Three Little Wrestling Figures

I shared this story before but I wanted to again on what should’ve been my brother’s 46th birthday. 

If you knew Dave, you knew he had a lifelong struggle. There were stretches of time throughout that struggle when he would go weeks, months, or sometimes years, doing okay. Then there were other stretches of time when he suffered terribly. This photo was taken during one of those times.

His girlfriend at the time had kicked him out, so, Jamie turned our office into a makeshift bedroom and we took him in. Every night before her bedtime, Nina tiptoed across the hallway in her pajamas and crawled under the covers with him. I’d hear whispers about princesses and dragons and how Dave was going to help her conquer her fear of rollercoasters. She set up a couple of my wrestling figures near him (you could see them in the photo, on the nightstand) and explained that one day soon “Uncle Dave would be strong like them again.”

He was in pain. Not only the kind of pain that comes with addiction but very serious physical pain. An injury to his foot had become infected and at this point he had a portable wound VAC treating it. 

After a few days at our house, Dave insisted on packing up his stuff and moving back with his girlfriend. In the weeks that followed, the wound in his foot worsened and he found himself in a rehabilitation center. He and I would end up having a falling out (our last of many) and I swore I would never speak to him again. 

Nina missed her uncle and wanted nothing more than to bring him the wrestling figures he forgot on the nightstand. On a warm day in April, I reluctantly took her to see him. We were only there for about thirty minutes but Dave was his old self. He had the nursing staff and other residents laughing. He had Nina laughing. Before it was over, he had me laughing. We left the rehab with smiles on our faces that afternoon. Dave never would. He passed away there three days later.

I share this photo and story to honor Dave and show that even at his worst he mustered up enough strength to chat about tree frogs with his three year old niece. Underneath it all, that’s who he was.

I have no idea what his final moments were like at that rehabilitation center seven years ago. I never will. But, I take a tiny bit of solace knowing that when it happened, he had three little wrestling figures at his bedside. 

Happy birthday, my brother. Until we meet again.

Fly, Hammer, Fly

With the Birds facing Andy Reid’s Chiefs this coming Sunday at the big game, I want to travel back in time to October, 2011. A simpler time, when Barack Obama was in office, drunken aunts everywhere were singing about “Pumped up Kicks” and John Rodio, along with his nephew Paul and my father, Dave, were stringing up one of Rodio’s trademark white banners with black lettering (signs that were a staple at the Vet and the Linc after that) outside of the Eagles’ NovaCare training facility. This particular sign read ANDY THE TIMES…TO GO. (Reminding Reid, who was head coach of the Birds at the time, that Philly had seen enough.)

Eagles’ center and soul of the team, Jason Kelce, and then guard, Evan Mathis, didn’t take too kindly to the signage. Kelce and Mathis approached in a pickup truck and demanded that the fans remove their sign. Honestly, I’m not sure what came next, but the scrum was enough for news outlets to take notice and enough people to get to chatting about it, for it to become known as “Occupy NovaCare” or better yet, “Signgate.” Not surprising since both the “Sign Man” (Rodio) and the “Hammonton Hammer” (my dad) were already pretty well-known in the area for Rodio’s signs, my dad’s performance at Wing Bowl 97’, and their frequent call-ins to sports talk radio.

Cooler heads eventually prevailed. When the Birds finally got a dub after losing four in a row, Rodio and his comrades returned to NovaCare (albeit a bit further away) with a new sign reading THANK YOU AND YOUR WELCOME. Which, if I remember correctly, was an intentional gaffe to poke fun at all the Grammar Nazis who attacked Rodio for the first sign. All parties involved even posed for a picture, with Mathis playfully choking out Rodio while my dad tries to remove the huge man’s hands from his buddy’s throat.

In the weeks that followed, Rodio and my dad would land a show on radio station WNJC. It was the most excited I had ever seen my father. I designed a logo, along with tee shirts, hats, and magnets, and presented it all to him as a gift that Christmas. A little less than two weeks later, he passed away, before the first episode of the show ever aired. 

