Into the Dark

It’s been over a year since we’ve seen or heard from Moisè

A year since that night.

Without warning, the Secret Police came and burst through the door with a battering ram, guns drawn, angrily shouting orders for everyone to lie down on the floor. Then, one slightly older man in an impeccably tailored black uniform, stepped in over the remains of the door, then tracked salty mud onto the heirloom rug. He clearly was the one in charge. With controlled intensity, he asked, “Which one of you is Moisè Goldberg?”

Moisè answered, and started to turn to face him.

“Don’t move! Sergeant, take him into custody!”, the man barked.

Father asked, “On what charge?!”

The man in the black uniform shouted, “Silence! Or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing justice!”

They took Moisè away.

Just a week before, Moisè had attended a rally at which a new organization was demonstrating for reforms to the government, such as protecting civil rights, lower taxes, and less government control over our activities and businesses. We had told Moisè not to go, because we had heard members of the party denounce this organization as subversive and a threat to national security, and it seemed like a risk to be there. But Moisè scoffed at our concern, thinking it was nothing but political hyperbole.

We’ve tried calling local and national law enforcement, courts, jails, and elected officials, but they all gave us essentially the same answer, that is, no answer at all about the whereabouts, status, or condition of Moisè. We even tried the newspapers, but they told us that what we asked was very dangerous, and that they were themselves barred from any information. We hired a lawyer, but he too was denied any information at all.

We’d heard rumors of camps to where certain people had been taken, but had no way of knowing if they really existed, much less if Moisè was there.

We don’t even know if Moisè is alive.

Is this a story from Nazi Germany? The Soviet Union?

No. This is a scenario that could easily occur in the United States of America if President Obama signs the “National Defense Authorization Act” (NDAA) that was overwhelmingly passed by the US House of Representatives, and just yesterday overwhelmingly passed by the US Senate.

Under the NDAA, the government would be authorized to arrest and imprison, indefinitely, American citizens on American soil on mere suspicion of terrorist activity or suspicion of having some affiliation with a terrorist organization. Furthermore, under NDAA, no evidence need be produced, no charges need be filed, no hearings need be held, no writ of habeas corpus need be responded to, nor any trial date set indefinitely, all in complete, comprehensive, and egregious violation of every constitutional guarantee of due process.

Under NDAA, any government official could manufacture “suspicion”. Remember just last Summer, Obama and Secretary of Homeland Security Janet Napolitano publicly and clearly stated that Tea Party activists could be “terrorists”. On this basis alone, someone who attended a Tea Party rally could be arrested and locked up with precisely no recourse and no hope.

Don’t like the Tea Party and don't care if they get arrested? What if a politician decided that OWS, or other organization you might support overtly or passively, was declared 'a potentially a terrorist organization'? This is an even easier fabrication since some people at OWS events have committed violent crimes, including throwing incendiary devices. You were there? You're a terrorist. No? You publicly expressed support of the movement? You’re a terrorist. Good bye!

Obama has indicated he will sign this bill of overt tyranny into law, reversing an earlier threat to veto it.

Please call and write to President Obama and tell him NOT to sign this blatantly unconstitutional, egregious violation of constitutionally protected (supposedly) civil rights.

If he signs it, support organizations and lawyers who will sue against the NDAA in federal courts, maybe even the Supreme Court. Write to newspapers, TV stations, web sites, etc, then vote Obama and all who voted for this, Republican and Democrat, out of office.

Of course, because of doing so, you could in turn be called by a tyrannical government official, a “terrorist”.

This is no joke. Act now!

The Ninth Commandment

Yesterday, I happened to find myself witness to several high school guys browsing Facebook and commenting on the various posts and people they were scanning. Their conversation turned very ugly and cruel as it gleefully focused on a certain girl and her supposed, let's say, unconventional, intimate actions. Of course, none of these boys were witness to anything they were insisting was "an absolute fact". I tried to explain to them that such suppositions, and spreading them, were wrong and cruel - even if true. I also told them that I have seen peoples' lives severely damaged by such. I don't think I convinced them. Perhaps growing up will bring them around. Then again, I regularly see 'grown-ups' do precisely the same thing.


Perhaps the thoughts below will help a few people reconsider and modify such behavior:


In the Judeo-Christian ethical/moral/legal tradition, the Ninth Commandment tells us that we "Shall not bear false witness". This concept is pretty much held as a universal and important value in the world, including by most secular ethical/legal systems and most non-believers. Indeed, penalties for perjury in the US legal system are severe, and hearsay, that is, testimony talking the form of 'person-A told me person-B did X', is inadmissible in US courts and most worldwide.


Most people understand "bearing false witness" simply as lying, but it goes further than that. It also applies to saying things about people that are not verifiably known to be true, also known as GOSSIP. 


Time after time, I have read and heard things about friends of mine and myself that I know to be completely FALSE. I've also read and heard things about people I barely know or don't know that seem to have the same 'stink' about them. These things are presented in spirit ranging from innocent to humorous to speculative to outright vindictive and malicious, but the innocent, humorous, and speculative can end up being every bit as damaging as the intentionally vindictive and malicious, and damaging these things indeed have been. 


