I Wanna Get Who-ed Again!!

We all have 'first time' experiences. In love, in loss, in learning, and perhaps most importantly, in our first rock concert. Your first concert is something you remember the rest of your life. For my stepson Max, who had been taking guitar lessons since he was twelve and was exhibiting precocious abilities, I wanted his first concert to be memorable.

One of the benefits of living in New Jersey is that EVERYBODY wants to play Madison Square Garden in New York City. New Jersey, by virtue of being adjacent to NYC, some would say New Jersey is a suburb of NYC, gets almost every group that plays in NYC.

One of those groups in 2006 was The Who. Although Keith Moon died in 1978 and John Entwistle died in 2002, Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend were still touring as The Who. I got tickets. I had to.

To give Max the full experience, I wanted to be there for the sound check. So we waited in line for two hours, listening to the opening group and The Who do their sound checks. Max and I struck up conversations with those waiting in line. Many of them were fathers my age with sons Max's age. For many of the teenagers, this was also their first concert.

When the security guards opened the gates half an hour before the opening act, Max and I were pulled aside by a uniformed PNC Bank official. Max was worried that my one-fingered salutes to various drivers on the way to the concert had resulted in my arrest.

Not so.

"We would like to offer you an upgrade on your tickets," the PNC official said sweetly.

"OK," I gulped, Max sighed in relief.

"Compliments of Pete and Roger, you are their guests tonight," she continued.

I was speechless.

She handed us the new tickets and directed us toward the front of the stage. We were so close to the stage we could tell how old the roadies were. They were older than me! Old guys with bad teeth, black socks, ugly shorts, white ponytails and British accents setting things up!

When we got to our seats I looked around. There were thirteen or fourteen pairs like Max and myself. The young teens had expressions of anticipation. Us old guys looked at each with ear to ear grins, not believing we would be this close to the guy who wrote 'Tommy' and the guy who sang 'My Generation.'

The opening act was an Orthodox Jewish rapper, prayer beads and all. I kid you not.

Then they came on stage. The band, which included Simon Townshend (Pete's younger brother), Zac Starkey (Ringo's son) and a bass player not named Entwistle, launched into 'I Can't Explain.'

Between songs Pete talked to the audience. He explained that the Golden Circle was where friends of the band would sit close to the stage. Because he and Roger didn't have any friends, they invited some of their young fans to sit in the Golden Circle.

Now it made sense. I looked around during the next song and caught the eyes of some of older guys. We all exchanged nods.

Before what was to be the last song, Pete talked to the young people in the audience. He told them to follow their dreams, to not listen to people who tried to drag them down or didn't understand them. If you have a dream, whether it's playing guitar or a becoming a doctor, Pete said, with all the passion he could muster "Fucking go for it!"

I looked over at Max. He was moved. So was I.

The Who, 2006: Roger Daltrey, Pete Townshend, John 'Rabbit' Bundrick, Simon Townshend, Zac Starkey, Pino Palladino

A Glitch in the Matrix

In the middle of surfing the Internet, my computer screen went blank. Then two error messages scrolled across the screen. Then it looked like a scene from 'The Matrix' as the screen filled with green text.

"This can't be good," I thought. After running the diagnostic program for three hours, I got a message that my computer needed to see Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Obi-Wan was busy, so I went to the next best thing, the Geek Squad. I described to the young professional in black pants, white shirt and thin black tie what had happened.

"You had a file dump."

"My computer took a dump?" I replied, except I didn't say 'dump.' I used a Saxon word.

"Pretty much. It probably caught a real bad virus and got sick."

"Can you heal, excuse me, repair it?"

After getting a 'maybe' diagnosis and leaving the computer in the hands of the computer mystics, I felt I needed a walk.

My partner and I like to walk along the river and the wetlands adjoining the river. I have learned a lot about what I used to call 'swamp'. Wetlands are teeming with life, serving as a filter between the salt water from the ocean and fresh water from the land.

At one point on the trail they built a bridge over the wetlands that gives you a closer look at the ecosystem. You can see mush rats, egrets, and so many varieties of birds I am becoming a 'birder' to keep track of them.

At the end of the bridge there is a place where a memorial has sprung up. Last week a 19-year old, despondent over a failed relationship, hung himself. Every day since then, when I walk the bridge, I come across young people in small groups, gathered and grieving.

