Perhaps I should briefly discuss, describe, complain or swing regarding the purpose of the the name of this website. Swing Like a Wild Man was created by my brother, Tom, yet provoked by my brother, Greg. Physically, I applied it. Verbally, Tom patented it. I believe Webster’s official definition of it is: when frustrated over a game such as Monopoly or backgammon or perhaps being picked on or just generally pissed, one must throw punches resulting in hitting a brother, one of his friends, another brother or the Comcast guy outside trying to fix your cable.
Being the youngest of 13, six girls, seven boys, it was critical to defend yourself. They were all tough, mostly the girls, with the exception of Steve, a freak and fruitloop of nature.
I was both the youngest and smallest. If you can imagine a raccoon in a garage faced by two dogs, that was me. They were going to beat me and provide necessary concussions, but they weren’t going to have fun doing it. Tom and Greg, my oldest and closest brothers picked on me a bit, but since I couldn’t beat them up, I beat up their friends. That usually wasn’t a problem. I merely was forced to swing like a wild man. I was an extremely crude version of one of my pugilistic favorites, Sugar Ray Leonard.
Reasons for swinging and crying like a wild man: The LA Dodgers losing to the Atlanta Braves on a grand slam in the 9th inning while your brothers taunt you concerning the loss…the Seattle Seahawks, losing on a Sunday after a pious day in church………Greg calling me “toehead” for the 8th’ billionth time……..someone drinking my glass of eggnog on New Year’s Eve……and eventually, a blackjack dealer uttering the words, “Blackjack” just before I thought I could afford to buy my mom a Grandfather Clock.
My writing consists of non-fiction stories littered with thoughts I can only wish to relive. Sometimes, the true tales are sugar coated with happiness, while at others, they may be stained with a writer’s uncanny knack of forgetting some subtle or non subtle details of the past. They are memorable stories of family, friends, religion, gambling, arch rivals, sin, forgiveness and love. These are not my memoirs. Rather, they are simple tales provided by those magnificent people surrounding me, shaping me, and protecting me for so many precious years.
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