If you’re squeamish, or if you’re in a really great mood tonight, you might want to pass on this blog.  It’s dark and dreary, but worth sharing.  After telling stories for 16 years, I’ve learned some stories get surprising happy endings, even if the beginning and middle are terrible.  The end is a chance to get it right.  I hope that happens in the sex slave case in Cleveland.   

I was in the atrium of the CNN studio center this week when I first saw the dated pictures of the Cleveland, Ohio kidnapping victims – Amanda Berry, Gina DeJesus, and Michelle Knight – flash across the screen during Anderson Cooper’s show.  The faces were an unexpected reminder of my anchoring days at CBS 5 News in Syracuse ten years ago.   

But wait.  What?!?  The pictures jarred me.  My mind was confused.  

Those girls are alive?

Ten years later?

What?

And living in the same house?

Are you kidding me?

Who could do that?

Why?

And how?

It just didn’t make sense. 

It just doesn’t make sense. 

But, heinous crimes aren’t supposed to make sense.

In the coming days, news reports will reveal ugly stories about what happened in that Seymour Ave. home, what went wrong, and who’s to blame.  For me, the events in Cleveland are eerily similar to one of the most disturbing stories I ever covered as a reporter.  Even the timing of how one began as the other ended is unsettling.

In April 2003, just two weeks before 16-year-old Amanda Berry was about to begin the worst ten years of her young life, a 16-year-old Syracuse girl was about to end the worst year of her life, breaking free the captor who kept her as a sex slave in his dungeon.

Built inside the yard of his home.   

A mile from my home.

It was a typical spring day in April 2003, when crews from every television station in Upstate New York, swarmed 7070 Highbridge Road in Dewitt.  I was on the phone with police as we pulled up to the familiar home where I’d regularly exchange slight waves with the frail, seemingly harmless, white-haired man as I maneuvered the second of a five-mile-trek,  four-times-a-week.  The man often worked in the yard or on his car.  Well, not really worked.  Tinkered is more like it. I sometimes thought I should be more friendly.  Poor old guy.

Good thing I wasn’t.

The non-descript 1950’s grey ranch with burgundy shutters stuck out like a sore thumb, not because of the horrors going on inside the home, but rather, because it was oddly nestled near newly built million dollars homes a stone’s throw away.   John Jamelske’s decision to sell the land behind him to a developer helped make him a millionaire. 

On that particular day in April, for whatever reason, Jamelske decided to collect nickels at a local bottle return store, bringing his latest victim in public with him.  It would turn out to be a bad decision for him, and a good decision for her as she found a break to make a hushed rushed phone call to her sister.  Police arrested the 68-year-old an hour after the phone call was made, ending his 15-year reign of terror on vulnerable at-risk women.  

The 16-year-old was the last of five women Jamelske held captive through the years since 1988, the same year his wife was bedridden from cancer, oblivious to his sinister lifestyle below her.

For years, I was oblivious that I’d been waving at a serial kidnapper-rapist who picked up his victims with a police badge before blindfolding them and forcing them into his dungeon.

Creepy.  Just like what will happen in Cleveland, the ugly truth slowly emerged.

In 1988, Jamelske kidnapped and held a 14 year old Native American for two years, first in his mother’s well, before relocating her in his newly built dungeon.

In 1996, he kidnapped and held a 14-year-old Vietnamese girl captive before dropping her off at her mom’s home months later.  She went to police, but the case was dropped because of her shady past.

In 1997, Jamelske kidnapped and held a 50-something-year-old Asian woman for nine months before dropping her off at a bus station.  She too, told police.  The case went cold.

In 2001, Jamelske kidnapped a 26-year old Latino drug addict he found in downtown Syracuse, keeping her for months before releasing her.  She went to police. The case went cold with misinformation and inconsistencies.

In October 2002, Jamelske kidnapped his last victim, an African American runaway.  While he was inside the bottle return, the victim called her sister, who called back the number and spoke to the store manager, who called 911.   

A few months after the disturbing discovery, Onondaga County District Attorney Bill Fitzpatrick asked me if I’d report with him live from inside the dungeon.  Being claustrophobic, I knew it would be hard, wasn’t sure I could do it, but said ‘yes’ anyway.  Reporters are used to being taken out of their comfort zone.  We don’t like it.  We just do it.

But this was macabre.   

It took a full day and a large scale crew to get the logistics just right for the live shot.  Crews are dealing with that now in Cleveland, Ohio.  Live television requires multiple producers, production crews, layers of cable, numerous cameras, lighting and a host of other details that take a lot of expertise and the right people to manage.  Add in a dungeon burrowed behind walls and tunnels, and the logistics are complex. 

Jamelske poured his dungeon on the east end of the home.  To get to the bunker, we had to walk up the front steps into the living room, weaving through a thin worn trail of ceiling-to-floor piles of papers and magazines rounding us into the kitchen where a pet gold fish swam in a bucket.  The trail continued through the kitchen into the garage, curving left down a slight flight of stairs into the basement, where a sign above read, “Peace to all who Enter.” The long, narrow, dim walk through the basement was lined with thousands of beer cans and bottles neatly stacked on revolving shelves. 

As you walked past the last bin, THERE it was.  The entrance to the dungeon was sinister and low to the ground. It resembled a dirt crawl space where animals lived.  We crouched on hands and knees, in single file, crawling through the eight-foot-tunnel, through several steel doors, each equipped with a padlock, before turning around feet first and descending down a three-rung ladder into the 8 ft. high, by 24 ft. long, by 12 ft. wide, bunker.  A crucifix hung above the ladder.  

I felt panicked entering, despite working alongside some of the best people in the business. I couldn’t breathe and kept trying to quell the panic inside me. I couldn’t get past what happened in those rooms. There were no windows. No doors. No hope. I pulled it together for the three hours I was live, at one point muttering the line, “If hell has an address, this is the place.” I went in with eyes wide open. The victims did not, each of them blindfolded, confused and scared as Jamelske, similar to the Cleveland case, tied them up with chains and ankle bracelets. Sometimes, he’d reward them with french fries and ketchup.  He thought he was being a good guy when he did so.

The bunker was divided into two rooms with the three-rung latter descending into the ‘bathroom,’ equipped with only a rust-stained bathtub on a raised wooden deck, a garden hose to drain cold water, and a transistor radio.  Lack of a drainage system left the dungeon cold, damp and musty. A bucket was the toilet. An extension cord and aluminum hose pumped warm air into the bunker from the house furnace.

Poorly strung dim lights lead to the second room, the ‘bedroom,’ which comprised only of a folding chair and a couple of wood pallets as a bed.  To pass the time, the enslaved etched religious phrases and peace symbols on the walls, sang to themselves, or occasionally danced with their captor.

Unspeakable things happened in that dungeon at 7070 Highbridge Rd.  What struck me most was one victim telling me at least she knew when her master came home, she’d live another day.  Her worst fear wasn’t what he’d do to her, but rather him being killed in a car crash or dying of a heart attack and she’d never be found.  She also worried about the house catching on fire.   

Jamelske, who believed he’d get off with community service, is serving a life sentence.

The gold fish, was adopted by the District Attorney’s office, and was named Archie Bunker.

All of Jamelske’s victims survived. 

As did the three victims in Cleveland, Ohio, which undoubtedly is a miracle for the families, who today, are able to hold the daughters and sisters they probably thought they’d never see again.

