Keep 'im busy

My daughter just received a major promotion at work, so we took her out for a celebratory dinner. She and my son, who is also quite accomplished, said they were grateful for parents who molded them to be good and successful people. I reminded them that they didn’t always feel that way, especially when sentenced to their rooms.

I think my parents deserve some credit in all this. While my children were reared in a Midwestern suburban area, I grew up in an East Coast inner city. Not all the popular pastimes were productive (or legal), and many of my old friends did not turn out all that well.

But, my parents had a philosophy - Keep ‘im busy. From a very early age, I was required to apply myself to a musical instrument and a sport. Later, a job.

I was started on the accordion, which seemed to be the weapon of choice in our largely Italian neighborhood. A 120-bass key accordion will keep you real busy.

When I got into junior high, I was surprised to find that it was in contention with the banjo for “Most Hated Instrument.” Worse yet, there was no place for one in the school orchestra or band. So, I switched to trumpet. While the three valves and treble-only instrument presented fewer complexities, band practice added to lessons kept me quite occupied.

This was Philadelphia. Forget about it being the cradle of our country. This was the home of American Bandstand and the Philadelphia sound. It wasn’t long before I put my own band together and we were playing teen dances at every hall that had concrete floors and cinderblock walls to reverberate our efforts. I added keyboard and guitar to the repertoire, along with vocals. I could flat out wail Dion. This kept me even busier, but not out of trouble. Playing the hops generated too much temptation.

On the sports side, my father and uncle had both been prizefighters. I was cast as The Great White Hope. Junior boxing employed huge, heavily padded gloves and was fun. Kind of like a pillow fight.

As we reached puberty, the muscles got larger and the gloves got smaller. I had a good body turn and could hit hard enough to break bones. Unfortunately, most of them were mine. Hand strength hadn’t kept pace with muscle and technique.

So, I switched to other contact sports. My father was disappointed, but was tactful about it. Not so Uncle Mike. “What the hell kind of man’s sport is it if you have to wear pads and a helmet? You might as well wear skirts, fer crissake.”

Mike had a body shop in a very tough part of town. In one corner was a speed bag he had lowered for me to work out on. I loved the noises, smells and bustle of the place. Calendars weren’t bad, either.

A couple decades later, there was a big family gathering. I was talking to Mike in the backyard of one of his daughter’s homes. I believe she was the first of us to have a place with a lawn.

Mike was reeling off his old prizefighting stories, when a gentle-looking man in his twenties approached, wearing a pastel suit. Mike didn’t stop talking or even look at him. He turned to me and offered his hand. “Hi, I’m Phillip. Arlene’s husband.”

Arlene was Mike’s youngest. She had run off to India to learn “Eastern ways.” At an Ashram, she met Phillip, who had done likewise. He was a trust fund baby from southern California. When he had reached age, he collected his funds and they bought hotels across the country and converted them to Ashrams.

I shook hands with Phillip and he turned to say hello to Mike. Mike just kept looking at me and talking. Phillip said hello again, but he wasn’t there as far as Mike was concerned. Phillip shrugged at me and walked toward the house.

When he was out of range, Mike looked in that direction. “Sonavabich doesn’t even eat meat, Hank. What kind of human being doesn’t eat meat?”

But, I digress. When my children were young, I gave them choices of musical instruments and sports, but they would definitely have to play. They did, and shined at both through college, as well as academics. When they were old enough, they also had to find jobs.

This not only kept them off the streets, but they learned the lesson that to excel at almost anything requires an investment of work. Or, as a coach of mine used to say, “Train hard, fight easy.”