"Skate Expectations"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

With apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien, whose fantastic writings did not, for some reason, include a story about roller derby, I am the lord of the rink.

Or I would have been if I had been able to stand on skates long enough to be a roller derby queen.

That was my goal when I went to World Gym in East Setauket, N.Y., to try out for the Strong Island Derby Revolution, a women’s flat-track roller derby league whose travel team competes against squads from New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.

I signed up for the recruiting session because, even though I am a guy and would not be eligible to play, I have a feminine side. Unfortunately, that’s the side I frequently landed on, a more compelling reason why I wasn’t eligible to play.

I should have known I wouldn’t be able to keep up with the women who tried out because I had never been on roller skates, I am old and I am pathetically out of shape.

That didn’t stop Kristi Altieri-Smith, the Revolution’s head of public relations and one of the league’s best players, from welcoming me to the tryout.

“We would love for you to attend,” Kristi wrote in an email, which she signed with her roller derby nickname: Bite-Size Brawler.

When I arrived at the rink, I picked my own roller derby nickname: Average-Size Geezer.

Julie Dekom, who co-founded the Revolution in 2011 and is known as Wreck’em Deck’em, liked my nickname so much that she wrote it on a piece of white tape that she stuck on my black helmet, part of the mandatory equipment that included knee and elbow pads and, of course, roller skates.

After putting on my size 11s, which were kindly provided by the league, I took one step and down I went. After several more spectacular spills, Diane White, also known as Doc Block, said, “You’re falling better.”

I replied, “I turned the other cheek.”

Diane admitted, “I’m not a real doctor — I got my nickname from a character in ‘Grindhouse’ — but I play one in roller derby.”

She wasn’t skating because she recently needed the services of a real doctor for such foot problems as tendinitis and plantar fasciitis. She also once tore a rotator cuff. 

Julie sustained a trimalleolar fracture in 2011 but has fully recovered and is back in action. “They put some titanium screws in my ankle,” she said matter-of-factly.

Injuries are part of the game. But these roller derby players are real athletes, which is more than I can say for myself. That’s why I didn’t join the action in the center of the rink. I figured I would fall — this time on my face — and be run over by so many roller skate wheels that I would end up as flat as a pepperoni pizza, though not nearly as appetizing.

The women in the league (thederbyrevolution.com) pay a fee to play. Their bouts, which regularly draw hundreds of fans, have raised money for charitable causes such as the Wounded Warrior Project and the Suffolk County Coalition Against Domestic Violence. And they come from all walks (or rolls) of life.

“We have doctors, lawyers, women from diverse backgrounds,” said Julie, who works as a processor for a financial group and has three children. “A lot of us are moms. We even have a couple of grandmothers.”

“I’m a new grandpa,” I said.

“Congratulations!” Julie said. “You’d fit right in.”

“Even though I can barely stand up?” I asked.

“You’re doing much better,” Julie noted. “A couple more days on skates and you’ll be a pro.”

“Call it feminine intuition,” I said, “but I’ll never be a roller derby queen.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Stubble, Stubble, Toil and Trouble"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

When I was in high school and was just starting to shave, which led to so much blood loss that I should have been honored by the Red Cross, I read “The Razor’s Edge,” the W. Somerset Maugham classic that was not, much to my amazement, because I was a stupid kid, about shaving.

Young men reading the book today would be similarly surprised, which is why many of them, unwilling to risk bleeding to death, barely shave at all.

Lately I have noticed that stubble is in style. Everywhere you look, there are guys with 5 o’clock shadow.

I don’t know what happens when the time changes and it’s either 6 o’clock or 4 o’clock (spring ahead, fall behind, cut yourself, wounds to bind), but I do know that women love this look on young guys but hate it on geezers like me.

One of them is my wife, Sue, to whom I cuddled up on a rare day when I didn’t shave.

“Stop it!” she shrieked when I nuzzled her with a face (mine, naturally) that looked and felt like sandpaper.

“Don’t you like the rugged look?” I asked.

“No!” she cried. “Go away!”

So I did. The next day, after I shaved, I went to the Art of Shaving, a New York City-based store with locations nationwide, including in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., as well as in Huntington Station, N.Y., where I went for wisdom in what has become the lost art of shaving.

Because I didn’t know where the store was in the mall, I violated the unwritten law that men should never ask other men for directions and asked Scott Molloy, who was manning the guest services desk, for directions.

