Winning, losing and then sorrow

I've looked at pictures of Erica Blasberg over the past few months, and I couldn't help but fall into that black hole of stereotypes that define the culture of mental illness.

I asked myself, "How could a woman who looks like that commit suicide?"

When I read the news reports now, I ask, "How could we not see this?"

Nearly four months after the LPGA golfer was found dead in her home, officials declared her death a suicide on Tuesday.

The coroner's office of Clark County, Nevada said Blasberg died of suicide due to asphyxia, coupled with the presence of toxic levels of prescription medication in her system, including prescription headache, cough, pain and anti-anxiety medications, according to news reports.

Erica was a 25-year-old golfer who made more headlines for her looks than her wins. She was a number-one amateur performer whose modeling masked the lack of success she had as a professional.

But it's obvious now that it was her career that mattered more. She never lived up to the sky-high expectations that were set for her. She never fit that role of perfection that was created for her.

Most importantly, she may not have had the people around her that she needed, the kind of people who could have guided her through the disappointments and the troubles that plagued her, and blocked the path to success that eluded her.

Her suffering parents even acknowledged that she recently appeared to turn things around, even as they acknowledged that she had had a year filled with trouble and heartache.

Perhaps it was those troubles that ultimately caused her to wrap a plastic bag around her head, and cause her to suffocate? It's tough to say, and no coroner's report in the world could ever make sense of that.

Perhaps Chris Baldwin, from the Culture Map website that's based in Houston, was the most qualified observer of them all. In his Tuesday column, he was able to point out the signs that few others were able to see, only because he is not only a fan of sports but also an observer of life.

Chris Baldwin, as his bio tells, worked at traditional newspapers and online publications, covering everything from the World Series to New York City politicians to Justin Timberlake. CultureMap, he says, is a daily digital magazine that presents an "intelligent, provocative, needed voice" on culture.

It was from this place that he crossed paths with Blasberg, at an LPGA event in 2007, when he was able to identify the signs that are too often taken for granted whenever anyone is suffering silently from mental illness.

The first line in his post said it all:

The last time I saw Erica Blasberg, she was in tears on a golf course — and her putter was flying through the air.

Last night at a lot of places

I read a book recently, called "Last Night at the Lobster" by Stewart O'Nan, that made me think of all the boarded-up stores I'm seeing in all these downtowns I come across.

I can't help but think, as I look at the stores that sit next to the ones that are gone: Who's going to be the next one to go? Who's the next to get a big hunk of plywood slammed onto their storefront window, leaving no trace of life behind?

I think of what was behind those pieces of plywood. They were stores that sold anything from sandwiches to running shoes. I think of the people who worked their butts off to get people to buy shoes that nobody could afford. I think of how hard they worked to get people to pay $100 for sneakers, even if they were out of their mind to do so.

I think of the ice cream places on the way to the beach that left their buildings empty, except for the freezers that still sit there, unplugged from the walls. I think of how busy they once were, and how the workers will still scurrying around on Sunday nights in the summer, pushing buttons on machines and struggling to pull out of a four-inch scoop of cookie dough ice cream from a bucket below.

I think of their last nights, or days, and what they did, and how they could get through the last hours, the last minutes and the last seconds of watching a dream die. I think of how there was life behind the plywood, and how we shared in those lives, and how unfair it is that we never really get to know how it all ends.

With O'Nan's novel, at least, I get some idea. I get the idea of the social strata that exists behind every wall of every store, and how a bad economy not only destroys dreams but also ends a culture.

There's a social dynamic behind these walls that gives people something to live for, and something to hope for. Even more so, it gives them something to relieve the boredom of a hum-drum life, whether it's a life of high expectations or dead-end limitations.

I think of the book, and its main character, Manny, the manager at a Red Lobster in Connecticut who got high before he walked into the restaurant every day. I think of that last day, just as he was preparing to say goodbye to people who not only worked with him, but loved him.

I think of Ty the cook, who worked at a fast pace and always criticized another guy named Fredo, who had a habit and spilling things or has difficulty with many other tasks. Would Fredo ever get a job again? We can only hope, but not expect.

Manny, like Fredo, had a lot more troubles than just business. He had a girlfriend Dena and children, but much of the book is about his past love, a love he couldn't get over.

He couldn't get over his former affair with one waitress, Jacquie. He was surprised when she showed up for work on this particular day, since many others blew it off, knowing it was the last day.