Of course, these things are almost NEVER uttered in the presence of the person who is the subject of the gossip, which compounds the transgression with cowardice. 


These bits of gossip take many forms: 'x is [verb]ing [noun]'; 'x is [verb]ing y'; 'x is a [noun]'; etc. I know that some of the things I've heard are absolutely false, that other have precisely no proof, so it follows that many other things I hear or read are similarly without basis. 


Sometimes, these things take on the form of 'campaigns', in which a person has some axe to grind or a grudge, and repeatedly lashes out at some real or imagined 'enemy'. 


Sometimes such behavior takes the form of lacing what could be construed as legitimate gripes with wild and copious accusations of conspiracies and outright false and bizarre accusations of crimes and "moral" offenses. Such a person might define his/her beliefs very narrowly, then considers any disagreement a personal as well as ideological affront, and as such collects self-identified enemies as both 'badges of honor' and confirmations of supposed 'persecutions'. Of course, in these cases, perhaps a bit of understanding is in order, since these could easily be manifestations of severe neurosis or other mental illness. 


But for the most part, we can all take care NOT to gossip:


Is what you're about to say or write verifiably true, and by verifiably, I mean not just because someone else said so? If not, do not say it, write it, or repeat it. 


If what you're about to say or write is verifiably true, does it serve any positive purpose to bring it to light? If not, don't say it or write it. If you feel you must say or write it, at least go to the person or persons involved PRIVATELY and try to work it out PRIVATELY before you make it public fodder that could damage someone. And if you do want to damage someone, maybe you'd be better off getting psychological help or consulting a lawyer on defending against a slander lawsuit. 


And remember, just because you don't think you have malicious intentions in saying or writing something, it doesn' mean that it won't have that effect. Indeed, it often does. And things you think think are said in confidence have a way of getting out and around, including to people you would not want to learn of these things. 


Think about it.

The REAL Big Game: Life and Death

Along with about 30,000 of my fellow Cal people, and maybe 20,000 Stanford people, I was enjoying a typically temperate California Autumn afternoon watching the latest iteration of one of American football's oldest and most-loved and occasionally spectacular rivalries, the 1993 Cal vs Stanford Big Game, watching to see which team would earn the right to take home the Big Game's trophy, 'The Stanford Axe'.

As usual, the horrid Stanford Band took the field at half-time to demonstrate how 'unorthodox' and 'irreverent' they are, in their standard and utterly predictable manner, which went from being amusing and novel to boring and stale some time in the Mid '60s about two years after they started this affectation.

Stanford, unable to resolve their aching compulsion to be 'politically correct' and at the same time appear 'democratic' despite the Stanford president's fatwa that "the mascot issue is not up for a vote", and come up with a respectable mascot everyone could accept and believe would not offend anyone or anything, went from being the 'Indians' to the 'Cardinal'. Not the ecclesiastical official. Not the bird. The color. Stanford, paralyzed by 'political correctness' and a lack of creativity and cohesion had now renamed themselves a color. Of course, this was recognized by the few dozen smart and sane people at Stanford as being extremely lame, so they largely rejected the color thing, especially since coming up with a mascot costume to depict a color was just bizarre - what are you going to do, have a guy dressed up as a color swatch leading cheers and such? No. So, they adopted as a mascot something Stanford was well known for having a lot of and indeed featured on its seal: Trees. They came up with a Tree costume and finally Stanford had an identifiable, although unofficial, mascot.

And today the 'Tree' was hard at work taunting opposing fans, players, and mascots. As the Stanford Band went about its running around in circles and playing bad song arrangements very badly, the Tree danced frantically next to them.

Suddenly, I noticed in the bleachers across the stadium from me, a commotion in the crowd down near the fence bordering the playing field. Two young men leaped the fence onto the field. Security guards collapsed on them and manged to catch one. But the other broke loose, leaving his torn shirt in the hands of the security guard who tried to use the shirt as handle, and sprinted onto the field. The security team lit out after him, but kept losing ground to the much faster culprit. I went from mildly amused to very excited as I realized he was on a beeline for the Stanford Band, which was completely absorbed in their contrived display of 'spontaneity' and oblivious to what was going on in the broader world around them.

I didn't know just how yet, but I knew this was going to be good.

The man dashed right by the first band members he encountered, momentarily puzzling me. Then the situation became entirely clear: He was at full speed and locked on to the Stanford Tree, obliviously spinning and waving his 'branches' erratically to the music like a drunken dervish. Clearly, he had had enough of the Tree's taunts, and was intent on a reckoning.

Over a post-game beer, it was declared by several Cal football alumni friends of mine, including Kevin Moen of 1982 'Big Play' touchdown fame, that this was the biggest and best hit of the whole game.

The man dove into the air, flew headlong, and mercilessly tackled the Tree at hip height, instantly dropping it and scattering the two of them across the grass. I actually cringed at the sight.

The band members then snapped out of their trance and converged, kicking at the man like a bunch of five-year-old girls trying to play soccer.