Scott, 28, sported a three-day stubble.

“I’m not making a fashion statement,” he explained. “I just haven’t had the time to shave.”

“A lot of young guys don’t shave because they think women like the rugged look,” I said.

“I know,” Scott said. “They’re trying to be hip. But a real man wakes up every morning and shaves. Tomorrow I’ll get rid of this stubble.”

“I got rid of mine this morning,” I said.

“You’re a real man,” said Scott, who directed me to the Art of Shaving, where I spoke with manager Linda Wheeless.

“These young guys think they started the trend, but it originated with Crockett and Tubbs,” she said, referring to the characters played by Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas on the 1980s cop show “Miami Vice.”

“It wasn’t even cool then,” I said. “And it looks really dumb on these young guys today, especially the ones who get all dressed up but don’t shave.”

“It makes them look unkempt,” Linda said.

“I like to look kempt,” I replied. “My wife appreciates it, too.”

Linda, whose son shaves not just his face but his head and whose grandson is too young to shave, showed me a picture of her husband, Richard, a handsome guy with a beard.

“He keeps it neat,” she said. “No stubble. I wouldn’t like that.”

Then she showed me one of the most popular items in the store, a trimmer that can be set to help guys keep a perpetual stubble.

“Why don’t they just use it to shave?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Linda answered. “As long as they buy it, I don’t care.”

The next day, after I used my trusty twin-blade razor, I snuggled up to Sue again.

“How does that feel?” I asked.

“Much better,” she said. “Nice and smooth.”

It was, of course, a close shave.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"How to Babysit a Grandpa"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Being a grandfather comes with many important responsibilities, such as making funny faces, engaging in baby talk and otherwise behaving like a child, which is pretty much how I acted even before I was a grandfather.

At the top of the list of grandfatherly duties is baby-sitting. But I never stopped to ask, because I am new at this, who is supposed to be baby-sitting whom?

I recently found out when I read “How to Babysit a Grandpa,” a New York Times best-seller by children’s author Jean Reagan.

The book, which features delightful illustrations by Lee Wildish, is for readers 5 to 8 years old, right in the middle of my intellectual age group.

“It’s also for readers in your physical age group,” Reagan told me when I called her to talk about the 32-page masterpiece. “After all, I couldn’t leave out the grandpas.”

“We appreciate it,” I responded, “especially since we are the ones who have to be baby-sat.”

My granddaughter, who was born in March, is a little too young to understand the lessons in the book (at the rate she’s developing, that won’t happen for another couple of weeks), but I feel better knowing that she will soon be able to look after me.

“She will love taking care of you because you sound like a lot of fun,” said Reagan, who based the grandpa in the book on her father.

“My dad is a very funny guy who has always been attentive to my kids,” Reagan said. “Of course, he did some things that I couldn’t put in the book, like showing my son, who was then 6 or 7, how to make a slingshot. That means every grandpa whose grandchild read the book would be asked to make a slingshot. I can picture a lot of broken windows.”

“I feel your pane,” I offered.

Speaking of which, the book opens with a clear view through the front window of the grandchild hiding when his grandpa rings the doorbell. After he greets his grandpa, and his parents drive away, the kid says, “When your mom and dad leave, pat your grandpa’s hand and say, ‘Don’t worry. They always come back.’ Then, right away, ask him if he’s hungry.”

“Snacks for Grandpa” are: “ice cream topped with cookies,” “olives served on fingertips,” “anything dipped in ketchup” and “cookies topped with ice cream.”

“After snacks,” the kid continues, “it’s time to take your grandpa for a walk. ... Remember to grab his hand when you cross the street and remind him to look both ways.”

Other parts include “What to Do on a Walk” (“If there’s a puddle or a sprinkler, show him what to do”), “How to Entertain a Grandpa” (“Somersault across the room”) and “How to Play With a Grandpa” (“Give him a kazoo”).

“When your grandpa says, ‘Naptime,’ it’s time for his nap,” the grandchild says. “The best way to put him to sleep is to have him read a looooooong book, over and over and over and ... zzzzzzz.”

After the grandpa wakes up, it’s time to clean up the messes he has made. When the parents return, the kid says, “See, Grandpa. They always come back.” Then he asks, “When can I baby-sit you again?”

