Thanking Dad and Donovan

This sweet Everton bottle coozie from the dollar store came with stickers! It will earn its first cap Friday in Hartford shortly before Landon Donovan earns his last.

Tim Howard grabbing that weak Algerian header was just an accessory in the killing of time at the end of a dismal World Cup, a miserable summer and, as a matter of fact, a pretty horrible four or five years for me. Then the best player in the history of American soccer flung the ball right, to the feet of the second best, and Landon Donovan didn't share my feeling that it was finally time to give up.

I was watching that final group stage game next to my father, in my room, in likely the worst physical and emotional pain I've ever experienced. A few months removed from a year of incarceration and a few days removed from my last oxy in a resumption of my addiction I'd picked up like an old friend after getting out of prison, I perked up as much as possible when Ian Darke broke out his timeless line, "and the break's on here for the USA..."

My parents and I weren't exactly on good terms in the summer of 2010, an expected side effect of stealing every dime someone has to put in your arm. But if dad and I were going to come together over anything, it was the US Men's National Team. So while I waited for a bed to open in rehab, I watched the greatest moment in American soccer history with one of two people left in the world who still loved me at that time (hi, mom!).

My father never came close to selling me on the Red Sox, didn't closely follow the NBA or NHL and succeeded only in passing along a small enthusiasm for the Patriots. But no prodding was needed to encourage 8-year old Ben to hop in the car and drive to Foxboro in the spring of 1997 to watch the US take on Mexico. I fell in love immediately. I'd never seen that many people in one place. I'd never seen such fanatics. I soaked in every moment of us overcoming an own-goal to salvage a tie and then soaked in every moment of being in the same vicinity as Carlos Valderama's majestic hair in the Mutiny/Revs nightcap.

Dad couldn't wait to take me to Ken's Steakhouse after the game and as we pulled in, I looked across the street and exclaimed, "Friendly's!!!" You see, at the time, we only had about five Friendly's in northwestern Vermont and I'd only eaten there a couple thousand times. Dad never argued. As he's done from day one for myself and my sisters, he saw to it that we got what we wanted no matter how much it inconvenienced him. Instead of discussing my first real game on the ride home after a nice steak, dad listened to the radio for four hours then carried his sleeping son inside. I'd wolfed down an
entire chicken pot pie and fallen asleep before we reached the interstate.

Two summers later we returned to Foxboro and sat high above the field as the US thumped Barbados. As long as I live I will never forget the sight of that Tab Ramos volley nearly going straight through the net. I spent hours and hours trying to perfect my own volley on the fields near our home. My only letdown from that game was not being able to use my "America's Behind Cobi" sign to get on TV, as my favorite player was on a yellow-card suspension.

Any disappointment from '99 was erased two summers later, when dad made sure to get tickets to the US/Jamica World Cup Qualifier the minute they went on sale. I can safely assume  now that he spent money he didn't really have to spend an unforgettable day with his son. Mission accomplished. 11 rows off the field right at the players entrance, I got a dozen autographs (Bruce Arena, Joe Max Moore, Cobi Freaking Jones!!!!). I said hi to Nomar Garciaparra, an avid fan on the field for the game (though he wasn't signing autographs, you Sox fans may remember his wrist wasn't in such great shape in the summer of '01). I watched the US drop Jamica (thanks to fine play from a young Landon Donovan) and yelled at opposing fans across the aisle. My dad and I stood about 30 feet from the US players as they celebrated punching a ticket to their best World Cup after seeing the desired Costa Rican result flash on the scoreboard. If a boy can have a better day, I don't know how.

****

Nine summers later, dad's boy wasn't having such a good day. But there we sat, enjoying the one remaining bond we had. As close as I was to giving up, my father hadn't. And neither had Landon Donovan. He handed off to Jozy Altidore in the corner and continued his full field run. Minutes away from a prompt World Cup exit, very apt for the particular USMNT fan that summer, Jozy centered the ball.

"And Dempsey is denied again..." Of course

"But Donovan has scored!!!!"

I don't think I heard the rest of Darke's historic call until replaying the game. I still remember just falling to my knees, amazed and relieved to remember that sometimes people come out of hopeless situations to grab a win. I hugged my father for the first time since he'd picked me up outside the Northern State Correctional Facility a few months prior.