They always move out of my way and apologize. I apologize to them for intruding. They usually smile and reply "You're not," or "It's OK" or "No problem." They are all good kids, struggling to make sense with the loss of a friend and classmate.

It always reminds of the people I have known who have ended their own life. I can remember at least three in high school. As older and more jaded adults, we often forget how deep and raw emotions are when you are young and experiencing things for the first time.

We all get wounded. Some of us get flesh wounds that may leave a scar. Some of us get deep wounds and are crippled. And some of us receive fatal wounds.

Walking home, I thought of the kids on the bridge and of the Matrix. And of Obi-Wan. I have theories about suicide, and you may suspect they are heretical. And you would be right.

Walking the Lines

Pretty sure that it was J.O. Wallace that talked me into being a stringer for the local paper. He worked as a bartender at a popular sports bar and was sports editor of the local paper.

It may have happened this way:

JO> Want another beer?

ME> Can't afford it. That was my limit.

JO> Wanna make some money on the side?

ME> Does it involve possible prison time?

JO> No, it involves writing. I need someone to do a story on a game this Friday.

ME> I don't know how to write, I'm an English major.

JO> It's in Shawsville.

ME> Where's that?

JO> It's down Route 11.

ME> Oh, that Shawsville, I thought you said Shaws-vull. Sorry. Sure. I get paid, right?

JO> Not much. But I'll pour you another beer.

ME> Deal.

I had no training whatsoever as a journalist. But I had read enough sports stories to know that my academic training in history and English was not going to be of much use.

But I did know a lot about football. So with complete confidence in my ability to figure things out on the fly, I showed up early and sought out the head coach.

ME> Howdy, I'm with the Messenger. Can I walk the sidelines during the game?

COACH> Most sports writers sit in the press box.

ME> I think I can write a better story if I can see the action up close.

COACH> You could get hurt.

ME> It'd be my fault, sir.

COACH> All right. Have at it.

I walked the sidelines that game. I wanted to see who was controlling the line of scrimmage. I wrote notes on key plays. I had the time of my life. For the first time, I saw the WHOLE game. All of its bits and pieces.

I wasn't cheering for any one team. I could appreciate all the good plays. All the bad plays. The effort of all the players, the coaches. The guys that dragged the chains. The officials. The fans of both schools. The cheerleaders. The bands from both schools.

My theory was that the game would write itself. I just had to be there to appreciate the story as it unfolded. And then I would do my best to convey that story to people who would read the article.

J.O. said I did a good enough job to do another game the next week. I was elated.

The transformation from fanatic and zealot to analyst and story teller did not happen all at once. But it started on the sidelines at Shawsville High School that Friday night.

How Being a Sportswriter Made Me a Better Person

Accidents will happen.

Apologies to Elvis aside, and leaving the free will/predestination discussion for another time, becoming a sportswriter was an accident.

My internal editor interrupts:

"Uh, you may want to change the reference to Elvis."

My ego replies:

"Why?" (egos can be stubborn)

"You may offend people who like Elvis."

"How can I offend people who like Elvis if I'm already apologizing to Elvis?" (egos can be contrary)

"When people say 'Elvis,' they do not usually think of 'Elvis Costello.' Which is the reference in this case."

"I think of Elvis Costello when someone says 'Elvis.' "(egos can be self-centered)

"But you're weird and not normal."

"*&^%$#@!)" (egos sometimes don't take criticism well)

"Not everyone appreciates the continual musical references you make."

"I throw in movie references to mix it up sometimes," (egos can be defensive)

"Why can't you just say that becoming a sportswriter was accidental?"

"Then you get into that whole 'everything has a purpose' discussion." (egos can cleverly deflect criticism through misdirection)

"Whatever..."

"Stop saying that, it (insert word here you can't say on TV) me off!"(egos can be touchy)

Sorry about that, folks, these discussions can go on all day. It's why I don't accomplish much some days.

Before I was a sportswriter, I was a fan. 'Fan' is short for 'Fanatic.' I was both.

Whenever my favorite team (The Vikings) was on TV, my family would leave the room, then the house and finally, they would leave town.

