Back in the dark ages when I was in my 20’s, a girlfriend and I took a ski trip up to Lake Tahoe. We had planned on a fun-filled weekend. What we didn’t plan for was running out of gas. In her hurry to get us out of town, she had forgotten to fill up her tank. So, just east of Auburn on Highway 80 we sputtered to a stop. It was still twilight and as we stood by the car wondering what to do, a nice truck driver pulled up and offered to take us to the next gas station. We were so grateful and relieved that we hopped in the cab without a second thought. Looking back on it, we were very foolish (in more ways than one) and also very lucky. But the thing is, back then, most truck drivers were employees of a company. Which means they were in a union, had good benefits, and limits on how many hours a day they could drive. They were considered the best drivers on the road. Today, an increasing number of truck drivers are independent contractors and are paid by the job. The faster they deliver, the more jobs they can complete, and thus, earn more money. For those of us who have driven on major freeways the past decade or so, we have seen an increase in unsafe truck drivers. It’s almost like they’ve made a sport of terrorizing passenger cars. I’ve been tailgated, forced to change lanes, and had to slam on the brakes when a maniac truck driver is on a mission not only to deliver his goods, but to run down anyone who gets in his way.
So it was with some interest that I saw a segment on a news program the other day about driverless trucks. In May 2025, Aurora launched regular commercial driverless deliveries between Dallas and Houston, using heavy-duty trucks without a human driver behind the wheel. Now there are a handful of competitors who are also testing the concept. When you think about it, long-haul routes involve thousands of relatively predictable highway miles. There are no crowded city streets or parallel parking required. The Aurora model uses a hub-to-hub model: people handle loading, local streets and customer delivery, while an automated truck covers the long middle section on the highways. The business case is pretty compelling. For corporations with truckers on the payroll the current system is constrained by driver schedules and hours-of-service rules. A driverless vehicle could spend more time moving, helping carriers use expensive equipment more efficiently and making delivery times more predictable. Automation may also add capacity on routes that are difficult to staff. For shippers, that could mean fewer disruptions and more consistent service; for consumers, it could eventually help stabilize the cost and availability of goods.
Of course, like the ongoing discussion about AI taking over jobs, there is the question of how driverless trucks might impact employees. But human workers will still be needed for first- and last-mile driving, inspections, maintenance, loading, and customer interaction. New roles are also emerging in fleet supervision, remote assistance and autonomous-vehicle service. Over time, some long-haul positions may shrink or change, but new jobs will be created. All of this doesn’t solve the problem of the independent contractors, paid by the job, who cause the majority of traffic accidents, but at least it’s a start.
There’s still a lot to figure out before we see wide-spread use of driverless trucks. But recent studies comparing the driverless Waymo cars with human drivers in Phoenix showed that Waymo has 62% fewer injury crashes than humans. Which, in part, tells you just how bad the drivers are here. But that’s a subject for another day. We can only hope that those same positive results are possible with trucks. In the meantime, I’m having my car fitted with bubble wrap next time I take to the highway.
Like so many people these days, I’m in a never-ending quest to avoid watching much news. Since I subscribe to five streaming services, I can always find something that produces less stomach acid. And sometimes, I find something truly worth watching. Such was the case when I watched an ESPN+ program on the Savannah Bananas. They opened the ESPY’s show this year, but in case you haven’t heard of them, let’s just say they are the Harlem Globetrotters of baseball – a little sport and a lot of entertainment. The background of the team – and its owners – is actually one of the more heart-warming stories in sports. And God knows I could use that since I’m flailing in both of my NFL pools (really, Packers? You couldn’t beat the Falcons???). In any event, in the off chance that you could also use a feel-good story this morning I present a bit about the Savannah Bananas.
In October of 2015, the team arrived in Savannah as a college summer team with a goal in mind: make baseball fun. That’s a big enough task, but they also wanted to bring fans back to Savannah’s historic Grayson Stadium. The stadium had been home to a minor league team, the Savannah Sand Gnats, for 90 years. The team’s owners wanted Savannah to build a new, more modern, stadium. In September 2015, when the city denied their request, the Sand Gnats packed up their sand and moved to Charlston. You would think the good people of Savannah would be happy to get rid of Sand Gnats and welcome a college summer team, but that was not the case.
In the first few months, they sold only a handful of tickets. By January of 2016, just months before their first game, the team’s finances were in the red. The owners, Jesse and Emily Cole, were forced to sell their home to keep the team and their dream going. But on February 25, 2016, they announced a name change to the “Savannah Bananas”, and everything changed. The announcement created massive attention locally and nationally, covered by CBS, NBC, and Sports Illustrated. They were even featured as SportsCenter’s “Logo of the Year”. They played in the Coastal Plain League, a summer collegiate league, for seven seasons. They won three Petitt Cup Championships during their collegiate team reign and had over 35 players drafted into MLB across the seven years of play.