But Jacquie came because she said she would, just after her husband dropped her off. Even on a day of endings, they knew there was something between them that would never go away.

On this last day, just as many things went right as they went wrong.

Though snow was falling, no snow plow came for hours. Manny and the staff scrambled to get things set up. Manny cleared the sidewalk and reminisced. But, mostly, he was working to head off disputes among staff.

Manny's former wrestling coach came in and, despite getting stuck in the parking lot on the way out, left a big tip.

A big farewell party - a party of 14 - came in and took up four tables. The staff struggled to handle it, and Manny tried to do what he can to alleviate the strain on the staff.

But it was still a struggle - especially when one of the customers found plastic wrap in his food.

A woman with a toddler who was behaving badly got snotty with the waitresses, while Nicolette, another waitress, did battle with a group of elderly women.

The elderly people complained that they can't use coupons - even though they stole all the sugar packets. They left a one-penny tip, and Nicolette threw a fit.

Manny finally got fed up and stormed out to the mall. Before he left, however, he gave everybody their paycheck, just in case they walked out to.

When he returned about an hour later, Manny saw the parking lot was partially plowed. Some employees he left, but he still had a staff, a cook, a couple waitresses. Just as life was ready to end, he got a short reprieve.

Manny also didn't care. He got ready for dinner, even though the snow is much worse. Nobody came in for dinner. A bus came by with people who just wanted to use the bathroom. Manny and the remaining staff played lottery tickets that Manny bought for Eddie. Nobody came close to winning.

Around 8 p.m., Manny decided to just shut it down. He cleaned everything, and threw everything away. He then dealt with phone messages from his preganant wife.

But even then, he couldn't get the intimate images out of his head with Jacquie.

In the end, it was just the two of them. They had avoided each other all day, almost. But they were the hardest workers there, so they were the ones who saw everything through.

In the end, they embraced. They said this is the best, though they definitely wished things were different.

If only their wish could be their command.

Being awkward is not just unique; it's normal

I know a girl named "Faith" who wrote a book called "Being Awkward." Honestly, I felt a little awkward about writing about "Being Awkward."

But then I keep going back to the first words that came to my mind, after reading it to my kids for the first time, and hearing my 4-year-old daughter say, over and over, "Read it again!"

I keep thinking: "Geez...how normal!"

And how appropriate.

And how smart.

How appropriate for an 8-year-old girl to tap into the emotions of many others - kids and adults - who feel like they just don't always fit in.

How smart for an 8-year-old girl to connect to a world of fear, a world seeking comfort in the face of tragedy, even if her book is intended to be more of a young child's innocent metaphor than direct social commentary.

How normal for an 8-year-old girl to know, or to understand the kinds of feelings I've had lately as I've watched so many people struggle with money, work, marriage, war, parenting, substance abuse, health care, homelessness and general malaise.

In a lot of ways, awkward is the new normal. Actually, when you think of it, maybe Faith's onto something here, because the idea of being awkward, accepting it for what it is, and finding comfort in that fact ain't so new.

Indeed, this is a book that can teach others to trust themselves to do what's right, and to find happiness, even if it doesn't meet the social norm.

I saw it my own family, 30 years ago, when my mother and father fought like cats and dogs. They fought over money and just about everything else, and we felt "awkward" because we couldn't do anything about it.

We just wanted to be normal, or some variation of it, even if it didn't fit the Brady Bunch's definition of it.

To us, being normal meant being comfortable, and accepting our fate, whatever it may be. That's what Faith's book is about, really.

Faith is actually 17 now and the book was written in July 2001. It was never actually published by a large publishing house, though it should be.

It was part of a Metuchen, N.J. library workshop, and the library kept it in a pile of similar books that have been written by children over the past 40 years.

Most of the books were about "what I did on my summer vacation." This one, obviously, stuck out, and not just because I knew the person.

It stuck out because the theme of living with who you are, dealing with change and ultimately finding comfort with your life - whatever the circumstances dictate - is timeless.

Indeed, if the book were published, I would suggest a subtitle:

Finding Normal.

In the book - which she dedicated to her little brother, Julian - she talks about how a girl named "Awkward" felt "normal" - normal, because she lived in a house out in the West.

She lived in a farmhouse, she said, "although I don't have any animals, not even a horse."

One day, she thought of going to the town pool. Problem was that the rural town didn't have one. It didn't have a mall, either, so that idea, too, was kaput.

