Five players shot at Duquesne University September 2006 (AP photo)

Shortly before the 2006-2007 season began,  a mass shooting on campus wounded five Duquesne players, including current senior guard Aaron Jackson.  This happened seven months before the tragedy that struck Blacksburg, when a gunman killed 32 and wounded numerous others at Virginia Tech.  Dukes coach Ron Everhart is also a Hokie, and was co-captain of the 1984-85 team.  “Obviously, both places have seen their dark times with the shootings and having to endure adversity, ” Everhart told reporters Monday night. 

So, while my team is enduring a renaissance among the warriors of the hardwood, both schools share a tragic bond that transcends what will happen when the two match up Wednesday night.  Both schools have dealt with something that outweighs any final score.  They have come back from flashes of violence that have become all too common in the 21st century.    

The sound rocked you to sleep.  The gentle click clack off in the distance signaled another trolley was on the way.  The rhythm was that of a tap dancer getting closer to the edge of the stage.  The volume grew as the seconds passed.  click clack click clack CLICK CLACK CLICK CLACK.    The darkness outside our small home by the rails was illuminated by a trail of sparks above the old streetcar rocking and bobbing down the crooked tracks outlined in rust; neglected by time, and brought to life every 15 minutes.   Finally, the disjointed tapping noise would pass and fade into silence.  Once again, my bedroom was bathed in darkness, as another trolley bobbing its way to the loop in Library, Pennsylvania before another trip to Downtown Pittsburgh.  This audio cycle would start again in the next quarter hour, but the call to sleep would overtake those soothing clacking sounds that echoed through the hills. 

Trolley stops a block from my home (circa 1974)

Trolleys in Pittsburgh occupy a place in the area’s consciousness.  Modern light rail cars now roam the gravel trimmed tracks through the South Hills and in the subterranean passageways under the city.   But as a boy, I rode the trolley to downtown adventures with friends.  We’d fight our way through the bodies to find a place to sit, while the old hunk of steel cloaked in rusted sheetmetal shook all of us in unison over the bumps and the crooked roadbed.   This was light rail before the term was tossed around political roundtables as solutions to global warming.   Moms and dads didn’t run us around in plush SUVs.   When we wanted to watch the Pirates at Three Rivers Stadium,  we scraped up the coins for ”the ride into town.”  60 cents.  (half price if you were under 12)  It took about thirty-five minutes to ride about 10 miles.     If you got a seat, you looked out a window scarred by wild branches that slapped the old streetcar during endless trips.  You’d see a slide show of trees and overgrown brush give way to faded buildings housing neighborhood taverns and body shops.  The stops were numerous.  Each one exchanging humanity along the way.   But it was that signature clucking and clacking sound that made the ride unique.  The cars were delivered to Pittsburgh following World War Two from the St. Louis Car Company.  They served more than 40 years sporting various paint jobs along the way.   Large ceiling fans worked in lieu of air conditioning giving little comfort  as they pushed hot air through the car on those stifling August afternoon rush hours.  But there was something about those rocking and bobbing vehicles delivering workers and students to and from the South Hills daily. 

Pittsburgh Trolley in South Hills (circa 1974)

The first electric cars rumbled along Pittsburgh streets in the 1890’s.  But the Steel City stayed with this mode of mass transport long after other towns, including Norfolk, abandoned trolleys.  However, the track was switched in the 1960’s, when the Port Authority of Allegheny County abandoned miles of rails throughout the city in favor of buses.  The South Hills, where I grew up, was spared, and trolleys rocked and rolled until the late 1980’s.  Pittsburgh still uses some of the same roadbeds for its current light rail system, and plans are underway to expand rail travel through other neighborhoods which had abandoned trolley travel decades before. 

Artist Rendering of The Tide

Meanwhile, Norfolk is going ahead with its plans for its own light rail project, The Tide,  and Virginia Beach may soon be on board, but Hampton Roads has been down this line before.  The last streetcar run in Norfolk took place 60 years ago, and at one time they linked Norfolk with Sewell’s Point, Ocean View, South Norfolk, Berkley and Portsmouth. After buses were introduced in 1925, streetcar lines were phased out until finally, only the Ocean View line was left. At midnight on 10 July 1948 the last car made its last run to Ocean View, jammed with passengers ripping souvenirs from the walls and smashing windows. The engine quit, the riot squad had to be called, and the car was hauled, defunct, back to the barn.  This was the same time that Pittsburgh was taking delivery on its last generation of streetcars.   

