This is such a fantastic, quintessential NYC event, amidst the intimidating, yet thrillingly sophisticated backdrop of Lincoln Center on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

That time of year in Gotham is quite special, with the crisp winter chill in the air, mysterious steam belching from manholes and the streets and scenes swathed in reds and greens and twinkling lights of the holiday season. With me dressed in my dorky little 1970s-style pants suit, and sister Sue in her cute pigtails and pink dress, we were especially thrilled to be out so late on a school night.

My earliest memory of attending that production was when I was seven years old. The music was hypnotizing, the lavish production mesmerizing. I remember my parents bought us both small Nutcracker dolls, and for some time it was my most cherished possession.

I always dreamed someday that I would share my love for this ballet with my children.

Yet as an adult, my adulation for the Nutcracker slipped farther and farther from view, coming to rest as a remote blip at the edge of my bustling holiday schedule, barely noticed each year.

I gave up on enticing Anna, my love. Her casual ridicule gave way to outright abuse when she learned the price of tickets (several hundred dollars per).

I was resigned to the regret of never to share my love for this cherished memory. (I briefly approached Frankie, who not only laughed me out of his room, but repeatedly called me “Ballet Boy” and would have banned me from his football games, had he not needed a ride.)

A Final Attempt

In the early winter of 2011, I was seized by a pang of regret, when I came across an advertisement in New York magazine. The old warm memories came rushing back.

Every night, I placed that magazine, opened to the page of the ad, on the ledge in the bathroom Anna prefers.

I thought to myself, “What will be, will be.”

Low and behold, Anna, my love, surprised me with tickets to my beloved Nutcracker…well, sort of.

It was not exactly Lincoln Center, but the American Ballet Company’s version at the Brooklyn Academy of Music.

It was not before Christmas, but five anti-climatic days afterwards.

It was not an evening production, but a matinee.

And it was only two tickets, for Fiona and myself, not five.

This would not be a tradition or the entire McGuire family.

I admit, I was a bit of a douche. I thanked Anna in that backhanded, “Thanks, but you know…” way. I whined. I moaned. I stamped my feet.

But Anna was right. The tickets were nearly half the cost of the $600 seats at Lincoln Center. They were great seats (third row, center aisle), much better than we would have been able to get in Manhattan. And a matinee was much more reasonable for a seven-year-old girl.

And Anna promised that if Fiona enjoyed it (she was convinced she would not) then we could discuss the more expensive Lincoln Center production for the following year.

A Magical Afternoon

I had my trepidations. What if Fiona did not embrace my passion for the Nutcracker?

The day of the show finally arrived. I dressed my best and Fiona wore a little red dress with cute little black boots and a long grey coat that was simply adorable. We arrived early for the show, so we went for a walk through Downtown Brooklyn.

Fiona wanted a snack, so we stopped for a hotdog. The street vendor said he thought Fiona was so delightful and reminded him of his daughter back home overseas, that her hotdog was free. (He charged me $5 for my dirty water dog, so I don’t know how “Free” Fiona’s hotdog really was.)

As 2pm drew close, we hustled inside and took our seats. Fiona was quite impressed to be able to peer down into the orchestra pit.

As the lights dimmed and the delicate music rose, I was instantly overcome by that old magic. But it was much different than I recalled.

It was better. It was no more than reliving the emotions and awe of my childhood. I looked over and I saw that same excitement in Fiona’s eyes, as a warm memory that would last a lifetime was born. Someday, when I was long gone and Fiona a grown woman, she would share this warm memory with her children.

I was content to settle in and enjoy the show as the magic washed over us both. Yet halfway through the first act, my heart stopped.

“Daddy, what time is it?” Fiona whispered in my ear. “How much longer until it’s over?”

I was crushed, my dream shattered.

“Honey, this is only Act I,” I told Fiona. “There’s still an intermission and an entire other act. Would you rather I take you home now? It’s OK if you want to leave.”