That following March, while exiting Wells Fargo Center after Monday Night Raw, my brother, Dave and I spotted two familiar faces flanked by fans. The hulking men, one bearded, the other with shoulder-length hair, towered over their admirers, smiling for photos and signing autographs. 

Dave and I waited patiently for the crowd to dissipate, then approached the men. By then, they looked exhausted, and a little bit annoyed. They almost blew us off entirely, until my brother shouted, “Our dad was Dave Rizzotte. The Hammer. One of the guys with the sign!” They stopped, glanced at one another, wondered where this was headed. We informed them that he had passed away, unexpectedly, of a heart attack. With tears in all of our eyes, they spoke kindly about our father, reminding us that although they had gotten off to a rough start, things ended well, and that the Hammer was a funny, charming guy. 

My brother and I spoke about the encounter often for the next couple of years. We spoke about how our father’s huge spirit blanketed Philly that night, as we made our way through the parking lot, reeling from the chance meeting with the players. We spoke about how tiny the world felt, how connected we felt to something bigger than us. It would end up being one of the last things we spoke about, on a sunny afternoon in April, three days before Dave would see our father again - way too soon.

This Sunday is a day for family and friends to gather and eat chicken wings and laugh at ridiculous commercials. It’s a day for extravagant halftime shows and occasionally shouting at the tv. Football, with all of its pomp and circumstance, and block pools, and signs…sometimes brings people together for the best reasons.

Raw I'm a give it to ya...

Yesterday, a man known to the music world as Ghostface Killah retweeted a picture of my beautiful one year old daughter wearing his group's logo on her onesie. That group is the Wu-Tang Clan and on November 9th, 1993 they dropped their debut LP, the timeless Enter the Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers.

Anyone who has an understanding of Hiphop music and the culture surrounding it is well aware that the nineties were an era chuck full of classic albums. It was a time when emcees weren't afraid to be themselves, they pushed boundaries both sonically and lyrically to gain interest in their crafts. The vibe of the time, in New York especially, was linked to an aesthetic of rawness and clever wordplay that the music world hasn't experienced since. At the forefront of this movement was a nine man collective from Staten Island or "Shaolin" as they called it. Nine emcees with completely different voices and lyrical content, that somehow managed to mash together musings on street life, styles of martial arts, metaphors about movies and comic books, that would all weave together and form their mythology for many years to come.

At the helm was the crew's producer and business mind, The RZA, at the other end was his cousin, the late, legendary mad man, Old Dirty Bastard. In between was a group of men, some would become stars (some not so much) but all capable of getting your head nodding at least once with a classic verse (ready? theres a quiz later) The GZA, Method Man, Inspectah Deck, Masta Killa, Raekwon the Chef, U-God and the aforementioned Ghostface Killah.

As a white kid in his early teens, submerged into the Hiphop culture of the day, these nine dudes seemed like Superheroes to me when they first stormed the scene. Up until then I was heavy into groups like Public Enemy, N.W.A and Run-D.M.C and of course the big time solo acts like Snoop Doggy Dogg and 2-Pac but never had their been a crew that was as intimidating and mysterious and intense as the Wu. And being such a large group made it fun to learn their unique styles and find a new favorite every other month.

It wouldn't be long after I made a daily habit of sneaking into my Brother's room and throwing on his 36 Chambers cassette that I started to mimic their words with verses of my own. I would sit by his boom box with my pen and pad, listen to a track or two, then put together rhymes that were piss poor knock offs of theirs but planted the seeds for my own foray into music. A craft of rhyme writing that I still practice to this day and if may say so, have become quite good at.

In the 20 years that have followed their platinum selling debut, they've released four more group albums and countless solo projects, some going double platinum, some going double plywood. Members have been in movies and television shows, The RZA has become somewhat of a staple in Hollywood, scoring movies and acting in several big budget films.  They've spawned many spin off groups and solo artists. They've had their own clothing line and cologne back before those things became the norm, they even had their own video game. To say they are the greatest rap group of all time would not be in the least bit hyperbole.