Just your average base hit
But in 2022, the Bananas announced that they were leaving the Coastal Plain League to play Banana Ball year-round. No one had heard of Banana Ball. But they soon would. Banana Ball was born out of the idea and goal of making baseball more fast-paced, entertaining, and fun. And it certainly met the goal! Every game includes singing, dancing and engaging with the crowd. Their walk-ups are legendary. Bananas may be escorted to the plate by a musical star, make a dramatic entrance drenched in rain or, my favorite, sing a Broadway hit. When they score a run they have special celebrations, from running through the crowd to performing fully choreographed dances. And the Bananas can also boast that they have the World’s Tallest Hitter and Pitcher with Dakota “Stilts” Albritton, who stands 10 feet tall. Recently Derek Klena, a former baseball star at UCLA and Broadway Tony nominee, joined the club. So, they have street cred, to say the least.
The Man-Nana’s
But it’s not just the players who entertain. Jesse Cole wears a yellow tuxedo and bowler hat at every game. He is literally the ring master of the Banana circus. They have the Banana Nanas (a senior citizen dance team), the Man-Nana’s, (their Dad Bod Cheerleading Squad), and the Banana Splitz (a youth dance team). Their umpire is the world’s only Dancing Umpire, who will bust out the robot, hit the quan, or twerk it out on any (and every) strike three call. The coach on first base is a breakdancer.
The Cole family
But there’s more to life than baseball and Jesse and Emily Cole put their fame to good purpose. In 2020, while in lockdown with their one‑year‑old son Maverick, they decided to get licensed as foster parents after seeing how many children were struggling without school and mentors. They were inspired by the idea of providing a supportive home until children could be reunified with their biological families or adopted, so they started a non-profit that promotes foster care. The name of their organization? Bananas Foster, of course. They currently have adopted two girls who they fostered and work tirelessly to spread the word about the benefits of becoming a foster family.
So, if you find yourself searching for something entertaining to watch on TV, I highly suggest watching a Banana Ball game. You might even be inspired to do a little breakdancing in your living room!
Note: I am publishing this post from 2016 in honor of the 25th anniversary of 9/11.
There is a quietness about the September 11th Memorial and Museum that starts before you walk through its doors. As we queued at the entrance, we were all lost in thought. Trepidation is etched on everyone’s face – do we really want to re-live that horrible day? And yet we all file in, bracing ourselves for what we know will be a difficult and emotional visit. The museum offers three options for viewing the exhibits; we chose a guided tour led by one of the volunteers. Our guide was a young man from New Jersey who lost neighbors in the terrorist attack. For him, this museum is personal. He told us that if we saw a guide wearing a tan vest, that person is a family member of a victim. Some of them come every day as a way to work through their grief and talk about their loved one. I reflected that we are fortunate in our generation to be guided by such people; future generations will experience it from a more distant perspective.
Our guide started the tour at the bottom of the museum, in Foundation Hall, where the famous “slurry wall” stands. When the Trade Center was built in the mid-1960’s, the slurry wall held back the Hudson River, which lapped at the side of the building. After the attack on 9/11, when the site was being excavated, the workers were astounded to find that the slurry wall had survived. Daniel Libeskind, the architect who led the redevelopment of the site, pushed to keep a portion of the slurry wall in place. He proclaimed that it was a testament to the determination and resilience of a nation; a document “as eloquent as the Constitution itself”.
Also in Foundation Hall is the “Last Column,” a 36-foot girder that was the last to be removed from the site, marking the end of the recovery effort. During the excavation it quickly became a makeshift memorial, plastered with Mass cards, rosary beads, flags, photos of missing innocents, and patches from fire and police units. When it was finally cut down, it was laid on a flatbed truck, draped in black, with an American flag over it, and escorted by first responder honor guards to a place of safekeeping. It was brought back to Foundation Hall and erected as a physical reminder of our resilience and hope.
There are many displays that feature recovered portions of the buildings – bent beams, the only remaining glass window and the “Survivor’s Staircase”, used by many to escape the burning towers. But I suspect that the main reason most of us come to the museum is to pay tribute to the people who were lost that day. After seeing massive beams bent and misshapen by the impact of planes and the heat of the fires, it gives new perspective to what the people trapped in those structures experienced. I recall one of the shell-shocked firemen who survived the collapse of the towers saying, “How bad must it have been up there that people thought jumping out of a window from the 100th floor was the better alternative?”