I yelled when things did not go well for the Vikings. In the 1970s, things would go well for the Vikings until the playoffs. The joke was "I think we're good enough this year to lose another Super Bowl."

The crowning moment of my fandom came during a NFC championship game against the Cowboys. Vikings fans know where this is going.

The Cowboys have the ball near midfield with time running out. Roger Staubach goes back to pass, Drew Pearson shoves Nate Wright out of bounds, catches the pass, scores and the Cowboys win.

"THAT WAS OFFENSIVE PASS INTERFERENCE!"

"HE SHOVED HIM!"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU MISSED THAT CALL!"

Glass was starting to break in the kitchen. My family had moved to another state.

It gets uglier. Fran Tarkenton, who wanted to get to another Super Bowl to prove once again what a chump he was in big games, walked out on the field and yelled at the official who failed to make the call.

A fan in the stands threw a bottle, hitting the ref in the head. As the blood poured, fans cheered.

It was ugly.

I wasn't old enough to be ashamed of my behaviour. I was just mad that the Vikings had lost.

My internal editor starts laughing.

"Reminds me of dialogue from an 'Archer' episode."

"Huh?"

"At this point in your life, you would have a gotten an 'Unsatisfactory' grade."

"No, at worst, 'Needs Improvement.'"

Every once in awhile my editor and ego are on the same page.

NEXT: How I Got Better

Mrs. McLauglin's Dictionary, or ''Punish Me, Please"

Our Seventh Grade teacher, Mrs. McLaughlin, had a huge unabridged dictionary that sat on a stand in the middle of the classroom.

A form of punishment she employed was having us copy pages of the dictionary. Rather than serve as a deterrent, it had the opposite effect on me.

I loved all books, but I especially adored dictionaries. And, from my perspective, an unabridged dictionary was Nirvana. You may guess as to why that would be the case. And you would be right.

In the seventh grade, I was always in some kind of trouble. The notes Mrs. McLaughlin wrote on my report card to my parents make for wonderful reading even today. Finally, in exasperation, a conference with my mother was arranged.

My mother was horrified to learn the full extent of my bad behavior. Penalties were discussed. Sentences were handed down. More dictionary copying was among the punishments. They had no idea.

I can not remember if I shared with my classmates all the scatological terms I was discovering or whether I kept them to myself. The etymology of forbidden words fascinated me as well.

Although I learned very little in the seventh grade that year from an institutional standpoint, I did learn the derivation of nearly every profane and vulgar word in that unabridged dictionary. Interesting patterns emerged from these initial forays into what is considered vulgar language. In college, I studied History and was able to put these patterns in an historical context.

Most of us struggle with English grammar. It's not our fault. English has a Latin based structure imposed on a language that is only thirty percent Latin. Most words in English are of Angle/Saxon origin (called early or middle English). That's why there are so many exceptions in English grammar.

This imposition goes back to 1066, the Battle of Hastings and William of Normandy defeating Alfred the Saxon.

William spoke French and imposed this Latin based language on the aristocracy in England. The peasants continued to use Saxon words. From that time forward, a person using the Saxon word to describe something was considered a peasant. The Latin word for peasant or common person, is 'vulgar.'

When it comes to words describing human anatomy to this day the Saxon word is considered 'vulgar' and the Latin word 'proper.' Check it out for yourself. Think of a word describing a body part or a bodily function. Then go to a dictionary, you need one with the etymology, and check it out.

The comedian and social critic George Carlin did a bit on the seven words you can't say on TV. They are all of Saxon origin. Every one of them.

Authority figures impose artificial and arbritary boundaries on us all the time. Thank you, George Carlin, for being one of those brave souls to point it out.

And a special thank you to Mrs. McLaughlin and my seventh grade class. I wouldn't have realized these things without you!

The Birth of a Heretic

My mother enjoyed telling the story of my getting banned from Sunday School when I was five years old.

One Sunday at church, Mom and Dad were met by a teacher who told them that I wasn't allowed in Sunday School because I was disruptive.

Mom asked how I was being disruptive.

The teacher replied that I was asking questions she couldn't answer.

My mother replied "What kind of teacher do you think you are if you can't answer a five-year old's questions?"