Today’s technology is far better than those old electric trolleys that clacked along rusty tracks.  But the principle of mass transportation has reared its head once again, when four dollar gasoline invaded our wallets.   Gasoline has taken a brief respite from the record summer highs, but  highways are still clogged, which begs the question, “How do we get there from here?” as we sit on 264 watching time pass while the gas gauge drifts lower.   Times change, but some ideas come full circle, like the loop that still carries folks through suburban Pittsburgh.  Let’s see if The Tide can carry the load.  

“Spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sport; the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat.  The human drama of athletic competition.  This is ABC’s Wide World of Sports!”       

This is how the public north of the Mason/Dixon line learned about something called NASCAR.  Wide World of Sports would film some of the big races and show them on tape delay.  The Daytona 500 was no exception.  So reporter Chris Economaki talked about Buddy Baker,  David Pearson, Cale Yarborough, and of course the King himself.  This one never played Vegas or starred with Ann Margaret, but Richard Petty merely won The Great American Race seven times.  

In those days, even the Daytona 500 was shown on tape delay on the following Saturday afternoon.  But that mattered little to a seven year old boy who sat glued to our little TV watching faint monochromatic images of cars that looked like Dad’s roaring around an asphalt jungle at speeds approaching 200 miles an hour.  I imagined myself behind the wheel of one of those Detroit monsters racing for the checkered flag! 

Something happened in the 1970’s.  The Pittsburgh Pirates, Steelers and Penguins stole my sports soul during adolescence.  But I found NASCAR years later,  like a reunion with a lost love. 

In 1996, I started a job with WESH-TV in Orlando, and less than a month into this career move, I scored press credentials to the Daytona 500.   I was awestruck by the sea of humanity which descended on The World Center of Racing in the wee hours of a chilly Sunday morning.  I wandered aimlessly through the winding roads of the infield-absorbing the frantic activity that assaulted the senses.   Seats in the upper level of the grandstand were laid out in a black and white pattern resmembling a checkered flag contrasted with a cold blue sky illumintaed by the Florida sun.  It was quite a different look from those black and white filmed images beamed through our little RCA nearly 30 years before.

Soon the black and white seats would be filled, and the chaos of cars, silently rolling through the pit area, accented by runs of brightly colored crewman pulling huge fuel cans,  along with various mechanical gadgetry would give way to a serious sense of order.  Forty-three cars lined up on pit road, and shortly after the command to start your engines reverberated through this city of 200,000, the ground shook with a gasoline-infused grumble,  like forty-three tigers looking for their next meal. 

I stood close to the track on the roof of a small pump house outside turn two with a gaggle of magazine and newspaper photographers.  Having the day off, I was free from the contraints of covering this event for the days newscasts.   So I munched on a roast beef sub, as the pace laps brought the simmering noise closer to my perch.

Then, off in the distance, amidst a wave of cheer from the NASCAR faithful, that mechanical rumble exploded full throttle.  The race was on!  The photographers nearby anticipated their moves as the decibel level increased, and brought the cars into full view.  My feet tingled as the roof the old pump house felt like the floor of a West Coast building during an earthquake.  The bright colors adorned with corporate logos stamped with bold numbers flashed before my eyes as my senses struggled to keep pace with the action before me. The cars also brought  full assault on both eardrums.  Animal screams of horsepower pieced my head  as the field shot down the backstretch and away from view.   The silence was fleeting, at best.  For this Doppler effect on steroids repeated in mere seconds.  I was hooked.

It wasn’t long before a flash of fear took over, if only for a few seconds.  John Andretti slammed the backstretch wall out of turn two and careened into the wall right in front the pump house.  It was a startling sight, that brought a hush among our group, but Andretti emerged in one piece with only a few bumps and bruises.  

It came down to a duel between Ford and Chevy, between the great Dale Earnhardt, who at this point never won the Daytona 500, (he finally snapped that streak on his 20th try two years later) and Dale Jarrett who was going for his second 500 win.  Unfortunately, my position restricted my sight of the last lap pass Jarrett made on Earnhardt’s legendary black Mr. Goodwrench machine.  But this experience brought me back to NASCAR.  I’ve been to nine 500’s since, and now enjoy the high definition roar provided by Fox43.  A long drive that began with a spectator’s taste of “the thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat.”