Finally, security caught up and rescued him from the onslaught of Stanford's most pencilly pencil necks, handcuffed him, and led the shirtless man away, now with an ear-to-ear, clearly-satisfied and elated grin on his face as he acknowledged the roaring approval of the crowd.


Eight years later, this same man found himself on an airplane which had been violently hijacked for the purpose of crashing into a building in Washington DC. United Airlines Fight 93, September 11, 2001. He made the decision to fight back, along with other passengers.


This was the REAL Big Game, now. Life or death, not just his and the passengers', but those of untold numbers of innocent people on the ground. He took back 'The Axe' from the filthy savages that murderously hijacked the plane. Although he and his fellow passengers didn't survive, they saved the lives of those who were targeted on the ground. 

He won life's Big Game.


That man's name is Mark Bingham, Cal Varsity Rugby alumnus and hero.


Never forget!

A Bridge to Glory

Every day, I drive under, by, or over this bridge. Hundreds of thousands of people do the same.

I wonder how many of them are aware of the fact that this bridge, this overpass of Fostoria Way over I-680 in San Ramon, California, is also a monument to a national hero?

Ten years ago, September 11, 2001, a group of evil, filthy savages took control of four commercial airliners by cutting the throats of the unarmed crews, for the purpose of murdering further thousands of innocent human beings by means of turning the aircraft into exploding missiles. One of those airliners was United Airlines Flight 93.

The passengers of Flight 93 learned via phone of the earlier plane attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Not willing to wait for their now obvious fate like sheep to the slaughter, the passengers of Flight 93 organized themselves to counter attack those low-lifes and take back control of the airplane, and hopefully save themselves, as well as the lives of hundreds or thousands on the ground below.

These heroes did indeed manage to thwart the maniacal plot of the hijackers and save an unknowable number of people on the ground, but not without giving up their own lives. Although they prevented their plane from being used against a target in Washington DC, they could not avoid the plane and themselves being nearly vaporized on a field in Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

One of those heroes was Thomas E Burnett of San Ramon, California. He left behind a wife and kids, a legacy of heroism, selflessness, and glory, and a nation's debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. It is after him that that little bridge over I-680 is named.

"Let's roll!" - Todd Beamer, hero of Flight 93

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." - John 15:13

A Contradiction in Terms: Organized Labor

Yesterday, September 5, 2011, the president of the Teamsters labor union, James Hoffa, referring to the tens of millions of Americans who are members of, or identify with the Tea Party movement, declared that his followers should "take these son-of-a-bitches out." [sic]

Given the Teamsters' and Hoffa's own family's sordid history of violent thuggery and murder against people who choose not to join unions, this is no trivial remark, nor one that can be dismissed as simply "heated political rhetoric".

Indeed, I have witnessed first hand instances of such violence, or threatened violence.

This threat from Hoffa must be taken seriously, because even if he really did only mean "take out" metaphorically, there is a significant segment of his union and his circle who eagerly look for opportunities to visit physical violence on those who don't toe the union line, and they will certainly take Hoffa's exhortation seriously.

Meanwhile, the President of the United States, Barack Obama, sat nearby, smiling, then said nothing about Hoffa's incitement against millions of hard-working, law-abiding Americans. And still, a day later, nothing from the teleprompter-in-chief.

Also, while Hoffa claims to be "standing up for the American worker", he seems to forget that most American workers are not members of unions, nor do they want to be. In fact, union membership in the USA is less than 12% of the workforce, and dropping, and fully 36% of union members are government workers.

My personal acquaintance with union thuggery:

Two union thugs visited my dad's small business with the goal of signing up the staff with the union. My dad allowed them in to speak with the staff during their breaks, then hold a vote on whether to join the union. The staff, being well-treated and well-paid there, and knowing that the union would take some of their paycheck for nothing in return plus spend it on political candidates and issues they did not agree with, voted 'No' to unionizing - unanimously. The union thugs came back a month later to try again. Although now annoyed by this disruption, my dad let them repeat the exercise, with the same result: Unanimous rejection. Now angered and desperate, the union thugs approached my dad and threatened to burn the place down. My dad's response was very clear and put these cowards on notice that the police would be notified of this threat and that, well, that he would have no hesitation in exercising his Second Amendment rights of self defense if they stepped foot on his property again without permission. The union thugs disappeared, realizing they were not dealing with people subject to their criminal coercion tactics.

*

A guy I used to know was a Teamster representative on the Oakland, California docks. He was a complete idiot who abused anabolic steroids to make himself big and muscular. He would regularly brag to anyone who would listen how part of his 'job' was that he and his friends would gang up on lone and isolated non-union workers and severely beat them, including serious and life-threatening injuries.

*

A few of my experiences within unions and beside workers:

Summers between the college school year at Cal, I got a job at United States Steel. Of course, I had to join the United Steelworkers of America, the steelworkers' union, and they got to skim my paycheck. But that skim was so they could represent my interests, right? WRONG! Without really trying, I found myself evaluated as the hardest-working member of my crew, despite my crew's repeated entreaties to "slow down", "make the job last", and such. So, the management wanted to promote me into a better job. But, the union, which was supposedly 'looking after my interests', would not let me be promoted ahead of the lazy, goldbricking idlers on my crew - because - they had 'seniority'. 

