Nobody Reads This Page – “Undefeated”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-24)

 

 

There is a saying among sports pundits and fans that ‘Father Time is undefeated.’ This pearl of wisdom seems to suit the progression of athletes from their prodigious beginnings, to heights of mastery, and finally the arrival of physical decline. Such visitations of the mortal cycle happen to everyone. Even those outside the competitive realm of notable figures we celebrate on the field, as heroes.

 

But for this writer, knowledge of how the calendar can chart a tumble from yesterday into tomorrow came unexpectedly. It jolted me with humility, while sitting at my desk in the home office.

 

I wrote here in recent days about winning an Ibanez practice amp on the auction website eBay. One evening, while sipping products of the Miller Brewing Company, I threw out a lowball offer on the device. It had been listed by a seller who represented some kind of thrift emporium. So, I figured that they might be motivated to negotiate a price that was even below their minimum bid. My attempt came with little forethought. Though I had been pondering a return to active duty as a songwriter for many months. All of my full-size audio equipment had been stashed in a closet, years before. Now, that reserve was hopelessly buried under boxes, plectrum relics, and clothes that no longer fit. So, ordering something more suited to sitting on a corner of my desk felt right. It was an easier choice than trying to balance on my cane and dig through the pile, while sweating and cursing.

 

But when the soundbox arrived, I couldn’t find a cable to connect it with my guitar. A search of instrument cases and drawers yielded nothing. I was certain that several of those cords were packed away in my collection. Yet none could be found. Eventually, I surrendered to futility and simply ordered a replacement, online. A desperate act associated with fatigue and disability.

 

I had finally reached the point of living like my father. He had a house full of treasures, shared with my mom. But couldn’t access too much due to his own impairments. The computer became his savior. He bought more of whatever wasn’t already on top of the heap, to rescue himself. Pride kept him in motion.

 

When I finally had a suitable connector for my six-string twanger, I got everything plugged in and readied myself for the creative process to start. I guessed that improvised lyrics and experimental chord changes would carry me forward, as in yonder days. But this bravado faded quickly. I kept tuning and re-tuning my Fender Telecaster, with varying results. None of these tonalities hit the mark, however. I couldn’t seem to make the proper adjustments. Finally, the Garage Band app on my iPhone provided a useful template. I tweaked the pitch of each string repeatedly, strumming and stroking. After half-an-hour of doodling, I hit the bullseye.

 

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S THE WAY I USED TO DO IT AS A KID!”

 

I remembered an off-color composition by my New York compadre, Paul Race. A friend who had passed away in 2014, nearing the age of 70. This salacious anthem wasn’t one I would have chosen to share in public. Yet it came to mind from having been performed on many occasions, in driveway sessions at his home outside of Corning.

 

My hands had been suffering from circulation issues, after retirement. So, it did not take long before every finger went numb. They were stiff and uncooperative. I felt like someone trying to pick out a melody with a bunch of tiny, summer sausages. But persistence kept me moving up and down the fretboard. I recorded a Blues jam of sorts, with words taken out of the ether. This vocal document was rough, and rendered in low-fidelity. Still, it set a benchmark in place. After a long period of neglect, I had finally revisited a cherished tradition.

 

My hands were sore. But my heart swelled with satisfaction.

 

“Well, it’s been a long time

Been a very long time

I can hardly remember

What I used to play

Hey, hey

Well, it’s been a long time

Been a long, long time

I can hardly remember

Back to the month of September

Hey!

Yeah, I used to pick on the guitar quite a bit

I played almost every day

But over time, with responsibilities taking hold

All that went away

Now my fingers are numb

And I’m a disabled bum

(Laughter)

Hey, hey

A disabled bum, that’s what I am!

Kind of hard to accept

I’m sitting here in the retirement Jet Set

How about that?

Hey, hey

Pride and self-confidence are gone

But I keep on a-traveling on

Traveling on...

Traveling on

Traveling on...

Hey, traveling on!”

 

I felt somewhat embarrassed in the aftermath. Another bygone sports adage, about ‘diminishing skills,’ came to mind. One that had been tossed at our beloved Cleveland Browns quarterback, Bernie Kosar, late in his NFL career.

 

Writing had always been my focus. Any real lust for the stage, or a life of performing, had been jettisoned with childish thoughts of traveling the globe, or winning a lottery prize. Like most adults, I shifted to rationalism as a methodology for survival. But the glow of this holy commission had not dimmed. Even with my own failings so nakedly evident.

 

The 11^th volume of my ‘Trailer Park Militia’ series had been about a reclusive figure from Ohio, who posted demo recordings of Country ballads and Blues improvisations on his YouTube channel. It was a reflection of the yearning I still carried for musical expression. When this fictional character found discovery and the spotlight, it sent him reeling into regret and remorse. I reckoned that the harsh glare of public attention would be something too foreign to embrace for a middle-aged, hobbling dude. I felt more comfortable in the shadows, A place I inhabited out of necessity.

 

Anonymity had become my cloak, and I wore it proudly. But the writing adventure was certain to continue.