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As a young kid my childhood Hero was Tarzan! Never missed a show. Why? Because i thought it was fastinating that a white man all by himself, could just holler, and man look at all those Africans run.
Posted by dwaine a. freeman | 2006-08-02 06:44:06
Posted by Dwaine | 2007-02-09 07:42:33
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My pastor,
The Reverend Doctor E V Hill, Senior;The Mount Zion Missionary Baptist Church, Los Angeles, Ca.
Posted by Tony | 2006-04-17 10:59:44
Posted by Tony | 2007-02-09 07:42:14
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I was born during WWII and grew up in New York--in the city first and later in the burbs. Everyone we knew was either a Yankee or Dodger fan, but my dad rooted fervently for the New York Giants and he instilled in me a love for the team and its history. Everything about them loomed bigger than life to me and was better than what the other two teams had, from the black and orange team colors to the old Polo Grounds which despite its smaller size always seemed much more imposing and historically significant than boring-white-bread Yankee Stadium across the river.
I think that for any kid who was a Giants fan back then it would have been impossible not to have been permanently affected by being taken to the Polo Grounds by your dad, or by following the team's exploits on radio, TV or in the press. I still remember the impact of hearing the radio transmission of Bobby Thomson winning the 1951 pennant with that pinch-hit homer. Leo the Lip, Monte Irvin, Alvin Dark, Sal Maglie, Dusty Rhodes--these were all heroes to me and I had clippings about them on my bedroom wall.
Rising way above all of them like a Sun-God, however, was Willie Mays. I was totally crazy about Willie -- his smile, his tilted-back cap, his physical grace, speed, and agility all mezmerized me. He was my idol, and I didn't care how often everyone else around me claimed that Mantle or Maris were the best--for me Willie was the greatest, then or ever.
Nothing in the ensuing 50 or so years has changed that for me either because I never stopped loving his brilliance and still feel that way now. He was so naturally gifted and played with such joy that it seemed uncanny. Could anything compare to seeing that incredible basket-catch and miles-long throw in the '54 World Series? It was so spectacular a feat that even time can't diminish the magical place it holds in my memory.
When the Giants left New York it really hurt, as did seeing the polo grounds turned into a race track for a while and then torn down to build some ugly projects. It was kind of like having your dreams crushed into the dirt everytime you drove past. But childhood heroes die hard and I remained a Giant fan inspite of their move to San Francisco and still love to read about Willie Mays even though he retired long ago. A few years back I bought a beautiful black and orange NY Giants official replica wool cap and wear it proudly. I get a kind of perverse pleasure out of knowing that most people are too young to know what team it represents and think it's the Mets or the Yankees. It's like being a member of a special arcane society.
Posted by MYKL | 2006-02-28 18:29:51
Posted by MYKL | 2007-02-09 07:41:45
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My love affair with jazz began when I was quite small. I was introduced to jazz by my favorite relative, my uncle Clifford. A couple of times a year, he would drive down to Kansas City from his home in Fort Riley and spend a weekend or a week with us.
Uncle Clifford always brought thick stack of vinyl with him and would play it for us. While my older sister preferred to listen to the Jackson Five, Isley Brothers, Funkadelic - I liked what Uncle Clifford played. He played jazz. Clifford played Coltrane, Miles, Blakey, Monk, Ellington, and just about any jazz musician you could think of.
Uncle Clifford could play his own jazz too. He couldn't read music but I remember when we would go to the shopping mall and Uncle Clifford would sit down at one of the organs in the music store and just start playing. Soon a crowd of thirty to forty people would be standing around in pure amazement. He couldn't read music and, by the time I remembered him he was no longer playing in a band, but Uncle Clifford could make the organ talk. He could play the essence of jazz and embody the moment in music.
Like a lot of jazz musicians, Uncle Clifford died prematurely. He left no children and relatives fought over his house, car, and the organs in his home. However, no one wanted his LPs. I took them. I also received a scrapbook of mementos from his band days. It was invaluable and among other things, contained a letter from Charlie Parker, pictures with Duke Ellington, and a signed note from Billie Holiday..
Since then jazz has been a part of my life. The sounds of Lester Young, Yardbird, Lady Day, and Benny Goodman can often be found wafting through my home like the aroma of sweetly seasoned barbeque. At my home, jazz is in the walls, the furniture, the knives and brushes I paint with, and even in the tubes of acrylic and oil sitting in my studio. Not only is my home filled with jazz, but also is home to jazz's first cousins: blues and gospel.
To me, it's no mystery where my work finds its inspiration. It's always been from the same source. In 1993, after my mother passed, I found some brittle, yellowed drawings I made in kindergarten. They are of crudely drawn stick men with trumpets and saxophones. The inspiration has always been there.
When I temporarily moved to Bermuda 1989, all of my LPs and most of my mementos vanished at the customs office. I never saw them again. But the memories remain. Jazz and the memories it gives me are as much a part of my life as breathing.
Posted by Harold (website) | 2005-04-18 07:07:41
Posted by Harold | 2007-02-09 07:41:22
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I've written quite a number of times including in my new book, USING YOUR ART & THE MEDIA TO COMFORT PEOPLE that Jimmy Olson, Lois Lane and Clark Kent were major heroes in my life.
They were news reporters, who were interested in solving serious problems. The headline came afterwards. I feel news people nowadays are first human beings and need to use their position to do good in the world not cause trouble.
You offer a solution, and thus your news story will be great with a beginning, middle and a resolution. Thus you'll have a great headline and journalism becomes an honorable profession.
Now, about Superman..... well, we wouldn't have had him if it were for Mr. Kent!
Posted by Anne Leighton (website) | 2005-03-05 19:52:18
Posted by Anne | 2007-02-09 07:40:57
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Willie Mays was my childhood hero...
In the early sixties, San Francisco Bay area baseball fans had very few opportunities to witness the Giants on television. Instead, live radio broadcasts and newspaper accounts provided virtually the only links to the team.
The radio voices of Russ Hodges and Lon Simmons were the soundtrack to my summer days. I would frequently bring my palm-size beige transistor into the backyard, tune it to KSFO, and lay it on the metal dinner table next to my patio chair. I would tirelessly fidget with it to get the best reception.
I sat there and listened for most of the game, pounding my Wilson fielders glove with a worn hardball. Between innings, KSFO would promote its non-baseball programming -- at the time a lineup consisting of the likes of Sinatra, Basie, Armstrong, Darin and Damone.
When a deep fly ball was launched by a Giant player, Hodges’s voice would elevate with excitement. I leaned an ear to the transistor in anticipation of his “Bye Bye Baby!“ call, and by this time, the crowd noise got so loud that the radio would vibrate on the surface of the table. His description was so effortless and thoughtful, particularly when communicating his passion for the way Willie Mays played the game. Everything in my world stopped when Mays came to the plate. His appearance meant there was a possibility for magic to occur, and he frequently delivered.
On weekend mornings, my brother and I would race each other to the driveway, where our copy of the Oakland Tribune was delivered. The winner got to read the sports page first. What typically awaited us was the game summary, box score, all kinds of fascinating statistics, and, usually, a photograph of Willie Mays. One day it would be of Mays at the plate. The next it may be of Mays sliding into second base in a cloud of infield dirt. The photos we gasped over were those of Mays racing to the fence in pursuit of a deep fly, his heroic athleticism in graceful display -- his number "24" in the center of the photograph, and etched firmly within my eight-year-old imagination.
Posted by JJM (website) | 2005-01-24 23:03:54
Posted by JJM | 2007-02-09 07:40:20
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