Perhaps, tremendous amounts of counseling, love and support will enable the three victims to recover.  Other prisoners have recovered and lead productive lives:

Senator John McCain.

Ernie Brace.

Terry Anderson.

Jaycee Dugard.

Elizabeth Smart.

I want to believe these victims can recover. 

Perhaps the only thing we can take away from dark moments like these is that none of us really knows how strong we are, until strength is all we have.

 

When the Syracuse powercouple comes to Atlanta for the Final Four this weekend, there’s one thing for sure.  Anyone who meets them, will be impressed.

I first met Juli Boeheim at a children’s charity event in 1998. She was the guest speaker, I was the emcee.  She was the star of the show, though in her humbleness, she’d never see herself in that light.

Thing is, you can’t help but notice Juli Boeheim.  She fills a room.

I was dazzled by two things:  her genuine southern charm, and her beauty.  Oh, and a third!  Her height.  She’s quite tall.  About 5’10-ish.  At 4’11-ish, I’ve gotten pretty good at judging others height from my height.  Now a foot may not sound like a lot, but it’s the difference between interviewing someone standing, and interviewing someone standing on a box.

In heels.  In public.  Ain’t pretty.  Takes practice.      

Juli was kind.  Gracious.  Helpful.  Sincere.  Gentle.  Engaging.  Sweet.  Charming.  Funny.  Fun.  And still is all those things.  She’s not afraid of hard work, adventure, and is also not afraid to give where it counts the most – from her heart and her time.  Family is her priority.   

Ten years ago, Juli was a regular guest on my then-show, CNY Live where we’d chat about kids, life, Jim, and basketball.  A week or two before SU went to the Final Four in New Orleans ‘03, I asked Juli if I could do a story about ‘a day in the life’ of Juli and Jim Boeheim.  I wanted the public to see her as I saw her, and as I saw them.  On the surface, the couple couldn’t appear to be more different.

Juli’s open.  Jim’s private.

Juli’s radiant.  Jim’s intense.

Juli’s adventurous.  Jim’s good with routine.

Juli’s younger.  Jim’s… not so much.

Juli’s calm.  Jim’s restless.

Juli is sweet, kind, and heartfelt.  It’s been reported, and not by me, Jim has a prickly edge.

Say what you want about Jim Boeheim, but anyone who spends his free time teaching kids how to play basketball, signing autographs, raising millions for cancer research, and who also is taking my favorite team to the Final Four – AGAIN  - and in the city I’m living – is a pretty cool gent in my book. 

Before Juli could say yes, she wanted to check with Jim first. I thought that was sweet.  Big decisions take two yesses.

I was sure he’d say no. 

After all, I’d watched many a press conference where Coach Boeheim didn’t exactly have an affinity for the media. Think about it. He’s grown one of the largest and most successful basketball programs in the country, coaches Olympians, while raising four children, and raising millions for charity – and after a long day of all that, especially on a game day that doesn’t go his way, he faces a sea of reporters wanting answers about things he doesn’t really want to talk about.  But Jim Boeheim knows the PR game like nobody’s business.  It’s that love-hate thing every star, every player, every coach has with the media.  It’s great when it’s good and it stings when it’s bad.  Coach Boeheim smartly answers the tough questions and scoffs at the dumb ones with his intense, competitive personality that makes him one of the most respected collegiate basketball coaches in the country.  Besides, I think he’s pretty entertaining when he’s got a point to make.  He makes it, moves on, waves a hand, and is done with it. Bug off, pal.

He also happens to be loved by one of the most beautiful, intelligent, classy women I know. 

When I moved to Atlanta last May, Juli called to lend advice about leaving my comfort zone, my family and my friends.  She once made a similar move noting, “….it’ll feel different at first, because nothing’s familiar.  You really have to get up every day and embrace the experience and really live.”  Great advice.

Back to my request, which I was pretty confident, Coach Boeheim would say ‘no.’

And the Coach probably did. 

However….

Jim Boeheim, the husband, said, ‘yes.’

With, I’m sure, a little nudging from Juli. 

A few days later, Ham (photographer) and I walked into the Boeheims’ beautifully decorated southern charmed home for our sit-down interview.  Juli smiled graciously, despite the phone ringing like a phone bank with requests for her free time.  She’s asked to do hundreds of charity events a year.

Jim walked in the room with a pleasant hello, as the two sat down on the couch in the family room which was warmed by mahogany walls and family pictures. They sat close to each other, in a familiar way, as Juli brushed the shoulder of Jim’s shirt as he thanked her with an appreciative smile.  As Ham situated the microphones, Juli and Jim teased each other in a language only a couple knows.

A good reporter knows that moments like these are privileged.  Be respectful and be present. 

And, I was. 

Jim Boeheim grew up in Lyons, New York, a small town of 5,000 people. He started playing basketball when he was five.  His family owned a funeral business, which Jim walked away from, to attend Syracuse University as a history major, where he was walk-on for the basketball team in 1962. By the time he was a senior, he was team captain.  Then graduate assistant. Then assistant coach, and the rest is history, fast forwarding to this season with more than 900 career wins. Jim Boeheim, a small town boy, is now a big game Hall of Fame basketball legend.

Jim met Juli Greene at the Derby in Lexington, Kentucky in the mid-nineties. The synergy between Juli and Jim was undeniable.  It wasn’t long before Juli moved to Syracuse where the couple married and now raise three children, James, and twins Jack and Jaime, while also embracing a close, loving relationship with Jim’s adopted daughter, Elizabeth, with his on-great-terms-with, former wife, Elaine.

Back to the interview couch with Juli and Jim a decade ago.

They laughed. They teased. They flirted.  They’re one of those couples, when you’re around them – you feel love. 

They talked about sports. About the value of winning and losing. The schedules. The travel. The kids.  The charity work. The notoriety.  Jim’s voracious reading.  They talked about a room they were thinking of adding in the back. About a new picture frame he noticed.  And how Juli made him a better-dressed man.  Juli said she’d never change anything about Jim, that she loved him ‘as is.’  Well, except for the plaid jackets he once wore, which she felt “didn’t show Jim’s softer side.” 

Jim revealed two things he didn’t like:  a bad call and wearing a suit. They’re uncomfortable and stuffy.   

I agree with him about the bad calls.  Quite frankly, I’d prefer every call be in favor of SU.  Oh c’moooonn, I know that’s not how it works. Just sayin.

I can see his point. It’s pretty clear, Coach Boeheim needs wiggle room for his flailing arms, aggressive leg clomping, and choleric coach contortion.  A tailored fit that can handle ranting, raging and body twisting as the shot clock winds down while at the same time charging a bad call like Secretariat out of the gate.  Which is why, Jim Boeheim wears sports coats with dress slacks. Period. 

Jim Boeheim’s clothing designer of choice is Adrian Jules Custom Clothier based in Rochester, New York.  The Clothier, founded by Italian master tailor and designer Adriano Roberti, opened shop in 1964, when Boeheim was about a junior in college.  The Clothier employs dozens of tailors who dress an impressive list of who’s who.   Check out www.adrianjules.com for the latest styles. These guys know their stuff and are really cool.