“I wanted to be a little subversive and put a funny twist on things, but I also wanted to include lessons for kids,” said Reagan. “Most of all, I wanted them to laugh.”

The book is hilarious. And Reagan is working on another one that will be out next year.

“It’s for grandmas,” she said. “I’m not a grandma yet, but when I am, I want to be a fun one, like you’re a fun grandpa.”

“I’m sure my wife will love it,” I said. “But for now, as my granddaughter will soon find out, she has her hands full baby-sitting me.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Gone Fishing"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If legendary composer George Gershwin had also been a fisherman, one of his greatest works might have been “Porgy and Bass.”

I couldn’t get the tune out of my otherwise empty head recently as I boarded the Osprey V, a charter boat out of Port Jefferson, N.Y., for an afternoon of fishing for — you guessed it — porgy and bass.

What wasn’t playing, in either my head or on board, was the theme from “Gilligan’s Island,” which would have been appropriate because the Osprey V is a 65-foot Gillikin.

“Sometimes we play it as people are boarding,” said Capt. Amanda Peterson, “although we’re not going out on a three-hour tour. It’s four hours. And we won’t strand you on an island.”

“If the island had palm trees, I wouldn’t mind,” I said.

“Neither would I,” said Capt. Amanda. “But we’re not going that far out.”

We were, in fact, going only a few miles, to the Stratford (Conn.) Shoal Light in the middle of Long Island Sound, prime grounds (or, rather, waters) for the aforementioned fish.

“If I catch a lot of them,” I told Capt. Amanda, “it would be a fluke.”

“We’re not going for fluke,” she responded. “But you might catch a bluefish.”

Capt. Amanda, whose father, Capt. Stew Cash, runs the business (ospreyfishing.com), recently married Capt. James Peterson, who was officially piloting the boat on that day’s excursion.

“I’m along for the ride,” said Capt. Amanda. “And to help you catch some fish.”

I needed all the help I could get because it had been years since I last went fishing. I used to go with my father when I was a kid. Once, when I wasn’t with him, he came back with a 41-pound striped bass.

“That’s huge,” said Capt. James. “If you caught one that size today, you’d have a real fish story.”

Capt. James should know because he once caught an 873-pound tuna off the coast of Nantucket, Mass.

“It was dressed,” he said.

“In a bathing suit?” I inquired.

“No,” Capt. James replied. “I mean, the head and tail had been cut off. Originally, it weighed about 1,000 pounds.”

“That’s huge,” I said. “You have a real fish story.”

I hoped to have one, too, and got off to a great start. Capt. Amanda used clams to bait both hooks on my fishing pole. About 10 seconds after I cast out, I felt a tug.

“You have a fish!” Capt. Amanda exclaimed. As I reeled in, she added, “Two fish!”

On one hook was a porgy; on the other was a bass. The sea bass was puny, so Capt. Amanda threw it back, but the porgy, which measured 13 inches, three more than regulation size, was a keeper. So I kept it.

Good thing I did because I didn’t catch another fish all day. Still, I had a fabulous time. I watched as the youngest fisherman on board, Kristian Tabala, 4, with the help of his dad, Danny, reeled in a porgy that was bigger than mine.

“I’m gonna name him Bob,” Kristian said.

“He’s bobbing in the bucket, so it fits,” I said. “What are you going to name the next fish you catch?”

Kristian thought for a moment and replied, “Rob.”

The biggest catch of the day was a 2-foot-long bluefish, hauled in by Vietnam veteran Chris Martinez, 69, the oldest of the 26 passengers. I was standing about five feet away.

“It could have been you,” Chris said.

“On the hook?” I wondered.

“Then we would have had to cut off your head and tail,” said Capt. James.

As the Osprey V headed back, deck hand Travis MacRae did the same to my porgy. When he was finished, I had two nice fillets to share with my wife, Sue, for dinner. They were delicious.

If only I had been standing five feet to my left, in Chris Martinez’s spot, I’d be humming another Gershwin tune: “Rhapsody in Bluefish.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"The Prince and the Poppie"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Prince Charles

Clarence House

London SW1A 1BA

United Kingdom

Sir:

From one new grandpa to another, I am writing to congratulate you on the birth of your first grandchild. I know he is a prince of a boy because my granddaughter, who was born in March, is my little princess. I guess that makes us a couple of lucky guys who will always give our grandchildren, if you will pardon the expression, the royal treatment.

