IRISHMAN FOR HIRE

A few weeks ago, I went out to lunch with a friend of mine. We were swapping stories of our youth; the fun and the outlandish things we did when we were in our late teens and our early twenties. During the conversation, the topic of Crossfire came up. I shared with him some of the stories and fun we had had as a band. I also told him the honest truth about the frustrations we encountered as well.

“I’ve always been curious, how do people write songs? Do you just sit down with a piece of paper, decide to write a song and something just comes to you?” he asked.

“Sometimes, yeah, it does,” I responded. But I didn’t want to be glib, so I continued, “But most of the time, it starts with a personal story. Something happens in your life and it affects you in one way or another, and then, after a while, you just have to write it down.”

And that is how it has always been for me as a writer. Most of the lyrics I have written in my life started out as a personal experience or a story that would get stuck in my head. Somehow a piece of music would start playing in my brain and the words would just come to me. Most of the time, I would just free write and then put away the rough draft. Later, I would edit the lyrics until I felt the song was perfect.

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I pulled into the parking lot, put the car in park and turned off the engine. I turned around in my seat to face the kids, “I have to get these bank charges taken care of today, so I need you to be on your best behavior.”

“Can I bring my DS inside, Dad?” Josh asked.

“Yes.”

“Can we get lollipops?” Chloe asked.

“If you behave, you can get lollipops.”

“Yeah, we can have lollipops, Josh. I want a blue one, Dad.”

“Are you going to be on your best behavior?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can have a blue one.”

And with the understanding firmly established, I unbuckled my seat belt and got out of the car. I helped each of the kids get out of the car as well and we headed into the bank together. I went over to the manager’s office and could see that she was busy, so we all sat in the chairs just outside her office and next to the cubicles of the other bank employees.

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It was a brisk and snowy winter’s eve. The family was sitting in the living room watching television when from the far reaches of the Universe they heard a sound that they couldn’t quite decipher. It kept getting louder and every few moments, the noise seemed to get closer to their home. A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door.

“Who could that be?” The husband asked as he got up from his chair. The woman, her husband, and the kids curiously wandered to the front door to see who was there. And just outside, they were greeted by a choir of carolers spreading Christmas cheer throughout the neighborhood.

A few years ago, I had a nagging idea that was tugging at the back of my brain. I kept having a fuzzy memory from my childhood that was trying to surface from my subconscious and make itself known. As hard as I tried to shake the idea, it just wouldn’t go away.

When I was a child, my mother, brothers, and I would meet other families in the center of our town to go Christmas Caroling. We lived in the small town of Roxbury, CT and it seemed like a rite of passage to meet in the center of town every year and give the one gift at the holidays that couldn’t be exchanged, returned, or considered the wrong item. All you needed was a heart filled with the spirit of the season and the willingness to spread cheer and joy among your neighbors, friends, and strangers.

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Football is a way of life in our household! Well, for me it is. My wife and kids humor me but they all know that we are supposed to eat, drink and breathe the New York Giants around our home.

My obsession with the NFL started out when I was a young child. On Thanksgiving Day, while my mother was preparing a late day feast, she and her boyfriend would watch football. It was an annual tradition to watch the football games on Thanksgiving Day and while the games were being played, her boyfriend would tell us stories about the players, the history of the NFL and about the game of football itself. My love for the game got passed on to me because of our Thanksgiving Day ritual.

I understand tradition. Our family has created some great traditions that have been passed on to us by our parents and grandparents. Each holiday holds a special connection between our past, our present and, hopefully, our future. I hope that one day my children will be telling their kids about Thanksgiving Day and how I shared my vast wealth of knowledge and history of the NFL with them as a part of our Thanksgiving custom. But, alas, I think the Thanksgiving Day tradition of watching, enjoying and loving NFL football may end up being a distant memory of my childhood that loses significance in my kid’s ever changing world.

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