“Oh no, no Daddy, I love it,” Fiona said, grasping my arm tightly in her little hands. “I just wanted to know how much more is left, because I never want it to end.”

Hallelujah… Hallelujah.

And when Fiona nestled her pretty little head under my arm and said, “I love you so much Daddy,” I nearly melted out of my seat.

We both didn’t want it to end, but after another hour and half, it did. We both applauded vigorously and Fiona hugged me. When we left the theater and walked back to the car through Downtown Brooklyn, beneath the serpentine skeletal shadow of the sprawling Atlantic Rail Years Arena that was being built, we whistled together the songs we liked most and talked about the show.

“Daddy, promise me that you will take me every year, forever,” Fiona said.

You bet. And next year, it will be the week before Christmas. Lincoln Center, here we come.

“This will be our own McGuire family tradition,” Fiona decided. “Oh, Daddy, you know what would make this day more perfect than it already is?”

“What’s that little sister,” I asked. (I always called Fiona little sister.)

“A fish,” Fiona said, with a twinkle in her eye. “Can you take me to buy a fish?”

I knew she was playing me, but I didn’t care. So I took my beautiful little angel to get a new fish.

But little sister actually outfoxed herself. I was so happy with Fiona that magical late winter afternoon, I would have bought her anything she asked.

She should have asked for a pony.

I didn’t even have to work in the city. This time of year the industry is slow, so my schedule is much more flexible. Frankie really wanted to head in, once again working a full day and overtime.

I did it as much for him as for me. I enjoy to see my life through Frankie’s eyes, to take the crowded ferry and the subway, to walk up a bustling Broadway from Herald Square to my offices on 37th Street. Then when the day is through, to walk down to Union Square to hit Forbidden Planet.

As the sun sailed over the city and it crept closer to quitting time, Frankie told my Admin, Christi Shingara (Best Admin Ever, by the way), that he was not ready to go home. He was willing to stay late, even all night.

“Just like your Dad, huh,” Christi said.

That is one measure of the man or woman, there reputation for hard work and willingness to put in the time necessary to succeed.

Whenever you can, be the first one in the building each morning when they unlock the doors and then the last to leave.

Too many young people starting out just do not want to put the time in to get ahead. Unless there is absolutely no room for promotion and you are just in a temporary position, put the time in, work twice as hard as the guy next to you and three times as hard as the gal next to him.

Then, when they kick you out of the office, go home and work some more.

Weekends?

Seriously.

If you don’t have work to bring home, which you should, you need another job. Ask your mother. When she met me, I was working for a magazine, editing a nightlife guide/reviewing bars and clubs several nights a week, hustling freelance gigs, AND going to night school at Columbia.

Weekends, I was tending bar either in Gravesend or down in Bay Ridge. And, I brought my laptop to the bar to do work during lulls in the night. I ate standing up and I ran myself silly.

But after work, I still had time to head down to the Wicked Monk to meet mommy and all my friends and drink and dance until the early morning, drag myself home, sleeps for a few hours and do it all over again.

In five years I was working on this seven-day schedule, I took off less than 20 days, and those included Christmas and Thanksgiving. The other holidays, I worked, including tending bar during some harrowing News Years parties (once, for a party of 200, of the other two bartenders, one was arrested and the other sent home when he showed up bombed).

Life is hard and you are meant to struggle, so struggle and scrap and fight and keep heading forward, harder when they push you back.

Success rarely happens overnight and almost never to those who sleep in, show up late, and leave early.

Unless, that is, if you are ridiculously talented. Then, you have responsibility to work even harder to fulfill the potential of your gift. But you will likely be so passionate about your work you’ll be driven.

Life is about struggle and strife. But it is easier to accept the nasty curves life throws you, if you know you tried your damnedest. Go down with your ship if you must, but do so fighting, and if it is to be, let life beat you. Never surrender.

But you know what, it gets easier, because the harder you work, the broader your shoulders will grow and the heavier the load you can carry.