One particularly poignant display is of the motorcycle that belonged to Gerard Baptiste, a firefighter with Ladder 9 in Lower Manhattan. Two weeks before 9/11 he bought a broken-down 1979 Honda motorcycle off the street for $100. It wouldn’t start so he had to roll it to the firehouse. The guys ribbed him endlessly about buying a worthless piece of junk. Baptiste died at the Trade Center and shortly afterward, the surviving members of his firehouse decided to restore the bike in his honor. With the help of Honda, some motorcycle shops and private donors, they were able to transform it into what is now known as “The Dream Bike”. The bike was auctioned, with proceeds donated to the education fund for the children of firefighters from Ladder 9 who were lost on 9/11. The winning raffle ticket, selected by Baptiste’s mother, went to a woman from California who donated the bike to the museum so everyone would know its story.
There is a room called “The Wall of Faces” filled with pictures of the victims. It is hard see their smiling faces, knowing that their lives would end so tragically. They are the faces of people who, on a gloriously sunny Tuesday morning, kissed a loved one good-bye, walked out their front door, and were never seen again. Down the hall from the “Wall of Faces” is an alcove, a small space with black walls and four benches. On each of the four walls is a projection of video remembrances of the victims. Each person who died is remembered with a picture and a bit of personal background information. For most of them there is also an audio remembrance from a family member or friend.
I sat in the video room for a while, as the images and voices streamed past. It was heartbreaking to hear a young woman talk about how much her children miss their dad, and a father describe how proud he was of his lost son. One woman remembered her husband through the story of a Thanksgiving dinner when they got into a spat because the gravy was missing from the dinner table. They argued and both stalked off to the kitchen. She said they imagined that all of the relatives thought they were in there fighting but, in fact, they were kissing. She said “that’s just who we were”. Some voices were very emotional as they described their loved one, some sounded wistful, and others like the woman with the gravy story, chose to remember a lighter moment. No matter the emotion, the remembrances brought the victims back to life and made the violent nature of their death all the more jarring.
I should note that there is a small portion of the museum that describes the rise of Al Qaeda and the planning of the 9/11 attacks. There are photos of Osama bin Laden and the 19 hijackers, along with a video description of how they carried out their plot. The photos of the hijackers are placed very low on the wall, much below eye level, so you can easily walk past them without having to look at their faces. After what I had seen prior to that exhibit, my instinct was to give those pictures a swift kick. I questioned why we had to acknowledge them at all in a place of reverence and dedication. But on further reflection, I realized what the museum designers intended – future generations will not recall the events of 9/11 from personal experience, they will need to learn about it from history books and places like the September 11th museum. So the “who”, “why” and “how” need to be included to present a complete picture.
We finished our tour of the museum and went outside to visit the memorial plaza and the two reflecting pools, where the names of the victims are carved into the steel that surrounds them. The pools are built on the former foundations of the two towers and are symbolic of the sadness one feels there. One person has described the water cascading over the four sides of the pools as the endless tears shed over the victims. Perhaps the most touching sight I saw all day were the single white roses stuck sporadically into the carvings of names. I had assumed that family members laid those flowers on the names of their loved ones. But in fact, each morning the staff of the museum places a white rose on the name of any victim who would have celebrated a birthday that day. I found that to be such an elegant gesture and thoughtful beyond words.
We left the museum and went for a very long walk back to our hotel, reflecting on the gamut of emotions we experienced on the tour. I picked up a copy of USA Today in the lobby; the front-page headline blared “US Military Families to Evacuate Turkey” due to possible attacks. Sadly, the beat goes on. But thankfully, so do we. The new One World Trade Center, also known as the Freedom Tower, is now complete and other buildings are going up where once the ground was but a scar. Would I recommend going to the 9/11 Museum? I guess that depends on your perspective. One of the guest services workers at our hotel said he couldn’t go – that it is still too soon. For me, it was well worth the visit; it is a place where we can reflect, mourn and vow to move forward.
This week, as we approach the 25th anniversary of 9/11, I am posting the memorial I wrote on the 10-year anniversary, with updates on a surreal encounter and a promise kept.
Melissa Harrington Hughes died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. She didn’t work there; she was on a business trip for her San Francisco-based technology firm. She was an extremely accomplished 31-year-old, who had a passion for life and adventure. Melissa married her sweetheart, Sean Hughes, just a year prior to her death.
On that fateful morning of September 11 she was attending a meeting on the 101st floor of the North Tower when the first plane struck just six floors below her. Many people remember her for the harrowing voicemail she left for Sean minutes after the building was struck. In that voicemail she said, “Sean, it’s me. I just wanted to let you know I love you and I am stuck in this building in New York. A plane hit or a bomb went off – we don’t know, but there’s a lot of smoke and I just wanted you to know I love you always.”
Amongst the overwhelming tales of tragedy on September 11, Melissa’s final words resonated with a lot of people; thousands wrote on her memorial website. Her phone message to Sean was played on news casts numerous times in the weeks following 9/11. Each time I heard it I teared up.