A bird flew her to a suburb, where she could have access to all these neat things. But here was the catch:

"I had a great time at the suburb surrounded by water except when I realized my hair was sticking up, a bow on my pants, a zipper on my shirt, my face was mixed up."

"I WAS AWKWARD!!!"

All she wanted to do was get back to "normal." She squeezed a flower and out came a watermelon. She ate it and went to sleep; when she woke up, she was living in the same farmhouse again.

Yes, that farmhouse - the one without the horses. How normal.

Then, just above a crayon-colored picture of the sun, and a girl with an orange face yelling, "Yeah!" came the poignant last line:

"I learned to like what I have."

I've known Faith's family for many years. I've known her father since I was in elementary school, so I was there when this family came together and grew. I've felt as close to this family as I've felt with any family.

This is a smart family, and I've learned so much from them as I've watch them expand, and give birth to two children - Faith being among them - who are very much a reflection of their parents: Smart, funny and idealistic.

But there's a trait that stands out, one that sticks to me like glue, because it's a common bond we share.

In a way, they're awkward, though I prefer the word "unique."

Or maybe it's just the right kind of normal.

They take risks and chances. They don't listen to the most popular music. They don't try to fit in with the popular crowd, whether it exists among kids in a high school or among adults in a suburban, bedroom community like Metuchen, N.J.

They define their own normal. You may call it awkward. I say it's just right.

Doing it together

Who says baseball isn't a team sport?

Who says it's boring and slow?

Who says it can't be a reflection of life, combining all the elements of teamwork, spirit, heartache and joy?

In Metuchen, N.J., 8-year-olds can show the maturity of adults, and pull together to pull off something extraordinarily rare: a complete-game, six-inning no-hitter led by a lanky, soon-to-be-third-grader named Adam Boucher.

On Sunday night, the Bulldogs - my 8-year-old son's team - capped off a month-long, almost-nightly stretch of games with a no-hit championship victory in the Milltown, N.J. baseball Tournament.

In that tournament, they were 6-0 with a combined score of 59-18.

Anchoring the way, of course, was Adam Boucher, a boy with a Mariano Rivera delivery who can do something almost as impressive: He can name all the presidents frontwards and backwards (so says my son, Jonathan).

But this team proved that it takes more than one extraordinary kid to seal a victory. They have to be an extraordinary group, and they made plays they never would have thought of making just two months ago, when they were playing in Little League and they weren't allowed to steal.

Since they weren't allowed to steal, they couldn't throw anybody out at second base. On Sunday, Jared Manley did just that - throwing out a runner just after Boucher struck out a batter from Milltown, N.J.

Manley, just like the others, had to learn to do it quickly, playing baseball games for the first times in their lives where the final score mattered. Jared threw out 8 kids stealing during the tournament season - incredibly rare for an 8-year-old catcher to do it once, let alone eight times.

If they lost any one of those games, their season could have ended days - maybe even a week or two - earlier. But they kept winning, because they knew that one loss would send them home, and break up a group that had learned to play, cry, laugh, lose and win with each other.

They learned to get along, and tease each other without meanness, and play with each other without selfishness. They had parents who shared their joy, who skipped vacations so they could jump in a pool with them at a team party, or stand out in the sweltering heat and watch them play night after night.

They had other extraordinary boys like Joseph Schugel, Liam Walker and Jay Jay Flynn, all of whom had a knack for getting walk or hit at just the right time during this tournament. On Sunday, they did it again, each getting an important hit or sacrifice to drive in the last three runs.

They had my own son, Jonathan Davis, who failed to reach base just once in his last four games, and who also made a short dive to stop a ball with the bases loaded in the fourth inning, with Metuchen up 2-0.

That ball threatened to bounce through the infield and not only end the championship no-hitter, but also win the game for the opposing team, Milltown. He then threw to Michael Fuccile, yet another extraordinary, quick-thinking 8-year-old who safely two-handed the throw to ensure the third out.

At the end of the game, they had the wherewithal to fill up a Gatorade bucket and dump it on their understated coach, Tom Yakowenko. Yakowenko, otherwise known as Mr. Yak, is also a teacher with an uncanny ability to handle children.

Throughout the previous month, he was their catalyst and their driver, always reminding them that baseball is a game, never an ordeal.

He helped nurture boys like Eli Krause, who made an important back-up play in the championship victory; Thomas Faggioni, whose sharp hitting and fleet running made him a constant threat on the basepaths; and Charlie Bradley, whose pitching became sharper and stronger as the rest of the staff began to tire.