Yet, I do have one rule. Consider it my Golden Rule. No, not that Golden Rule they teach you in school to treat others as you would like to be treated.

No, no, no.

This is a much more important rule. It’s about integrity and honor. It’s about steering the young ones down the right path. I consider this to be perhaps my greatest parental responsibility.

You see, all of the McGuire children learn this Golden Rule from the cradle, whispered into their tiny ears a thousand times as they drift off to sleep in my arms.

These three words are the third, fourth, and fifth words they all learned after Daddy and Mommy.

“I Hate Dallas.”

Simple.

You want to be a McGuire, you hate the Dallas Cowgirls. I don’t mean just dislike or disinterest. I mean that intense, obsessive type of hate that is bad for you. The kind that makes you want to spit on people and puncture tires just for wearing a jersey.

You don’t even have to like football. But, you sure as hell have to hate Dallas.

Sorry, but my love is conditional. You want me to love you, you hate Dallas. You want me to love you more than I love the other children, show me how you hate Dallas more than they hate Dallas.

You want to love Dallas, you get out of my home and never look back. There’s no place for your kind here. 

That goes for you too Fiona. You are the sparkle in my eye, but I’d soon as stick a stick in that eye than gaze upon you in a Dallas jersey. And, forget about me attending, let alone paying for, any wedding where you’re marrying into a Dallas clan.

America’s Team, my ass.

Why do McGuires hate Dallas so, aside from the fact we bleed New York Giants Blue?

Why do the good guys always hate the bad guys? Why does everyone hate the Nazis or the North Koreans?

To my boundless joy, Frankie signed up for the 911 Flag Football league. He’s a bit smaller and younger than most of his team and opponents, likely the youngest player in the entire 9- and 10-year-old division. But, he has great speed and good hands and a passion for the game.

Plus, he just loves that mouth guard. Won’t even take it off on the sidelines.

As a Dad, watching your kid’s pee-wee football game is unlike any other sporting experience, at least for me. Frankie played baseball, basketball, and soccer. But nothing gets me pumped when he takes to the gridiron, pacing up and down the sidelines, muttering my Hail Marys that he’ll catch a Hail Mary.

Imagine my anticipation when Frankie’s Packers faced off against the dreaded Dallas Cowgirls.

I know, I know, they’re not the real Dallas Cowgirls, but for us, it might as well be. For the McGuires, it was a big deal (well, except for Mommy). Even Grandpa waddled out on the sidelines to catch this momentous rivalry.

Did Frankie get up for the game?

Did he ever.

My boy, my first-born, had not one but two interceptions to suffocate two rallies by the Cowgirls.

Count ‘em baby, two interceptions.

Oh lordy, lordy, lordy, did I make a complete ass out of myself on the sidelines that day.

It didn’t matter. That glorious day, as a sweaty, dirty, banged up Frankie swaggered off the field with the game ball, smothered in pats and pounds from coaches, teammates, and their parents, I felt proud of my boy and happy for his success.

Frankie had learned the Golden Rule quite well.

Introducing the “To-Hawk,” the new hairstyle that has preschool femme fatales everywhere drooling for pint-sized international super-stud phenom Tonio “To” McGuire.

The “To-Hawk” is the collaborative creation of celebrity cutter Anna McGuire and stylist-to-the-stars Zander Deliso, who just happen to be related to the baby box-office wonder (mommy and cousin, respectively).

“I wanted to push the envelope with this creation, so I had to reach deep down inside me, to find a creative place I didn’t even know existed,” said Zander in an interview from his exclusive South Florida compound.

“It was touch and go there,” Zander recalls of their epic marathon styling session. “I started with the Death-Hawk and toned it down into a Curly-Hawk. We then went through the Bi-Hawk, the Tri-Hawk, the Fro-Hawk, the Psychobilly, even the Shark Fin and the Lazy-Hawk. And just when I was ready to quit, had given everything I had, was physically exhausted, mentally drained, it just, well, it came to me.”