In her voice I could sense so many of her emotions: fear, panic, bewilderment. But mostly, in her final minutes on earth, she wanted Sean to know that she loved him. I thought about her, and all of the people that died that day, who went off to work as they normally did. Kissing a spouse or child good-bye, grabbing a cup of coffee, making plans for the weekend ahead. And none of them came home. Plans and hopes and dreams were gone in an instant. Sean Hughes said that he and Melissa were excited about their future and talked about all the things that newlyweds do: moving to a new home, getting a dog, having children.
There were thousands of sad stories that day about love lost and children orphaned. The bank where I worked lost three of our employees that day. So why did Melissa’s story, above all the others, resonate with me? I think it was partially due to some life experiences we had in common. I had also made business trips from San Francisco to the North tower at the World Trade Center. I remember navigating its Byzantine elevators and escalators as I rushed to early morning meetings, just as Melissa must have done that morning. Melissa’s wedding photo also brought back memories for me; she and Sean were married in Napa, California, close to where I grew up, so I knew she also appreciated that beautiful part of the country. But it was more than the similar business trips and her wedding venue that stayed with me; it was her voicemail to Sean that was seared into my brain.
Her final words to Sean started me thinking about my own life. My husband had taken early retirement in 1996. By 2001 he was anxious to travel, spend time with our new grandson, and enjoy time with friends. I wanted to continue working. But I kept thinking about Melissa’s message. What if that had been me? Is that how I would want to die, without ever having enjoyed the life my husband and I had worked so hard to build?
The weeks following September 11 were frightening and incredibly busy for me. My division of the bank received bomb threats in our major office buildings around the country and we were constantly on alert. Of course, all of the threats were false, but that didn’t lessen the hysteria of my employees who were in those buildings. I understood – my office was on the top floor of our Los Angeles headquarters and I jumped every time I heard a plane or helicopter fly by. After a month or so, I began to hope that the turmoil would pass and that my life would get back to “normal”. But then I thought about Melissa. Life doesn’t get scripted. I knew that the odds of being killed in a terrorist attack might be low, but there were no guarantees against a car accident or a terminal illness.
So the first week of November, after the initial frenzy died down, I told my boss that I wanted to resign. We negotiated that I would stay until March, which I did. I have never regretted that decision and would not trade all of the memories and experiences I’ve had since then for any amount of successful projects or compensation I gave up.
The author Judith Viorst once wrote that it is the small moments in life that make it rich. Melissa made me realize that I needed to grab the small moments while I could; that sitting with my husband every morning, sipping coffee and watching the news, is a gift not to be squandered or go unappreciated.
So to Melissa Harrington Hughes: thank you. Someday I hope to get back to the new September 11 Memorial where I will touch the steel engraving of your name. And in the hollows of those letters, we will finally be connected.
2016 Update: This past March I went to New York with my niece and her two daughters. Visiting the National September 11 Memorial and Museum was the highlight of the trip. When I was planning our visit I read that it was preferable to purchase tickets in advance, so on February 24 I ordered ours from their website. On that same day I received a message that I had a new comment on my 2011 post about Melissa. I thought that was a coincidence – that maybe something that I had typed when researching the September 11 Memorial had caused an old comment to be recirculated. But it wasn’t an old comment – it was this: “I came across your blog after my son and I just prepared a required oral presentation for his English class about a life event of mine that had great impact. I think of Melissa almost every day – I was her best friend since childhood. She was a shining light and people were drawn to her. I miss her and the memories are still clear with detail. Thank you for seeing how her passion, love for life, and love for her husband and family was that shining light, even if it was her last words. She called her Dad and Mom and Sean from that burning building because she loved them deeply. She is well remembered and will never be forgotten.” I still get chills when I read this note and think about the timing of it. There are no coincidences in life, of that I am sure.
On March 30 I was able to fulfill the promise to myself that I would visit Melissa’s engraving at the Memorial. Her name is carved into Panel N-22 on the large reflecting pool that stands in the footprint of the former North Tower. I put my hand on her name and thanked her once again for all that she has meant in my life. May she rest in peace.
Note: On Friday, September 11, I will publish my piece about the September 11 Memorial and Museum.
Last week I had the privilege of witnessing something wonderful: the wedding of our grandson, Matthew. It seems like yesterday that our son-in-law rushed into the hospital waiting room and said, “I have a son!” We watched Matthew grow through pre-school, Little League, soccer, and high school. My husband was overjoyed when he chose to attend USC, graduating summa cum laude on my husband’s birthday. What a gift! While he was in college he met Brittany, the girl of his dreams, and last weekend was the culmination of a beautiful courtship.
Wendy and Steve
The weekend started with a welcome dinner hosted by Steve and Wendy, held outside at the elegant La Costa Resort in Carlsbad, California. It was wonderful to see so many of Wendy’s friends, some of whom I hadn’t seen in many years. The weekend was also extra special for me because brother Bob and his wife Linda were in attendance. It was unusually warm for California (I thought I’d left that behind in Arizona!), but that didn’t stop us from dancing and singing late into the evening. It was clear after meeting Brittany’s family that Matthew and Brittany have wonderful role models in their parents for creating a loving and lasting marriage.