This didn't go over well. After a conference with the senior minister, my parents were told I had to sit with them in the main sanctuary.

Like many five-year olds, I understood Santa Claus didn't bring presents, the Tooth Fairy didn't leave money under pillows, storks did not deliver babies and parents either didn't know what they were talking about - or they lied about most things.

I had now learned that adults in positions of authority punished you when you pointed out they weren't making sense.

This lesson is reinforced in elementary school and high school. By the time we reach our twenties, we pretty much don't trust anyone.

When faced with the prospect of becoming adults, and realizing the received information we have been given is either inaccurate, distorted, or wrong, we have to decide what kind of an adult we will be.

Will we become an adult who is 'comfortably numb' in our ignorance or will we become 'truth seekers?'

I decided to become a 'truth seeker.' I had no idea that would lead to being branded a 'heretic.'

When I went to seminary, I was still in 'truth seeking' mode. Surely, seminary would be a place where Truth resided.

The first day in Systematic Theology the professor laid out the concept of an Omnipotent and Omniscient Higher Power. At that point, I remembered the question I had asked as a five-year old.

The professor asked if anyone had questions. Nobody did at first. Everybody seemed to be happy with the concepts. I raised my hand.

An affirmative nod from the professor gave me permission to speak.

"If the Divine is all powerful and all-knowing, and if everything is created by the Divine, and if everything created by the Divine is Good, it follows that the Divine created Evil and the Devil. Further, it requires us to understand Evil and the Devil to be Good, since it was created by the Divine and the Divine can only create that which is Good," I stated.

The professor shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She got up and erased everything she had written on the board. She silently wrote something on the board. The class gasped.

"If we are to follow Mr. Barker's reasoning, then either our concepts are wrong," she paused and pointed to what she wrote on the board, "or that is our reality."

She then erased what she had written on the board.

"As we are Christians, we can't talk discuss that possibility," she concluded.

At the end of the semester, the professor refused to grade the paper I turned in because it did not echo Orthodox Christian doctrines or use Orthodox Christian sources.

Again, the lesson learned in Sunday School was repeated. You will get punished if you do not accept the positions of authority figures.

Next: Mrs. McLaughlin's Big Dictionary, Let the Punishment Fit the Crime

"Got Any Grapes?"

On my first day as a susbtitute teacher, I was thinking if karma does exist, I was in trouble. The phrase, "What goes around, comes around," also passed through my mind as I walked to my first classroom.

Substitute teachers were routinely abused where I went to school. That was probably the norm rather than the exception. And this was a middle school I was going to for my first time.

After going through the roll, but before explaining the work left behind by the regular teacher, I told the class, "If you're good and do all your work, I'll tell you the best joke you've ever heard last five minutes of class."

I figured I had nothing to lose. Nothing happens last five minutes of class, anyway. Everyone is looking at the clock and packing their backpacks, getting ready for the next class.

With seven minutes to go a student reminded me in two minutes I had to tell the joke. In another minute, another student lobbied for starting a minute early.

I consented. "A duck walks into a bar." Already they were laughing.

"He asks the bartender, 'Got any grapes?'

The bartender says, 'This is a bar, we ain't got no grapes.'

Next day, the duck walks into the same bar and asks the same bartender, 'Got any grapes?'

The bartender, somewhat annoyed, says, 'Like I told you yesterday, no. This ain't a supermarket.'

Third day, the duck walks into the bar and asks the bartender, 'Got any grapes?'

The bartender, very annoyed, says, 'I already told you twice, no!'

Fourth day, the duck walks into the bar and asks the bartender, ' Got any grapes?'

The bartender, now very angry, yells, 'If you ask me one more time, I'm gonna staple your beak to the bar!'

Fifth day, the duck walks into the bar and asks the bartender, 'Got any staples?'

The bartender says, 'No.'

'Well,' says the duck,' Got any grapes?'"

The kids loved it. At lunch, students would walk by and ask if I had any grapes. Walking to my car past the school buses at the end of the day, students poked their heads out of the windows and asked me if I had any grapes.

The next day, I was subbing at the high school. I went to pick up my packet from the secretary. We all know principals don't run schools, secretaries do. With a straight face, she handed me the packet. "Mr. Barker," she said, "Do you have any grapes?"