Since debuting his new ‘do’ downtown last week — Page 6 spotted him canoodling in a McDonald’s jungle gym with a pair or Swedish identical twin five-year-olds (including their au-pair) — the mini-heart-throb has gone into hiding to avoid legions of rabid fans.

“This is getting ridiculous,” said his exasperated mommy Anna. “Our home is surrounded by an army of these little biddies. Where the hell are their mothers? Don’t these little tramps have bedtimes?”

“You know, I am starting to think the maybe it wasn’t such a good thing Tonio inherited his Dad’s devastating good looks,” Anna lamented.

It’s not just the local ladies that have their eyes on Tonio and his bold new buzz. 

“I want him back, I don’t care what it takes, what I have to do, even if I make a fool of myself, even if it means I wreck my career,” wailed Miranda Cosgrove. Last week, Cosgrove abruptly canceled production for the upcoming season of her hit show when she walked in on Tonio and her iCarly co-star Jennette “Sam” McCurdy in a compromising situation.

“They were innocently playing with Play-Doh, my ass,” Cosgrove tweeted last week. “He had his grubby little fingers on her lumps alright, and they sure as hell weren’t blue, green, or red.”

To-Hawk spotting is the new paparazzi-pastime. “Forget Paris, forget Brangelina, forget Miley, GaGa, and Lilo,” purred Perez Hilton. “Bring me that delicious little To-Hawk on a platter and I’ll make it more than worth your while.”

Shudder.

Hilton isn’t the only media maven setting his sights on the little lothario.    
     
“It has been long-standing policy at TMZ that we don’t pay for sources,” said TMZ founder Harvey Levin. “We pay for a couple of things, we pay for video, we pay for photos, which frankly everybody does, but we only offer a tip fee. But again, we don’t pay for sources … well, until now. I hate to say it, but we will pay out the nose for anything related to Tonio McGuire. I mean anything, baby pics, family video, used diapers, you name it. I want it.”

Stay tuned for more breaking news as the world waits for Tonio to re-emerge.

Some days, there is a slightly larger than usual blue-green bird perched in a tree, across Sleepy Hollow Road.

This bird is different from the rest of the other birds, never seeming to join in all their reindeer games. While the others birds are chirp incessantly and flit about, he remains quietly, stoically, watching over Fiona.

It If birds could talk, this bird seems to have something to say to little Fiona Marie.
 
Perhaps he is saying, “Thank you.”
 
Like I said, this is all probably my imagination. This is probably not even the same bird, the one whose life Fiona saved not too long ago.

Yet, as he watches me, I feel I know this bird, or at least one just like it.   
 
It happed in the early Spring, the week following a terribly nasty storm that hammered the entire New York Tri-state area—a one-hundred year storm some called it. Trees were uprooted all over the Island, and that week there were roofers dotting the homes all along Sleepy Hollow Road.

One morning, while the children were busy eating, there came a faint scratching, barely discernable. I thought nothing of it, as birds frequently congregated in the gutter alongside the roof right outside the kitchen window.
 
Yet, the next couple of days, the scratching persisted and intensified.
 
Saturday morning, like most Spring Saturday mornings before it, I took Fiona Marie down to the park to ride her bicycle with her cousin Bella. They so enjoy each other’s company.
 
A few hours later, when we returned, the house was in an uproar, with Mommy perched on the couch, her lips quivering. Mommy is a woman strong of heart, yet weak of nerves, and especially nervous and deathly afraid of rodents and pests in any form. 
 
It seemed the scratching was no longer distant and emanating from the roof, but now a loud and desperate clawing coming from through one of the living room walls. There was something definitely trapped in the wall and struggling to get out.
 
We called one exterminator after the next, only to be referred to pest control specialists. They charged $500 just to come on-site, and then various fees and surcharges tacked on from there.

I decided to take matters into my own hands. With Nonno and neighbor Paulie backing me up, I started to chase the women and children from the room, who either barricaded themselves downstairs or completely left the building. 