Watching Brittany come down the aisle
The wedding on Saturday was perfection. The ceremony was officiated by a friend of the family, Steve, who had known Matthew since he was two years old. As Brittany walked down the aisle, both sides of the family shed tears. She was beaming and beautiful and as Matthew watched her, his love and affection for her was evident to everyone. Steve did an outstanding job of talking about marriage: love, compromise and cherishing the everyday moments. The reception was held on a large patio at the resort, and it was outstanding in every way. The food was great, the disc jockey played fun music, and everyone was just so happy. Our youngest grandson Jake, (Matthew’s brother), gave a speech for the ages, filled with sentiment and love, but also some good-natured ribbing, as only brothers can do. When the music was required to stop at 10pm, many of us adjourned to the hotel bar. We weren’t ready to give up! But at midnight, when they flashed the lights, we knew the evening was over and we ended what turned out to be a perfect wedding day.
It was a very sentimental weekend, filled with such joy. Alan would have loved it, and I was touched that both boys wore his watches to honor him. I know he was there in spirit and sending his love to us all. Weddings quite naturally cause one to think about marriage. I had a long conversation with the officiant, Steve, who lost his wife Eden to cancer in 2023. I told him how much I had appreciated his talking to Matthew and Brittany about embracing the small moments in a marriage. When you marry the right person, it is the most special relationship possible. It’s someone with whom to share both good and bad news, it’s planning for the future, it’s knowing that when you walk in the door you have a person who is glad to see you. And sometimes, maybe a lot of times, it’s just sitting together in the comfort of your home, feet up, watching a movie, and being content. I told Steve that my favorite moments were the mornings, when Alan would fix coffee and we’d sit with Dash the Wonder Dog and talk about the day ahead. Steve said, “Yes, I tell my boys that it’s not just on the big occasions that I miss Eden, it’s feeling her toe touch my leg in the middle of the night.” Of course, marriage isn’t always a bed of roses, but overall, it’s a wonderful institution that should be cherished.
I am thrilled for Matthew and Brittany that they have found “their person” and are embarking on a wonderful life together. I can’t wait to see what the future holds for these two wonderful people. And I wish them many “small moments”.
Like many Baby Boomers, I’m spending an increasing amount of time sorting through my “stuff”. I’m heartbroken that some of my things will end up in the proverbial dust heap, foremost among them my Lenox china. But the days of formal dinner parties are over, even for me. Somehow parting with my beautiful dinnerware seems like I’m giving away a part of history. So, in an obvious “stick you head in the ground” move, I walked away from the china cabinet and tackled the photo albums and family DVDs. But even something an innocuous as photos is wrought with thorny decisions. I have too many items in too many formats.
My godfather was a bachelor who spent a great deal of time with us and was an aficionado of gadgets. He was always willing to try something new and one area he focused on was photography. I spent my childhood being blinded by the flash camera and fascinated by the melting blue bulb when it was ejected. I always raced to pick it up and invariably burned my fingers. Every time. I was not the sharpest tool in the shed. My godfather took thousands of pictures of us and until recently, I had his box of Kodak slides from the 1950s and 60’s. About fifteen years ago I had the most meaningful slides converted to DVD format. There are great pictures of our parents in their prime and us kids at various stages, from sports uniforms, scouting outfits, dance recital costumes and proms. But there was a limit to what I could put onto DVDs and I was left with a significant number of slides I just didn’t have the heart to discard. Luckily when Bob came to visit a few months ago I mentioned the box to him and he gladly took it off my hands. Now it can take up space at his house and then someday his kids will discard them because they won’t know what to do with them either.
My love affair with slide photography ended in 1968 after some friends of my parents who had visited Europe came over for dinner, bringing the slides from their trip and their new carousel projector. We spent two hours watching slide after slide of churches, cathedrals, cafes and rivers, listening to them drone on about each attraction. I’ve had anesthesia that didn’t put me to sleep as effectively. I learned a lesson from that though – no one is as interested in your vacation pictures as you are.
My treasure trove of photos mirrors the progression of photography. I have a few Polaroid photos, which was the next fad after slides, I have a LOT of photos taken with disposable cameras, and an overabundance of photos with sepia or gray lenses from when my husband went through his “artistic” phase of photography with his SLR cameras. Video cameras became popular in the 80’s and my husband jumped on that bandwagon as well. While the video camera is long gone, I was able to convert the old tapes to DVD. My box of photos ends around 2010, because like many people, we started using a phone to take pictures. Now, I have hundreds of photos in the cloud and only get a printout for a special frame or symbolic occasion.