We both laughed out loud. She explained her son went to middle school and word had gotten around to the high school.

I should have felt good, but I didn't. I had no idea what to do now. It was the only joke I knew.

Part Three of How I Got to Bluefield: The Answer

I didn't have a good answer in the interview with Tom Colley when he asked me how I felt about some stories I had written that had received national attention about corruption at Virginia Tech.

Those stories were written while I was working for the local paper in Montgomery County, Virginia. Tom Colley was the executive editor of the Daily Telegraph in Bluefield, West Virginia. He had asked if I wanted to work for the Telegraph and I had come up to Bluefield for the interview.

Since this was the first time I had met Tom Colley, I did not know he was good friends with Lew Spence, who was the publisher of the News Messenger when the stories were published.

As publisher of the News Messenger, Lew Spence knew not only about the stories that had been published but also about those that weren't. I kept him informed about everything I had uncovered. At some point in the process, Lew Spence said I needed a top level source to confirm the allegations my other sources were making.

It took awhile, but I eventually was able to contact this high level source. I laid out all that I knew about the criminal activities at Tech involving the administration, municipal governments, law enforcement agencies, church leaders, business leaders, most of the pillars of the community.

After spilling everything, I waited breathlessly for a reply. I was partially hoping the source would tell me my imagination had gotten the better of me. Most of the people involved in the criminal activities were people I had known since childhood. I had gone to high school with their children. I liked most of them. Some of them I admired.

"Son, you don't know the half of it," was the reply from the source.

Chills went up and down my spine. I got lightheaded and after thanking my source, hung up the phone and put my head down on my desk. My youthful arrogance and ignorance had led me to a place where angels feared to tread. I felt like Charles Marlow in Heart of Darkness.

When Tom Colley asked how I felt, how could I tell him this? I had just met him. I didn't know that he already knew Darkness. Mine, his own.

In the darkness of Tom's multi-media home entertainment center sanctuary (Tom was way ahead of his time in this regard), where I spent a lot of time after I was promoted to city editor at the Telegraph, Tom would gently ask me probing questions. I was always unable to respond.

When Tom would realize that this wasn't the night I was going to talk about what was tormenting me, he would get up and put Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition on the reel-to-reel player.

We would both sit there in the darkness, listening, as the music calmed our souls.

After leaving the Telegraph, I had a variety of jobs, ending up in seminary where I met my future wife. By 2006, I was married, living in central New Jersey, and had written a book about ethics, justice and divine justice.

Then on April 16, 2007, my sister called me about the shootings at Virginia Tech. The Darkness, long buried, had exploded. Although horrified, shocked and saddened, I was not surprised.

Then I realized how Tom Colley had protected me from the Darkness those three years I spent in Bluefield. I wanted to thank him in person. I can't do that now. I can only tell others how much it meant to me.

Thank you, Tom. May the Light shine on you and those you love.

How I Got to Bluefield Part Two: The Interview with Tom Colley

Over the phone, Tom Colley said to get to Bluefield "Go to Princeton and take a left."

It's a beautiful drive from Blacksburg to Bluefield. Rolling hills. No other cars. Must be where all those commercials are filmed showing only one car on the road.

I noticed the train tracks. The research I had done on Bluefield before coming up for the interview stated that Bluefield was primarily a railroad town. I like trains, so that was a plus.

The building looked newish. Tom Colley's office was on the second floor. Can't remember if I took the stairs or elevator. Jim Terry, then editorial page editor, was in his office by the elevator, smoking.

I walked into the newsroom. Since this was morning, the composing people weren't there yet. I don't think Frank Sayles, the managing editor, was there yet, either.

Some one sitting in a glass office got up from his desk when I wandered in. He turned out to be very tall. He was also smoking.

"Shoot, I'm gonna have to start smoking again to work here," I thought to myself. I had quit when I was fourteen and really didn't want to start again.

"I'm Tom Colley" he said in that deep voice of his, extending his hand outward (and downward cuz I'm not 6'10). We walked into his office. I was relieved he hadn't offered me a cigarette. The prospect of coughing through an interview frightened me.

That reminds me, Curt Barber lost a contact lens while Tom and I were interviewing him. We hired him, anyway. But that was later, sorry.

