A Push Up Challenge at the Salem Y!

Four years ago I began working with the young son of a friend. He was 13 and was looking for a way to build some strength and become a better athlete. He wanted to be able to throw the baseball harder and to jump higher.

I told James that I could help him with that. Specifically I promised that if he did the exercises as I taught them in a dedicated fashion he would become stronger but more importantly he would become better conditioned. At the end of the game I promised, he would still be able to run as fast and jump as high as he could at the beginning of the game. That alone would give him a huge advantage over stronger, faster opponents. James worked diligently and after four years he has come far. His fastball hops, over 80 MPH and his leg strength is superior. He also wrestles for St. John's Prep Danvers, MA and made some varsity appearances in both sports in his sophomore year of 2009-10.

This is not about all of that.

James decided that this was the year he would challenge and beat me in doing military style push ups. I teach this exercise very strictly and have yet to have a client be unhappy with the results. He challenged me at the beginning of the summer which gave both of us time to prepare. I taught James a palms on the floor version of the classic "Jack LaLanne" push up in order to help him prepare. His Dad kept me apprised of his dedication and progress and began in the last few weeks to drop hints that I was going to get whipped.

Well, not being a fool and also being a gentleman of a certain age (I was born at the end of the "I like Ike era") I took steps to insure that I also would be ready.

Today the day of the challenge arrived. James and his father Peter were waiting for me when I arrived. First we agreed to flip a coin to see who would go first. We also agreed that the basic military rest position would be allowed (ass raised to take the stress from the arms and shoulders but no contact with the ground except for hands and feet). You could assume the rest position as often as desired but only could hold it for a five count. Peter flipped the quarter, James called heads. When the coin hit the floor it rolled for about twelve feet and for a moment we thought it would stay standing on it's edge. When if fell, it was heads. James opted to let me go first. Bastard!

We then warmed up. James did some dips and a couple of pull-ups. I did 20 Jack LaLanne push-ups on my finger tips. That may have psyched him out just a little bit. There was method to my madness.

His Dad did a set first just for kicks. Peter is 54 and had never been a muscle head but keeps himself in good shape. He did 46 but I think could have done 8-10 more.

Down to the floor I went. I had rested my upper body for two full days. I pumped out 40 good strong ones before choosing to rest. Perhaps I should have gone to 50. Hindsight is 20/20. I assumed the rest position and then did 10 more. After that I did increments of five until I got to 60. From 60 to 70 it was three or two until I got to 71. There were a few left, but at 50 years old I worry about injury when fatigue reaches a certain level and decided discretion was the better part of valor.

James was up next. He also did 40 good strong reps before resting. I had to remind him to go good and low a few times but overall they were good solid push ups. He began to slow down after 45 and ended at 56. I think he could have done a few more but I am still in his head a bit.

He did very well for a 16 year old. We don't do the push ups your average high school athlete does. Ours are full range of motion, chest to the floor, elbows straight at the top, ass staying level with the shoulder push-ups. They are not for the week end superstar.

Just for the hell of it we all did a second set after a ten minute rest. Peter did 51, I did 47 and young James went to 52. He got me there. Recovery comes faster at the younger age.

I have no intention of letting him catch me next year, but think his intentions may be different.

Nocturnal Trepidations

Dreams simple and unadorned. We all have them. This was written in 1999 after almost twenty years of the same dream.

I am slowly moving uncontrolled through a dark forbidding space surrounded by numbers that exude malevolence and are too large to be counted, but I attempt to count anyway. The more I count the larger and more the numbers become. The longer the dream the more desperate and helpless I become. When I wake in the dark, alone in the room sweat is great and cold on my body, my mouth dry and sandy and my throat and chest tight as a drum.

NOCTURNAL TREPIDATIONS

The dreams began so long ago,

across a country and an ocean.

I do not know from whence they came

or what put them into motion.

They start out with the counting,

numbers that never cease.

I swim and pitch amongst them

and feel the anger of the beast.

The monster lives within me,

but to others is not there

but in nasty little glimpses

which emerge from latent fear.

My sleep is seldom steady,

as I fight with restless ghosts.

The mother of my silent screams

rules nights as loathsome host.

To wake and lie in horror,

as the night begins to creep

move the numbers ever closer

as the terror makes me weep.

A bottle calls me clearly,

as a place where I can cower.

Old Jack and number seven

give the numbers greater power.

Time is not the answer,

as the numbers still remain.

They linger in the darkness

as a subtle soaking pain.

BaldBil's Scotch & Cigar's Night!!!

This coming Thursday, August 5th is the date for the 4th Annual BaldBil Scotch & Cigar's Night. It will be hosted by my good friend Clayton Green. Clayton is a member of the Salem YMCA Board of Directors and is gracious enough to allow me to use his expansive back yard for this event. We will have a fine selection of blended and single-malt Scotch whiskies for guests to sample provided by Quality Liquors of Salem and Kappy's of Peabody. Mike Allen of the Red Lion Smoke Shop on Washington Street in Salem is providing the cigars. Mike will also speak briefly on his choice of cigars and will answer any questions you may have. He has traveled to the source on a few occasions and and has an extensive body of knowledge on the subject. Last year he explained why some cigars are somewhat square in shape. Clayton will prepare some caribbean cuisine. He makes a great hot sauce that is both spicy and full of flavor.

