Remembering James V. DeBlase

This is a repost of a tribute I wrote for Jimmy DeBlase, who was killed eleven years ago today.

deblase.jamesHis friends called him Jimmy D, and he was probably the only Dallas Cowboy football fan in all of New Jersey; he was certainly their most fervent!

Jimmy was born in lower Manhattan, and grew up playing football in the streets of Little Italy. He grew up with two brothers, Anthony and Ritchie. His wife, Marion, remembers meeting Jimmy in 1978, when his team, “Carmine’s Animals” had just won a neighborhood championship. Jimmy’s (perplexing to local New Yorkers) love of the Dallas Cowboys is something he passed onto his three sons, Nicholas, Joseph and James, even going to far as taking them to Dallas to see the team play. The neighborhood kids called him Coach Jimmy- he was very involved in his sons lives, coaching them not only in football, but baseball and basketball as well.

In Lower Manhattan, Jimmy attended St. Joseph’s Elementary School, and went on to Bishop DuBois high school, where he excelled at athletics. After high school, Jimmy decided football would not be his career path, and enrolled in Baruch College, known for it’s business courses as opposed to athletics.

After college, Jimmy and Marion made their home in Manalapan, New Jersey, and Jimmy worked on Wall Street for 14 years as a dealer at Oppenheimer. He joined Cantor Fitzgerald in October 1999 as a USA Bond-broker.

Jimmy was at work in the North Tower on the 106th floor on the morning of September 11, 2001. His brother Anthony was in Tower 2, and was fortunate enough to make it out. Anthony spent days after the attack looking for his brother. Jimmy’s body has never been recovered.

His godson, Robet Netzel, has this to say about his godfather:

Uncle Jim, you are a hero to Aunt Marion and the boys. We miss you so much. We are all in this together to help your family from here on in. I will take your boys under my wing as best as possible. You have been a great inspiration for your boys to be the best that they can be in life and as their coach, you helped make them some of the best players out there. Keep a safe watch over all of your family and shine down on them. Jimmy D, your are the best.

Please take a moment and pause to remember the innocent people, such as Jimmy D, who were taken from us eleven years ago today.

The Hidey Hole

One of the first things I loved about our townhouse, despite how much smaller it is that even Little House, was the odd cupboard under a pass-thru to the dining area. It’s small and has double doors, and the previous owners had wired it with electricity inside, I assume for a bar area perhaps. But for me… all I could think was BEAN will LOVE this.

And sure enough… it’s become his personal spot. It’s too small and tight for Jeffrey to get in— though he’s tried— and Abby can’t fit either. Bean has filled it with pillows, a lamp, books, his blanket, and a dvd player. When life gets too tough, or he need to reset, I send him to the Hidey Hole. Some evenings, he even has his dinner in there. If he’s having a particularly hard time, I set his dinner outside the door, knock lightly, and leave him be. He inevitably comes out soon after, reset and happy again.

I wish everyone had a Hidey Hole.

 

The Many Ways to Take a Hit

The swamplike air flooded into the car as Jeffrey opened the door, his face flushed bright red and his eyes swimming with tears. It was his first football practice, and despite my reservations, I had agreed to allow him to play- and while I expected him to be muddy and tried after practice, the furious tears were disconcerting.

“What’s wrong!?”

He shoved his backpack and bag angrily into the car and slid into his seat, arms folded, brows drawn down and scowling furiously while trying to fight back the tears. I was imagining him to be tired, or to have not been able to complete the drills to his own satisfaction. I was not imagining what he said next.

“No. NO. I’m never going back. Take me home mom. Please take me home!” Concern and surprise showed on my face, but he continued on, his whole body showing his indignation. “Is a coach supposed to swear at his team? Is a coach supposed to say GD and the S word and say the F word to a kid??! It was horrible mom! Take me home please!”

