And in Other News – Hockey Has Started

Another hockey season began last week, which is a perfect time to tell you about my new endeavor.

Playing hockey.

(Hello! McFly! You’re 51-years-old, you’ve never played hockey, you can’t even skate, and you’re disabled. You think you can play hockey?)

I’m speaking about Sled Hockey, also known as Sledge Hockey. When you’re disabled, you need to make some type of adjustment for everything you do. If you’re disabled and you want to play hockey, you adjust the way you play the game.

The origin of sled hockey, as written in Parasport, a website about all Para-Olympic sports, goes back to the early 1960s when a bunch of former hockey players in a rehabilitation center in Stockholm, Sweden bolted two hockey blades to the bottom of a sled, and armed with rounded poles in each hand played the game they loved.

The origin of my involvement in sled hockey goes back to New Year’s Eve 2011. Nik, Amy, Mom and I went to an Arizona Sundogs hockey game in Prescott Valley, Arizona. Before the game started, Prescott’s Tom Lopeman, who lost both legs to injuries he suffered while serving in Vietnam, skated out on his sled to deliver the puck to the referee. During the first intermission, we talked about his equipment and playing the game. Tom invited me to practice with the Phoenix Coyotes Sled Hockey team that he plays for. A couple of weeks later, I met the team at the Ice Den in Scottsdale. The guys on the team were fantastic. They let me borrow a sled and some equipment, helped me get on the ice and got me involved in their practice. What I was able to do can in no way be confused with playing. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I could barely skate the width of the rink before I had to stop and catch my breath. After an hour and a half of the team practicing on half the rink and me hoping to not have a coronary on the other half, practice was over. My arms were so sore I could barely lift them, but I loved being on the ice. I had to be able to actually play this game.

First, I had to get my upper body prepared for the rigors of just skating. The muscles of my arms, shoulders and back were not prepared to propel nearly 200 pounds. Perhaps if I had walked on my hands for 50 years, I would have felt better. I got a membership to Kate’s House of Fitness in Prescott Valley. Kate Cooper is a professional bodybuilder and does not look feminine. Kate is a wonderful lady but scary looking. I told my dad if I was ever in a dark alley, I wanted Kate by my side. Kate wrote up a workout program and showed me how to complete the program without injuring myself. I went to Kate’s House of Fitness three or four days a week until earlier this when she closed her gym. Now I go to a different gym that has more equipment but not as nice as Kate’s.

The weightlifting is paying off. This past summer, a Phoenix organization called River of Dreams reserved time at the Ice Den for anyone wanting to try sled hockey. Tom and other members of the Coyotes sled team were there to help novices like they helped me a year and a half earlier. I was able to skate the length of the rink multiple times and I never thought my arms would fall off my shoulders. And I’m glad Nik was one of those first-timers. He enjoyed it and he did great. Of course he is nearly 40 years younger and 75 pounds lighter than me.

I have all my personal gear. A few months after my first attempt at sled hockey, I came across a man from Flagstaff who was selling his helmet, gloves, pads, and bag – everything but his skates – on Craig’s List. I don’t need the skates anyway. I have prescription heavy-duty athletic glasses. I look like a raccoon, but I don’t have to worry about breaking my everyday specks. And I’m saving for my own sled and hockey sticks.

My goal is to play sled hockey, not just in practice, but in a game. I still have strength gaining and a whole lot of conditioning yet to do, but I have a goal. And what better place to have a goal but a hockey rink where there is one on each end.

Time for CCR

Once again, another court case that stirred the masses to be judge, jury and executioner has ended. Just as the Rodney King trial, just as the OJ Simpson trial, just as the Casey Anthony trial, just as the Jodie Arias trial, the George Zimmerman trial resulted in people taking sides.

In case you’ve been under a rock, Zimmerman was found not guilty of either murder or manslaughter in the death of black teenager Trayvon Martin. Now is a time for CCR – not Credence Clearwater Revival, but Constructive Critical Review.

How does this case expose the wrong ways I think and act? Am I more suspicious of people who are a different color or ethnicity than me than I do people who are the same color or ethnicity as me? If a person is wearing a certain style of clothing, do I watch him or her more critically? Am I judging other human beings as guilty before he or she as individuals do anything illegal?

I know what it is like to be viewed as guilty. I have committed no crimes. I have a clean police record. But I am a divorced male and a divorced male who is a father, and because of the thousands of abusive and philandering males and deadbeat dads in our society, I am seen as one of them.