So, they found another way to promote me. You see, there were pay enhancements if individuals or departments produced beyond a certain level. This was called incentive pay. There were two kinds: direct and indirect. Direct incentive meant that if a worker produced a certain tonnage, for example, he/she would get paid extra per unit over the standard. Indirect incentive meant that if your department did well, which meant that the direct incentive people were working hard, the indirect incentive people would get paid a bit more. Guess which type my crew were? That's right, indirect. The management found an opening for me on direct incentive pay, operating a crane loading rail cars. Of course, since pay was proportional to work, my lazy crew-mates wanted nothing to do with it, so by default, I got the job.

One of the guys on my crew, who had 'seniority' over me and got paid about double what I got and had priority over me for promotion by union rule, would punch in in the morning, find a place to hide, sleep all day, then punch out in the afternoon. Every time the management tried to fire this piece of garbage, the union would send out a couple of thugs to issue threats. It took THREE YEARS to fire this jerk because the union protected his worthless, thieving butt.

*

I helped build my dad's last veterinary hospital. Myself and the other laborer, and all but two of the sub-contractors were non-union. We all arrived around sunrise, worked our butts off, and left around sunset. Two of the sub-contractors were in the union. They never showed up before Noon, didn't get their work done on time and often did it badly, and held up the project because their piece was often in the critical path, and they never left a moment later than 3:00 pm.

*

Don't get me wrong - I'm not against unions as a general concept, and certainly, there is a role for them to play in ensuring employee rights, and they were instrumental in putting an end to the industrial abuses of the 19th and Early 20th Centuries. But unions as they've existed for at least the last four decades and most certainly today are completely corrupt and a major impediment to commerce. Indeed they are one of the root causes of poor workmanship, off-shoring of jobs, and destroying the fiscal integrity of our local, state, and federal governments.

People like Hoffa must be rejected and people with integrity and intelligence put in their place. 

As for Hoffa's threat, he wouldn't like the result if he came to 'take me out'. Not at all.

Things I've Eaten

One of my favorite Mexican, or Tex-Mex, dishes is chile verde, that is, cubes of pork simmered in a sauce made of green chiles and tomatillos.

What's a tomatillo? Well, this deceptive little vegetable, or fruit actually, resembles a little green tomato, and it's not a tomato at all. It's related to the South African cape gooseberry. It grows in a paper-like husk and has tiny little seeds. It's a very sexy thing: It cannot self pollinate - it needs another plant to reproduce. It has a tart flavor, with a slight sweetness, actually resembling the flavor of its often-mistaken identity, green tomatoes.

If you don't know what a green chile is, just get out of here now!

OK, now I'm going to tell you how I make chile verde. And although my way is damn good - better than at that Mexican restaurant you go to, feel free to risk disaster and try to come up with your own modifications.

Ingredients:

1 lb lean pork loin (cut into 3/4" to 1" cubes)

1 cup all-purpose flour

Salt and pepper

Olive oil

12 tomatillos (remove husks and wash, dice)

1/2 yellow onion (diced)

4 Anaheim chiles (remove seeds and white 'veins')

2 Jalapeno chiles (remove seeds and white 'veins')

(chop chiles into a brunoise [small dice: julienne, then turn and chop into 1 mm to 2 mm dice])

3 cloves garlic (crushed)

2 limes (juice)
1/4 cup fresh cilantro (chopped)

Water (or beer)
1/4 teaspoon cumin (optional)

Hot sauce (optional)

A word on chiles: Any given variety will vary greatly in 'heat'. Especially with the hotter varieties, such as jalapenos, take a little taste before you add them in - if they're really hot you might want to use less, if they're more tame, you might want to use more. If you've got really hot jalapenos and use less, add another Anaheim to make up for the lost flavor. Also, after you've handled the chiles, wash your hands with soap before you touch your eyes or other sensitive bits, or you might be in for quite an unwanted burning sensation!

Before you start all this shopping, washing, and chopping, if you want to take a quick way out, and still have a very good product, substitute store-bought green enchilada sauce for the above from-scratch tomatillo sauce. La Victoria and Las Palmas are both pretty good.

Method:

With a paper towel, pat dry the cubed pork loin, then season with salt and pepper. Let the pork soak up the seasoning while you prep the other ingredients. Put the flour on a plate and mix in a little salt and pepper. Get a large skillet started heating up to be hot enough to quickly brown the pork. Lightly dredge the pork in the seasoned flour. Heat about a table spoon of oil in the skillet and put small batches (small enough to see space between the bits of pork) of the pork into the skillet and lightly brown it all over, then set aside. Between each batch, wipe the skillet clean and add/heat a little more oil. Put the pork in a bowl and set it aside for now.

If you're in a hurry or you've just chickened out, now is when you can pour out your canned green enchilada sauce into the skillet and simmer the pork until it's cooked through and tender. You can make this sauce better with a little sauteed onion, lime juice, and cilantro.

Now back to the cooks.