Of the two YMCA fundraisers that I hold each year this is my favorite. You are guaranteed to meet a great and interesting group of local characters and raconteurs.

The Salem YMCA provides many opportunities for the kid's of our fair city to participate in educational and productive activities which assist them in their attempts to become good honest members of society. I have had the pleasure and privilege to see and experience this first hand. Their is no cause closer to my heart than this one. Their services range from pre-school and day care to teen programs. We all at one time or another in our lives have been a part of the problem, this is a small chance for you and I to be a part of the solution.

I look forward to seeing old friends and to meeting some new friends at this event as we sit and socialize with Clayton for a great and worthwhile cause.

See you there!

What's In A Name

One day quite a while back I walked into the Lobster Shanty in Salem. I had become somewhat of a regular there. Most days after work you could find me there drinking a couple of beers or having some dinner. The Shanty was a different place back then. It and Salem have changed a lot. Some of the changes are for the better and some are not.

This particular fall day I discovered that they had $2 squares for Monday Night Football. Bobby Gauthier, the bartender ( he now works at the 99 on Bridge St.) gave me the grid. Looking at it closely I noticed that there were already a few Bill's of various types with their names in the boxes.

There was Bill Kelly, who owned the place, Bill Stone, an everyday scotch and milk (yes that's right scotch and MILK) drinker, Cowboy Bill, a wandering Kentucky rebel and of course the well known Billy-Willy. I couldn't just put "Bil" in the square. That would be boring. Thinking quickly I wrote "BaldBil" in three squares and gave Bobby my $6. He took the money, looked at the grid and laughed.

"BaldBil! You're stuck with it now!"

And I was. Little did I know at the time that it would become my name over all others.

As a kid I had always wanted a nickname. I grew up with a kid called Chunky, one we called Dooba and another one known as Hacky. No nickname ever stuck to me though. One kid used to call me "Bade" for some reason, but it never caught on. My red hair inspired no colorful monickers despite my father being known as the 'Red Dog" and my Uncle being referred to as "Little Red". I was Billy and that was that.

The Air Force provided me with my first nickname. In the barracks in Japan one night while watching some garbage on the AFN (Armed Forces Network) the boys noticed an actor by the name of Lance Legault. He was always a bad guy and often times would end up being beat up or killed. With a deep baritone and hawkish looks he fit the bad guy roles well. At that very moment I became known as "Lance." It did not end there.

We were Security Policemen. After a few incidents both on and off duty some of the guys began to call me "Gonads." That was a reference to a couple of different times where I did some crazy things. I was also told it was a result of a someone commenting on something a little more personal. There is not a lot of privacy in the military. The two names soon morphed in "Lance LeGonads." To this day if hear "Hey Lance" or Hi ya Gonads" I will know it is someone I knew in Japan speaking to me.

The Army was a different story. I was older, an NCO and was pretty much all business. Any names I may have acquired were uttered out of earshot.

Spending seven years in Lawrence, MA proved to a unique and life altering experience. As I look back it is a wonder that I wasn't killed. There were a few moments where it could have and perhaps should have happened. I worked as a machinist and on the side as a bouncer at some local clubs. Did the door and floor at the Claddagh for a while and also at the Loft and Ladle. They were both on Essex St at the time. I also worked at two different Spanish clubs. The Associacion Civica and Los Tartoros. Both places were a mix of Dominicans and Puerto Ricans. These guys called me "Toro Pequeno" for Little Bull and also "El Calvo". The latter is what inspired my using BaldBil on the Shanty football squares.

What's in a name? Whatever you want I suppose.

Front Street Coffee Shop

This was written on a warm day in March.

Front Street Coffee Shop

Sitting at Front Street Coffee

sipping tea and reading papers.

People come and then they go

while I sip, read and watch.

Lawyers, bankers young and old

order coffee espresso and bagels.

Kids on bikes and skateboards

in a search for that caffeine blast.

Behind the counter is Colleen

small and Irish in every way.

Sweet and blonde, slight and sexy

a passion for music in her blood.

Some days Amber is on the pour

taller with subtle curves sultry eyes

Her clothing unique and personal

reflect a free and soaring spirit.

Men and women enter and leave

a constant flow of the Salem essence.

Sipping tea and reading papers

sitting at Front Street Coffee.

GRANITE MEMORIES

This is new this year. In truth it is still a work in progress. I recently moved and there is a large cemetery close by. I have taken some walks and runs around it. The other night I woke up at 3am and couldn't get back to sleep so I climbed the fence and took a walk in the dark. An interesting experience.

GRANITE MEMORIES

Small rolling hills and narrow roads,

shrubs, shade tress and flower beds

 lead visitors to their destinations

in front of a carved piece of stoic granite.

They sit amongst many other stones,

cold and hard with letters chiseled

as short and enduring testament

of person passed and deeds of life.