But my photo dilemma remains: what to do with the DVDs of our old slides and videotapes? I don’t own a DVD player anymore because I can stream just about any movie I want to see. Sure, I could get an optical reader to attach to my computer, but I have a feeling it would end up being one more thing I use once and ends up being clutter. My current plan is to convert the DVDs to a thumb drive and distribute them to the next generation. I figure from that point on it’s their job to worry about what comes after thumb drives. I think I’ve had enough format changes to last a lifetime. I will include a note to each of them about what the drive includes and who is who in all the old photos. Oh yeah, and a reminder never to bore people with their vacation photos.
Finally, our long national nightmare is over. Okay, that might be a little hyperbolic, but for those of us who are football fans it’s been a very long offseason. But this week we can finally watch a football game again and that is to be celebrated. If you’re a fan, you know that there’s just something different in the air when football season begins. If you’re not a fan, I guess you can run to Target and buy the Halloween decorations they’re already displaying. But for those of us who love the sport, the opening of football season always brings familiar rituals. Jerseys come out of closets. Fantasy drafts spark arguments. Tailgates return. Even a simple schedule release can become a reason to circle dates and imagine what might happen.
I grew up a 49er fan, and they remain my favorite team, even though they have broken my heart more times than I care to think about. But after 28 years in Arizona, I also root for the Cardinals, who have elevated losing into an art form. The good news is that for us Cardinal fans, this season arrives a little earlier and with an extra layer of pride. Our team will be playing in the first game of the 2026-27 season on Thursday. Sure, it’s the Hall of Fame game, which is generally a snoozer, but we have something – or should I say someone – extra to root for this year because the 2026 HOF class includes one of the greatest players the franchise has ever known: Larry Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald’s induction isn’t surprising, but it’s good to know that the NFL is acknowledging what Arizonans have known for years, namely that Larry Fitzgerald was special from the beginning, and he remained special for nearly two decades.
Fitzgerald’s numbers are staggering: 1,432 receptions, 17,492 receiving yards and 121 touchdowns across 17 seasons, all with the Cardinals. Only Jerry Rice finished with more catches and receiving yards in NFL history. But the numbers only tell part of the story. Fitzgerald was more than a stat sheet. He was reliability, professionalism and grace wrapped into one of the most complete wide receivers the game has ever seen. He could outleap defenders, run precise routes, make impossible catches look routine and deliver in the biggest moments.
Ask Cardinals fans about Fitzgerald, and the memories come quickly. The 2008 postseason run. The unforgettable sprint through the Pittsburgh Steelers defense in Super Bowl XLIII. The playoff classic against the Green Bay Packers, when he took over in overtime like a player refusing to let the moment slip away. Not only was he magnificent on the field, but he was also magnanimous in the work he did in the community. If there was a good cause that needed support, Larry Fitzgeral was there. Fitzgerald gave Arizona football some of its most electric Sundays, but he also gave the franchise something just as valuable: a high standard both on and off the field. Fitzgerald’s Hall of Fame recognition is a reminder that greatness in football is not only measured by explosive highlights. It is measured by consistency, preparation, toughness and the way a player carries himself.
The calendar may still say summer, and the Arizona heat may still be hanging around, it’s great to know that the NFL is back and college football is just around the corner. Also around the corner is my brother Bob’s Monday Night Football pool, that he has been running for more than 30 years. Last year I did a lot of research on ESPN about betting favorites and schedule difficulty. I came in almost at the bottom of the pool. Generally, the people who do well seem to make their choices based on the color of uniforms or because their Aunt Sally lives in Pittsburgh so obviously the Steelers should be favorites. In any event, I am just warning that if you participate in a football pool that the ESPN predictions are not your friend.
Regardless, for those of us who are fans we start this week with refreshed optimism. Every fan base gets to dream again. Every team is undefeated. Every Sunday feels like it is carrying the possibility of something memorable. The season is beginning, and one of Arizona’s all-time greats is taking his rightful place in Canton. That is a pretty perfect way to start.
We Sparrows usually don’t need an excuse to have a party, but on July 11th we had a very special reason to gather – brother Jack’s 85th birthday. Anyone whose family has multiple generations can attest that trying to get everyone together on one day is darn hard, but with just a few exceptions, we were able to gather 34 members of the family to celebrate Jack. People flew in from Texas and Arizona, and drove half the length of California, most able to stay just one night. But they all made the effort and as it turned out, Jack was not the only beneficiary of the party. But more on that later.
Jack, with daughter, ShelleyJack, with son Matt
We gathered in Bob and Linda’s beautiful, tropical backyard on Saturday afternoon. The kids had a blast swimming and diving into the pool. We watched a couple of them do “cannonballs” and remembered when we could do that. Now…we ease over to the edge of the pool, dip our toe in, and call it a day. Cornhole was also popular among the younger set, while many of us gathered around the televisions to watch the England-Norway FIFA match. Having a naturalized citizen from England in the family definitely led to a British cheering section. Although some of us wanted to do the “the row”, we refrained out of respect.