Wipe the skillet clean again, and add oil to brown the onions. Remove the onions and brown the chiles. Add the garlic and add back the reserved onions and chiles and give the garlic about 30 seconds to brown, then add the lime juice and cilantro. The tomatillos will render their juice - this should be enough liquid with the lime juice to simmer, but if not, add a little water (or beer). When the sauce is at bubbly simmer, add the pork and cover the skillet. The flour on the pork will thicken the sauce a bit. If it gets too thick, add a little more liquid. When the pork is cooked through and tender, it's ready to serve. Adjust seasoning if necessary.

Serve with warm corn tortillas, or wrap in burritos or enchiladas, and serve whatever other sides you like, such as re-fried beans and sour cream (OK, I guess sour cream is really a condiment, but in my world it's a side dish). My favorite side dish is beer. Now that I mention it, a little beer can be very nicely used instead of water as a cooking liquid.

Serves 1 to 4 (one rugby player or weightlifter, four Crossfitters).

As the 10,000 Armenians* of Mexico say, Paree akhorjhak! (buen apetito)

*If you're of Armenian descent, you may serve the chile verde with soft lavash bread or pilaf, and loud political discussions at the dinner table.

Places Where I've Left Bits of Myself III

The week before my second weightlifting meet ever, I had the pleasure of meeting Jim Curry, Sr, father of James 'Butch' Curry, USA '80 Olympian in weightlifting. Jim was a weightlifter and coach from way back, starting his weightlifting career sometime around the Late 1930s - Early 1940s. He was visiting from Queens, New York City.

Jim was one of those types you look at and the term 'old school' pops into your head. On first impression, his appearance, accent, and demeanor reminded me very much of Burgess Meredith's portrayal of the character 'Mick' in the movie "Rocky". A man's man in and out of the gym. No nonsense. That is, until it came time for nonsense! Jim had a great sense of humor and a complete lack of inhibition in sharing it.

During that week, he stayed with Butch and came to the gym with us, where he both helped coach my lifts and jumped in and did workouts of his own (at the age of 72). I had a great time getting to know him, and it became very clear to me where Butch 'came from'.

On Saturday of that Autumn week of 2001, Jim accompanied Butch on the drive to Chico, California, where the 38th annual Golden West Open would be held, in which I was entered in my second meet of my nascent weightlifting career.


As is often the case at these meets, the organizers rely on spur-of-the-moment volunteers to fill out their stable of judges. Of course, Jim was asked to officiate, and of course, he was asked to be the center, that is, head judge. Of course, Jim acceded to the request. As it turned out, Jim would judge my session. I was quite nervous, so felt reassured that there would be a familiar and friendly face among the judges.


At the time, I was still very raw in my technique. Although fairly explosive and strong at that point, I was very inconsistent at catching snatches 'in the hole' (in a butt-to-ankle squat). Although I was explosive and quick enough to power-snatch (catch the bar in a high, quarter-squat position) on at least my opening attempt, I wanted to develop my ability to do the squat-snatch, so I was intent on doing squat-snatches.


I took my first attempt. I mis-pulled and left it out in front, and the bar fell to the platform with a feeble thud. No lift.


Having missed and no-one else taking that weight, I had to follow myself, so I had two minutes to start my second attempt. I missed in front again.


Now, I was in danger of 'bombing out', that is, missing all three of either the three snatch or three clean & jerk attempts, thus falling out of contention to score a total, much less get a medal. If I was nervous before, now I was gripped with fear of humiliating myself


I stepped onto the platform. I acknowledged the crowd that were now cheering me on to make my last attempt and stay in the competition. In the same spirit, Jim gave me a little nod.


I addressed the bar, took my grip, and started my pull. I finished the pull as hard as I could and jumped down to catch the bar overhead. I had it! I made sure I was balanced and securely in possession of the bar and started to stand up. I stood up and recovered my feet into line. I'd made the lift! I let the bar down to the platform with a satisfying slam. I looked at Jim right in front of me and noticed his face was turning red and a smile was cracking onto his face. I suddenly got a sickening sensation in my gut as I realized I hadn't waited for the down signal. I looked at him, looking for mercy I knew wouldn't come, then he broke out into a full, cackling belly laugh as he held his hands out to the side with palms up, then held up his red flag to indicate 'No lift'.

Places Where I've Left Bits of Myself II

As usual, I arrived two hours before game time to give myself ample time to suit up, get taped, focus, and start my personal warm-up. The week's training had gone well, and we were ready for a tough game.

Forty-five minutes out from the starting whistle, the team got together for a quick review of the starting line-up before we began our team warm-up. It was then that I learned that we had a player that couldn't play due to injury, at one of the three positions on the team that can NOT be 'faked' at all: Loose-head prop.

For the rugby 'illiterate', the loose-head prop is one of two props that together with the hooker in between, form the front row of the scrum. The scrum is the eight forwards, analogous to linemen and linebackers in American football, who after minor infractions bind together with themselves and with the opposing scrum to contest the ball put into the middle of this construction to restart play. Behind the front row, the two locks, aka, second row, put shoulders to hips and bind onto the props. On the outside of the second row, the flankers put shoulder to hip and bind on. And at last, the number 8 puts shoulder to hip on one or both locks, depending on the tactical situation. The scrum is extremely difficult to do well, and doing well requires an immense amount of strength, stability, team-work, and will. By far, the props are under the most physical stress, and indeed mortal danger should anyone fail to properly execute their position. The compression of being pushed on both from in front and behind is crushing. The neck is called upon to oppose hundreds of pounds of multi-planar torque.