Every American state has No Fault Divorce statutes which were written and enacted in response to the actions of the scum of my gender. The Indiana judge in my divorce case did not care about my attempts to save my family and have my child grow up in a two-parent household. The judge did not scold my ex for not submitting her personal documents like bank records and tax returns like I was ordered to do. I submit 60 percent of my income to child support, even during months when my son is with me and I am directly supporting him. I pay the entire cost of Nik’s travel to and from Arizona and until Nik’s mother gave her permission, I had to escort him on airplanes, which tripled the cost. The first time I ordered my son’s school pictures directly from the photographer, the photographer called my ex to verify it was okay for me to have pictures of my son.

Suzanne Venker, author of The War on Men, and Dr. Helen Smith, author of Men on Strike, each understand the hypocrisy of the laws.

“The Violence Against Women Act (VAWA) is easily used against (men) since its definition of violence is so broad that virtually any conflict between partners can be considered abuse,” Venker writes.

“If a woman gets angry for any reason, she can simply accuse a man and men are just assumed guilty in our society,” Smith adds. “This is particularly heinous since violence in domestic relations is almost 50 percent from men and 50 percent from women.”

I do not like being on the wrong side of the guilty or innocent scale. And if I am a follower of Jesus Christ and the teachings of the Bible, then I should be treating others as I want to be treated. Am I? Always?

The Bible also identifies an ultimate judge who will gauge our entire actions and thoughts. That ultimate judge is not me, so what gives me the right to judge others without proof of wrong-doing?

“You have to be suspicious of other people in our society these days,” people close to me have said. They’re correct, but is that the right attitude to have? Is that why our society is what it is these days? Does our society need improving or is it fine the way it is?

I think the state of our society is the worst it’s ever been, and based on what I’ve read in history books and heard from extremely knowledgeable people, that is very very bad.

I want the society I live in to be better, and therefore I need to act and think better. And conduct regular CCRs.

Why I Am What I Am

March is Multiple Sclerosis Awareness Month as proclaimed by the National Multiple Sclerosis Society. Just in case you have missed something I’ve said, not read something I’ve written, or not seen certain pictures of me; let me make you aware that my body doesn’t work.

My wheelchair or scooter is what I need to get around.

Towards the end of August 1996 – I can’t remember the exact date – a doctor told me she suspected I had Multiple Sclerosis. More specialized tests the following month confirmed it. Thinking back, I felt the first symptoms in 1993.

For some reason, antibodies intended to devour germs and bacteria that make us sick, start eating the jelly-like film that protects neurons in our brain and spinal column. Just like an electrical wire, when the insulation is good, electricity zips through the wire at blinding speed. But when the insulation is damaged or removed, the electricity gets interrupted. Thus is the problem with the “wiring” in my brain. The body tries to repair itself by covering the damaged insulation with scar tissue, but that further hampers the body’s “electrical grid.”

The damage messes up the messages from the brain to the muscles. Muscles don’t do what muscles are supposed to do until the brain tells the muscles to do what they’re supposed to do. If the path between the brain and a specific muscle is damaged, the muscle “hears” “mumble, mumble, mumble.” If you do not fully understand what your teacher at school or your boss at work wants you to do, chances are good you’re going to fail at your assignment. Same goes for muscles.

My problems are below my waist and with my left hand, which is a real pisser because I’m left handed. The writing of this entry has already taken four times longer than anything else I’ve written. My sense of feeling in my hand is not as acute as in the past, I can’t control my pinky finger very well (instead of hitting the “A” key, I hit the “Caps Lock” button), and my left hand is weaker. I’m now using my right hand to eat because I can’t hold my food-loaded fork as securely as I like.

From 2010. I have a better scooter now.

My left leg also is worse than my right leg. Both legs feel like they have 20 pound weights hanging on them all the time, but I also can’t pick up my toes on my left foot when I walk, so I’m always stubbing my foot on the ground, or a rock, or a blade of grass. Since my balance isn’t very good, any little thing that hampers my gait causes me to fall down. I use a wheeled walker in and around my home and a wheelchair or motorized scooter everywhere else. I have a device that allows me to depress the accelerator and brake pedals on my van with my hand instead of my feet so I can still drive.

And when by body wants to release liquid or solid wastes, it’s going to do it no matter where I am. Yes, I’ve had plenty of “accidents” and embarrassments. The good side is I can tell you where all the quickly accessible bathrooms and large, full bushes are anywhere in northern Arizona.

There is no cure for MS because everybody with MS is completely different. You and all of our friends could have MS and we would each have different symptoms and severities. Some of us may not even know we have MS. MS is called “A Designer Disease”, which is why a cure-all medicine is still out of reach.

