have empathetic concern were it not for their direct and deliberate efforts to slander my name and assassinate my personal character.

The first group are usually young leftists who can be readily identified by their profile pic and the name they chose to use on their wall. It is not a photo of them and it is not their name. It is a caricature and it a pseudonym. This way they can spread their filth and venom with complete anonymity and no fear of direct confrontation. It emboldens them to make brash threats and hurl vicious insults. Ironically, these usually champion the political party that says it is all for sweetness and light and "can't we just all get along?" I have come to think that a great many of these are about 14 years old, socially clumsy pimple faced punks who operate out of dark rooms in Southern California. Of course this is not always the case but is amazing how often it is.

This generation lacks all the social graces that previous generations were taught to live by. OMG, WTF, and MoFo are not just disgusting initials they use on Facebook. The phrases the initials represent are a large portion of the language they use in every day speech.

The second group consists of people who at first seem stable and firmly based. These usually become friends because I have posted something they like and they request I befriend them. We can go for weeks, sometimes months, carrying on polite interesting conversations. Then one day I will say something that will set off the bomb. I know immediately when I did because what follows is a tirade of paragraphs basically telling me what a slug I am.

Generally what sets them off is they discover something about my race, creed, politics, or religion. That would be bad enough if it ended there. But it doesn't. These people now make an activity of searching the web for places where I post and comment with vicious slander and lies. It doesn't stop there. They go further looking for disciples who will band against me.

Many poor souls believe the first thing they read and unfortunately that would be what they read from these types. I have tried to rebut the onslaught but it only irritates the person who initiated that particular dialogue with no benefit to me. Eventually these types go away -- eventually.

Thankfully, the great majority my Facebook friends are very wonderful people.

The Cab Ride by James Sullivan Prine

Personal experiences are the best. I am grateful to James Sullivan Prine for allowing me to share his. The place is New Orleans.

 

 THE CAB RIDE

A few years back, I was a Police Officer and also drove a United Cab for additional income. When I arrived at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, and then drive away.

But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute", answered a frail, elderly voice.

I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?” she asked. I took the suitcase to the cab, and then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing", I told her, "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated".

"Oh, you're such a good boy", she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address out in Kenner, and then asked, "Could you drive through the City first?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice".

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long." I quietly reached over and shut off the meter and turned off the dispatch radio. I wouldn't be logging ths load, either.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours or so, we drove through the City. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me.

It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Not a cent," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"Driving you was an honor, and a privilege. If anything, I owe you, ma'am." I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said.

"Thank you." I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.

Behind me, a door shut.

It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk, and I avoided others.

What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?

What if I had refused to take the load, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

The 1977 Spiders

In the summer of 1977, Sharon, my first wife, decided to sign our sons Aaron and Kenny up for T-ball. Since I had already coached Kenny in soccer, I had made a commitment earlier to get more involved with Aaron’s sporting activities. However, forces beyond my control kept me from living up this commitment I suppose it was just easier to find coaches for the older boys. So I wound up being named as the coach for Kenny’s team again.

After attending a coaches’ meeting, I found out that the team color assigned to us was brown. In those days only the brighter colors were popular along with black and white. Brown was hardly ever used, perhaps because it came in so many shades.

I did not think the boys or their parents and would be particularly happy with our color but we were stuck with it. The more I thought about it, however, the more I liked it. Brown was going to be unique. I began to think about a team name that the boys would embrace and that would reflect the color of our uniforms. Suddenly the name Spiders sounded awfully good, and when I presented it as a suggestion to the boys in practice they loved it.

So our team became even more unique. Among the Red Sox and the White Sox and the Cardinals and the Pirates and the Cubs and Astros, was a team called the Spiders. It had no relationship to any other baseball team whatsoever unless we were talking about the University of Richmond, I suppose.