My normal position is lock, which I love for a number of reasons, including being a jumper in the line-outs (how play is re-started after the ball goes out of bounds). Jumping for the ball is quite a thrill: Not only do you jump, but you have lifters pushing you up even further, so you're taking the ball at about thirteen feet, and at that instant you have to do something quite athletic and often make an instant tactical decision, and feed the ball out in one of several ways - either airborne or with feet back on the ground. As usual, I was looking forward to destroying my opposite number at this and in the scrums, as well as the universal responsibilities of running, supporting runners, passing, catching, tackling, etc.

"Haz, we need you to jump in at loose-head."

"Damn!", I thought. But, then I thought, "hey, the team needs this and no-one else is capable to step up at the moment". Then I thought, "I've done this enough times so that I'm pretty good at it, and I kind of like beating a guy directly across from me, so here we go!"

We went through our warm-ups and a few dry runs of plays, then lined up for the start of the game.

The starting whistle pierced my eardrums, the kick-off commenced, and the game was on.

The guy who received the kick for the other team mis-handled the ball, knocking it on, that is fumbling it forward. This is not allowed in rugby, so with no advantage gained by us from this mistake, the referee whistled for a scrum. The two teams formed up for the scrum. It was at this point I realized who my opposing prop was.

"Shit!"

I was looking at about 400 pounds of angry Pacific Islander meat.

I hate to give in to stereotypes, but fifteen years of playing alongside and against a lot of athletes from Tonga and Samoa had taught me that not only could these guys play, they also had total disregard for pain - theirs as well as others, and seemed to rejoice in meting it out to their opponents.

I thought to myself, "My team is relying on me to handle this, and the only way I'm going to stand a chance is to rip into this guy with everything I have - every time I go into a scrum." Suddenly, I was filled with a sense of serenity and my mind focused like a laser on what I had to do. Stance, grip, body position, brace, fire out, squeeze, bridge the neck into him, sink, and push.

The referee gave the commands, "Touch, pause, engage!"

"BAM!"

I launched into him with ferocity that I can only describe as violence. It hurt. To my surprise, I lost no ground, and my positioning and pressure held it. Ball out, and off to the races.

Several minutes later, another scrum. Same thing - except this time, I moved the behemoth back about an inch.

Later, another scrum. This time, I forced the man to take a half step back to adjust.

Fourth scrum of the game. I forced him completely out of position and we moved their scrum back a couple of feet.

Fifth scrum: We were driving them backward at will, and were now in complete control of the scrummaging game.

The half-time whistle blew. We made our tactical adjustments and returned to the field. My man did not. He spent the rest of the game sitting on his ample gluteal muscles, sucking on a water bottle, with an ice pack on his neck and shoulders.

The Paradox of Courage

"Courage is not simply one of the virtues, but the form of every virtue at the testing point."

- CS Lewis

In the Christian tradition, the virtues are understood to be courage, prudence, justice, temperance, faith, hope, and charity.

Excluding courage for the moment, the virtues can be defined thus: 

Prudence: The quality of being able to control, manage, and discipline oneself by the use of reason. 

Justice: The state or quality in which all is rendered to each and all what is due them, including moral and legal rights as well as money or property. 

Temperance: The quality of being able to control oneself from indulging in excess. 

Faith: The self-assurance, or conviction, of things not seen. 

Hope: The quality of simultaneously desiring a thing and the expectation of receiving it. 

Charity: Also referred to as Love. In this context, charity is not simply giving alms or aid, but selfless love toward others.


One thing that all virtues have in common is that they arise from the will, rather than from passion or impulse.

The virtue of courage is often misunderstood, attributing courage to people or acts that really contain none, and often leading to underestimating one's own character, power, and accomplishments as well as those of others.

There are three types of courage: Physical courage, the willingness to accept physical pain, such as that required to become a champion athlete; moral courage, such as that required to do the right thing when doing the wrong thing would be easier and perhaps advantageous; and the combination of physical and moral courage, such as the Navy SeAL who risks his life to rescue someone.

Life presents to everyone a never-ending procession of physical and moral challenges. To varying degrees, these illicit fear. Many, at feeling fear assert itself during such a challenge, quickly dismiss themselves as being less than courageous, or even a coward. Many direct such assessments at others. But if they act in the positive, they do themselves and others wrong by doing so. Here is the paradox of courage: Without fear there is no such thing as courage.

I know a young weightlifter who I've observed from her initiation into the sport. From the time she began to this very day, every time she takes an attempt, I've noticed a look of fear on her face. At first, my reaction to that was rather negative. Then, after I'd had that reaction for about the hundredth time, it occurred to me that she had been consistently pushing aside the thought that she was terrified of a 160-pound barbell falling on her head, and kept striving to do it over and over, and better and better. At that moment, I scolded myself for not seeing it earlier, and realized, this girl has courage.