Adrian Jules wardrobe and tailor consultants, father and son team, Peter and Peter A. Roberti, say Jim wants style without feeling encumbered.  Using some 30 measurements on his 6’4-ish frame, along with taking the Coach’s posture, slope and how he stands into account, the design team builds a tailored sport coat that concentrates the weight in the shoulders, so as not to compromise comfort or style.  “The Coach likes a polished look with subtle detail,” Peter Roberti told me. “Jim doesn’t want to go outlandish.  He likes tasteful, but different.”

The clothiers aren’t sure which tailored sport coat Coach Boeheim will don at the Georgia Dome, Saturday, but say they’ve been told he’ll wear one he already has, because he wants to ‘keep with what’s working so far.’  It could be the black herringbone with a Carrier Dome fan-filled-to-capacity themed lining, or the navy cashmere sport coat with vibrant orange lining, or his navy birdseye sport coat with SU logo-lining. 

The last button hole on the sleeve will be orange.

The inner pocket will be complete with a monogrammed “Custom Styled for James A. Boeheim.” 

“A” for Arthur.

His shirt and tie combo will, as protocol, be hand-selected and coordinated by Juli.

It’s a routine the Boeheim’s have mastered for nearly two decades.  A routine they’ll continue, Saturday, as both shine on national TV, as – camera one – captures Coach Boeheim’s courtside rants – while camera two – snags a medium shot of a calm, cool and collected, Juli.

I once asked Juli what goes through her mind when Jim’s boiling mad from the bench.   

“What are you thinking when you see Jim’s face contorted with stress,” I asked her, “when his veins are popping out of his head and neck?”

“All I’m thinking,” Juli quipped with a smile, “is breathe, Jim!  Breathe!” 

 

 

It’s OVER.

And it ended exactly as every SU fan wanted.

At Madison Square Garden.

In the City that never sleeps.

In OT.

In front of a sold out crowd.

On live television.

Before millions of viewers.

SU 58-55.  Bye bye, Georgetown.  How does it feel to want?

Now, I’m not a sportswriter by any stretch.  I’m no Bob Costas, Mike Tirico, or Kevin Maher.  I don’t have ESPN-savvy facts and figures to dazzle you. And I don’t know which team won more games.

What I do know, is the contentious Big East clash between SU and Georgetown has stressed me out for decades, back to the days of Dwayne “Pearl” Washington, Sherman Douglas, and Roni Seikaly.  The shorts were shorter, but the nights were just as long.

I’m just one drop of a voluminous sea of SU fans who knows exactly what the past nearly 30 years of sitting — or should I say standing — on the edge of this gnarly, gritty, grimy rivalry, anxiously watching the Orange and Hoyas ‘out slay’ each other on the hardwood.  

It was never pretty.  It was always pretty ugly.

And in the end, at the end, it would be the end of a war unmatched in collegiate basketball history.  And in a way, while SU won, Big East fans lost.  Because it’s the end of an era.  And they don’t make ‘em like SU vs. Georgetown  these days.  You can’t make them.  They just are.

They are — because students dutifully slept outside in sub-zero temps for tickets.  

As alumni flew cross-country to lay witness.

And local fans braved miles in sleet and freezing rain for 9 p.m. tip offs.

As a Salt City, with long winters and short summers, came together every season to wave the Loud House.

To watch Boeheim and his boys press their orange thunder against greyly blue.

Without fail, fans tethered to heart pounding, nail biting, soul swearing hoop in the Carrier Dome, in our living rooms, in man caves, and on the road.    

Because there was just something about playing Georgetown.

Because every time the two giants stood on that court, they brought their entire history with them, making it so much, much more than a game. 

It was strength.  It was power.  It was fierce dedication. It was unwavering intimidation.  It was a persevering, bloody, backboned, stamina-driven, tenacious, purposeful sweaty scrum of endurance.  

Every Salt City sweaty drop.  Every scooped basket.  Every buzzer beater.

Every time. 

Now, sports reporters will have to search for new headlines while Orange and Hoyas fans try to replace that confrontation we came to love to hate.  

It’ll never be again. Not like this.

It was personal, for all of us.

There’ll be more games to come.  New teams to slay.  New rivalries to be had.   We’ll win some.  We’ll lose some.   

But it’ll never amount to that thing about Georgetown.

That got under your SU skin.

And ran through your veins.

And made your blood boil.

And made you BLEED ORANGE.

And set your soul on fire. 

So yeah, Hoyas, you closed Manley. 

And you spanked us at our last rivaled home game at the Dome. 

And put the Orange crush at your Verizon Center.

But we clocked you at the Garden.  For the final time.  And it was beautiful. 

Revenge never tasted so good.

I confess.  I watched The Bachelor this season.  C’mon.  Don’t judge. 

Before I try to humor you with why, allow me to defend myself.

Monday Night Football wasn’t on.

I didn’t watch every episode.  

I didn’t DVR it.   

Didn’t change plans for it.

Didn’t take it seriously.   

And didn’t wish I was in my 20’s again.

Oh, and I’m not a silly, girly girl, hopeless romantic.

Okay, that’s not true.   

Truth is, The Bachelor is a ridiculously, laughingly, mindlessly entertaining three month TV ratings love story complete with a cast of characters, thickening plot, setting, conflict and Final Rose resolution.  It’s the show you love to hate.  And the show you’d never admit watching. Guys, you get a pass on this. If you took one for the team, you’re heroic in my book.  Payback should be during football season. Watching The Bachelor is like waiting for new tires, a delayed plane, or Atlanta traffic on a Friday night. It’s two hours off your life you’ll never get back.

The things we do for love.

It’s ridiculously because, only on television, would  you find 25 competent successful women living in the same house, competing for the same guy, who’s openly dating all 24 ‘other’ women, while the ‘other’ women fall more deeply in love with him, while he falls deeply in love with each of them, until he realizes six weeks later – seduced by an exotic foreign land – he’s ‘in love’ with the real one, but continues to act like he loves them all, until the Final Rose ceremony where one of two remaining ‘fiance’s-to-be’ face off to an emotionally spent Bachelor who’s about to break one heart, so he can propose to the one heart he never knew he always wanted. While millions watch. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.     

Laughingly, because there’s always a Bachelor villainess causing conflict that resonates of days gone by. Guys won’t understand this part. But most women do. She’s that girl from high school who  always got on everyone’s nerves though no one really knew why, or how she and her drama always got the guy, but he never realized who she really was until he married her and then found out everything you tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen because he always put you, in what the Urban Dictionary now defines today as – the Friend Zone. Yep, we’ve all been there.  The villainess this season was Tierra. She claims the girls didn’t like her because she was too…sparkly. Sparkly? Her words. Not mine. What is that?  Sparkles was sent home about three weeks ago. 

It’s mindlessly, because over the dull winter months, it’s Monday night filler.  Think about it. Coming off a fun weekend with family and friends, with still another 96 hours of meetings, deadlines, airports and events standing between you and Friday, why not be entertained by a chiseled guy, conniving beautiful and funny women and actress wanna-bees, exotic locations, funny bloopers, and pretty roses.  Yep, Monday nights were the perfect night to throw on the comfy clothes, throw in a messy pony, drink a glass of wine and listen, like white noise, to drama unfold.  Tired of the drama?  Mute.

If only you could mute real life, eh?