“Hang onto your hats.  Here come the Steelers out of the huddle.  Terry Bradshaw at the controls.  22 seconds remaining; and this crowd is standing.  Bradshaw back and looking again.  Bradshaw runs out of the pocket…looking for somebody to throw to…fires it downfield…and there’s a collision…IT’S CAUGHT OUT OF THE AIR!  THE BALL IS PULLED IN BY FRANCO HARRIS!  HARRIS IS GOING FOR A TOUCHDOWN FOR PITTSBURGH!”   

Jack Fleming,  WTAE Radio December 23rd, 1972

The words crackled through the darkness of my father’s basement.  The old clock radio sitting on Dad’s workbench; our only connection to NFL history in a pre-cable TV world.  In 1972, playoff games were blacked-out in local TV markets.  So long-suffering fans of the Steelers had to reach back to the days when great moments were painted by artists of audio; masters of language, who drew images of competition,  and sent them over the air to big screens that existed only in the mind.  Radio invited the fertile imagination of the dedicated sports fan, and before 1972, there weren’t many as loyal, or more patient, than those who put up with the Steelers.  Nearly every Sunday, they wound up on the short end; a perpetual doormat for other NFL teams–a trend that continued for 40 years. 

But by 1972, the ingredients of greatness came together, like coal, limestone and iron ore mixed in one of Pittsburgh’s blast furnaces; a young coach named Chuck Noll molded a team of heavy metal which terrorized the AFC Central Division with an 11-3 record.  Rookie running back Franco Harris began a decade of dominance behind an offensive line worthy of the city’s blue-collar pride.   That season also saw a brash young quarterback from Louisiana Tech fill the air with pigskin bullets; the final shot hitting an unlikely target and cementing a place in football lore.  Terry Bradshaw was showing mustard seeds of leadership that would blossom into a Hall-of-Famer career in the Steel City.

But on this cloudy Sunday, in my father’s dark  basement.  I stood with Dad as we watched the radio and hung on the play-by-play description of Jack Fleming.  It was the Steelers first post-season appearance since 1947, when the Philadelphia Eagles took them out to the woodshed for an embarassing 21-0 thrashing.   On this cold December afternoon, the Oakland Raiders descended on Three Rivers Stadium.  It was the first of many clashes on green battlefields throughout the decade. 

Dad didn’t care much for NFL football.  He followed the college game.  Notre Dame and Pitt were his two teams.  He worked as a carpenter at the University of Pittsburgh during this time.  In 1972, the Pitt Panthers, like the Steelers,  were on the cusp of greatness.  The legs of Tony Dorsett, another proud warrior from Western Pennsylvania,  would carry the Panthers to the National Championship in 1976.  But two days before Christmas four years earlier, we listened, father and son, to the Steelers.  Dad’s cigarette gave off a faint orange glow in our unfinished basement.  His weathered face listening to Fleming’s electronic description of the action behind a faint blue veil of tobacco smoke.

The Steelers already had the reputation of a bone-crunching defense.   Joe Greene,  Jack Ham, and Mel Blount  were just starting Hall of Fame careers.  Future members of the Hall on offense, Bradshaw and Harris, were quiet on this afternoon.  The first half ended:  Steelers 0 Raiders 0.

Dad didn’t say much.  I was a 10 year old boy with shaggy hair who daydreamed about making the “big play” in all sports.  When I got together with the guys, we would play baseball, wiffle ball, street hockey, basketball, and football.  If we didn’t have enough for a game, imaginations flourished with re-creations of the Baltimore Colts, Dallas Cowboys or Green Bay Packers.   I would announce highlights that came straight out of those iconic slow-motion football ballets that put NFL Films on the map.   But in 1972, we all wanted to be Steelers! 

“Bradshaw back to throw…complete to Ron Shanklin who gets away from two defenders down the sideline TOUCHDOWN…Steelers win the Super Bowl!  (This is followed by all of us mimicking the roaring crowds who shower us with adoration)  

This was “Fantasy Football” to a 10 year old in 1972 Pittsburgh.

But the Raiders were real and giving the Steelers fits.  In the second half, Pittsburgh kicker Roy Gerela managed two short field goals, and the  Steelers looked like they were on their way to their first ever playoff win.  But Oakland, had mounted a last minute touchdown drive and had suddenly gone ahead, 7-6. Ken Stabler, the quarterback who had replaced Daryle Lamonica the start of the final quarter, had run 30 yards down the sideline for the Raider touchdown with only 1 minute 13 seconds left to play. 