Despite our differences (you have a real job, whereas I am a public nuisance), we have much in common, even though I am a commoner who has very little common sense, which is commoner these days than you might think.

Anyway, my younger daughter and her husband (the proud new parents) were married in France the day after your older son and his wife (ditto) were married in England in 2011.

I wrote the duke and duchess a letter to congratulate them on their nuptials and to thank them for being the opening act for the wedding of the century, in which I was, of course, the father of the bride. I also noted that our happy couple had a second ceremony here in the United States, which was one more than the duke and duchess had, but who’s counting?

I received a lovely reply from Mrs. Claudia Holloway, who as you know is the head of correspondence for the royal family. She wrote on behalf of the duke and duchess to extend their thanks for my good wishes and their congratulations to their fellow newlyweds.

It showed the class for which your family (and everyone in mine except, unfortunately, yours truly) is known.

In that spirit, I will not get into one-upmanship by saying that in addition to having two weddings, my daughter had a baby before your daughter-in-law did. I will say, however, that they are wonderful young women (and their husbands are wonderful young men) and that their babies — our grandchildren — are beautiful.

Now here is the most amazing thing we have in common: Both babies were born at 4:24 p.m.

It seems like they were made for each other. This, I believe, is more than just a coincidence. There must be some cosmic or divine plan at work here. Since your grandson is a prince and my granddaughter is a princess, their lives seem destined to intertwine.

Could there be a wedding (or two) in our future?

You never know. But here at the Zezimanse, as we call our family home, we are very excited at the prospect.

First, though, your grandson will have to prove himself worthy of my granddaughter, which, considering his lineage, I have no doubt he will do.

When he gets a bit older, he will have to hold his bottle (ba-ba in baby talk) the proper way, with his pinkies up. And he will have to know which plastic fork to use when he begins eating solid food, which initially will consist of mashed peas and carrots. I hear they are better than a lot of British meals, but I don’t want to be a culinary critic.

I merely want to say that this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

I also want to say that we should enjoy being grandfathers. There is, as I am sure you have already found out, nothing like it. I’m also sure that you have pampered your grandson, though I don’t know if you have Pampered him. If not, you really should lend a hand. In fact, two hands. Just make sure you are not wearing white gloves.

Again, Charles, congratulations. Please give our best to your family. And let’s set up a play date.

Sincerely,

Jerry Zezima

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Sleeping My Way to the Top"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a dedicated employee who has often been accused of sleeping on the job (I seldom hear the accusations because I am, of course, asleep), I knew it was a dream come true when I found a job on which I would actually be required to sleep.

I refer to a position (horizontal) with the impressive title of snooze director, which opened up recently at Sleepy’s, the mattress company that doesn’t rest on its laurels when it comes to giving people a good night’s sleep.

Emily Barrett, 25, was hired in 2011 as Sleepy’s first snooze director but left the company a couple of months ago to become a production assistant for MTV. When I read that the job was open, I applied. Then I took a nap so I would be refreshed and coherent enough to make a good impression.

I did just that when I went to Sleepy’s headquarters in Hicksville, N.Y., for an interview with marketing manager Andrew Jedlicka, who asked why I thought I was qualified to be the new snooze director.

“I was born for this job,” I told him. “In fact, I was born more than three weeks past my due date. My mother later said that I was sleeping happily and didn’t want to come out. Also, I have a lot of experience because I’m a geezer who has been sleeping for decades. And I’m a newspaper columnist whose work frequently puts people to sleep.”

Then I told Jedlicka about the message on my answering machine at work: “Hi, this is Jerry Zezima. I’m either away from my desk or at my desk but fast asleep. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

“Those are excellent qualifications,” Jedlicka acknowledged. “What if we made you an offer?”

I yawned and replied, “I’d have to sleep on it.”

The interview went so well that I was called back for the decisive round at the Sleepy’s store in New York City, where I learned that I was one of five finalists out of 70 applicants.

The other four finalists were women in their 20s.

Unlike the first interview, this one was recorded by a camera crew. I repeated my spiel (now it can be used as a cure for insomnia) and emphasized the health benefits of a good night’s sleep — especially, I added with a wink, on a quality mattress. And I said I knew that the job of snooze director entailed more than snoozing. I would have to stay awake long enough to make appearances at Sleepy’s stores and talk to the public about the restorative effects of sleep.