Truth be told, I won’t miss The Bachelor, which has now been replaced by hot yoga (future blog), which ironically, will undo the stress the guilt of watching the show inflicted.  Having worked in TV, I do appreciate the ‘making’ of The Bachelor.  It takes a boatload of talented Hollywood producers, photographers, writers, and casting directors to pull off 20 weeks of hard core planning, into 6 weeks of vigorous and strategic shooting in exotic locations, four months of editing thousands of hours of raw tape, which is then turned into 3 continuous months of 2-hour ratings-induced episodes.  It’s a winning formula that has intrigued more than 100 million Americans since 2002, despite its meek 12.5% two-marriage success rate. Will Sean make it three? The numbers were up 3% this season, so something kept viewers tuned in. 

Everyone wants love.  Don’t care who you are.  We want it. We crave it.  We need it.  We all deserve it. Whether 8 or 80, we want to mean something to someone.  It’s called having heart.  Or maybe more importantly, giving heart.   

And we sure are looking for it.

Online dating is a booming billion dollar industry.  Personally, never tried it, but statistics show I’m in the minority.  One in five relationships start online these days.  Of the 40 million people who’ve winked or hit ‘send,’ 20% end up in committed relationships, and 17% get married. That’s five percentage points higher than The Bachelor.  No doubt, some actuarian, actually probably all, would probably argue with my simple Math.  I’m okay with that.

Oh, and the stats also show men still prefer blondes.

Blondes still prefer bad boys.

Bad boys are included in the 54 million Americans currently single.

And most are still looking for personality and good looks.

Of which 71% still believe in love at first sight.

Which is the most refreshing news I’ve heard all day.  Studies show it’s true.  In 2010, I wrote of a study conducted by then-visiting Syracuse University professor, Stephanie Ortigue, who in conjunction with Swiss researchers discovered, 12 areas of our mind, not heart, take a fifth of a second to fall in love.  My boss at the time asked me if I wanted to write some ‘cheesy’ story about love.  I told her I’d give it a whirl. The whirl made my head spin for a month as the press release/article made its way to hundreds of television stations in the U.S., and more than 50 countries, most recently being cited just last week. http://www.digitaljournal.com/article/344793  The Digital Journal will take you to my article which is a little more reader friendly. Love is pretty scientific, which let’s be honest, science doesn’t exactly fit on a Hallmark card, now does it?

“You have my heart,” sounds much more romantic than, “you have my mind.”   

Speaking of love at first sight, I’ll confidently add most women know in the first five minutes of meeting a guy for the first time… if he’ll ever get a chance with her.

It’s a simple test.

Which I cannot share.

Because blogs are PG.

And because it’s Lent.

And I’m Catholic.

And confessionals are confining.

And Hell is hot.

And because my mother reads this blog.

Because she lets me know reading my blog is the only way she knows I’m alive.  Because I don’t call nearly enough.  And because she already prays for me.  A lot. A bit of a stretch, but you get the point.

I could go on and on with safe and secure statistics, but I’m going to hang on a limb here – for just a minute – to share a few thoughts about love.  After all, it’s the most personal thing we do.  The most transcending.  And the most heartbreaking.

Artist Marina Abramovic and Ulay had an intense relationship in the 70’s before deciding to go separate ways.  They celebrated the end of their love affair with each walking the Wall of China from separate ends, meeting at the middle before embracing.  They would see each for the first time during Marina’s art performance at the MoMA in 2010.  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OS0Tg0IjCp4

Love is a connection.

A soulful complement.

It picks you if you’re open.

And is purposeful.

Picture. Frame.

 It’s………

Oh, sorry!  THIS JUST IN FROM ABC!  Apparently, 28-year-old Texas businessman, Sean Lowe, hit it out of the park in the game of love, giving his Final Rose, and a hefty Neil Lane diamond clustery ring, to 26-year-old ‘apparently amazing’ Amazon graphic designer, Catherine Guidici. 

Good for them!  My prediction, an ABC ratings wedding this May! Gosh, I hope Sean finds his shirts by then, cuz he lost them all season long.

Which I won’t be watching because I’ll be tending to a diamond of my own…with three bases, a pitching mound, and a home plate, cheering on the Padres, Reds and Braves. 

Maybe even sitting next to…’him.’

It’s not the Oscars, Grammys, or Emmy Awards by any stretch, but tomorrow, for the first time in quite some time, I’ll step up on a stage in front of a live audience to emcee my first prominent event in the big Atlanta ocean.  A transplant from Syracuse last May, the room will be filled with a sea of nearly 300 movers and shakers;  their faces unfamiliar to me, and mine unfamiliar to them.

It’s an honor to present 13 amazing women from across the country, and all walks of life and circumstances, scholarship money to complete their education. Some started last year, others 20 years ago.  The scholarships are made possible through Emerge, an organization empowering women through education.  We all deserve a second chance to get it right.  And sometimes, a third. 

People ask me quite often, what was it like to anchor the news?  How do you look into a camera?  How do you get on a stage in front of a large audience and have confidence?  How do you memorize everything?  Where do you start?  What if you freeze?  What if you fail? Do you get nervous?

Anchoring is a tremendous amount of responsibility, cameras weigh about 8 pounds these days and have way too much power, getting on stage is nerve racking, I don’t memorize because I speak from the heart and, when needed, stick to copy, I start with the end in mind, I’m too focused to freeze, failure’s not an option, and YES, I GET NERVOUS!!!

Barbra Streisand once forgot her lyrics during in a concert in Central Park and stopped performing live for 30 years. 

Adele pukes.

Rod Stewart gets nervous.

Laurence Olivier had to be pushed on stage.

Carly Simon poked herself with pins before a live performance.  

Even Andrea Bocelli, the most popular Italian and classical singer in the world, suffers that sinking feeling before performing, a feeling he says often remains throughout his performance.  Even at 54.

Performance anxiety is indiscriminate, regardless of age, opportunity or venue.  It just happens. You think you’re ready, and BAM, your mind gets fuzzy, your body sweats, your mouth dries up and butterflies uncomfortably nest inside your body.  You’re drugged with fear.

Yet corporate wants your presentation, the audience is waiting, or people are depending on you to hold the event they’ve planned for an entire year…together.  So you will, and you can.      

Anyone who’s ever spoken in public, especially in front of a large group, knows that sinking feeling an hour before a live TV show, event, or presentation.  The anxiety nudges your confidence, knowing the flow, the material, the message, the energy, the timing, the delivery, or the multi-million dollar contract is totally dependent - on YOU and your performance. Not to mention the added pressure that all eyes are on your face, your hair, your clothes, your presence, and usually often in my case, my five-inch heels. It’s the only way I can squeak past five feet tall so I look human above the podium, instead of a bobble head.  

But what if you can wrap your head around having the stage presence to go out there with all the passion in your heart, and compassion in your soul, and give your audience something they never expected.  It’s the only way I know how to deliver.  With soul.  Passion.  And compassion.

Over the past 15 years, I’ve anchored thousands of hours of live newscasts, emceed hundreds of events, given dozens of presentations, and even delivered a commencement speech resulting in an unexpected standing ovation.  It’s not that it’s easy to do.  It’s just, well, people keep asking.  And so, I say yes.  

So, after speaking to a couple of colleagues today who wanted advice on how to deal with performance anxiety, I thought I’d share a few quick tips I’ve learned about the art of public speaking.  Okay, maybe it’s not art.  But you can at least come to terms with it, and maybe even embrace it.