As I was shooing everyone out, a tiny defiant little fist struck me in the belly, startling me more from surprise than from pain.

It was Fiona, her face tight and determined. 

“Daddy, whatever you do, you better not kill it, whatever it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure honey, no go downst…

POW, another shot in the belly.

An even further determined Fiona.

“Daddy, I’m not playing with you. DO NOT KILL IT. Promise me.”

What could I say to that?

“Ok sweetie, I promise you.”

There goes Plan A. Time to come up with a Plan B.

I pulled out a punch saw and cut a partial hole in the wall, planning to tape a clear plastic bag around the hole and then punch the hole out, thereby releasing the animal.
 
However, as I cut halfway through, the hole gave way and the desperate, larger than usual blue-green bird, flew out as quickly as it could. I was barely able to quickly drop the saw and grab the clear-plastic bag, just in time to capture the bird.
 
“I got it Fiona. I caught the bird for you.”
 
With half the neighbors and family gathered around outside, eager to see what beast had invaded our Sleepy Hollow home, I then held the bird until Fiona could come and release it.
 
The bird did not fly away. I merely flew to a tree, just off in this distance.

My first reaction was to kill that which threatened my family. Yet, Fiona showed me that you need not always do harm, to protect you and yours from harm.     

Besides, looking into her deep brown eyes, I really had no choice but to obey.

I really want a tandem bicycle. For the first time ever, Frankie is going to ride along with me on the NYC Five-boro Bike Tour come May, so I need a tandem.

I need some new black thermals and white t-shirts, exactly the sizes and brands Mommy has found for me. Would be nice to get a new pair of ADIDAS shell tops, but Mommy doesn’t let me wears those anymore.

What do I want for Christmas?

In my mind, there were always two meanings of Christmas – the Give and the Take.

As a child growing up in Brooklyn, there was the Give, as in the true Christian spirit of the holiday, the miracle of Jesus in his manger blended with iconography of Santa Claus in this rich Victorian interpretation with its thick Dickensian tone. 

More importantly, at least at the time, there was the Take, that part of Christmas that came with the strings attached and we as children wait all year: the gift-receiving.  

However, while as a child, Christmas is all about the Take, as a man, a father, Christmas become all about the Give. With the money for Christmas now coming out of my end, I have a different appreciation for Christmas.

I now understand the Give.

And, the other day, I found what I wanted for Christmas.

Flipping through the newspaper, I came across an advertisement for “The Smile Train.” It was actually the pictures of several children suffering cleft palates, also known as a harelip, which is an abnormal fissure in the face that may form before birth.

These are children, the same age as my own, suffering these horrific facial deformities that can be corrected with a simple surgery.  

Smile Train is the world’s largest and most effective cleft charity, costing as little as $250 to give a desperate child not just a new smile, but a new life.

Clefts are a major problem in developing countries where there are millions of children who are suffering with unrepaired clefts. Most cannot eat or speak properly. Aren’t allowed to attend school or hold a job. And face very difficult lives filled with shame and isolation, pain and heartache.

The surgery costs as little as $250 and takes as little as 45 minutes.

I was deeply affected. I look upon the beautful faces of my own children and I wanted to cry for these poor innocents, suffering something so painful, so needlessly.

When we were children, Grandma instilled in us the importance of charity, as she was constantly supporting and donating to similar charities, both at home and abroad.  

I know I am not Bono. I know it really isn’t much, only $250. But, it is something. 

I will know that somewhere, out there, in that cold hard world, in addition to our own, your Mom and I will have made one more child smile.

That is what I want for Christmas.

Marking the start of the traditional Christmas shopping season, Black Friday descends the day immediately following Thanksgiving Day in the US.

Literally speaking, Black Friday refers to the period when retailers, ideally, go from the red (i.e., posting a loss on the books) to the black (i.e., turning a profit).