Jeff, Kate and Linda
After the match was (finally) over, we had a fabulous dinner delivered from a local Italian restaurant. Linda and I had gone to Costco the day before and bought extra lasagna, salads and, of course, cake. We were certain that she and Bob would be living off of leftovers for the coming weeks. But clearly, we had forgotten how much young people eat. They descended on the buffet table like a horde of locusts. They scooped up the food as fast as we could put it out. By the end of the night Bob observed that there wasn’t a morsel of food or hardly a drop of liquor left in the house. The Scots in Boston have nothing on us!
The Sparrow brothers and the next generation
Bob and Jack and some fine cigars
After dinner Bob and I presented our birthday program to Jack. We both read tributes that we had written and by the end, there was hardly a dry eye in the place. It’s sobering to review someone’s life but heartening to know that so many people appreciate a life so well lived. After that Bob picked up his guitar and distributed a songbook of Jack’s favorite songs. We were all in different keys and I don’t think we’re going to challenge the Osmond Family anytime soon, but what we may have lacked in tone we made up for in enthusiasm.
Today1955
After everyone left, Bob, Linda and I marveled at how well the day had gone. But mostly, we were beyond grateful that everyone came together to give Jack such a memorable day. We know that we are lucky to have such a wonderful family, whose members not only get along, but really enjoy spending time together. We laughed so hard and told so many fun stories. Earlier in the evening I had had a conversation with a few members of the next generation, recalling stories about our mom and dad (their grandparents), and it struck me that the generation after them will only know our parents through stories. And in time, the same will hold true for us. But what stories they will have to tell! I have no doubt that as long as Sparrows keep gathering, there will be laughter, and singing, and a deep appreciation for family. So, while this party was a gift for Jack, the memories created will be recalled and cherished by us all.
Some more photos of a great day –
Addison, Emma and Madelyn
Jason, Brooklyn, and Jeff
Mack and Riley
Dana, Stephanie, Abby and KateJeff, Jackson, Colin, Kate, Shelley, Suzanne, Abby and Matt
Hopefully you all had a wonderful Independence Day celebration. Because this was the 250th anniversary of our Declaration of Independence there has been a lot written in the past few weeks about those early days. It got me to wondering – since the population of the American colonies was largely British, and the English language became the predominant language throughout what is now the eastern U.S., why do we not speak with British accents? When did we evolve from speaking the King’s English to our own version of the language? Did it change early in our history or did the likes of George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, and Abigail Adams sound like King George III, William Wordsworth, and Jane Austen?
It turns out that the answer is almost certainly no. “American English” had come into common use by the time our Founding Fathers declared independence. But how? It is logical to assume that because Britain is extraordinarily rich in accents, one of those versions would have prevailed in the New World. In fact, in the Old World you only have to travel a few hours for the accent, and often the dialect, to change in very notable ways. Back in colonial times, as now, someone from London sounded quite different from a person from Yorkshire, Devon, or Liverpool — and accents were even more distinct in Scotland, Wales, or Ireland. And because people didn’t travel very far from home, many people spent their entire lives hearing just their local accent.
But when people from all regions of Great Britain began landing in the American colonies, they started mixing with each other. What resulted is a phenomenon known as “dialect leveling”. Dialect leveling is a phenomenon that occurs when a variety of different ways of speaking come into contact with one another, and the features that are most common — including accent and pronunciation — tend to overtake others. The outcome is a smoothing out of differences, thus eliminating distinct regional or social linguistic elements and creating a more standardized form.
In America, the leveling process was quick. Within a generation, Americans born in settlements such as Jamestown in the early 1600s, were already speaking differently than their parents. Yes, teenage rebellion existed even back then. And it wasn’t only the British mixing with one another. The early colonists came into contact with other European settlers speaking Dutch, Swedish, French, and Spanish, as well as Indigenous languages and, later, the languages of enslaved Africans — all of which contributed to the creation of early American English.
Visitors from the Old World were surprised when they heard American English. They had expected all kinds of accents to have developed, given the hodgepodge of dialects and languages spoken by the ragtag Americans. But instead, they were surprised by how uniform and standard the speech had become across the colonies, regardless of regional or class background. What is striking is that no one planned or imposed a common way of speaking. Settlers in the New World didn’t adopt any one group’s accent. Instead, they invented something new: a blended, democratized form of English. So, within one generation early Americans had forged their own speech, decades before independence. That said, one can reasonably argue that we have our own distinct regional accents, but that’s a story for a different day.
Our American version of English sets us apart. Which explains why we sometimes have trouble understanding people who speak in the “mother tongue”. When I am watching programs on Britbox I struggle to follow the dialogue and often turn on the subtitles. And don’t get me started on the Scottish, Irish, or God forbid, the Welsh, versions of English. I swear the Celts invented their own language just to irritate the English.