1. Nerves – Just like a player before a big game, use your nervous energy as positive energy.  It’s not that you’re afraid of the people in the audience any more than a running back is afraid of a football.  You’re afraid of the fear.  There’s nothing wrong with you.  Just your nerves have a little buzz going on.  Normal, normal, normal.

2. Dress in Classic, Elegant, Monotones – Whenever I give a presentation or emcee an event, I dress in camel or gray so to draw the audience to my face and message, not to draw them away with distracting prints, colors or jewelry.   

3. Water – Is your best friend.  Drink water before any presentation or performance as it saturates your vocal chords.  Even if you don’t drink it during your gig, there’s comfort in knowing it’s there if you get tripped up.

4. Controlled Energy – Energy is contagious, engaging and commanding.  I’m not talking screeching, yelling or shouting.  Project, pronounce and perform your voice.  Get excited about your material and your audience will too.  Kind of like a football coach at ballet practice.  It’s all in the delivery, tone, and voice modulation. 

5. Be Real – People dig real.  They get real.  They relate to real.  Fake is transparent.

6. Tell a Story – Life is a series of stories. People don’t remember dates.  They remember moments.  Your story is a chance to show your audience why their participation or attendance is important.  Your story is bridge that connects you to your audience.

7. Know your Material – Your audience is only as comfortable as you are.  You’re only as comfortable as your material.

8. Grab their Amygdala – The amygdala are raisin-shaped organs above both ears.  It’s the ‘fear or flight’ part of the body that instantly tells the brain if a bee or fly is on your leg.  You have about 30 seconds to grab the amygdala of your audience to hold their interest.  Maybe a minute.  Make it count.  The amygdala is also the part of your brain that’s making you nervous.  The very part of your brain that captivates your audience, gets your nerves in a tizzy.  Funny how that works. 

9. Know your Facial Acuity – The face emits a plethora of powerful data connecting (or disconnecting in some cases) you to your audience, signaling your sincerity, genuineness and trustworthiness.  It is the most engaging, intriguing and interesting part of our being.  Facial acuity is not about makeup, full lips or a chiseled chin.   It’s about connection.  Think Jack Nicholson, who knows exactly what to do with his face to make grass growing or paint drying seem interesting.  Like an actor on a Red Carpet, know what your face is doing.  Put your best face forward.

10. Smile – We’re not talking Miss America here.  We’re talking a chat with a good friend who hasn’t seen you in a while and wants to hear all about it.  Genuine, sincere, engaging smiles are home runs.

11. Open Body Language – Open your arms, directing the flow of energy to the audience.  They’ll receive your energy and give it back to you when you do this.  And the bond is set in place.

12. Be Kind – To your audience and to yourself.  Value your audience’s time and stay on time.  People  always have some place to be and they choose to be with you.  Additionally, be kind to yourself.  Most people in the audience know darn well they’d rather have you up there than them.  For that reason alone, they’re more forgiving and compassionate for your imperfections than you give them credit.

13. Stay on Time – If you’re given 7 minutes or 70, go under time budget.  The audience will appreciate you valued their time, leaving them a little more time for them to thank you for a job well done.

For more information about Emerge Scholarships, empowering women to continue their education, log onto http://www.emergescholarships.org/

 

  

 

 

The 2013 Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue was just released and I just can’t help but blog about it. As a journalist, the history of companies and people’s stories intrigue me. The history behind Sport Illustrated and the evolution of the SI Swimsuit Issue are noteworthy, as is, this year’s cover model, Kate Upton, who I playfully refer to as Kate UpTOP.    

Yep.  I like Kate for two reasons:  she’s got curves AND her meal plan consists of more than just air.  And, every women can relate to the difficulty of getting a bathing suit to fit, even after trying on 1,345,987 just to find the ONE. Kate does this flawlessly, which is exactly why she’s SI’s cover model this year.  More on the 20-year-old beauty’s bold-bared bravery in a minute.

Sports Illustrated launched in the early 1950’s, with early content focused on polo, yachting and safaris, in an effort to attract potential lucrative ad money. The first ten years hit with a thud, with the magazine losing money each year, until Time brought English European correspondent, Andre Laguerre to the U.S. as managing editor.  Laguerre, who covered the 1948, 1952, and 1956 Winter Olympics, was the critical infusion needed to successfully revive the magazine from a niche publication to the current popular sports magazine it is today, with an estimated 23 million weekly readers, including my brother-in-law Todd. 

In 1963, in an effort to entice sagging winter magazine sales, Laguerre hatched an idea which laid the groundwork for today’s swimsuit issue.  Laguerre’s concept was simple, obvious, and profitable:

Sports + Beauty + Bathing Suits = Goldmine.

Better than E=MC2, right?

Smartly, Laguerre solicited the help of fashion reporter, Jule Campbell, for the first-ever swimsuit shoot, featuring cover model Babette March.  The pictures hit store shelves in January 1964 as a five-page ‘bare’ bones supplemental pullout.  Over the next three decades, Campbell passionately transformed the SI Swimsuit Issue into the revenue powerhouse it is today by tweaking the equation just a nip.  

Supermodel + string + salacious curves + body paint + exotic locations = $1 billion dollar revenue.

The 2013 SI Swimsuit Issue took seven months and 90,000 miles to shoot 10,000 pictures and 100 hours of video of 22 models in a reported 500-800 bathing suits. The SI Swimsuit Issue is an exotic moneymaking splash every year, with more than $35 million in ad revenue reaching 70 million consumers in print and online platforms.  Brands sell out in 24 hours.  Exposure is off the charts.

Which brings me back to Kate Upton, whose exposure these days is up in the ranks of former SI cover models Cheryl Tiegs, Christie Brinkley, Elle Macpherson, Tyra Banks, Brooklyn Decker and Kathy Ireland. All have become pretty spicy businesswomen. Ireland, by the way, was on the 1989 cover of the best-selling SI Swimsuit Issue ‘ever’ – the Sports Illustrated 25^th Anniversary Issue.  ‘Kathy Ireland’ is now is a $2 billion dollar empire.

Born in Detroit in 1992 and the great granddaughter of one of the Whirlpool co-founders, Kate was raised in Melbourne, Florida.  At 16, she quit high school, after being ‘discovered’ in 2008 at an open model call for Elite Models in Miami. Looking back, her decision was a ‘no brainer’ as her perfect imperfections grace the cover of the SI Swimsuit Edition for the second straight year.

Unlike Victoria Secret models who brave underwires, stilettos, eye-poking wings and skeleton-inducing diets, Kate fits the SI model mold perfectly, having the sultry combination of personality, athleticism, exotic beauty, and curves.  SI models have an edge over VS models, having to deal with uncomfortable temperatures, animals, and often unexpected exotic elements (and by that I mean bugs).

Oh, and SI models have to like paint. Yes, lots of body paint. Oh, and they have to tolerate sand in hideway spaces.  And messy wet stringy hair falling in just the right places.  And they have to endure 2 a.m. wakeup calls for pre-dawn primping before pre-dawn lighting checks.  And they need to learn life skills, like how to break a wave and slither in cold, cold water.  Or in Kate’s case, sizzle in sub-zero temperatures in Antarctica. 

As a woman, I was on a mission to find out how in the world did she pull that off?!!