Stunned silence for a moment on my part. I’m thinking…huh? These are sixth graders, first week of school, at a school sporting activity. The teacher SWORE at them? and not just once, but over and over?? I attempt to calm him down, and ask him a few clarifying questions. Did the teacher swear at everyone, or just him? Did he say other things? What did he say? And what did you do?

It was a very emotional and wrenching few minutes, but it turns out this coach thought saying “I don’t f*cking care how you feel, move your G**-damn ass and run!” were perfectly acceptable for a team of eleven-year old boys. After two hours of this, Jeffrey told him, in tears, that he wouldn’t listen anymore, and he walked off the field and went to the locker room alone.

Fury doesn’t even begin to cover what was settling into my belly.

My goal was to get Jeffrey home and then reassess and call the school. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, we had to drive by the football field, and I saw the coach walking alone. I ripped the car to the side of the road, and told the kids to wait, that I would be right back. I did not raise my voice, and I did not attack him. I politely introduced myself and said who my son was.

He asked if Jeffrey was okay, that he’d left the field a few minutes early. Yes, I know, I told him- and I asked him quite pointedly- never raised my voice- “Why don’t you tell me what happened.” He gave some brief explanation of first day drills, blah blah blah. Yes. I understand that. Did my son tell you not to speak to him a certain way before he left the field?

“Um… yes. I’m sorry about that…”

At which point, still calmly, I reiterated everything Jeffrey had told me, including pronouncing all the words Jeffrey had only given me the letters for, and letting their vulgarity hang in the air. The color drained from his face. I asked him if this was in keeping with the school’s conduct for teachers and rules about profanity in the classroom, and what I should do with my son, who now lost all respect for his coach and didn’t want to come back to football. I asked him as a parent what he thought I should do, what HE would do if he were in my shoes.

He asked me not to tell, and spent several minutes apologizing. I told him I wasn’t to whom he owed an apology, and he walked towards my car with the intent of talking to Jeffrey. Jeffrey wouldn’t open the door or even roll the window down. I didn’t make him. The coach came around to my side of the car, and I let him lean in to speak to Jeffrey. He apologized. Several times.

I met with the principal this morning. I’m not out for blood, or even for this young coach’s job. I am out for reparative and corrective measures of behavior and coaching philosophy and an apology to all of those boys.

I am aware that there is some degree of tolerance for vulgar behavior among the sporting community- a wink and a nod to “boys will be boys”, but the truth is, abusive language is never acceptable, and I don’t believe the best coaches resort to it. The best coaches inspire with their example and with motivating the athletes rather than shaming or humiliating.

It’s posted over the entrance of the school on a large banner in school colors— School is a safe zone; kids are not to be bullied, humiliated, intimidated, threatened, or verbally abused. In talking with a friend about how to handle this today, she made an interesting observation, saying  “It makes no difference if abuse or vulgarity is traditionally “part of football culture”— It shouldn’t be.  If sexual harassment or racism were “part of the culture” should a child be expected to tolerate it in order to participate? This is not a decision a kid should be faced with in order to enjoy sports or any school activity.”

I’ve given Jeffrey the weekend to consider if he wants to continue with football. My worry is that what could have been a good and enjoyable experience for him is now going to be tainted and he will not wish to be a part of sports.

On a tangent, and I know it’s not a clear simple situation, but I could not be prouder of my boy for standing up, as hard as it must have been, and saying “no more!” and then walking alone to the locker room. Once again, my son shows me what courage looks like, and I am humbled.

Recipe: HumbleBrag Blue Ribbon Chili

Last night, I’m pretty sure I made the best chili in the history of the universe. I know, I know- It’s not like chili is hard to make- throw a bunch of stuff in a pot and cook the crap out of it. And yet… the difference between a decent chili and something truly outstanding is more than a gulf. Less is more, as it so often the case- no need for fancy add-ins or strange tricks. This is simple and perfect. I’m glad I kept track of what I did for this one, because dude…aces. Plus, any excuse to bust out the enameled cast iron dutch oven. Yay! Cook. Eat. Roll eyes and enjoy.