One night, I was visiting a friend in Oakland, California. Suddenly, we heard a man yelling out on the street, and a woman screaming and then stopping. I looked out the window and saw a man choking and shaking a woman bent backward over the hood of a car. Clashing thoughts raced through my mind: "She needs help now." "This is Oakland, that guy probably has a knife or a gun". I knew if I hesitated, I'd guarantee my safety, but that woman would probably be a goner. I knew I couldn't live with with that, so I told my friend to call 911 and ran outside, terrified. I approached them yelling out, "Hey!"  He let go of the woman and started walking toward me. The whole time I expected the man to produce a weapon, so I watched his hands and kept myself where I could dive behind cover if necessary. He started telling me about the woman's supposed mistreatment of him, and I responded in quiet, sympathetic words. The guy calmed down. The police, amazingly, arrived and I turned over the now diffused mess to them. I was terrified the whole time and afterward I realized I was shaking. My initial reaction to that was to think I was a bit of a chicken-shit, and I was kind of ashamed of that. Then my friend, who was still recovering from her panic at seeing me run out into that, threw her arms around me and sobbed, "that was so brave!" Then I realized, it took courage to overcome my fear of injury and do the right thing.

A guy I know, we'll call him Mr K, was asked by a friend of mine in legal trouble - through no fault of his own - who thought Mr K was his friend, to testify as an eyewitness to the falsehood of accusations made against my friend, despite his being completely innocent. Mr K's testimony would have been key in keeping the problem from going any further. All he had to do was tell the simple truth, in about the form of, 'this did not happen'. This Mr K's only response was to say, "I don't want to talk to any lawyers. Good luck."  Mr K is a coward, and needless to say, he is now not considered a man, much less a friend, by my friend who was in trouble (my innocent friend was cleared of the false accusation).

Now, I could come up with examples of much greater courage, and there are certainly very obvious ones at hand in today's world, including among some good friends of mine. I could also come up with examples of much greater cowardice (not among my friends!), but, the point here is to demonstrate that we all have opportunities to engage, or neglect to engage, when physical and moral challenges confront us, and do the difficult and right thing.

As shown in the opening quote, CS Lewis understood that courage is at the heart of every virtue. None of these virtues can be practiced without courage - there will always be an easier path than exercising these virtues. Without courage there can be no other virtue.

Courage is doing the right thing despite it being difficult or even dangerous - despite the presence of fear.

Places Where I've Left Bits of Myself

Like many people, I began my sports career toddling on the family room carpet and breaking stuff. Then the playground, the sidewalks and streets in front of my friend's houses, feats of ill-advised daredevilism on bikes and scooters, pick-up games at recess and after school, and then organized (so to speak!) sports in the community and in school. I soon realized that beyond their benefit of giving me a way to associate and bond with my peers, and to occasionally impress my friends - and girlfriends - from time to time, I really, REALLY loved finding the capabilities and capacity of my body and mind, and shattering erstwhile limits.

When I saw a friend or high-profile athlete do something amazing, I would immediately set about learning to do that thing. I had a friend who grew up playing soccer. He not only could kick grass-cutting rockets with either foot, he could do the same off the outside of his feet, putting a nasty, hard outside break on the ball. So I drove my mom nuts slamming a soccer ball off the side of our house for hours, until I could do it too. At one point, I was preoccupied with baseball and throwing breaking pitches. I'd walk to the local store and spend hours at the magazine rack reading over and over this short book by Bob Gibson, pitcher for the St Louis Cardinals, on pitching. I'd practice the grips, mechanics, and throwing endlessly. Then my mom got me a baseball. Just kidding. I got pretty good at throwing various breaking balls as well as throwing pretty damn hard for an eighth-grader. When I saw Brazil soccer star Pele do his famous overhead scissor kick for a goal, like the rest of the world, my breath was taken away. So, I commenced to try to recreate that myself. I spent hours and hours week after week throwing a soccer ball high in the air, letting it bounce, then launching my body into that aerial laid out backward trajectory, and attempting the scissors kick. I got to the point where I could execute it at will - if the ball was served up just so. When I actually executed one in a game - for a long pass rather than a goal - I was filled with a huge sense of accomplishment and joy. And my friends were stunned and impressed to my satisfaction.

Once I got to high school my music career kind of took over for a couple of years, which was a great thing: I was playing at a professional level in high school and was selected to be one of three trumpet players in California to perform with the All-State Honor Orchestra. My freshman PE teacher, Mr Ferro, was awesome. He took us through units in wrestling, gymnastics - including trampoline, and, yes, weightlifting, all of which I think really helped develop body awareness and control as well as general strength, conditioning, flexibility, and confidence. Then I transferred to another high school, which was where my young music career blossomed and I made the All-State Orchestra. But, I missed sports and went out for the varsity football team, on which many of my friends, including some of those involved in music, were playing. Of course, the best thing about playing varsity football was that you didn't have to march with the band, wearing the geeky uniforms, and and play lame 'football music' during the pre-game and half-time shows!