Every few years, the world unites in a grand celebration of football. Or as we in the U.S. like to say, soccer. Half of Americans’ experience with soccer begins and ends with 7-year-olds on a field, clueless about the game but excited about the sliced oranges at the break. The other half thinks FIFA is a type of allergy medication. But this year, something magical is happening: the Tartan Army and other international fan groups are pouring into the U.S. for the World Cup, ready to turn American cities into temporary outposts of global football culture. And America had absolutely no idea what was coming.
The Brazilians arrived radiating sunshine, samba, and the kind of confidence that comes from supporting a team that actually wins things. They immediately attempted to teach Americans how to dance, only to discover that many locals move like malfunctioning shopping carts. The English fans, who are thrilled to discover cheeseburgers and Ranch Dressing, enjoyed explaining—loudly, repeatedly, and to anyone within a five‑mile radius—that this will be their year. (It will not be their year.) The Norwegians came loaded for bear, having posed for their teamphoto as vanquishing ancient Norsemen. They have done “the row” (as if in the boat) at the stadium and more ingeniously, sitting on the “up” escalator at the Boston airport. The Germans showed up with precision, efficiency, and laminated itineraries. They are the only fan group that reads the stadium rules in advance. They are also the only ones who will arrive at the match three hours early “just to be safe.” I have some German lineage and I can attest that this is true.
The Argentinians arrived with Messi flags, Messi shirts, Messi tattoos, and at least one person who has named their firstborn “Messi.” They are prepared for glory. They are also prepared to argue passionately with anyone who suggests another player might be better. And meanwhile, we Americans are trying our best. We’ve decorated stadiums with red, white, and blue. We’ve Googled “how to chant like Europeans.” We’ve even practiced saying “nil” instead of “zero,” though it still sounds like we’re ordering a latte. But we learn quickly. After the win against Australia the U.S. fans sang “Country Roads” in unison, and people who were there said it was the most unified they had felt since 9/11. I wish John Denver was alive to hear how healing his song has become.
But let’s face it, it’s the Scots who have stolen the show. The Tartan Army has been Scotland’s most enthusiastic export after whisky and passive-aggressive weather. They arrived in full tartan regalia, kilts swishing proudly in the breeze, armed with bagpipes, optimism, and a deep, ancestral understanding that their team may not win—but by heaven, they will out‑party everyone. As they say, “No Scotland, no party!” They discovered that American beer is often served cold. Despite this, they still drank Boston dry. Many bar owners said they’d had to make emergency orders, having significantly underestimated how much the average Scot can drink. They also learned that some statues in the U.S. are quite tall, making it hard to place a traffic cone upon the top of it (long story – look it up). But just to show how charming the Tartan Army is, in Providence, R.I. the city maintenance workers gave a lift to a Scotsman in their cherry picker so he could complete the mission.
We Americans quickly learned that the Tartan Army is loud, joyful, and unstoppable. They sing in the streets. They sing in the stadiums. They sing in hotel elevators, which is confusing for guests who thought they were stepping into a quiet ride to the lobby and instead find themselves in a mobile Highland ceilidh. And yet—Americans fell in love with them. Because the Tartan Army, like all great football fans, brings something the U.S. can’t resist: pure, unfiltered, wholehearted enthusiasm.
They also brought manners and grace. A woman bartender in a Boston restaurant was the only person on duty when hundreds of the Tartan Army entered. She worked as quickly as possible to get them all drinks. When her shift ended, she told a local news reporter that to a person, they were polite, respectful and fun. The Scots had a party in a Boston park with over 2,000 people. Only one maintenance worker was scheduled to work the next day (I’m beginning to think Boston didn’t realize that FIFA was in town). Anyway, he said the park was so clean when he came to work, he just had to pick up the bags of trash the Scots had piled up for him. Finally, the Tartan Army was so overwhelmed by the friendliness and warmth of the Americans that they donated $30,000 to local charities as a thank you for welcoming them. And then they collected more money, giving $10,000 to a children’s cancer charity, $6,500 to a program to teach kids how to play the bagpipes, and $10,000 to a program that teaches underprivileged kids to play soccer. The Tartan Army reminded everyone that sport isn’t just about winning. It’s about belonging. It’s about joy. It’s about wearing a kilt in 105‑degree heat because tradition matters more than comfort. They’ll go home sunburned, dehydrated, and hoarse from singing—but proud. Because they didn’t just come to watch football. They came to conquer America, and they did. With kilts and kindness.
And we learned something about ourselves in hosting all of the international fans. In 11 host cities across the U.S., foreign tourists and ordinary Americans have created diplomacy that puts professionals to shame. And we got the wake-up call we needed: we are not our politicians or the media. We are good-hearted people who have more in common than we have differences. We love to gather together, laugh and sing. Now we just need to figure out a national chant.