Right now, the various MS drugs on the market just slow down the progression of the disease not stop it. Kind of like a closed but unlocked door. If the door is open, you walk through without hesitation. But if the door is closed, you need to spend two extra seconds to stop, turn the knob, and pull the door open before you continue on. Research has been going on for more than 40 years and progress has been made. A cure will come. I’m not confident it will come during my lifetime. I hope I’m wrong, obviously.

What I am completely sure of is Multiple Sclerosis will not get me down. I have gone through the periods of anger, depression, why me, and worry only to discover that I still have a whole lot to live for. Multiple Sclerosis itself is not a fatal disease. Because of MS I could stumble and fall in front of an oncoming locomotive, so I tend to be careful around train tracks.

I can do a lot of thinks, like Sled Hockey!

I’m still breathing. I’m still able to see the blue sky, feel the sun’s warmth on my face, hear the birds chirp, have my dog jump on my lap and lick my chin, read a book, eat a perfectly prepared steak, kiss my sweetheart and tell her “I Love You”. And most people want to help me. Most people ask me if I need or want something, and will get it for me. Most people will hold a door open for me as I approach. Those that don’t have their own issues to deal with. I go places I want to go to, and do the things I want to do. It may take me longer to get there or do something than it will you, but MS is not going to stop me.

You may be thinking “Scott, you have a wonderful attitude.” Attitude is the key to living with Multiple Sclerosis. I know people who have had MS for decades who only look at the negative. A couple of years ago, I read about Jeanne Goldy-Sanitate, or “Jersey Jeanne” as she’s become known. Take a couple of minutes to read about all that Jersey Jeanne does and has done at http://www.va.gov/health/NewsFeatures/2013/March/Veteran-with-MS-Adaptive-Sports-Champ.asp#.
Why would I, or anyone of any ability, not want to live like Jersey Jeanne or have the experiences she has?

Living with MS is a challenge, but it will only defeat me if I let it. The victor of this fight will be me.

He Never Got His Shot

The Little League World Series baseball tournament in Williamsport, Pennsylvania is one of the jewels of summer, especially for boys and girls ages 11 through 13. Little League rules allow girls to play with the boys, however the teams from the around the world consist primarily of boys.

I love watching these kids play baseball because they do it for the purest reason – they love the game. Most of these kids are extremely talented and their teams have won every game in their area, district, state, region, and in some cases country. Every game has powerful hitting and tremendous defensive plays. I’m constantly amazed by what I see.

Watching the Little League World Series also is sad for me, especially since the series is annually during a time when I’m depressed anyway. The series begins a couple of weeks after Nik has gone home after spending the summer in Arizona. I’m sad because Nik never got his chance to be the ballplayer he could have been.

I don’t know if Nik would have been good enough to be one of his little league’s all-stars, or if that team would have been able to win all the games in order to get to Williamsport. What I do know is Nik never got his chance.

Nik heads for third during a game in 2005.

Nik was first eligible for T-Ball at 5, and I signed him up to play in the Mooresville (Indiana) Little League. He enjoyed it and after a few games and practices, he was able to hit the ball tossed softly to him. But that was the only time he was allowed to play.

A few weeks after his season ended, I got the job offer that led me to move to Arizona. As I’ve mentioned before, Nik’s mother and I developed together the plan for me to go ahead, get our living arrangements established, and then she and Nik would join me. It was not until I got here that she told me she had “changed my mind” and she destroyed our family. Nik asked her to sign him up for little league a couple of years, but she didn’t do it, telling him the games were during the time he is supposed to be with me. That was a lie, because the little league season is in April and May. The only time he would play in June and July would be if he was an all-star, and if was, I would have happily sacrificed my time.

The reason she didn’t sign him up is she didn’t want to sit through practices and she couldn’t afford it. I don’t see how living in poverty, not getting opportunities and experiences, and living 7/8^th of the year away from the primary male role model is “in the best interest of the child”, especially a boy.

Former professional baseball player and current coach for the Arizona Diamondbacks said in an interview: “Let me fail. Even if I fail, I at least had my chance. If I don’t have a chance, then I can’t succeed.”

We’ll never know if Nik could have been a good baseball player or good in any sport because he never got his chance.

Today is My Father’s Day

My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, has blessed me so much more than I deserve.