This was awesome! It was hard too: I was a 185-pound player with only pick-up game tackle, and touch and flag football experience. Still, I learned to take on guys bigger and stronger than myself, and learned some valuable lessons in courage. Still, I needed to get bigger and stronger, and this is where I threw myself into the weight room for what became a pretty much habitual activity to this day.

I matriculated to the University of California, where I realized that a 190-pound walk-on offensive tackle wasn't going to get very far. So, I tried going out for Cal's world-class crew team. This was an awesome challenge. This is where I first learned about unknown, untapped potential, and how to push through severe physical and mental distress to find new levels of performance - or in competition to defeat your opponent. If anyone doubts how hard crew is, try getting on the Concept 2 rower at your health club or Crossfit and try to pull a 7:00 minute 2,000 meter piece. Not gonna' happen. But crew guys routinely do 6:30 or better. Getting to that level of fitness and output required two practices a day most of the year, including sprinting 75 rows of bleachers at Cal's Memorial Stadium twenty times for one workout, going on 1:05 intervals; running from the Cal campus to Grizzly Peak (about 6 miles and 1,000 feet of elevation); and of course lots of time on the water. Morning practice started at 6:30 in the morning. Then I learned that rugby practice started at 3:30 in the afternoon.

OK - I didn't really take up rugby because of the more attractive practice time, but that was a nice change - I never got used to rising before the Sun.

So now I was about to start the most significant part of my athletic career. I knew Cal Rugby had a tradition of excellence. I also knew that Cal's rugby team had quite a few football players who played rugby between the end of the football season and Spring practice. Clearly, this wasn't going to be easy, but I looked forward to testing myself by these standards. As I did earlier in my life, I emulated exceptional players in order to improve more rapidly. I'll never forget before my first game with the second team, as I watched the first team play, I saw Greg Bracelin, a linebacker for the football team who went on to play in the NFL for the Broncos, Raiders, and Colts, streak across the field covering across on defense and clobbering the ball carrier. During my game, I recognized a similar situation and did the same thing (OK, maybe I wasn't quite as quick or explosive at that point, but I made the play and destroyed the ball carrier, making him give up the ball). I thought to myself, "this game is awesome!" I played four years and earned the honor of starting, thus qualifying as a varsity letterman. This was indeed an honor because those four years were the first four years a collegiate national championship was held for rugby, and Cal won all four. As many know, Cal has since added to those for a total of 26 national championships out of the 31 held. I went on to play for the storied Old Blues RFC, which won five club national championships and was the most dominant and successful American rugby club ever. Indeed, for several years, the Old Blues supplied about half to two-thirds of the United States team. Playing with these amazing athletes was an incredible experience. My team-mates made me a better player just about every time I stepped on the pitch with them for training or to crush our opponents. There were several years in which I never played in a losing effort. The overall win rate of my twenty-year Cal and Old Blues rugby career was well over 80%. Of course, what happened after games and on the road was epic as well, but that's a story for another time. Let's just leave it with the quote from Samuel Johnson, "He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man."

 Then, while I was in business school, the Old Blues merged with Hayward Rugby Club. This led to a loss of identity, and Old Blues Rugby Club went into dormancy. After twenty years, I thought, "do I really want to play with a bunch of guys I don't know for a club whose culture and record are way different from that that I loved all these years?" At about the same time, I asked my old friend, Butch Curry, '80 Olympian in weightlifting and fellow Cal alumnus, for some help with my Olympic lifts, which I'd been doing to train for rugby. He convinced me to try competition in the sport. Thus, my rugby career ended and my weightlifting career began.

I was lucky to get into the sport with Butch and his coach, three-time USA Olympic Team coach Jim Schmitz, and the famed Sports Palace team. This exposed me to a number of great athletes and coaches from a number of nations and sports. During this time, Dave Spitz trained with Jim for awhile, and I got to know Dave pretty well. Dave went on to found California Strength/American Weightlifting, his endeavor to improve the level of weightlifting in the USA. He brought in his friend Alex Krychev, Olympic Silver Medalist for Bulgaria, and together they recruited the famed most successful coach ever, Ivan Abajiev, also of Bulgaria. They recruited some top talent from the USA and a couple of lifters from Bulgaria and the experiment was on. Later, Dave built a supporting structure in which kids, collegiate, and pro athletes would come in to take advantage of Dave and his athletes' experience to raise their own games. This provided the basis to run a full-time weightlifting team of elite athletes, who help support their aspirations to international success by coaching other athletes. This is where I've been training for the last three and a half years. Here, my game is inspired by training alongside exceptional weightlifters Donny Shankle, Jon North, Spencer Moorman, Rob Blackwell, Kevin Cornell, Brian DeGennaro, and until recently, Max Aita, Caleb Ward, and Jared Ederton, and of course, with Coach Glenn Pendlay. These guys all  make me better every time I watch them or pick up a bar on the next platform. Indeed, I make personal records at a rate I never did before I had the opportunity to train with these guys. And I'm now stronger than I was at any time during my rugby career and youth - not something I ever expected I'd be able to say at age 52!

I made official clean & jerk and total PRs recently at the Tommy Kono Open. Come and see us at the Redwood Empire Open in Cotati, California this weekend (8/27/11) - I'm planning on making at least one PR.