HumbleBrag Blue Ribbon Chili

  • 2 medium yellow onions, diced
  • 1 large red bell pepper, diced
  • 2 Tbsp vegetable oil
  • 3 Tbsp chili powder
  • 1 Tbsp smoked paprika
  • 1 Tbsp ground cumin
  • 1/2 tsp cayenne pepper
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 3 large garlic cloves, minced
  • 1 tsp powdered garlic
  • 1 tsp granulated garlic
  • 1 pound lean ground beef
  • 1 pound ground turkey
  • 2 cans small red beans or pinto beans
  • 1 can dark red kidney beans
  • 1 large (28 ounces) can diced tomatoes with liquid
  • 1 large (28 ounces) can tomato puree

Get out yer big ol’ dutch oven. If you don’t have one, go here and get one- you’re never going to get a better price (they’re clearing out for a new design) and on top of that, it’s the America’s Test Kitchen winner for best enameled cast iron. GO!! Anyway…. get your pot on the stove.

Heat vegetable oil over medium heat, and add the onions and peppers and saute until soft and have a little color, about 8 minutes. Add the chili powder, cumin, paprika cayenne, and salt. Cook for another 2-3 minutes until fragrant. Add all three garlic variations. (If you only have fresh, use six cloves, but the different types adds some nuance and depth) Cook for a few seconds until you can really smell the aroma of garlic.

Add the ground beef and turkey and turn the heat up to medium-high and cook, using a spoon to stir it all together and break up the ground meat as it cooks. Saute until meat is brown and cooked, about 10-15 minutes.  Drain the cans of beans and add, along with both cans of tomato, including the juice. Adjust heat and bring to a simmer, covered, for about an hour.

Uncover and cook for another hour, until the meat is tender and the whole pot smells mouthwateringly good. Stir occasionally and adjust salt to taste.

Serve with sharp grated cheddar and a sprig of cilantro. If you’re not me, add some Saltine crackers for a vintagey homey feel. It’s even better the next day, by the way. Enjoy!

Eleven

Dear Jeffrey,

Happy Birthday, my sweet son. Mama is a few days late on this letter– it’s been hectic trying to get everything ready for school to begin, and let’s face it, the whole summer has been one of upheaval and chaos. I’m stealing some quiet sleeping hours to write, and can hear you and your brother and sister softly breathing above me as my fingers fly over the keys.

Son, you make your mama proud. When you were born, all copper hair and furrowed eyebrows, I knew you had a noble heart— and time after time, as you’ve grown, you have made me proud. Now, on the eve of beginning middle school, I’m fighting with my own worries and fears, which are always greater at night, as you well know. Yet I remind myself of the strength of character you have already shown- you make good choices for a growing boy. You pick good friends. You are kind and thoughtful of others. You watch out for those smaller and younger than you, and you have a profound sense of fairness and take great umbrage if you feel it’s been trodden upon.

Thank you for being my son. Thank you for shouldering a harder burden than many boys twice your age, and doing it with love, kindness and grace. Life the past few years has been harder than I wish or had planned, but the lesson for all of us was to make the best of things- even hard things. Thank you for still being a kid enough to crawl in bed next to me some mornings and chatter away about games and toys and what you’re hungry for— usually bacon and waffles. Thank you for turning to me when you are sad and need my shoulder. Thank you for trusting me with your heart, your ideas, your inspiration, and your dreams.

Where once you were small and needed my hand to guide you, today you can stand toe to toe and look me in the eye, even though we usually dissolve into a fit of giggles when you do. It still disconcerts both of us that we’re near the same size. It won’t be long before I have to look up to you, my son… Actually, the truth is, my dear, honest, goofy, sincere boy, I already do.

Happy Birthday, Jeffrey. Mama loves you.