Days later, I watched the US fall to Ghana practically through tears at a friend's house. That hope the US had given me days before was being brutally ripped away. Of course, I got it back for a minute when we won a spot kick, and who else was going to step up? Landon Donovan drilled that PK and I got to run around high-fiving my friend's family -- extrordinary happiness in an otherwise dismal time.

****

Things didn't get much better after that. A few days later, my parents dropped me off for an unsuccessful rehab stint. It wasn't until fairly recently that I finally grew up. I moved to Colorado for a few months and watched every minute of the 2014 World Cup, being reminded again by the USMNT more than once (and from both sides) that giving up is pointless. I mumbled each game that we'd be more successful with Donovan up top and cringed every time I saw him in a suit on TV at halftime.

17 years after my father took me to Foxboro to put something in my life that has, at times, been my only light, I get to return the favor. When I saw we were hosting Ecuador in Hartford on October 10th, I thought it would be nice to get tickets and go with him for his birthday. When it was announced that this Friday would be Donovan's last game in a USMNT uniform, I didn't hesitate.

It will be nice to thank Landon for what he's given me while I do the same for my father. I don't know if we'll see another play like the Ramos volley and I doubt we'll enjoy the day quite like 2001. But perhaps Donovan will do what Donovan does, find the back of the net, and dad can get a hug from a son who's finally attempting to make him proud sincerely for just about the first time since we last saw the USMNT in person. I can't wait.

Oh, and dad, you can pick the restaurant this time...

Thoughts on Penn State

It seems as though anyone with both a computer and a television is being required to write something about the events at Penn State, so allow me to fulfill my obligation. The few days since the news first broke have been nothing other than unbelievably depressing. Every new piece of information released shines light on someone else who dropped the ball. By all appearances, dozens of people were given information which should have set off alarms and I'm yet to see a story of one of those people doing the right thing. 

I've never had anything against Joe Paterno. In fact, I've always had great respect and admiration for the way he appeared to do things. I also do not think Paterno is a monster now. I don't know exactly what he knew, but I think it's clear that he found out something that should have concerned him more than it apparently did. The university isn't obligated to keep him as the face of its biggest program just because he didn't break a law. Paterno's main role at this late point in his career was as a symbol of the right way to do things. In this most important of cases, his actions were nothing to be exemplified. The fact that his inaction likely led to the suffering of so many children is enough to justify his termination. 

Questions still linger about what Paterno and others in the program really knew. You and I don't know what information people had, so it's not wrong to hesitate instead of rushing to judgement. Reading the grand jury report (a stomach-churning 23 pages, by the way), it is clear that plenty of red flags were raised. Enough was found out for administrators to ban alleged rapist Jerry Sandusky from the Penn State campus. That might be the worst thing for me. How the hell could those in charge see there was enough of a problem that they needed to cover themselves legally but not speak to AND FOLLOW UP WITH police? From the looks of the report, plenty of people heard of multiple instances where Sandusky was at the center of suspicious behavior and never put it all together. Each incident reported looks like something that could have been part of sexual abuse or something that just looked inappropriate coincidentally. The problem here is that once it's happened more than a few times, it's not a coincidence, and deep down those adults knew it.

There is nothing wrong with Penn State cleaning house here. Just because someone covered a legal obligation doesn't mean they acted in a way that the university should applaud. The graduate assistant who walked in on and essentially ignored an in-progress molestation should be gone (especially if Paterno is out). Again, just because you covered your ass legally doesn't mean you represented your program well enough to remain in it. The severity of Sandusky's crimes and the platform he used to enact them (it's a lot tougher for a young football player to walk away from a Penn State football coach making promises/threats than to walk away from another adult) are more than enough for Penn State to knock everything down and start from scratch. The football program is going to suffer regardless (would you want your kid going to PSU youth football camps and would you want to play there now if you were a recruit?) and if a few wins have to be sacrificed to save the university at large and send a message that child abuse will not be tolerated then so be it. 

There's a message here that may is already being lost in the arguments about the pathetic way Paterno was fired and the sickeningly misguided student riots. Lessons can be learned right now to protect millions of other kids and I'm not sure how many people are paying attention. Parents should not be leaving their children alone with adults they aren't extremely familiar with. If you do leave a kid with an adult for a while, talk to them thoroughly about what they did. Keep an eye out for abrupt changes in behavior and question what the cause of that could be. Be in contact with your child's teachers and coaches and ask to be alerted when someone other than a parent picks a kid up from school or practice. As devastating as this story is, attention can be paid  to the details that can help protect future victims.

