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Episode 057 - Give It To Me

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Manage episode 354682620 series 2949352
Content provided by David Richman. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by David Richman or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.

In the last episode, a missing NBA basketball player named Wally Jones had suddenly turned up at our house to visit my father, the owner and General Manager of the 76ers, who had made a trade for him to join the team. They had gone into my father’s office to have a consultation and I had set myself up in the kitchen, which was nearby and had begun doing my homework.

I was working on a psychology assignment where I had to describe two brushes with fear and how I eventually found safety. I had described the first one in the last episode, where my friend and I had unexpected run into a mass event where Martin Luther King had made an impromptu appearance on the front steps of a large church in Philadelphia. Now it was time to write about my second brush with fear.

It had been quite different from the first because this one had brought me into a direct, face-to-face encounter with real danger and there was severe intensity to it.

By way of background, I had inherited a beat-up sports car that had been handed down from my brother to my sister to me. It was a 1959 Austin-Healey Sprite, the famous “bug-eyed” model.

Eddie Gottlieb, one of the founders of the NBA and a close family friend, had picked it up for my brother on one of his trips to Europe. It was brand-new, white as a cloud, and the incarnation of pure fun. My brother kept it in perfect condition and drove me everywhere in it.

When he got married three years later, it went to my sister. My parents told her she could spruce it up, so Sybil had it painted jet-black with a red-and-white racing stripe down the back. She took off in it like a bat out of hell and drove it nonstop for the next three years. By her second year at Temple University, she had outgrown it. It was only a two-seater and didn’t work for her anymore. So as soon as I got my license, it came to me.

Now, they say that when a family’s first baby drops its pacifier on the floor, the parents sanitize it in boiling water. With their second baby, if the pacifier falls on the floor, they rinse it off with hot water. And with the third baby, if the pacifier falls on the floor, they just let the dog lick it. By the time I got the Sprite, it had clearly been to the dogs. But I loved it.

It had a manual four-speed stick shift. I had been driving it for about two weeks and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, but I was getting there. One sunny afternoon, as I was out driving, I pulled into the parking lot behind some stores. I was trying to turn around but had trouble getting it into reverse and was stuck, just sitting there.

All of a sudden, a big car - an older Buick - backed up and smashed right into me. The jolt of the accident and the sound of shattering glass shook me to the core. I got out to take a look. The front-left side was mangled and bent, and the headlight was smashed.

I looked at the dark-green Buick, which was the size of a tank, and it didn’t even have a scratch. Then the car door opened, and my worst nightmare got out—a tough-looking, lanky hoodlum with a lit cigarette in his mouth and a mean snarl on his face. He didn’t really look all that human.

“What da fucksa matter with you, dude?” he growled furiously. As he walked toward me, I thought he was about to hit me.

The parking lot was behind a place called Kelley’s Bar, which was one of the seedier establishments in the township. It was about four-thirty in the afternoon and the guy smelled like he’d been drinking for hours.

I was too shocked and scared to say anything, so I just stood there staring at him. He must have concluded that I was no threat, and he relaxed a little.

“Tough shit, kid,” was the next pearl of wisdom that came out of his mouth. “Too bad you hit me. Now, what do you want to do about it?”

“I hit you?” I asked, finding enough strength to speak. “I didn’t hit you. I couldn’t even get the car into reverse. I was just sitting there. You backed into me.”

The hoodlum chuckled, took a leisurely drag from his cigarette, and blew out a long stream of liquor-laced, grey smoke into my face.

“You know that, and I know that,” he said. “But we’re the only ones who do. You see anybody else here? No. It’s just me and you. So, the truth is gonna be what I say it is. And when we go in front of the judge, the truth is that you hit me. You got that, asshole?”

He had a mean smile on his hard face, and it was clear that he was starting to enjoy himself. The cruelty of it took my panic to a whole new level. Like a stunned rabbit in the grip of a python, I could feel the iron coils tightening around me.

I don’t remember how I did it, but I got him to write his name and phone number down on a piece of paper. I’m pretty sure it was on the back of a racing form. There was a horse track about ten miles away.

I got back into the Sprite and drove home. It still moved, but it was a shaky mess as it rattled along. I backed into the garage, so my father could see the damage. I shut the engine off, and to my surprise, I burst into tears. I cried like I was six instead of sixteen. I couldn’t believe I could still fall apart that easily. I thought I was much more grown-up than that. It didn’t really matter. I knew my back was against the wall and the situation was hopeless.

About an hour later, when my father came home from work, I was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him. I did my best to keep it together as I told him what had happened. We went right out into the garage to take a look.

As we both stared at the crumpled side of the car and the smashed headlight, I started giving him the details. I was fine until I got to the part when the guy said he was going to make me lie to the judge in court. At that point, I got choked up.

I tried to go on, but my father simply held up his right hand, signaling me to stop talking. In his stillness, he looked like a mighty Indian chief who had stopped time.

“Did you, uh, happen to get any information from this guy?” he asked quietly. “You know what I mean? His name, his phone number? Anything like that?”

His tone was completely calm and ordinary, and it surprised me. Instead of being rattled by this horrible situation, he sounded like we were sitting at a casual lunch and he was asking me to pass him the salt. It was nothing to him, which did something to me.

“Sure,” I responded and pulled the crumpled racing form out of my pocket.

“Give it to me,” he said simply and extended his right hand. There was no emotion in his voice and no expression on his face, but there was also no question about what was going on. I was now face to face with the enormous, unmistakable power that was firmly and forever on my side. Nothing was going to hurt me.

I put the paper in his hand, and as soon as he took it, the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders and I could breathe again. He looked at the information for a long moment.

“OK,” he said. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re just going to take the car over to a place called Frese and Fishers in town, and they’ll handle it. Frese and Fishers.”

I tried to concentrate and remember the name, but it flew right out of my mind.

“You know what? Don’t worry about it,” he said, sensing I was struggling. “Just call my office tomorrow morning, and Bernadette will take care of the whole thing.” He put his hand on my shoulder and held it there, as steady as a mountain and as reassuring as the dawn.

“OK?” he asked me, looking in my eyes for the all-clear. I nodded to him. “OK,” he said with finality, indicating that the episode was over.

“Enough already!” he exclaimed. “Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

We left the garage. He put his arm around my shoulder, and with synchronized steps, we walked back to the house. As we approached the kitchen window, I could see my mother through the glass, working at the sink. She lifted her head, and as a Madonna Amongst the Dishes, with a subtle Mona Lisa smile, she gazed sublimely at the sight of her youngest child, walking along the path under the shelter and protection of his father.

Once we were inside and he started down the hall to his office, he called back to me. “Don’t worry about this, Duv. It’s no big deal.”

And it wasn’t. I called his secretary in the morning, and she told me exactly what to do. She had already set up the appointment, and the body shop treated me royally. Within another day, the car was fine, and I was driving it as though nothing had ever happened. And I never heard another word about it again.

I started making some notes for the essay. I realized that in my extreme fear, the situation seemed completely hopeless. It had never occurred to me that my father might have been able to help. In fact, I forgot I even had a father.

But in truth, he was one of the most powerful attorneys in the city, his protégé was the President Judge of the Philadelphia Court System and his partner was the Police Commissioner of Cheltenham Township. So, in reality, that half-drunk degenerate who had threatened me in the bar’s parking lot, had no power over me at all. But try explaining that to sheer terror.

The panic we feel when we encounter darkness makes us forget that there is such a thing as light. But for me, everything changed the instant my father took that nicotine-stained racing form out of my hand. Light had dispelled darkness and I realized I was safe again. It was as simple as that.

Suddenly the door to my father’s office opened, and Wally Jones stepped out, with my father right behind him. I closed my notebook and followed them into the hall but hung back and watched. I don’t think they even noticed me.

They had only known each other for an hour, but you could’ve sworn they were old friends. Wally still looked dirty and disheveled, but he certainly didn’t look like a bum anymore. My father walked him to the opened door and put his arm around his shoulder.

“Now, this is all going to be OK, Wally. I promise you we can handle it. It’s time to put the whole thing behind you.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Richman,” Wally said. “I will.”

“Call me first thing Monday morning,” my father said. “And don’t forget, the important thing now is to get back in the game and start working on your jump shot. You gotta get that rust off.”

They both chuckled. Wally walked out to his car, and my father turned to me, with the smile of a job well done. I’d seen that look on his face a million times.

***

A few days later, the 76ers announced that Wally Jones had come back to Philly and had joined the team. Amazingly, all his legal problems were quickly resolved, and the whole city was buzzing with anticipation.

When he met the reporters after his first practice, he said, “I think my problems are more mental than physical, and Mr. Richman already has helped me see some sunshine for the first time in a long while. I have a little peace of mind for the first time in three years, and I want a chance to show the world what I can do.”

Soon, he would do just that. And along with the recent signing of Billy Cunningham, my father’s dream team was complete.

Billy, the great star from the University of North Carolina, was his number-one draft pick. He and my father had grown quite fond of each other, but contractually, they had hit a snag.

My father had offered Billy $12,000 for the year. But Billy wanted $12,500 and was holding out. Neither one would budge. Finally, right before the season was about to begin, my father threw in the towel and gave Billy the extra five hundred. Now everything was in place, and we were ready to begin the new season. And our quest for destiny.

So, this story pretty much speaks for itself. I guess the idea is that when times get tough and the threatening clouds of fear encompass our vison and darken our lives, even though it may be hard to see the cloud’s silver lining, it’s still there. Sometimes all we can do is just remember the existence of light until we can see it again. And sometimes, all we have to do is ask.

Well, that’s the end of this episode. As always, keep your eyes, mind and heart opened and let’s get together in the next one.

  continue reading

100 episodes

Artwork
iconShare
 
Manage episode 354682620 series 2949352
Content provided by David Richman. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by David Richman or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.

In the last episode, a missing NBA basketball player named Wally Jones had suddenly turned up at our house to visit my father, the owner and General Manager of the 76ers, who had made a trade for him to join the team. They had gone into my father’s office to have a consultation and I had set myself up in the kitchen, which was nearby and had begun doing my homework.

I was working on a psychology assignment where I had to describe two brushes with fear and how I eventually found safety. I had described the first one in the last episode, where my friend and I had unexpected run into a mass event where Martin Luther King had made an impromptu appearance on the front steps of a large church in Philadelphia. Now it was time to write about my second brush with fear.

It had been quite different from the first because this one had brought me into a direct, face-to-face encounter with real danger and there was severe intensity to it.

By way of background, I had inherited a beat-up sports car that had been handed down from my brother to my sister to me. It was a 1959 Austin-Healey Sprite, the famous “bug-eyed” model.

Eddie Gottlieb, one of the founders of the NBA and a close family friend, had picked it up for my brother on one of his trips to Europe. It was brand-new, white as a cloud, and the incarnation of pure fun. My brother kept it in perfect condition and drove me everywhere in it.

When he got married three years later, it went to my sister. My parents told her she could spruce it up, so Sybil had it painted jet-black with a red-and-white racing stripe down the back. She took off in it like a bat out of hell and drove it nonstop for the next three years. By her second year at Temple University, she had outgrown it. It was only a two-seater and didn’t work for her anymore. So as soon as I got my license, it came to me.

Now, they say that when a family’s first baby drops its pacifier on the floor, the parents sanitize it in boiling water. With their second baby, if the pacifier falls on the floor, they rinse it off with hot water. And with the third baby, if the pacifier falls on the floor, they just let the dog lick it. By the time I got the Sprite, it had clearly been to the dogs. But I loved it.