Now don’t be fooled by her cover shot donning a white Canada Goose Chilliwack Bomber jacket squishing her like an Elizabethan queen (imagine being the liner in that jacket?). This poor girl – who to her benefit can go from makeup to mud like many equestrians (she is) – stood in all her glory in -21C in the Antarctica with nothing more than a holey scarf, a couple of strings strung together, in a pair of really cool boots (I really do like those boots), surrounded by unimpressed penguins.  Penguins mate for life by the way, well, most penguins.  Oh, the secrets those penguins could tell.

Kate told The Sun this past weekend, that the “view of Antarctica was breath taking,” and the experience, “was spiritual with the pink mountains and huge icebergs.”   Her words, not mine, but I’m quite, quite sure only Kate focused on topography. Please.

Now I don’t know how far North you’ve ever lived, but I’ve stood in -4 degree temperatures covering stories in Upstate New York for 13 long winters, fully dressed, encased in down feathers, gloves, boots, and hats. The snow is crunchy and the air feels like ice pins on your face.  It only takes a few precious minutes before fingers and toes go numb, the eyes water and the air freezes making your eyelashes stick together, as your shivering lips make it difficult to talk and think – no less smile effortlessly for the camera.  It then takes hours, a hot tubby, and hot chocolate to thaw out.

Enough about me.  Back to Kate with her curves that captivate the brain like a drug. 

The fact that Kate Upton braved all that, au natural, puts her very high in my book in the bold and brave department.  C’mon, there’s not a Khardashian in LA that could pull that off!  And, I found out, according to Kate, she suffered.  She did indeed. The freezing temperatures affected her eyes, ears, and – the HORRAH – just about frostnibbled her – um, UpTOPS! 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!  Ouch!

Respectfully, I surely hoped someone was there to…help.

I’m happy to report that The Sun, Toronto Star and Huffington Post confirm that Kate has recovered.  Phew.    

The things women do to illustrate their love of sports, eh?  

Finally, just one more thing.  And this is important.  If you’re lucky enough to date a girl who can still slay a bikini, you need to know a bikini is never about the style or price tag.  It’s about the fit.  Whether it’s a bandeau top, string, or standard bikini, $20 or $120, if it hugs the curves just right, it’s coming home.  

UpTOP.

 

While I’m a bit disappointed, seemingly every year now, when my San Diego Chargers don’t advance to the Super Bowl - I do take great interest in a good championship game and great commercials. Coming from a rich news background, I can appreciate the value of commercials because without them, there wouldn’t be television news. Ad revenue pays salaries. It’s that simple.

The Super Bowl is the one time of year, television viewers actually crave commercials.  And advertisers take full advantage of our weaknesses, knowing exactly what tugs at our amygdala.  Fast cars, cute babies, talking animals, sexy shirtless sweaty men, and sexylicious bikini-clad beauties are sure to round out a number of the 70 or so 30-second Super Bowl Super-Sized spots. 

And the usual big guns are on the front line again this year spending about $126,000 per second to gain your buy-in:  Anheuser-Busch, Subway, Doritos, VW, Coke, Pepsi, E-Trade, Calvin Klein, GoDaddy.com, and Taco Bell to name a few.  Apparently, General Motors and Dr. Pepper aren’t playing. Too pricey.

And every year, it seems, each 30-second spot is a bit of a mini-Hollywood production about a story with a surprise ending as viewers hang on to the edge of their seats.  Of course it helps that each year, companies are paying big bucks to get top talent to endorse their products and play bit part roles. This year’s A-listers include:  Danica Patrick, Kate Upton, Usher, Amy Poehler, Bar Refaeli, and The Rock (is he still even alive?). 

So I’d thought it’d be fun to share some super facts about Super Bowls, super commercials and super bowl foods, so you can sound super smart at the water cooler tomorrow. 

The FCC sanctioned the first television commercial in 1941.

Watchmaker, Bulova, paid $9 for the world’s first television commercial which aired on WNBT in New York in July 1941. The 10-second ad ran during a live broadcast of the Brooklyn Dodgers vs. Philadelphia Phillies.

Kids watch 30,000-40,000 commercials a year, about 100 a day. 

By the time you’re 65, you’ll have watched nearly 2 million commercials.

In 1967, a 30-second Super Bowl commercial cost $37,500 with an audience of more than 24,400,000.

In 2013, a 30-second Super Bowl ad costs about $3.8 million, talent not included, with an anticipated audience of more than 111,000,000. 

It’s estimated 50% of the Super Bowl viewers this year will be women.

Women make up 80% of the buying power in the home.

Yet, 35% of Super Bowl ads are steered toward men. The remaining are mostly gender neutral.

Go figure GoDaddy.com.

It’s believed ‘super’ Super Bowl ad fever started in 1984 when Apple ran its “1984” commercial (based on George Orwell’s novel) campaign ad introducing the Macintosh computer.

Anheuser-Busch enhanced the fever in 1989 with its “Bud Bowl” campaign where small bottles of Bud beer made football plays.  Men + beer + beer making football plays = makes total cents.

Commercials have titles.

Anheuser-Busch’s “911 Tribute,” which aired only once, in Super Bowl XXXVI (2002), is one of the most popular commercials to air.  It’s one of my personal favorites. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2d17gXJp5v8.  Like most commercials, it’s an illusion, but it still gives me chills. Never forget.   

Super Bowl XLV – Green Bay Packers (31) vs. Pittsburgh Steelers (25) – was the most watched program in television history, knocking out Super Bowl XLIV, which knocked out the final episode of Mash, which held the title for 28 years.  It was one of the only Super Bowl games that had no cheerleaders.

In 1954, the Baltimore Colts was the first NFL team to have cheerleaders.

26 of the 32 teams in the NFL have cheerleaders.  The Chicago Bears, Cleveland Browns, NY Giants, Detroit Lions, Green Bay Packers and Pittsburgh Steelers do not have cheerleaders. 

NFL cheerleaders are not allowed to date/fraternize with players.  This is not the case in college or high school.

NFL cheerleaders make about $75 per game.  

The average American does not have the body or stamina of a cheerleader because while the ladies burn off about 10,000 calories during a Super Bowl game, the average American eats 1,200 calories during the game. Our favorites:

1.2 billion wings

37% will eat those wings with blue cheese, unless you live up north, that increases to 50%

11 million pounds of chips

70 million pounds of guacamole (not a type 7-0)

14 billion hamburgers

50 million cases of beer

So, I guess it’s no wonder 6% of us won’t be sharing any of these super facts at the watercooler Monday because that’s the percentage that call in ‘sick’ the day following the Super Bowl.

Now, time to go get ‘supered’ up for the big game!

Go Chargers!!!! You’ll get there one of these years, cheerleaders included.

 

 

 

A few weeks ago, I blogged about a presentation I recently gave to colleagues about how miscommunication causes businesses to lose millions annually. To personalize my presentation, I decided ‘on the fly’ to share with the group the research I’d conducted and decision I’d finally made to get implants (Getting Implants? Clarify! Blog Dec. 27). In short, the very point I was trying to make about miscommunication – I made at my own, somewhat embarrassing, expense. 

Honest mistake.

I’m grateful for mistakes.  Without them, we’d never learn anything.    

So I sit this morning, admittedly, nervous about being sedated in a few hours to get four dental implants. It’s not so much that I’m worried something will go wrong, or that I’m annoyed I’ll be trapped in my face for a week, or that I won’t be able to chomp for a while. It’s more that I’m worried about what I’ll say in my amusing loquacious babble, before or after sedation.  In the past, I’ve allegedly announced I was pregnant, running for office, and was once a stripper named Lollipop. For the record, none of it was true.

Anesthesia impairs the brain, making some laugh, some cry, some babble. Check out Hannah Manry’s babbling “Land of the Blueberries” on YouTube. Her diatribe landed her on The Ellen DeGeneres Show.  Luckily, I’m not to THAT extreme, and have tolerant friends picking me up who’ve promised not to hold anything I say or do against me.

My babble first revealed itself 15 years ago, when I’d just moved to Syracuse to start a morning anchoring job and needed minor surgery.  A colleague offered to drop me off and pick me up.  When the surgery was over, the nurse told me it was time to go home as my husband had arrived to pick me up. I followed her orders, got dressed and went in the waiting room whereby ‘my husband’ told the nurses they brought out the wrong wife.  I’m told I assured the group I was the right wife until my colleague arrived to save me from my stupor self.  

Five years ago, my daughter Kiki picked me up from an oral surgeon’s office after they’d pulled a tooth under a fog of Versed.  That’s really good stuff.  After getting the “she’s ready” phone call – like I’m a take-out order – Kiki joined me in the teeny, cold, don’t-get-too-comfortable recovery closet.  I tried to make out her features as she nudged me to hurry up, wake up, get up, and get going. Of course, I complied.  That’s what children, puppies and sedated people do.  I vaguely remember her annoyance as she herded me down the hallway – like an embarrassed parent leading a naughty kid out of the principal’s office.  All I was trying to do was eloquently sing, “I Wish You a Merry Christmas” (it was July) through my soggy, drooling, gauze-packed half smile, complemented with an awkward Miss America stage wave as I bumbled into walls.

Later that night, Kiki informed me she was never picking me up again, that I was embarrassing, and to find another ride in the future.  

Her understandable revulsion would come to light, a week later, during a follow-up visit, where the nurses in the surgeon’s office thought it was AWESOME that I clutched the doctor’s coat, provocatively flirting, “Oh, Bob, I love it when you knock me up!”

(OUT!  Yes, I’m sure I meant OUT.)

Three years ago, needing a brief surgery, again requiring anesthesia, I warned the doctor about my ‘babble.’ She told me not to worry, that they’ve heard it all and actually find things patients say, quite amusing. 

Yeah, right.    

Apparently I told Becky, a kind middle-aged operating room nurse, she had a lovely face.  Which would have been fine, had I just left it at that.  But I didn’t. I just had to add adjectives, an accent, AND a tag line. 

“Becky…you have…a VEEERY….VERY loveeely…looovely face,” I whispered softly in a high-pitched British-ish accent — before shouting, “BUT YOUR MAKEUP IS A HORROR SHOW!!!”

I was mortified when the doctor told me what I’d said, adding that when I woke up, I announced I’d just slept with Tom Jones.  

I’m hoping today, there’s enough gauze to keep my opinions…to myself.  

 

 

 

I never thought I’d see the day where the ‘star’ of a BCS National Championship game was NOT the QB who won the game – in this case Alabama’s AJ McCarron – but instead, his girlfriend, Katherine Webb. 

While ‘Bama blew out Notre Dame in the Monday night thud, the post-game social chatter wasn’t about McCarron, but rather how his long legged beauty queen girlfriend, Miss Alabama, with adoring flowy long brown trestles and divine smile, awkwardly captivated an ESPN commentator, and millions of Americans who tweeted and posted the sensation later.  Miss Alabama’s sea blue bikini and 22 inch waist was enough to make anyone pay attention to her game.  I mean, the game.   

So, if you love football, you’ll appreciate why I’m taking this timely moment to share a similar experience I had involving a championship football game, Notre Dame, a star player, and a long legged woman with wavy brown hair.  My story isn’t nearly as sexy, but in a way, it’s just as…well…boggling.  At least, to me.

Now, I don’t remember the exact age my son Chenz was when I sat next to Debbie, the long legged brown haired football mom, at the championship modified football game.  I think he was in 7^th or 8^th grade.  Like most things in life, we don’t remember dates.  We remember moments. 

This one is crystal clear.

I remember two things about that crisp autumn day at the football field behind Whitesboro Middle School:  first, I promised my #5 wide receiver, if he got a touchdown, we could get the dog he wanted from the pound; and second, I remember the moment my football obsession began.   

Now, I couldn’t tell you the team he played, or how he played, or the score, or even if they won.  Usually, I was busy chatting with the other moms about who knows what.  In my defense, I was astute enough to know when Chenz caught the ball, the big players would crush any kid who tried to get near him, and once he got past the white line toward the big ‘H’ – two striped arms would fly up in the air – which meant I was going home with a very hungry, very happy kid.  Which gave me great joy.   When you have kids, their accomplishments are your own.  

Shamefully, I should have known football.  After all, I was a football cheerleader all four years of high school for the Notre Dame Jugglers, freezing under the bright Friday night lights alongside Sheila and Anne Marie.  We, and about a dozen other committed girls spent every Friday night, clapping and flailing over screaming voices, for three hours in our very short, very snug, very blue and yellow striped jumpers, with very yellow gold turtlenecks, and very ugly bobby socks and saddle shoes.

“First and ten, do it again.” 

“Push em back, push em back, waaaaaaay back!!

“De–fense! (clap, clap) De–fense!” 

“Hold that line!  Hold that line!”

“T-O-U-C-H-D-O-W-N!!!! What does it spell?  (crowd cue) TOUCHDOWN!!”

“Attack!!  Attack!!! Sack that quarterback!” (clap… clap…clap clap clap)

Hardly any of us chirpy cheerers had a clue – or even a care – about the rules and plays of the game.  What was important was winning.  A win meant the guys would be happy when we went out later.  For all we knew, back in the day, first and ten was the number of guys on the field who wanted to win; the quarterback was the Homecoming King who dated the annoyingly perfect Homecoming Queen; the stocky guys who squatted in the front smoked too much pot to run fast like the brawny guys on the end; and the brawny guys on the end ran fast because they wanted the game over so they could meet the cheerleaders out later.  

I digress.   

Back to the beautiful crispy autumn day behind Whitesboro Middle School.

I don’t know which team had the ball.  I don’t know why, instead of being chatty with the moms, I sat in the stands and was completely present.    And I certainly didn’t know why the ump threw the yellow thing out of his back pocket on to the ground while blowing his whistle – with such purpose.   I’d never really noticed before, but the play perplexed me.  When I get perplexed, I get mindful.  When I get mindful, I get inquisitive. When I get inquisitive, I start asking questions, which usually puts me at grave risk for saying something really brilliant OR really…NOT.

This was the latter.

“Um excuse me.  Deb?,” I asked sheepishly. 

Debbie was the perfect person to ask because she obviously loved football and knew the rules.  Her raspy voice forceful, her fair skin complemented her wavy brown hair topping her full-sized frame, outfitted in a gray oversized sweatshirt.  Not exactly a Miss Alabama-type, but Deb’s knowledge of the game was impressive, even more knowledgeable than the umps at times, as was obvious when she referred to them as ‘idiots’ who needed ‘new glasses.’