I also performed the “pillow test,” in which I explained how to tell if you have a good pillow (it should snap back to its original position after being folded in half, preferably not with your head on it); demonstrated my nightly sleeping positions (none vertical); and stressed the importance of lying on the proper side of the mattress (the top).

Though I performed well, I lost out to Elizabeth Murphy, 25, of Floral Park, N.Y., Sleepy’s smart and personable new snooze director.

“I’m very excited,” Murphy told me over the phone after the decision had been announced a week later. “I think my ability to talk to people helped. It’s also a good thing I’m a morning person, since the interview was before lunch.”

Murphy added that she sleeps with Daisy, her 50-lb. beagle, who is an even better sleeper than she is. “It’s conceivable that Daisy could have gotten the job,” said Murphy.

“We loved Elizabeth’s energy,” explained Jeff Lobb, chief marketing officer for Sleepy’s. “But we loved you, too. You made a compelling case, with all your sleeping experience and the fact that you’re a writer who helps others fall asleep. Still, we felt that Elizabeth was the right choice. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"The Polo Pony Whisperer"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse, of course — unless, of course, you’re a newspaper columnist who gets an exclusive interview with a champion polo pony.

That’s what I did recently when I hoofed it out to Riverhead, N.Y., for the Sandy Relief Charity Polo Match at the Dorothy P. Flint Camp. The match drew about 400 people and raised more than $10,000 for the 4-H program at the camp, which is run by the Cornell Cooperative Extension of Nassau County.

The first thing I noticed was that Prince Harry wasn’t there. Harry recently played in a charity polo match in Greenwich, Conn., but was conspicuously absent from the Long Island event.

“He’s missing a good time,” said Nick Aliano, owner of Aliano Real Estate, which sponsored the match.

The sport of kings would have liked to have the prince, but it got several of the next best things in players who are rated as high or higher than Harry by the United States Polo Association.

That includes Aliano, 57, who took up the sport 13 years ago and is rated at 1 goal. Ratings go from minus-2 to 10, with 97 percent of players being rated at zero goals or fewer.

“You’re as good as Harry,” I said after finding out that the prince also is rated at 1 goal.

“I guess that makes me a prince of a guy,” said Aliano, who showed me some of his horses, all Thoroughbreds that are the real athletes in the sport.

“Ninety percent of the game is the horse,” said Alberto Bengolea, a player and trainer who has a reputation as a horse whisperer.

“I whisper, but the horses don’t listen,” said Bengolea, 61, who has worked with the animals for most of his life.

When I introduced myself to Catherine, one of Aliano’s horses, she looked at me and sighed. Then she looked away.

“She’s saying, ‘I don’t care about you. Let’s just get this over with.’ Right now, she’s napping,” Bengolea told me.

“I put her to sleep?” I said. “I have that effect on people. I had no idea I could do it to horses, too.”

Fortunately, the other horses I spoke with (or whispered to) didn’t doze off. But I had to wait until halftime of the match, a spirited affair between Aliano Real Estate and the 4-H Crusaders.

At the intermission, I had the honor of interviewing Pinton, on whom Aliano was riding when he scored a goal to help give his team a 4-1 lead.

“He scored the goal,” Aliano said of Pinton, who actually nodded when I asked him if it felt good to help his club.

“He’s a team player,” said Aliano, who allowed me to mount a horse named 69, a gentle veteran that graciously stood still while Bengolea handed me a polo mallet. He showed me the proper way to hold it and how to swing it should I ever find myself playing in a polo match, in which case I would surely be rated minus-2.

“Or maybe I’d be off the charts,” I suggested.

69 nodded, too.

The second half was even more exciting than the first, as the Crusaders rallied to tie the match, 7-7. But Aliano, who had three goals and was named best player, scored the decisive tally in a 9-7 victory.

As his team was awarded the Cornell Cup, the players sprayed each other with Champagne, some of which got on Pistola, who was named best playing pony.

“She doesn’t drink Champagne, but she likes the spray,” said her owner, Lobo Fernandez, 35, who scored three goals atop the 12-year-old gray speckled champion. “She’s a really great horse.”

“Congratulations, champ,” I said to Pistola. “How does it feel?”

Pistola looked at me and lowered her head in modesty.

“She doesn’t like to brag,” Fernandez said. “But she feels good. She had a terrific match.”

And it was all for a good cause. Too bad Prince Harry missed it.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima