Raw talent and a phone call

People say I’m crazy
I’ve got diamonds on the soles of my shoes
Well, that’s one way to lose these walking blues
Diamonds on the soles of my shoes
—Paul Simon, “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes”

A golden December morning in New York City, scattered clouds, no wind, a chilly bite to the air, the city always slow to rise on Sundays.

Ilsa the happy dog took the lead on our morning walk, her ears flopping in time to an even quickstep, her hard-rubber Kong clenched between her teeth. She was a dog on a mission, Central Park her nonnegotiable objective. Due to some rain and pressing commit- ments, we had been there but once all week, so I was as eager to arrive as she was.

Along the way we encountered Christmas tree vendors setting up on street corners. I savored the scent as we breezed by the bundled trees. This has routinely been my favorite time of year in the city. As a kid I took in several Radio City Music Hall Christmas shows here with my family. In the late ‘60s and early ‘70s the price of admission bought you a “Mighty Wurlitzer” organ recital, a film and a live show. Today you get just the show, a joyous blend of the secular and sacred, but it’s still the best holiday ticket in the city. Just to walk around the renovated music hall with its art deco flourishes is a marvel. I saw Albert Finney play a memorable Scrooge in the musical film of the same name while one of my younger brothers sprawled in the aisle, fawning over a new pair of pajamas he had refused to leave home without. It’s amazing how memories like those can sustain you in later years, when some holiday seasons are bluer than others.

Christmastime can be a trying time for many. Two years ago, while walking east on 14th Street towards the outdoor flea market in Union Square, I happened upon a grisly scene: an elderly woman had just leapt to her death from the balcony of her apartment six stories above. I later read she had been despondent over the loss of her husband. Apparently she just couldn’t endure a Christmas without him. Where were her neighbors? Her relatives? Her friends? We should all remember those near to us who might be having a rough go of it during the holidays. Sometimes a simple phone call is all it takes to lift the spirit.

Central Park was everything we anticipated. The park is largely deserted in the early morning hours; a few dog walkers, a smattering of intrepid joggers and cyclists, and that’s about it. Most of the trees are now bare. Brown leaves crunched under our steps as we wandered off the trail and into a field to play fetch.

I tossed Ilsa’s Kong high into the air and watched her dart after it with manic glee as it bounced every which way off the semi-frozen earth. A dozen or so throws later I could feel my rotator cuff pleading for a rest; no steroids in that shoulder. I started thinking about Jason Giambi and Barry Bonds. If the stories about their steroid use are true, it certainly doesn’t bode well for them, or for the sorry state of our national pastime. If there’s one positive to take away from that mess, it’s this: money and fame alone will never buy authenticity. That will always come down to the simpler things, like raw talent and a phone call around the holidays.