Dad looked at me and said, “Well, there’s always the river.” 

I was angry and moaned about going this far only to blow it.  I pouted about how the Steelers were supposed to lose.  

“Pipe down, will yah?”  shhhhh.  “We have another shot at it.  Take it easy.”

Bradshaw started at his own 20, and threw five straight passes.  Then the Steelers found themselves with fourth down on their own 40.  Just 22 seconds left.  That basement was quiet except for the thin AM sound  from that old clock radio.   Bradshaw’s pass ricocheted off Oakland safety Jack Tatum as he collided with Steeler running back Frenchy Fuqa.  Franco Harris just happened to be at the right place at the right time.  He scooped up the ball before it hit the ground and sprinted the down the sideline with what was later dubbed, “The Immaculate Reception.” 

AP Photo

The Steelers had their first ever playoff win, and I ran up the wooden steps from the basement to the kitchen door, and ran outside to meet the rest of the guys!   We re-created what we heard on the radio two days before Christmas in 1972.  Pittsburgh would lose the AFC title game to the fabled Miami Dolphins, who went 17-0 that year.  But that magic moment on a cold Sunday in Pittsburgh triggered a tidal wave of excellence that formed the Steeler Nation!

First and foremost, our economic mess splattered with gushing streams of red ink.   The new President promises that he and his staff will hit the ground running with an ambitious stimulus package to create three million jobs;  but Mr. Obama himself has warned of “trillion dollar deficits for years to come.”

Next, the world stage can be a violent place to perform in the 21st century.  Mr. Obama is exploring options of drawing down U-S troops in Iraq.  He campaigned on promises to withdraw American forces on a 16 month timeline.  Future troops levels in Afghanistan could  depend on the outcome of several military reviews of the Afghanistan strategy that are under way or recently completed, including a key administration study that Bush officials expect to deliver to the Obama White House.  Then there’s the Palestinian-Israeli fight; and let’s not leave out the possibility of a nuclear Iran.

When the President-elect assumes the most powerful office in the free world, he will not only make history, but will have a chance to be a part of history in a most challenging and hostile world.

It’s become an American sport: securing that flat screen or Ipod at the best possible price.  On a day aptly named “Black Friday,”  we saw a dark example of extreme shopping.  Bargain hunters lined up outside a Wal Mart store on Long Island poised to track down those deals.   The predawn dash turned deadly for 34 year old Jdimytai Damour, a worker who opened the door ahead of the mad rush.  He was trampled to death under a sea of greed.   This is the tragic underside of a culture fueled by instant gratification and the never ending need for “stuff.”

This dark news item inspired a childhood memory of mom, a woman from a generation that valued patience and perseverance, along with a general appreciation of good health and a warm home.  These are values you don’t carry through a mall parking lot and stuff in the rear of a Ford Expedition.   They are priceless trinkets that decorate the soul.  At one time,  they made up the American Spirit, along with a self sufficient can-do backbone that supported our optimistic nature.

The year was 1969; a restless time that was a high water mark for many in the baby-boom generation.  But in that year,  my mother and father were mature parents celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary.  That summer was filled with happy commotion around our modest brick home in suburban Pittsburgh.  It wasn’t about Woodstock or the Apollo 11 mission to the moon;  but a simple square room to the left of our home’s entrance.  I was seven years old , and slept in that room with my brother Joe for the early part of my life.  But this was the 60’s; “For the times they are a changin” had meaning in the Schaad house.  Mom was about to realize a dream she had always wanted since she married Dad before the end of World War Two.  She was about to have a special anniversary gift:  her very own dining room.

This is where patience comes in.  We didn’t live in a single room tenement like Ralph and Alice Kramden of “The Honeymooners;”  but Dad built our home with his hands, and it took many years to finish.  My brother Joe and I shared that small downstairs room, and my two sisters had one upstairs bedroom while my father looked for funds to finish the house.   He worked as a carpenter, and work came sporadically at best.  So mom made do, and she did so with a smile.  But now she was getting that special place to entertain guests;  to serve coffee to the nuns–the Sisters of St. Francis,  who were frequent visitors to discuss church canon and the changing role of the Catholic Church in our turbulent world.