But perhaps the most endearing part of their legacy is their fans. Case in point. After Ghost retweeted me last night, bells and whistles went off in my phone for the rest of the night. People from all walks of life retweeting and favoriting a picture of my wide eyed little girl with a big yellow W on her chest. It's because we understand exactly what ODB meant when he interrupted Puff Daddy at the Grammy Awards to proclaim "Wu-Tang is for the Children". He didn't necessarily mean that their explicit, bass heavy, sometimes violent rap music is actually suitable for kids. He meant that children like me, children of the nineties, Hiphop children will continue on their legend.

I've seen them a handful of times live, at various venues. Each time I stood shoulder to shoulder with guys and girls of all races, colors and creeds, sometimes waiting a few hours for them to take the stage. But it never mattered. We were waiting for the Wu-Tang Clan, we had an unspoken connection to one another, we understood what were about to witness.

As a white guy from the suburbs of New Jersey, turning 32 in a couple weeks, that spends his days surrounded by Minnie Mice, Princesses and other various glittery pink things, my admiration for the Wu has not faded at all. I wait in anticipation for everything from a solo U-God album (I'm serious) to the much talked about reunion LP. They have a legacy that intertwined itself into the fabric of Hiphop culture and it all started two decades ago today.

Amblin

My newest EP... http://www.audiomack.com/album/areeyedouble/amblin

Remembering my Father. One year later.

I jogged. 

Felt the crisp air in my lungs and Harper tug anxiously at her leash. Made my way across the railroad tracks, it was a couple blocks by then, I was tiring. Pondered turning around and making my way back home but I decided to go on, toward the Italian Sons and Daughters of America building, the "club". That was my Father's favorite dwelling place during the winter months. As I made my way across the carnival grounds I imagined a familiar sight.

The usual suspects gathered around playing poker, discussing football and small town politics. Most of them I've known since I was a boy. A good group of guys, the epicenter being the man stretched out on his favorite leather recliner. Decked in his trademark flannel and dusty baseball cap, I imagined he'd be watching something sports related on the flat screen before him, either that or an episode of his favorite show at that time, Game of Thrones. Harper picked up speed as the club was in earshot, we entered, it was exactly how I pictured. He turned around and spotted us, a small grin and then "Harpley!" he exclaimed, purposely screwing up her name. Another trademark of his.

I was only there long enough for him to feed Harper a bowl of meatballs and very loudly inform everyone in the club that Harper was a "real dog" unlike the "shit dogs" they all had. He then proceeded to give a rudimentary explanation of Game of Thrones to me, stating that I would probably like it because "it had monsters and dragons in it"  and reminded me as we exited that my brother Dave was treating us all to Oyster Creek that coming Friday night, something about a bet. 

That was one year ago today. 

In the days that followed, my Parent's house was filled with sandwich trays and watery eyes, family members and friends sharing stories and the occasional laugh. The house, which had become quiet over the years was once more filled with life. The night of his viewing, cars overflowed the church parking lot out onto the highway, an unprecedented mass of people waited in line, some in the snow, to pay their final respects. 

Much has changed in the 365 days since my Father's passing, for one is the feeling of loss. It lingers but it has dulled ever so slightly. My Family and I can't help but to think of him every time my daughter Nina does anything, from the big things to the little things, like breaking some wind, which he would have admired so. Moments we collectively wish he was still around for, to hear his gruff voice, to watch his mouth widen, hands rub together and his silent laugh echo throughout time. As she flashes a huge smile, I look into her eyes and at times catch myself getting angry at the thought of her being robbed of a wonderful Grandfather.

Sure, it would be easy to mope now and again. But would he want us to?

Of all the things I learned from him, the one I keep going back to, the one that got me through his passing was the ability to go on. To patiently persevere, in good times and more importantly, the bad ones. It's that patience, that spirit, that love of life no matter what, that I watched and admired. He taught my Brother and I through his actions, never through heavy handed talks or lectures. I like to believe we're good men because of it, because of him.