It had a manual four-speed stick shift. I had been driving it for about two weeks and hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet, but I was getting there. One sunny afternoon, as I was out driving, I pulled into the parking lot behind some stores. I was trying to turn around but had trouble getting it into reverse and was stuck, just sitting there.

All of a sudden, a big car - an older Buick - backed up and smashed right into me. The jolt of the accident and the sound of shattering glass shook me to the core. I got out to take a look. The front-left side was mangled and bent, and the headlight was smashed.

I looked at the dark-green Buick, which was the size of a tank, and it didn’t even have a scratch. Then the car door opened, and my worst nightmare got out—a tough-looking, lanky hoodlum with a lit cigarette in his mouth and a mean snarl on his face. He didn’t really look all that human.

“What da fucksa matter with you, dude?” he growled furiously. As he walked toward me, I thought he was about to hit me.

The parking lot was behind a place called Kelley’s Bar, which was one of the seedier establishments in the township. It was about four-thirty in the afternoon and the guy smelled like he’d been drinking for hours.

I was too shocked and scared to say anything, so I just stood there staring at him. He must have concluded that I was no threat, and he relaxed a little.

“Tough shit, kid,” was the next pearl of wisdom that came out of his mouth. “Too bad you hit me. Now, what do you want to do about it?”

“I hit you?” I asked, finding enough strength to speak. “I didn’t hit you. I couldn’t even get the car into reverse. I was just sitting there. You backed into me.”

The hoodlum chuckled, took a leisurely drag from his cigarette, and blew out a long stream of liquor-laced, grey smoke into my face.

“You know that, and I know that,” he said. “But we’re the only ones who do. You see anybody else here? No. It’s just me and you. So, the truth is gonna be what I say it is. And when we go in front of the judge, the truth is that you hit me. You got that, asshole?”

He had a mean smile on his hard face, and it was clear that he was starting to enjoy himself. The cruelty of it took my panic to a whole new level. Like a stunned rabbit in the grip of a python, I could feel the iron coils tightening around me.

I don’t remember how I did it, but I got him to write his name and phone number down on a piece of paper. I’m pretty sure it was on the back of a racing form. There was a horse track about ten miles away.

I got back into the Sprite and drove home. It still moved, but it was a shaky mess as it rattled along. I backed into the garage, so my father could see the damage. I shut the engine off, and to my surprise, I burst into tears. I cried like I was six instead of sixteen. I couldn’t believe I could still fall apart that easily. I thought I was much more grown-up than that. It didn’t really matter. I knew my back was against the wall and the situation was hopeless.

About an hour later, when my father came home from work, I was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for him. I did my best to keep it together as I told him what had happened. We went right out into the garage to take a look.

As we both stared at the crumpled side of the car and the smashed headlight, I started giving him the details. I was fine until I got to the part when the guy said he was going to make me lie to the judge in court. At that point, I got choked up.

I tried to go on, but my father simply held up his right hand, signaling me to stop talking. In his stillness, he looked like a mighty Indian chief who had stopped time.

“Did you, uh, happen to get any information from this guy?” he asked quietly. “You know what I mean? His name, his phone number? Anything like that?”

His tone was completely calm and ordinary, and it surprised me. Instead of being rattled by this horrible situation, he sounded like we were sitting at a casual lunch and he was asking me to pass him the salt. It was nothing to him, which did something to me.

“Sure,” I responded and pulled the crumpled racing form out of my pocket.

“Give it to me,” he said simply and extended his right hand. There was no emotion in his voice and no expression on his face, but there was also no question about what was going on. I was now face to face with the enormous, unmistakable power that was firmly and forever on my side. Nothing was going to hurt me.

I put the paper in his hand, and as soon as he took it, the weight of the world was lifted off my shoulders and I could breathe again. He looked at the information for a long moment.

“OK,” he said. “Here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re just going to take the car over to a place called Frese and Fishers in town, and they’ll handle it. Frese and Fishers.”

I tried to concentrate and remember the name, but it flew right out of my mind.