It's wrong that Paterno and others didn't follow up after initially reporting such serious allegations. It's also wrong that Paterno was fired via a phone call. It's wrong that a few students chose such a poor way to show their coach how much they loved him. It's wrong that a kidnapped baseball player is being kept out of the news because some pervert is plastered on the front pages. It's wrong that Sandusky is too old to spend as many years in jail as he should and it's wrong that he'll probably be put in protective custody instead of getting what he really deserves from the general population. It's wrong that so many kids will never be the same.

What will be more wrong than any of that, though, is if we don't improve as a society because of this tragedy.

The Bank Shot Redemption

"I found a little amazing grace in the most unusual place..."

                                              -Mark Wills (Entertaining Angels)

There's a commonly accepted idea that the hardest night for an inmate is his first. You'll find no argument here. I can think of no tougher night in my life than that first one locked in a cell, alone with my thoughts of what an awful thing I'd done and the realization that my life was forever changed in a heartbreakingly negative way.

But the second toughest night for me in prison wasn't one you'd guess. It wasn't the night before I left. It wasn't Christmas Eve, Thanksgiving or my birthday. Once I got settled in and used to the life, I slept fine almost every night. In fact, when you're main priority is making time pass, you get pretty good at sleeping as much as you can. But I can remember one night I struggled to sleep while sitting alone with my thoughts of something awful I'd done. The second toughest night in jail for me was the night I cost my team the spring basketball league championship.

Not long after I arrived at Northern State Correctional Facility in Newport, VT, I saw a signup sheet for a basketball league. I was a little surprised to learn such a thing existed, but wasted no time putting my name on the list. I had only been at the jail for a few weeks and had so far not enjoyed my time. I didn't know anyone at all and kept mostly to myself. I needed a shave and a haircut and some clothes without holes in them, so people weren't exactly clamoring to make friends with me either. I'd been down to the gym a couple of times and shot some free throws when no one else was on the court, but hadn't yet worked up the nerve to ask in to a pickup game. 

A few days after the signup sheets were taken down, a tall man in his late 20's stopped me outside my housing unit one afternoon. 

"Are you Ben, um, Cowfman," he asked, his pronunciation indicating that my name and reputation weren't ringing throughout the prison quite yet.

I told him I was, and he said he'd put me on his basketball team during the captain's draft. His name was Henry (not really, but I won't be using actual names of other inmates) and he asked me to come by the gym later so he could see what kind of a player I was. I later found out I was the last player taken, thrown on to fill out a roster and unwanted since no one knew me or if I could even dribble a ball.

Henry was actually a hell of an athlete, maybe the best basketball player in Newport. He'd made several all star teams as a senior before running afoul of the law. I never made it to the gym before our first game, so Henry had to throw me in to the season opener blindly. 

Now the basketball league in Newport was not what you'd expect from prison ball. Run by the rec coordinator, Brad (a prison employee, not an inmate), there were 8 or 9 teams with 8 or 9 players each. We played 5 on 5 full court, running time. A manual scoreboard and actual scorebook were kept by inmate volunteers and Brad refereed every game. It was exactly like a college intramural league, except sometimes players couldn't participate because they'd been sent to the hole, had court or had been released. It was definitely physical basketball, but not the war zone games you see in movies. The trash talking was brilliant, but Brad was well enough respected to maintain order pretty well.

Each team captain was a spectacular basketball player. Then each team had another few very good players and rounded out with kids who would be given upstanding citizen awards before they ever made a shot on a basketball court. I was never a great basketball player, but was a smart one and a good enough athlete to get by. Henry didn't start me in that first game since he hadn't seen me yet, but I started every game after.

I ended up our second leading scorer, but my primary role was to play Steve Nash to Henry's Amar'e Stoudamire. I wasn't as good a shooter as Nash, and Henry was a much better shooter than Stoudamire. His best attribute was his ability to block shots and get to the rim fearlessly, but he had a silky three point shot and was unstoppable when he got hot. We developed incredible on-court chemistry and our team was clearly one of the best in the league.