He led me through the ups and downs and twists and turns to the most amazing woman in the world, Amy Morales. (You may think “the most amazing woman in the world” is someone else, but this is my blog and I say the most amazing woman in the world is Amy!) He gave me two terrific parents who are loving and generous to me and loving and dedicated to each other and their marriage. I have a terrific extended family of aunts, uncles, cousins, my cousins’ children, and Amy’s two daughters, their respective husbands and their currently developing babies. I have a number of great friends. I’ve never been without food or shelter. And there are the billions upon gazillions of other blessings I have no clue He’s given me.

As fantastic as each of those blessings are, none of them compares to the gift He gave me 12 years ago today: my son, Nikolas.

Nikolas Scott William Daravanis was born at 11:40 a.m. May 10, 2000. My life has never been the same.

He has made me laugh so many times, like the day he stopped me in my tracks while I was heading toward the bathroom. Parents know that during the potty-training stage, they will go blue in the face asking “Do you have to go potty?” This particular day, Nik and I were about to go to the town’s park and before we left the house, I said “Do you have to go potty?” He didn’t but I did, so I told my son who was standing at the door waiting for me, “Well Daddy does, so when I’m done, we’ll go (to the park).” At that moment, this 3-foot tall 3-year-old suddenly came up with a deep James-Earl-Jones-type voice and said, “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

Nik also is the source of my favorite two word phrase. Whenever I would come home from work, the first thing I would hear is “Daddy’s Home!” I’ve lived in a couple of places since then, but every time I cross the front door threshold, I hear in my mind “Daddy’s Home!” What followed, however, was not so great. Nik would run as fast as he could from the back room to the front door to hug me. How is that not great, you ask? At 4-years-old, Nik was just the right height that his forehead was on the same level as my crotch. I had two choices. I either got out of the way like a matador evading a charging bull, which would result in Nik plowing into the front door, or I scoop him up before he had me “singing soprano.” I chose the latter, although I didn’t always succeed.

I spend more time worrying about Nik than anything else these days, not because of what Nik does or says, but because of the selfish acts of his mother. In 2005, she broke her promises to me and her vows to God and destroyed our family unit. I’ve written numerous times the damage a boy growing up without his father’s physical presence causes. Studies from multiple and unrelated sources show drug, alcohol and cigarette use and criminal activity increase and self-esteem and educational success decline when children are raised in broken homes. I am doing what I can to help Nik buck that trend. I call him at least once a week, I never end our conversation without telling Nik that I love him, and I do not hang up before he does. And I never, ever miss a visitation period no matter what the sacrifice.

Because I live in Arizona and Nik lives primarily in Indiana, he and I are physically together only 9 weeks per year – one week at Christmas, one week during his school’s Spring Break and seven during the summer. Nine weeks equals 63 days – 63 out of 365 days per year that I can hug, kiss, mentor, coach and be an example and inspiration for Nik. I strive to make every second of those 63 days valuable and memorable. I’m thankful that he is appreciating my efforts.

He will occasionally send me an e-mail or text that says “I love you, dad.” This past March when he had the flu and wasn’t feeling good, he called me and said “Whenever I talk to you, I feel better, so that’s why I called.” I am so very, very blessed.

The Bible tells us that we should place our troubles upon the shoulders of the Lord and not worry. I’m really trying to follow that directive, but I still worry about the future. We do not know what will happen tomorrow, but there is one eternal fact.

Nikolas will always be my son and I will always be his dad.

Bigger Than He Looks

When I started this quasi and inconsistent journal, I wanted to document some of my thoughts and feelings, and record my ancestors’ lives.

Papou at his sweet shop in 1929.

In January 2010, I started digging into my ancestry. I noticed that, over time, an entire life gets reduced to statistics and a tombstone. I want my great-grandchildren and beyond to know me better than I know my great-grandparents and beyond.

I’ve praised my sweetheart, Amy; I’ve written about fatherhood, journalism, stupid things people say to the disabled, and buying a rat for Christmas; but not much about my ancestors on either my father’s or my mother’s side.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve been focusing on my paternal grandfather, Louis Daravanis. I knew that Papou (the Greek word for grandfather) was born October 15, 1899 in Saranda Exclesis, Turkey; emigrated to the United States by himself at 16; owned and worked in eating establishments in Chicago, Illinois and Gary, Indiana; married my Yia Yia (the Greek word for grandmother) in 1933; had four children, my father being the second child; and died on June 16, 1978. Of course, Louis Daravanis had a much more interesting life than one long sentence divided by semi-colons.

Louis was a “rabble-rouser” as a teenager. At 16, he was arrested for participating in a student protest, most likely opposing Turkey’s military aggression toward Greece. Though he was born in Turkey, Papou’s parents and grandparents were Greek, and Papou always considered himself a Greek. Papou’s father and brothers broke Papou out of jail and put him on a ship called the Patris heading for America.