“You know what? Don’t worry about it,” he said, sensing I was struggling. “Just call my office tomorrow morning, and Bernadette will take care of the whole thing.” He put his hand on my shoulder and held it there, as steady as a mountain and as reassuring as the dawn.

“OK?” he asked me, looking in my eyes for the all-clear. I nodded to him. “OK,” he said with finality, indicating that the episode was over.

“Enough already!” he exclaimed. “Come on. Let’s go back inside.”

We left the garage. He put his arm around my shoulder, and with synchronized steps, we walked back to the house. As we approached the kitchen window, I could see my mother through the glass, working at the sink. She lifted her head, and as a Madonna Amongst the Dishes, with a subtle Mona Lisa smile, she gazed sublimely at the sight of her youngest child, walking along the path under the shelter and protection of his father.

Once we were inside and he started down the hall to his office, he called back to me. “Don’t worry about this, Duv. It’s no big deal.”

And it wasn’t. I called his secretary in the morning, and she told me exactly what to do. She had already set up the appointment, and the body shop treated me royally. Within another day, the car was fine, and I was driving it as though nothing had ever happened. And I never heard another word about it again.

I started making some notes for the essay. I realized that in my extreme fear, the situation seemed completely hopeless. It had never occurred to me that my father might have been able to help. In fact, I forgot I even had a father.

But in truth, he was one of the most powerful attorneys in the city, his protégé was the President Judge of the Philadelphia Court System and his partner was the Police Commissioner of Cheltenham Township. So, in reality, that half-drunk degenerate who had threatened me in the bar’s parking lot, had no power over me at all. But try explaining that to sheer terror.

The panic we feel when we encounter darkness makes us forget that there is such a thing as light. But for me, everything changed the instant my father took that nicotine-stained racing form out of my hand. Light had dispelled darkness and I realized I was safe again. It was as simple as that.

Suddenly the door to my father’s office opened, and Wally Jones stepped out, with my father right behind him. I closed my notebook and followed them into the hall but hung back and watched. I don’t think they even noticed me.

They had only known each other for an hour, but you could’ve sworn they were old friends. Wally still looked dirty and disheveled, but he certainly didn’t look like a bum anymore. My father walked him to the opened door and put his arm around his shoulder.

“Now, this is all going to be OK, Wally. I promise you we can handle it. It’s time to put the whole thing behind you.”

“I’ll do that, Mr. Richman,” Wally said. “I will.”

“Call me first thing Monday morning,” my father said. “And don’t forget, the important thing now is to get back in the game and start working on your jump shot. You gotta get that rust off.”

They both chuckled. Wally walked out to his car, and my father turned to me, with the smile of a job well done. I’d seen that look on his face a million times.

***

A few days later, the 76ers announced that Wally Jones had come back to Philly and had joined the team. Amazingly, all his legal problems were quickly resolved, and the whole city was buzzing with anticipation.

When he met the reporters after his first practice, he said, “I think my problems are more mental than physical, and Mr. Richman already has helped me see some sunshine for the first time in a long while. I have a little peace of mind for the first time in three years, and I want a chance to show the world what I can do.”

Soon, he would do just that. And along with the recent signing of Billy Cunningham, my father’s dream team was complete.

Billy, the great star from the University of North Carolina, was his number-one draft pick. He and my father had grown quite fond of each other, but contractually, they had hit a snag.

My father had offered Billy $12,000 for the year. But Billy wanted $12,500 and was holding out. Neither one would budge. Finally, right before the season was about to begin, my father threw in the towel and gave Billy the extra five hundred. Now everything was in place, and we were ready to begin the new season. And our quest for destiny.

So, this story pretty much speaks for itself. I guess the idea is that when times get tough and the threatening clouds of fear encompass our vison and darken our lives, even though it may be hard to see the cloud’s silver lining, it’s still there. Sometimes all we can do is just remember the existence of light until we can see it again. And sometimes, all we have to do is ask.

Well, that’s the end of this episode. As always, keep your eyes, mind and heart opened and let’s get together in the next one.

  continue reading

100 episodes

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