The closest I ever came to Black Friday is those bizarre news reports, depicting herds of desperate shoppers scrambling through the Wal-Mart or Best Buy doors.

This year, Toys R Us modified its policy for Black Friday, announcing it would open its doors at midnight.

That was all Mommy had to hear. The entire day, she had an extra bounce in her step. She said she was down, even if she had to fly solo. Mommy can’t drive at night, so I offered to back her up on her mission.

I was curious to see first-hand what all this Black Friday nonsense was about. I was also worried for Mommy, because all the freaks come out at night for these things.

Besides, Frankie insisted I go to keep Mommy from crashing our ride.

As midnight neared, Mommy popped out, battle-ready, dressed in tight-fitting black, her tied back in a serious bun, her game face already on. I suggested we head down a bit early.

“There’s not going to be anyone there,” Anna shrugged me off.

Six minutes to midnight, we rolled up on Richmond Avenue. Even from a few blocks away, we could see the traffic jam.

We really had no idea what we were walking into.

The parking lot was jammed to capacity, cars competing with gaggles of shoppers converging on Toys R Us, with thousands of people on a thick bulging line that wound its way around the store and down an alley as far as the eye could see.

With no place to park, I dropped Mommy off. It was two minutes to midnight.

In a way, I felt bad for the poor girl. She was so excited, but now facing at least a two-hour wait, perhaps more, just to get in the store, the situation looked bleak.

However, in the 10 minutes it took me to park in the next lot over and race back to the line, I was amazed to receive the following text:

“I’m In.”

Huh?

Anyone who knows your Mom knows that when it comes to shopping, this woman knows no fear.

Mommy knew, rightfully so, that if she waited on that long line, there would be nothing left. After the initial onslaught, security clamped down tight at the door.

The year before, at a Wal-Mart store in Valley Stream on Long Island, a mob of rapid shoppers flooded in on Black Friday and trampled a security guard to death. This was a six-foot-five, 270-pound mountain of a man, literally stampeded to death by 2,000 people who crammed in with that first wave.

One year later, Wal-Mart Stores Inc. is embroiled in lawsuits, appealing citations and instituting companywide changes, including staying open 24 hours on Thanksgiving, and has inspired voluntary federal guidelines outlining what other retailers should do to avoid the same result.

Needless to say, Toys R Us was not taking any chances.

Now, there’s cutting a line and then there’s cutting a Black Friday line. That is no joke. Later, Mommy revealed how she did it. First, she knew waiting on line was useless. By the time she got in, all of the items worth buying would be gone.

So, she resigned herself to find a way in and started stalking the line, like a lioness shadowing a herd of gazelles, looking for the one to sink her teeth into and hold on tight.

With less than a minute to midnight, Mommy found that one friendly face that smiled back and struck up a conversation, positioning herself just right to jump into the stream when the doors flew open.

Some shrew behind Mommy even screeched: “Hey lady, you can’t just walk up and pretend to talk to someone to cut the line. We been waiting out here for hours.”

Mommy ignored her.

That’s balls.

But wait, it gets better.

When I arrived, I knew there was no way I was sneaking in without causing a full-scale riot, so I slinked around to the end of the line. These poor people. In an hour, I moved 20 feet and never did make it to the front of the store, buried way back around the block. Some entrepreneurial deli worker from a few blocks over was selling hot coffee and hot chocolates for $5 a pop.  

All the while, I was getting the play-by play on my cell from Mommy.

You see, even with the store jammed, even with severely limited supplies, somehow, someway, Mommy got her hands on a Zhu Zhu Pet Slide. For the uninitiated, these are the hottest toys of the year and anything Zhu Zhu is impossibly hard to find.

Not for your Mom.

By now, she knew she would not be leaving empty-handed, so Mommy decided enough was enough. People were screaming at each other, the aisles were clogged, and it was just a bad scene, the ugly flip-side of Christmas.