That basketball league was an incredible thing for inmates, especially for me. It gave me an identity and helped me adjust to prison life better than any other bullshit program could have. I lived for game day (we played a 2-3 days a week for a couple of months before the single-elimination playoff tournament). I ran daily to get in better shape and wouldn't lift weights the night before a game. I stretched in the morning, was careful of what I ate and even went over tape (mentally, at least) to prepare for the game. I started socializing with other players and felt like I had something resembling a group of friends. I was good enough on the court to earn respect from others playing and people watching who would have considered me a total punk otherwise. 

Unquestionably the best feeling I ever had in prison was the end of our first playoff game. We were down a point with Brad counting down the final 10 seconds as I brought the ball up the court. Two players went to Henry at the top of the 3 point line as I came down the right sideline. I had a shooter open on the baseline and a decent look at the three myself. Henry called for the ball despite the limited space he had, flanked by our opponent's two best players. But Henry had carried us the whole game, hell, he'd carried us the whole season. He'd topped 40 points twice at least (no small task when the average final score was something like 55-50) and he was red hot shooting that day as well. If Henry wanted the shot, it was his. Maybe he was going to drive and try to earn a pair of free throws (two guaranteed points, by the way). I threw the ball to Henry where the defense couldn't reach. He grabbed the ball, took two hard dribbles right through the defenders and pulled up about five feet behind the line.

I've never seen a ball swish quite so sweetly in all my life. How Henry hit nothing but net from that distance under that pressure, I'll never know. I jumped on Henry before he could even raise both arms and the rest of the team followed suit. Frustration gave way to respect and the other team clapped for Henry too. After all, there was no stopping that shot anyway. I've been on courts and fields for buzzer beaters and walkoffs, but that shot in the jail basketball league will always be near the top of my list of sports memories.

We got all the way to the championship. There wasn't much to be won physically (a few dollars worth of commissary goods) but bragging rights for a year is one hell of a prize in prison. It was one of the best basketball games I've ever been involved with. Back and forth, physical but clean and all kinds of great plays. I played one of my better games games; a couple of threes and some good layups, at least 10 rebounds and close to 10 assists (all to Henry). Again we trailed by a point when I brought the ball up and inside of 10 seconds to play. I came down the right side with Henry planted on the right baseline. I knew what he was thinking, they didn't have anyone who could stop him on a backdoor cut. He started to break toward the hoop and I threw an absolutely perfect pass between a pair of defenders. 

Henry and I had almost been thinking the same thing. He knew they'd expect the backdoor cut so he faked to the hoop then stayed for a wide open 15 footer. We both watched as my pass went right through the defenders and right through the bathroom door. The ball, the game and everything we'd done that season heading right down the shitter.

We lost with Henry screaming at me as I pretended to listen. I was so crushed that I couldn't pay attention to anything going on around me. For the first time in my life as a basketball player I'd been trusted with the ball and its distribution and I made the wrong decision at the worst possible time.

Because that league and those games meant so much more to me in there than any game on the outside ever could, I took the loss hard. I didn't really talk to anyone the rest of the day or for a few days after. I didn't eat dinner that night and I certainly didn't sleep at all. I just sat in my bed replaying those final few seconds and going over every alternative that ended with a championship.

Life went on, and it's not like I could get away and take my mind off things. Henry and I spoke again after a few days and put the game behind us. After a week or so I started playing basketball again nightly and by now had no reservations about jumping in to the nightly game. I met good friends through basketball and always had something to look forward to. On my birthday, I played some of the best basketball of my life. There's not much good about turning 21 in jail, but I swear I must have hit 21 three pointers from every spot imaginable that night. I had other good games and bad ones, but can't say I was too upset that my year long sentence was finishing up when the sign up sheet went up for the league the following year.

Some people might read this and think it's despicable that inmates are allowed to have so much fun. I don't know why society often expects its inmates to be treated so poorly. The punishment is isolation, believe me, that's punishment enough. I would have traded every second of that basketball league to spend time with my friends and family. But I can tell you that inmates like myself were better off both in prison and upon reentering society when we're distracted and somewhat happy inside instead of stewing and thinking the outside world is no place for us. I have hope that someday I'll have those great feelings from prison basketball again, but that they'll be even greater because I'll find them in something meaningful out here in the real world. I use that hope as motivation to live a better life than I did before and to treat others with respect and dignity. So if you ever have the chance to help improve or just care about people in prison, remember it's not a reward for bad behavior but rather a chance to create better citizens.

And some day when I'm teaching my children how to play basketball, I won't just be talking about the game when I tell them to think and communicate before they give up control of the ball.