What I knew of my Father was that he worked himself to the bone. He managed to make people angry and chuckle, usually at the same time. He spoke too loudly now and again, but always meant everything he said. He loved my Mother unconditionally. He afforded the opportunity for Dave and I to come of age, both in our own ways. To find ourselves and each other again, through him. In the final years of his life he loved my wife Jamie like his own daughter, some of my fondest memories are the two of them teasing each other and sharing a big laugh.

I was able to have one good Summer on the farm with him. One night we were working late and he wanted the four of us, he and my Mother, Jamie and I, to have dinner together. It was simply ordering some Chinese and eating it on the picnic bench smack dab in the middle of the packing house. The huge loading dock doors were open, a light breeze swept through, carrying the song of a July evening in South Jersey. He called it "dining al fresca". He was happy.

I remember him that night. I remember Dave and I climbing all over him on our living room floor or boxing us out for a rebound in the backyard, a growl as he exerted himself.

I remember a perfect night in Epcot, under the fireworks, a cardboard tray of hot chocolates and churros. Him and Jamie wrapped in their brand new Mexican blankets.

I remember May 1st, 2010. When he owned the dance floor, swinging his bride and then mine, then all of his nieces, every lady on the floor from 9 to 95.

Mostly I just remember him. 

On this day and always.

Giving Thanks

Around this time last year I was experiencing an uncontrollable feeling of dread. No matter what I did I couldn't shake it. A day with the feeling became a week, a week became a month. It caused such anxiety that I began to lose sleep, then my appetite, I lost nearly 20 pounds. Sometimes the feeling was so strong I called out of work. At times I would say to Jamie with tears in my eyes that "there was bad on the horizon".  Never in my life was I so nervous about something, even though I had no idea what it was.

I put the looming feeling to the back of my mind and enjoyed the Holiday season as best I could. Then on January 4th, without warning, I lost my Father. It quickly dawned on my that the dreadful feeling was gone, replaced by terrible sadness and grief. The weeks that followed were the hardest I've ever faced.

On February 12th, we found out Jamie was pregnant and although the sadness will never fully go away, it dulled ever so slightly that afternoon. In the weeks and months that followed Jamie and I tried our hardest to concentrate on the baby that was on the way,  on "her" way.

++++

I sat alone in a quiet gray hallway, nervously fidgeting about in my scrubs like countless soon to be Dads before me. Just beyond the heavy swinging doors in front of me was my Wife and our Doctor with a gang of various health care workers, prepping her for a C-Section. It was then when a feeling hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. Not a feeling of dread, not even an anxious feeling, but a familiar one. One that I've somehow known all along.

Nina came to us on October 11th.

Now here we are 6 weeks later and heading into another Holiday season, a year removed from when I first started experiencing those feelings. Anyone who knows me well enough knows I'm not a religious man and outside of Jamie and my immediate family, I've never really even spoke about the strange feelings and how they coincided with my Father's passing. At the time we chalked it up to a host of different things, the psychic connection being the least talked about. It sounded just too X-Files for such heavy times.

Was all of it just a coincidence? The terrible dread, losing my Father, the birth of our Baby Girl. Just a series of events that happened to fall one after another. Or was it something more? A force just beyond the word we know, working itself out, mysteriously. Who knows for sure? None of us I imagine.

What I do know is that this year I am thankful. I am thankful for my beautiful little family and the wonderful love that our house if filled with every single day. Jamie's laugh, Nina's tiny smile. The looks we all give one another as our lives grow, together. Shoot even our pain in the ass dog Harper is a vital part of our happiness.

Like most everything else in his life my Father gave his trademark grunt about the Holidays but they were always filled with family, laughs and good food and he was the center of it all. So all who knew him, knew he loved this time of year.

So it's in his spirit we will make merry as best we can and celebrate life.

He lives on through us.

Happy Birthday Bro.