Besides the brown colored uniforms, we had another obstacle to overcome – a real obstacle this time – one that could prevent us from winning the league championship. One of our players was challenged. Bill Zander had a hard birth and the effects of it were noticeable. He wasn’t bright. He wasn’t coordinated. He was hard of hearing. He was definitely not an athlete. In fact he would be an impediment to our team, especially since there was a league rule that everyone had to play and play for a considerable amount of time.

Bill did not come in at the same time as the rest of the boys. He showed up after one or two practices and only after I had received a phone call from the league. I was asked to take him as a favor and I said I would have to talk to the boys first.

I spoke to the boys and they agreed to have Bill put on our team. In my mind I thought they did not know what they were doing, and when they saw the effects he would have on us they would regret ever having said it was okay. After all, they were only seven-year-old boys. But I did not know the nature of these kids nor the nature of their parents.

As it turned out we had a very good team, Bill Zander notwithstanding. Our best player was a kid who I put on third base so he could make the long throws to first. His family seemed to just be getting by so it must have been much harder for them to come up with the cash to register him than it did for most of us. I cannot remember who played shortstop now but Kenny, my boy, was on second. Bill Bailey, who had also played on Kenny’s soccer team, played center field and a kid from New Jersey played first. His father was my first base coach. Bob Bailey, Bill’s father, was my third base coach. This was really the nucleus of our team.

Almost all our kids could hit so we were never out of a game. But where we excelled was when we were in the field. I believe we were just about the only seven-year-old team that could turn double plays, and we turned a lot of them. Most were the 5-4-3 kind thanks to our third baseman and Kenny. In that league a double play was usually a rarity but we made it common. The best one came from a one hopper to Bill Bailey in center field. He threw it to Ken standing on second and Ken relayed it on to first. That is the stuff memories are made of.

Summer was vacation season and it was especially hard on our team. We seemed to always be missing one or two players. That meant Bill Zander played as much as the other boys and he always played right field. Our outfield always had a right shift because of it.

One memory I had was when our first baseman, the kid from New Jersey, beat out a not-so-close infield hit. It was obvious to everyone except the umpire that our boy was already a couple of steps beyond the bag before the ball ever got there. Since his dad was  coaching at first, he had a ringside seat of the play and, of course, he came very upset. I had to go out and settle things down, feeling rather smug about myself playing the role of cool headed peacemaker.

But when we took the field I would have to set an example of what I had just preached and it was going to be hard. In T-ball at this level, a hit to the outfield almost always meant a double. First base coaches sent the hitter to second as an automatic reflex. But our center fielder was Bill Bailey. He relayed the hit into Kenny and Kenny was waiting for the runner three steps in front of second, He applied the tag and… SAFE, the umpire yelled. It was very hard not to say anything and it was hard on the kids who saw their true achievements go for naught.

It turned out the umpire and the coach for the other team were very good friends. This would not be the last time I would have this experience, but fortunately it would only be one other time years later in the Katy Youth Soccer Association.

The best memory came when Bill Zander got his hit. It was the best he had all year by far but we still wondered if he could make it safely to first base. He did and our bench exploded. But now he was a base runner.

Bill always batted at the bottom of the order so the boys up next were the meat of our team. It seemed like they were on a mission the way they hit. And Bill Zander was treated like he had just hit a walk-off homerun when he crossed the plate.

At the end of the season Bill’s dad confided in me about the anguish he and his wife went through when Bill told them he wanted to play. They tried very hard to talk him out of it but Bill would not be discouraged. Even after they signed him up they worried about what kind of experience it would be for him. As it turned out Bill loved it and his dad thanked me for it.

I told him I was only a very small part of that success. Were it not for the kind of parents and boys we had it could have been quite different. They were the ones that made it work.

We did not win the championship. We came in second. If we had not had Bill Zander it is quite likely we could have been champions, but who is to say. At that age even the best kids make mistakes.

If Bill Zander had not existed, and we had been champions, the Spiders would have been remembered as one of my championship teams and fortunately I had several. But because of Bill Zander, his teammates, and their wonderful parents, this is the most memorable team I have ever coached.