I continued …..

“Can you tell me why the ump threw the yellow thing out of his back pocket on the ground?”

She tilted her head and looked at me with bite, tilting her head again each time she made a point.

“It’s a…’ref’… and it’s called…’a flag on the play’ …and the call was ‘offsides,” she quipped before ever-so-slightly shaking her head – kind of like someone does when they’re seemingly, irritatingly, annoyingly interrupted.

I thought about what she said and what happened on the field before making my assessment.  Mindful again, I checked to make sure my assessment was correct.

That’s what perplexed, inquisitive, mindful people do.

So, I asked Debbie a second question.  A question that would forever change my affinity for the game.

“Does offsides mean when there’s more weight on one side of the field than the other?”    

Deb looked at me like a predator before inhaling the breathe she’d need to let out a hardy roar of laughter followed by her bellowing my question across the stands.     

The moment probably would have remained unremarkable  – along with my ignorance about football  – had Chenz not come out of the locker room a while later with… attitude.  He was usually the last one out, because he was usually the last one in, because he was usually socializing.  What happened to my well-mannered #5 who got a touchdown?

“What’s the deal,” I asked as he slugged in the car.

No response.

“Are you mad about something?”

Nothing.  

“Okay.  Are you mad at me?”

Nothing.

I drove a little further down the street where I pulled into a parking lot, put the car in park, and told him we weren’t moving until he told me what was wrong.  After all, the dog was waiting at the pound.

That’s when he blurted out the guys razzed him in the locker room about me not knowing offsides and that he was embarrassed and that, ”……I love football and YOU NEED TO LEARN IT!”

Never had a young kid’s words struck my heart with such thunder.  It was the moment I knew I had to learn and respect the football playbook of life that was teaching him valuable lessons about success, failure, respect, resilience, persistence, hard work, friendship, teamwork, determination, dedication, intensity, commitment, accountability, strength, and courage. 

And so, insatiably, I learned.   Learning quickly turned love.   

Chenz went on to play high school ball, helping to lead his high school team to a state championship game.  He played college ball.  Today he’s an executive manager and a cheeseheaded Packers fan.

Because I love the game of football… I follow a number of teams including Syracuse University, USC, Chargers, Packers, Ravens, and the Colts.  Oh, and now the Falcons.  Oh, and the Bills.  I pray for the Bills every night. 

Thank you Debbie.  You’re no Miss Alabama, but you’re a rock star in my book.

Oh, and by the way…..Pickles was a great dog.

   

 

After 15 years of anchoring or managing the news in one form or another in Upstate NY, I made the bold decision in May to move to Atlanta where – in a nutshell – I now teach engineers how to communicate.  It’s a great professional marriage.  They’re critical and analytical, and I’m creative and chatty.  Not overly, annoyingly, overbearingly, fluffy chatty — just a conversational-I-like-people-places-and-things kinda chatty.

I like talking. But, I also like listening.

Sometimes I really should listen to myself talk.

Which I wished I’d done during a recent 35-minute presentation I gave to a roomful of engineers where I explained how good communication is good business, and that the current business model is moving from a passive Information Age to an active Communication Age; that the days of pushing out tons of information to employees, customers, and stakeholders via one-way conversation/materials/brochures is an ineffective form of communication costing companies billions. 

Hospitals lose $12 billion annually.

The electronics industry, nearly $14 billion.

Even mid-sized companies lose hundreds of thousands of dollars annually because one-way conversations are closed and subject to interpretation, causing employee and customer misunderstandings, errors and omissions, poor documentation, and long, unproductive meetings.  I supported my point with a football analogy explaining that even the best quarterback, throwing the best physics-precision pass, to the best receiver WON’T MATTER – if the receiver doesn’t catch the pass and take it all the way to the end zone.  Just like in communication.  If something trips up your message, the receiver doesn’t get it — your message is lost. 

Things were going well and I had their attention. 

I then had the ‘bright’ idea to personalize my monologue with a story, by using my recent decision to get implants.  I told the unassuming group – of 20 men, 3 women, and two bosses – how it took me nearly 10 years to finally decide implants were the right choice for me.  I’d used the Information Age to gather all my information to realize implants would improve my quality of life, my self-confidence and would be a solid personal investment.  I said I needed four:  two in the front and two in the back. On the down side, the implant industry hadn’t yet moved into the Communication Age, resulting in conflicting information about cost, procedure, recovery, and outcome.  OH!  And the really bad news, implants are considered optional cosmetic surgery and are not covered by insurance.

Their perplexed faces assured me the group couldn’t believe it either.  They were genuinely interested in learning more…some glancing at each other across the room, heads tilted in disbelief, eyebrows scrunched, as if they couldn’t believe what I was saying.  Or what they were hearing.  I’m still not sure.

Some, even texted each other so as not to disturb my presentation.  How sweet.  I knew this… because as one would text, the recipient across the room would smile.     

A few more, scribbled on paper – quietly sharing their scribble with their neighbor – just like I remember in Catholic grammar school when passing a secret. 

I continued……noticing that even the small group of slighted females were obviously  put off that an insurance company wouldn’t justify the need for my necessary implants.  The men were especially impressed, that if positioned just right as I explained, my implants would last a lifetime.

I ended my presentation knowing my personal touch was a hit!!!

In fact, many in the group thanked me for another home run about the value of effective communication and that they’d learned things they never knew.   The compliments continued Tuesday and Wednesday.  Some, were so concerned, they asked when I was getting my implants.  People smiled at me in the halls, gave me high fives, and completely supported my decision to … implant.

Turns out, I was right.  My presentation was a sensation.

I found that out three days later as I was leaving at the end of a long day when a boss stopped me to inquire if I was heading home for the holidays. The conversation went something like this:

Boss:     “Are you here tomorrow?”

Me:        Oh, yes.  I don’t leave until Saturday morning.  Heading to West Palm to see my brother and kids.   It’s been close to a year since we’ve all been together.

Boss:     “I hope you have a great holiday.”

Me:        “Thanks.  I’d have a better holiday if I didn’t have to spend $20K on implants.”

Boss:     “Ummm, yeah…..about that.  You really kinda put yourself out there Monday in your presentation.  Implants…hmmm….I’m like, WOW!  I mean I know you’re from NY, but, um….wow.”

Me:        Yeah, I was just trying to make it personal.

(Awkward pause)

Boss:     I just don’t get why you need… four.”

Using my hands, I proceeded to explain how my sinus bone was deteriorating and that I needed the implants so my bite wouldn’t be off, and my teeth wouldn’t shift…blah blah blah.

Slowly, a sheepish yet puzzled grin exposed the ugly truth…which hit like a ton of bricks.

Me:        OMG!  I was talking about DENTAL implants.  Didn’t everybody KNOW that??????

Boss:     Uhhh.  NO.  I…really don’t…think…so.

Being the quality communicator in which I pride myself, I excused myself immediately and went straight to my computer where I sent out a mass email that said,

Subject Line:  To Clarify

In response to some of your recent inquiries, I was referring to DENTAL implants in Monday’s PM meeting. 

As in… teeth.

I hope y’all sleep better tonight.

Happy Holidays,

D’Adamo

Like I always tell my kids, two ears, one mouth. 

Listen more than you speak.  That includes to yourself.