Towards each stone a path does wind

to a symbol placed by living for dead

where the shrubs and trees live and breath

from shared soil beneath carved granite.

Shrubs do flower and trees grow tall,

as the stone stays cold and damp

sharing sun and shade and rain and cold

as life lords a perpetual cycle over death.

Visitors muse and reflect in silent pose,

under the trees and beside the shrubs

standing over memories preserved in granite

serving only those who live and remember.

Small rolling hills and narrow roads,

shrubs shade trees and flower beds

all lead visitors to their destinations

in front of a carved piece of cherished memory.

A little something I put together some time back. You can decide for yourself how much of it is real or not.

A NIGHTS WORK ON WEST STREET

The night was cold and the sky was dark and clear. My breath rose visibly into the night sky. Walking slowly on West Street wearing a cammo jacket, blue jeans and a new pair of corcoran jump boots I felt like there was business to be conducted. In a shoulder holster I carried a Llama .22 caliber semi-automatic pistol with a full clip of stingers and one in the chamber. The safety was off. A Beretta .380 rested snugly in the small of my back. It too was ready to go. In my left sleeve, in a quick -release holster I had made myself was my favorite weapon, a Fairbairn commando dagger.

I was approaching a large park with a ball field. My eyes scanned both sides of the street as I approached the access road that led to the main gate. I had adjusted to the available light, the street lamps were not very good and a few did not work at all. Two characters sat on some steps a few blocks down. They were exactly where I expected them to be. Seemingly aware of me they remained on the steps. Feigning ignorance of their presence I turned onto the access road and strode with purpose to the gate by the backstop. This road was the only quick way out from the back of the park. I stopped to lace a boot when I got close to the gate. With a furtive glance back I verified that my two friends had taken the bait. They were following me in to the park. Like true miscreants, they had intent but no plan. Of that I was sure. My heart rate increased but only for a moment. A few slow deep breaths did the trick. Focusing on the task at hand I entered the park and walked to a bench alongside the third base line. A building behind the bench that created a night shadow. West Street was 350 feet away. Whatever transpired here would be seen by no one. I sat at the far end of the metal bench and waited for their approach.

The minutes passed slowly. I sat with my head down,my hands between my knees. They had stopped at the backstop to discuss things. I had them confused. A white guy, on foot, on West Street at three in the morning. Gringos were always in cars after dark. They would come in from Andover or southern New Hampshire looking for drugs or a blow job. Leaving the car was out of the question. Three or four streets connected West to Broadway which would bring them out of the city in minutes. My two friends chattered loud enough for me to hear smattering of Spanish and English. They began towards me still unsure of the situation. Now I was reeling them in. From the corner of my eye I saw them pass a bottle between each other. Their need for liquid courage only made my job easier. Thank goodness for stupidity. It often made things much easier. I dropped my head further and focused on listening to their footfalls. I relaxed as the moment neared and prepared for what was to come. My right hand quickly touched the sleeve that contained the fairbairn.

Finally they came near. My head remained down but I could see all I needed to see. The distant lights caused them to cast long thin shadows. They came close enough for me to smell the sweat of their long day on the steps. It was a foul pungent mix of evil intent and nervous tension. The taller one stopped right in front of me. He wore a short heavy coat and a dark Yankees cap with a straight brim. The other guy, shorter and stocky had on a pea coat but no hat. He looked to be the more nervous of the two. As I looked them over I offered a smile. It was meant as a warning. Looking directly at the taller one I held the smile and said nothing. He then stepped to my right a bit and then sat on the bench just a few inches from me. I could not have written a better script than what I now was experiencing.

He looked down at me and asked in a belligerent street tone; "What you want man, why you here in the park?" he then took a seat on the bench. "Well" I replied; "I'm here to see you two."

The one on the bench turned to speak as soon as he sat down. As he did I quickly raised my right elbow up to my shoulder while keeping my hand close to my body, palm in, fingers curled in and loose. With a powerful sidewards strike I smashed his left ear and temple. He fell back ind out and whatever sense he possessed evaporated. Rising and rotating to my left I followed through with my forearm right into the face and head of his partner. He had no time to react and absorbed the strike completely. As he fell forward I arrested my forward motion, grabbed both of his shoulders and drove his face into the frozen ground. Straddling his back I

banged his head into the dirt two more times. Staying on him I looked left to his buddy. he lay behind the bench with one leg still resting on the seat. He moaned lowly but did not move.

Standing up I looked around and listened intently. A car drove slowly on West Street, probably looking for my two new found associates. I heard only a dog barking in the distance. The dull illumination of the streetlights provided a surreal background. I lowered myself to one knee, pulled out the knife and grabbed the second shit head by the hair. After driving his head into the ground one more time I turned his head to the left and used the Fairbairn to slice off his earlobe. He did not make a sound but his partner continued his low moaning. He had managed to crawl a small distance but was in condition to do much else.

Waking slowly to the back of the park I jumped the fence onto the railroad tracks that ran behind it. As I went down the tracks the dogs barking became louder and closer. There was a salvage yard next door to the park and the dog was there. I approached the fence and tossed the earlobe into the yard.