They had Alex Holloway, the "chipmunk," whose booming hits and strong pitching ensured the victory in the semi-final; and Alex Yakowenko, Tom's son, whose bat came alive in the final games and helped lead the team to win after win.

At the end of the championship game, they still had that joy, and they showed they can still have the energy to celebrate, smile and cherish something they'll never forget.

When they left the field for the last time, they acted like they were ready to play again the next day - or maybe even later that night.

War is hell, but suicide is worse

The Army is losing its battle to stem suicides among troops serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, with a recent report showing that 32 soldiers in one year killed themselves in the war zone, according to The Hartford Courant.

The number of suicides in Afghanistan is climbing, despite multiple new efforts by military officials to improve training and education in suicide prevention and mental health, The Courant reported. Suicide was a leading cause of non-combat deaths in Iraq last year, accounting for nearly one in three non-hostile Army fatalities.

Army officials who released the report were reluctant to draw a link between combat exposure and suicide, repeating assertions made in past years that failed personal relationships, along with legal and financial problems, were the main factors driving suicides, according to The Courant. But they did acknowledge that long and repeated tours of duty were wearing down soldiers' mental resilience.

"Is it the war? It's unquestionable that the high op-tempo, the multiple deployments and long deployments put a real strain on relationships," said Col. Elspeth Ritchie, the Army's top psychiatrist, in a conference call with reporters. "There's also normal, girlfriend-boyfriend breaking up, irrespective of the war, marital difficulties that arise in both civilians and soldiers. ... We're not seeing a clear relationship between conflict increase and suicide."

Elspeth Ritchie Photo Ritchie and Brig. Gen. Rhonda L. Cornum, assistant surgeon general for force protection, said The Courant that Army leaders would continue to emphasize training programs that alert commanders and soldiers to signs of stress and that encourage troubled troops to seek professional help.

"One of the things that I believe is happening, looking at these reports, is that the Army is very, very busy, and perhaps we haven't taken care of each other as much as we'd like to," Ritchie said.

The increase in suicides in the war zone was one factor driving an overall increase in suicides among active-duty soldiers last year, The Courant reported. The Army released figures showing 115 confirmed suicides in 2007, both stateside and abroad — the highest number recorded since the Army began keeping such records in 1980. In 2006, 102 suicides were reported. The numbers do not include suicides among veterans who left the service.

The active Army suicide rate reached 18.8 suicides per 100,000 soldiers in 2007 — also the highest rate on record and an increase over the 2006 suicide rate of 17.5 per 100,000.

Army leaders said they had scrambled in recent months to hire 180 new mental-health workers to treat troops at home bases, but they did not announce plans to beef up the contingent of counselors treating troops deployed in Iraq, The Courant reported. Despite the rising suicide numbers in Iraq, the ratio of mental-health counselors to soldiers in the war zone has dropped — from one provider for every 387 troops in 2004, to one for every 734 last year.

The Army has made a number of changes to its suicide-prevention and mental-health programs in the past several years, some prompted by a Courant series in 2006 that found the military was failing to adequately screen and treat troops with psychological problems. New policies adopted since then call for closer monitoring of troops on psychiatric medications and limits on keeping troops with mental-health problems in combat zones, according to The Courant.

(This article is an update of a story written two years ago).

Feats of strength

It's no fun to lose. But it's fun to compete, and it's an even bigger relief to finish.

That's what I'm getting out of this experience of watching my son play in an 8-year-old baseball tournament, a task that ain't for the faint-hearted.

I know, I know. A baseball tournament? For 8-year-olds? Puh-lease. Tarballs are splashing onto Florida's beaches and I'm oh-so-concerned (insert violin track here) about my son doing something that not everybody can do?

Yes, I've become the parent I never thought I'd become, the one sitting on the red-hot, silver metal bleacher, with a blazing sun beating down on my tomato-red face, refusing to move out of fear that I'll miss every one of Jonathan's "feats."

Sure. Right. C'mon. What, is one quick visit to the snack bar going to place a hex on Jonathan's head, and some team from Sayreville is going to start pounding away at his 30-mph pitches?

Well, maybe or maybe not. It's hard to say. But there is one thing that's true, and I've gotta admit - I never thought I'd say just weeks ago:

Yeah, I fear it, and I dread it at times, especially when my kid is up at the plate or on the mound.

But, shucks, I kind of like it, too (let me just stop there, because I might get carried away).

I like it not just because it's a sport, and it's showing off my kid as he's playing at higher level.