In the interview, Tom asked me a question (we were on first name basis already) that I couldn't answer.

"How do you feel about those stories you wrote?"

I knew he talking about the Virginia Tech stories that had gained national attention, not the high school track meets. I didn't have an answer.

"Uh, ... pretty good," I said hesitantly, thinking I had just blown the interview.

Tom deliberately put out his cigarette, squishing it in the ash tray as if to punish it. He cleared his throat, clicked his teeth and pursed his lips in and out like he did when he was going to say something important.

"Wrong answer, young grasshopper," was what I thought he was going to say. But he said nothing. He just looked at me for awhile.

"When can you start?" he finally said.

"Two weeks."

"Why not start tomorrow?"

"I'd like to give the paper two weeks notice."

Tom lit another cigarette. This time, by the way he looked at me, I felt I had given him the right answer.

"OK," he said. We shook hands and I went back to Christiansburg.

The publisher at the Messenger was so mad at me for going someplace else, she told me to pack my things and get out immediately. She didn't want to look at my 'disloyal' face for another minute, much less two weeks.

I was now working for the Bluefield Daily Telegraph and moving to Bluefield.

But I couldn't stop thinking about the question I couldn't answer Tom Colley. I realize now many of the questions Tom asked me were ethical questions. The question I couldn't answer wasn't just an ethical question, it dealt with how I felt about ethics.

I was too young and inexperienced to appreciate the depth of the question, and the mind that asked it. The feelings about what happened to people in the aftermath of those times has haunted me for years.

Getting older helped put those events in a different perspective. I decided I really wanted to talk about these ethical issues with Tom, and our shared experiences (I spent a lot of time in Bluefield getting mad at Tom). I went to the Bluefield Daily Telegraph website to send him an email.

The lead story was Tom's obit. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. I was mad at myself for not doing something sooner. Now it was too late.

I wanted to go that Denny's across the street, eat crappy food and tell him I understood why he asked me that question in the interview. I wanted to tell him I finally had an answer.

Part Three: The Answer to the Question

How I Got to Bluefield Part One: Me and Dan Rather or My Three Seconds of Fame

As a graduate student at Virginia Tech I was working four jobs. One of them was as a sports stringer for the News Messenger in Christiansburg (known to insiders as the Mess). Another job was tutoring scholarship student/athletes in History and English (we all need help with English).

I enjoyed covering sports so much when the Mess offered me a full-time job as a sportswriter I took it. I quit school and my other jobs, but kept in touch with many of the student/athletes and staff I had worked with.

About this time, the NCAA started investigating the football and basketball programs at Tech. Bill Dooley was the football coach and athletic director and Charlie Moir (pictured above) was the basketball coach. Some of the people I knew from Tech started sharing information with me that wasn't getting into the Roanoke paper. I think the Roanoke paper was mainly covering the land swap deal with the Horticulture Farm and shopping mall developers.

Over time, with the contacts I had, I put together a series of stories. My editor was horrified. He knew how controversial the stories were and was in a better postion to understand the potential fallout from publishing them. He was also aware how inexperienced I was (at the time, I thought experience was overrated).

So, a veteran ACC reporter from a Charlottesville paper came down to help with the stories. We got the stories ready and then my editor and I went to visit the Tech VP for Public Affairs with the stories.

The VP tried to intimidate us (those who know me know that is not a good strategy), reminded us what a small-time paper we were and how Virginia Tech would sue us out of business if we published the stories.

After my editor and I laid out the proof we had backing the stories, the VP turned white. We published the stories as written. Within a few days the university president resigned and seven vice presidents retired or were reassigned.

The stories got national attention. I got calls from Sports Illustrated and other national news agencies. Dan Rather held up one on my stories on the 6 o clock news (three seconds is probably an exaggeration).

Within a few months, the Messenger got sold to a another chain and got a new publisher and editor. The new publisher was not interested in the stories I had on the hiring/resigning of athletic director Dutch Baughman.

This publisher also got upset when I ran a big story and photo on women's basketball. She said nobody was interested in women's sports , and I wasn't to run any more.

So when Tom Colley called me and asked if I was interested in moving on (he said he had been following my stories) I was ready to listen.

NEXT: Part Two: The Interview with Tom Colley