My grandfather was a fugitive.

“He never wanted to go back to Greece, even as a tourist, because he was sure he was going to be re-arrested,” my father told me. “We (my dad and his siblings) told him, ‘Dad, that was many years ago. No one would remember,’ but he wouldn’t do it. He was too afraid.”

It’s been more than three decades since I was 16, but knowing what I was like at that time in my life, I can’t imagine going to a strange country where I did not know the language. Papou did, and survived.

The Patris docked in New York on September 13, 1915. He was placed in quarantine until his admittance hearing three days later.

“First and second class passengers who arrived in New York Harbor were not required to undergo the inspection process at Ellis Island. The Federal government felt that these more affluent passengers would not end up in institutions, hospitals or become a burden to the state,” a report on the history of Ellis Island states. “This scenario was far different for ‘steerage’ or third class passengers. These immigrants traveled in crowded and often unsanitary conditions near the bottom of steamships with few amenities, often spending up to two weeks seasick in their bunks during rough Atlantic Ocean crossings. Upon arrival in New York City, ships would dock at the Hudson or East River piers. The steerage and third class passengers were transported from the pier by ferry or barge to Ellis Island where everyone would undergo a medical and legal inspection.”

Five years later, Papou’s parents and siblings made their way to America. Their immigration papers note they would be staying with cousin Christos Georges in Hart, Michigan. I assume that is where Papou lived between 1915 and 1920. How he got from New York to Michigan – if that is what happened – I do not know.

2467 N. Clark in Chicago as it looks today.

The Daravanises eventually settled in Chicago. Thanks to the research desk at the Chicago Historical Society, I learned that Papou, his older brother George and his younger brother Nick owned and operated the Blackstone Sweet Shop at 2467 N. Clark during the late 1920s. Papou probably made and sold chocolates, pastries, candies and ice cream, along with coffee, soda and lemonade. A regular – maybe even daily – customer at Blackstone Sweet Shop was gangster George “Bugs” Moran. I remember my Yia Yia, who passed away in 1991, saying that, one day, Papou could not make Moran’s favorite treat because Papou was out of sugar, so Moran drove Papou to a warehouse packed with sugar. Sugar was an item gangsters hoarded so they could make beer and moonshine during prohibition. Yia Yia said from that moment on, whenever Papou was out of sugar, all he had to do was get word to Moran, and Papou could get as much sugar as he needed.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Moran’s biggest rival, Al Capone, also was one of Papou’s customers. The Blackstone Sweet Shop was three blocks north of Moran’s meeting place, which on February 14, 1929 was the location of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Capone’s men, dressed as Chicago police officers, used the guise of a police raid to enter Moran’s hideout and kill seven of Moran’s henchmen. Capone’s goal for the fake raid was to “rub-out” Moran, but he wasn’t there. According to history books, Moran was five minutes late to a planned 10:30 a.m. meeting. No one knows why he was late. I’m going to theorize that earlier that morning, Moran made a sugar delivery to my grandfather. I have no proof, of course, but it sounds cool. My “fugitive” Greek grandfather saved the life of one of America’s most notorious criminals.

In the early 1940s, Papou moved his family to northwest Indiana, and after working as a cook for a time, bought the People’s Lunch Room at 1420 Broadway in Gary. My dad told me Papou, again with his brother Nick, cooked and served a variety of meals 24-hours per day. You could say the People’s Lunch Room was a precursor to today’s Denny’s Restaurant.

Papou’s rules for the People’s Lunch Room were Gary police officers could get a free meal every day and free coffee whenever they wanted, and no one should spend the day hungry, such as Tom “the appliance guy.”

Yia Yia and Papou in 1973.

“Tom repaired appliances a few doors down the road. At that time, it was nothing to take a fan or toaster to someone to repair,” my Aunt Mary told me. She said Tom slept on a cot in the back room of his shop. “Every day, your Yia Yia or I would take meals to him. One day, your Papou found Tom dead in the back room. I remember your Papou telling the funeral director that this man had no family, that he was going to try to sell the stuff in (Tom’s) store, and whatever your Papou made was all this man had. After everything was done, I remember going to the cemetery and visiting the grave. There was just a small marker on the ground. Your Papou said that that was unacceptable. We went to the (cemetery) office and he bought, out of his own pocket, a head stone for the man. Who would do that today?”

My paternal grandfather was not a big man physically (maybe 5’ 5” and 130 pounds), but Louis Daravanis stood up for those in need and those who protect, and against those who sought to oppress and destroy. That is very big in my book.