I like it not just because he gets to wear a hat with his name on it, and he chose the number of my favorite player of all time (Tom Seaver, 41).

To me, it's like a graduation or an honor roll, of sorts. It's evidence of achievement, of good, hard work.

It's something only 12 get to do, though I wish there were more, because I'd pay $100 to see this rather than cough up $2,000 to vacation in Spain any day (well, actually, let me rethink that...).

I hear these horror stories of parents dragging their kids from place to place, bringing their kids as far away as Florida - or even Europe - to play God-knows-who in God-knows where.

And, yeah, those stories sound pretty horrific - especially if you get to go a place like Spain to watch a soccer match involving your 15-year-old but, no, you never get to see Spain.

You want to eat authentic Spanish food but, no, you're stuck at the snack bar or at the Barcelona KFC.

Me? I like taking the little guy with the big "M" on his hat to the dusty fields of Central Jersey, and watching him wind-up like tangled spider before firing into the catcher.

That's cool.

I can say, dang, there's finally some reward for all those hours of going out in the backyard and throwing the dented whiffle ball over and over to these kids, all the way back to the time they learned how to walk.

I can recall with pleasure those days when Jonathan hacked at a plastic ball that sat on a tee, long before he learned to cream home runs into the neighbor's yard.

I can watch my 8-year-old son smile like he does, with his missing two front teeth, because we helped put him in a position of achieving something he deserved.

Sometimes these gifts or rewards are not always tangible. Kids can drive parents crazy because they don't put away their shoes, they don't make their beds or they don't clean up the kitchen.

But here, at the dusty diamonds of Woodbridge, N.J., just miles from Metuchen, we could say, hey, maybe we did something right. It takes brains and confidence to play baseball. It takes a certain courage, too, to play it in front of a lot of people you know and don't know.

Our team lost its first two games, and tied the third. But I can take some pride in seeing my son chew gum as he stands on the top of the mound, tossing the ball to himself as he awaits some batter he's never seen before.

And then, in a flash, he's in that tangled-spider windup of his again, looping one over the plate to the catcher, getting more strikes than balls, and getting more outs than walks.

That was cool.

One year later: Have we learned anything new?

A year ago today, I was riding on the train, coming home from the city, when the talk began.

"Michael Jackson is dead!" a man said.

There were some groans among the packed train-car passengers, but the shock and dismay quickly dissipated. Like any talk about Michael Jackson, all serious talk changed to jokes and laughter.

"He must have died because he was distraught over Farrah!" the same guy said, with a laugh.

I tried to ignore the jokes and, instead, banged out a column on this guy, this freakish entertainer who was bigger than Beatlemania, even as he displayed odd signs of mental illness.

I tried to ask the question: Was he mentally ill? If so, could we have saved him?

A year later, I still don't think we have the answers. I tried to answer the question myself, and my answer now appears on the "Wiki answers" website. But, a year later, we barely have an arrest, or a cause for what happened.

We've had no discussion on how things could have been treated differently. We don't appear to be any less sensitive to the quirks and obsessions that people develop once they achieve some level of fame.

All we have are the jokes.

Here is the column I banged out on my computer just after the news hit:

“A lot will be said about Michael Jackson as we learn more about this story,” Brian Williams said on the “NBC Nightly News.”

“He was incredibly talented, a child star who was an adult with deep troubles and physical and mental health issues.”

Those were the words that needed to be said a long time ago. Michael Jackson was mentally ill. And now he's dead.

But his personal demons brought him down more than the paparazzi ever did. His obsessions impacted him more than being spoiled, and his quirky behavior brought more shame than fame.

The spoiling, the media - those were merely the triggers. The public? They merely watched this spectacle of a life deteriorate from impossible levels of stardom to disgrace.

The spectacle will play out some more in the days ahead. But maybe we'll learn something from this, too. We'll learn that the seemingly inhuman is very human. We'll learn that the spoiled rich could also be troubled souls.

We'll learn that mental illness isn't a lifestyle choice. It's an illness, and everyone is suceptible.

I've never seen anyone in my lifetime achieve the kind of fame he had. It was like living in Beatlemania, even if it was an abbreviated version.

I was never a big fan of his music, but I do own "Thriller." Listening to it today, it seems outdated. But the genius of the pop craftsmanship will live forever. Pop songs just maybe the hardest songs to write.

Sometimes, it takes someone with an obsessive level of drive to make it happen. Look beyond the plastic surgery disasters, and give Michael Jackson his due.