Facing an impossibly long line, snaking from the registers at the front of the store all the way to the rear, Mommy worked her way to her next victim. She somehow convinced a woman she did not know, who had already waited on the long line, to pretend they were together. Mommy chucked her item in the woman’s cart, to make it look like they were together.

Mommy then blended into the line, partially hiding herself, and, at the right moment, snatched her Zhu Zhu, paid quickly, and was about to leave when the cashier warned her: “You be careful with these,” as if indicating sinister Zhu Zhu thieves were lurking in the parking lot. 

Head held high, a bounce in her stride, grin broken wide, full of pride, your Mom, my wife, strutting her magnificent self out the door like the Black Friday Ninja she is.

My hero.

The first driver was a screeching, swollen, red-faced, Staten Island steroid freak, veins chorded up in his neck, paws white knuckling the wheel of his Cadillac Escalade. The second driver came off like an archetypical bitter, frustrated middle-aged, mini-van Dad, with his young son in the back seat.

Now, the traffic lights down Richmond are staggered, so these two maniacs were hollering away at each other, from light to light to light. Apparently, Roid Boy was absolutely incensed that anyone would have the nerve to cut him off. Imagine that.

Mini-van Man saw things much differently.

Obviously, in their tortured minds, this was an injustice that they could not let go.

As we neared the intersection at Platinum Avenue, Mini-van Man decided he had enough. “OK tough guy, you wanna go? Get outcha car,” he said as he boldly stepped out of his mini-van.

You should have seen his face drop when Roid Boy squeezed himself out of his ride. The guy was so swollen with artificially enhanced muscles, he had no neck and lumbered along in that stiff, cardboard way muscle guys do.

Oh Nellie, Roid Boy was off his nut, beyond angry, sort of like his body was a battle field between Roid Rage and Road Rage – Roid Road Rage.

Min-van Man quickly decided he did not want his head separated from his neck that day and quickly scrambled back into his car.

He was lucky that muscle boy could only waddle. I thought Roid Boy was going to rip the bumper off, but as Mini-van Man peeled away, he had to settle for actually punching out the back window with one swipe of his paw.

Right next to the same seat where the guy’s kid was sitting.

True story.    

I drove away thinking two things.

First, how does poor Mini-van Man face down his own son and explain why he ran away after initiating the fight in the first place? No matter what, this dramatic experience will always be between them.

Secondly, I realized I have to get my family out of Staten Island.

There is a great anger in the world around you, born of deep seeded frustration.

Many people are absorbed in a siege mentality, desperately unhappy with their lives, their jobs, their marriages, their health.

It’s this unhappiness that leaves them feeling trapped, with no outlet to vent this rage.

What’s more, they are often emotionally crippled, that they cannot even identify that this inner pain is being embodied in a rage they wield on the world.

They are disconnected from their emotions, lashing out over a parking space, a bump on a sidewalk, on line in the supermarket. They generate scenarios in their mind to unleash their pent up rage, disproportionately, without even realizing they are sublimating.

Beware, because these people are all around you.

Do not let them drag you into confrontations which can become violent. You should never be drawn into confrontation unless it can’t be avoided and you need to protect you and yours, or there is a clear advantage to be gained. 

It is your awareness of emotions that drive people’s actions that gives you an advantage.

And always remember, if you are moved to violence, you strike hard, suddenly, and put the man down.

There is no such thing as fair fighting. Just ask the guy who lives life with one eye, poked out in a bar fight, or the girl who had her beautiful face slashed and now bears a scar she has to live with.

You use whatever leverage you can to protect yourselves.

Or, you run like your ass is on fire.

I can see it in the roll of your eyes, as I preach and I teach and I rant and I rave, never seeming to cave, never seeming to turn it off, so you can’t tune me out.

Least not all of the time.

Some of what I say gets through to you, becomes part of you, whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not.

In this I cannot fail, I must not fail. I am the constant pebble in your shoe, because I fear for you, of what the world can do to you, if I do not show you the way.

I do this, because I have seen so many times, through so many eyes, what happens when you don’t have that constant pebble in your shoe. 

I Had What Few I Knew Had

I had what few I knew had
Something that made most my boys sad
Something so rare down round the way
Too many of them living that real-life cliché
But not me boy, I had a Dad
And not only did I have a Dad
I had a Dad who was rarely mad
Stuck around even when I was bad
Never put his cigars out on my back
Never burned a week’s pay down the track
Never wore sleeves to hide he getting high
Never had to drag him out the local trying to drink it dry
Never had no kids by somebody else’s wife
Never went after the neighbor with a kitchen knife
Never raped me or my sweet little sister
Never came home with blisters from strippers
Never broke my arm for playing hookie
Never had to hide from the local bookie
Never gave me shiners for what someone else said
Never lost it for no reason to open mom’s head
My Dad, the man he even had himself a job
Yes sir, proud to say I had me a Dad
And the best part was, he never forgot what he had

- A Poem By Craig McGuire

Even for those who do not follow the sport and just tuned in for the 2009 Major League Baseball Playoffs, it was pretty exciting stuff. 

As the season wore on, Frankie became more and more interested. For starters, this was the year the Yankees moved across 161st Street in the Bronx to their new home. I made sure to take him to the old stadium before the tore it down.

It would be the year A-Rod admitted to steroid use, a lesson in cheating Frankie took to heart.  But, it was also a message of coming clean and of redemption, as after his public, heartfelt admission, and being sidelined with an injury, A-Rod came roaring into the playoffs and was able to finally able to prove he could come through in the clutch during the post-season.

His girlfriend, Kate Hudson, apparently brought him luck, attending every game, many with StepDad Kurt Russell. Frankie agreed it would be pretty cool if Fiona marries a New York Yankee.

There was the game when Luis Castillo from the Mets dropped an pop-fly, handing the Yankees a win, which Frankie was convinced he would have easily caught.

Then, after losing eight straight to the dreaded Boston Redsox, on August 9th, Johnny Damon and Teixeira smack back-to-back dingers off Daniel Bard in the bottom of the eighth, sending the Yanks to a dramatic 5-2 victory that completed a four-game sweep of the Sox and put the Yankees on top of the AL East to stay.

Frankie’s first word may have been Daddy, but his second words were “I hate the friggin’ BoSox and I hate the friggin’ Dallas Cowboys.”

Seriously.

Then there was Derek Jeter moving past Lou Gehrig for sole possession of first place on the Yankees’ all-time hits list. Bizarrely, Jeter always seemed to strike out whenever Frankie was watching. And, unlike everyone else, Frankie never calls him by his last name.

“Daddy, why does everyone like Derek so much?” Frankie asked. “He can’t get a hit to save his life.”

But nothing was like watching the playoffs with Frankie, who is finally old enough to appreciate and follow the sport. Watching the ballgame with your boy is not like watching it with your friends.

It’s something we will always have together, a family ritual that will hopefully include Fiona and Tonio, and maybe, on rare occasions, Mommy.  

So who is Frankie’s favorite Yankee? Is it A-Rod? Captain October Jeter? The Sandman? C.C.? A.J.? Melky?  Posada? Teixeira? Pettite? Cano? Who?

“Come on. That’s easy Dad,” Frankie sniffed, like I was the rookie and he was the all-star. “Godzilla.”

Ah, yes, Hideki Matsui. His six RBIs tie a World Series record, and his .615 average with three home runs and eight RBI in the Fall Classic earn him the MVP award, the first Japanese-born player so honored.

As for our favorite moment of the season, that had to be when Andy Pettitte went 5 and 2/3 innings outpitching Pedro Martinez to win the game six and seal the Yankees’ victory. Years ago, as a pitcher for the hated BoSox, Pedro had taunted Yankee fans “Who’s Your Daddy?”

Who’s your Daddy now Pedro?  

Ah, to be a family of Yankees fans.