Mom picked out a table, six chairs, a china closet and buffet.  My parents paid just under $500 dollars for this handsome set, a princely sum in those days.   Keep in mind,  big box stores like Target,  Wal Mart and Rooms to Go didn’t exist in 1969.  So my mom took the trolley into downtown Pittsburgh to shop.  She often tells the story of standing on the streetcar, carrying the dining room chandelier–the car rocking and click-clacking down the uneven tracks to the South Hills.  But she’ll tell you it was worth it, even though it took 25 years.

Compare that to our increasingly narcissistic tendencies about why we all deserve the special things in life.  “Special things” in this context mean stuff, and we have to have it now!  We can’t wait 25 minutes, let alone 25 years for anything.   One would think our recent financial meltdown would serve as a guide against greed and the drug of instant gratification, but last week the price was a human life.  Something to ponder as we start this season of giving.

       ”Guess most people didn’t go to work after all,” I told the volunteer passing out umbrellas.  She was a young woman of about 20.  She just beamed, “This is exciting; to be part of the process.”  Her smile was infectious.  She’s right of course.  I had become so accustomed to voting in elections where the volunteers outnumber the voters, that maybe I had taken this privledge for granted.   There was a middle-aged woman with blonde hair, dressed in a red rain jacket and jeans handing out bottled water to people in line.  She was a McCain supporter.  She confided to another woman, an Obama volunteer, about history being made before their eyes.  Civil discourse; polite exchanges on the political battlefield of our Republic.  

      Finally, I made it inside, only to find the line of voters snaking around the hall.  But the line was moving slowly as the minutes melted away.  Finally, I reached The Promised Land; the table where a smiling volunteer checked my voter registration and presented me with my voter’s card to slip into the machine.  I marked my choices in approximately 15 seconds.  As the song goes, “The waiting is the hardest part.”  But those 90 minutes were a small price to pay for this gift of freedom.

Tom Schaad

See you on election night,

Tom Schaad

         Money experts say everyone shares a bit of the blame for this huge sell-off.   The government sponsored enterprises of Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac provided mortgages to those who couldn’t pay them back.  Unscrupulous lenders who encouraged people to sign terms they didn’t understand.  Finally, the individual who lied about his or her income to buy a home they could not afford.  We live in a plastic generation.  “I want it all, and I want it now,” so the song goes.  Do you want that new kitchen with granite countertops?  Borrow money from your reliable residence, which for many, is an ATM.  The problem is we kept on borrowing with no plan to pay it back.   Washington plays by the same rules. 

       “Materialism!”  scoffs my wise mother, who is 90 years young.  Yes, she was around when Wall Street crumbled the first time, before it was paved with junk bonds and credit derivatives.   The land of my youth, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,  was decimated by the Great Depression.   Steel blast furnaces, that inspired one 19th century writer to dub the city “hell with the lid off,”  cooled off considerably until they were awakened by World War Two.  But in 1933, Pennsylvania had an unemployment rate of 40%.  Those were hard times. 

          Mom talked about my grandfather selling the house to a friend for a dollar to avoid foreclosure.  He was a carpenter, who designed and built quality houses.   But in the 1930’s,  he did yard work for 25 cents an hour.  Grandma canned tomatoes from the backyard garden.  Those stewed tomatoes graced the family table as the main course for many meals to, as my mother says, “keep body and soul together.”    

          My father’s side was a little different.  Grandfather Schaad built several homes in the South Hills of Pittsburgh.  He could have been a wealthy man, had it not been for that dark decade.  He lost everything, when people occupying those homes could not pay their mortgages, and he carried them as long as he could.  Grandfather Schaad was a generous man–maybe to a fault.

          We know not what lies ahead in our electronic world of instant gratification, and self importance.  But these 21st century gyrations that threaten global financial markets make me think of a simpler time explained through the experiences of a 90 year old woman.   Those stories give me strength,  and the way the markets are going, we may need more of it in the coming months.

          Tom Schaad

The recent wreck of one time financial stalwarts American Insurance Group (A-I-G) and Lehman Brothers, and the merger of investment giant Merrill, with Bank of America set a match to the wicks of many 401k’s. Compounded with everyone’s favorite outrage, the high cost of gasoline. Throw in a sinking housing market, and you have a candidate’s call for change.

Recent history shows Democrats seem to profit from Wall Street troubles. In 1948, President Harry Truman railed against “bloodsuckers who have offices on Wall Street.”

In the throes of the Great Depression, Franklin Roosevelt criticized “the unscrupulous money changers” who “have fled from their high seats in the temple of our civilization.”

President Clinton, running in 1992 turned a relatively mild recession into the “worst economy in 50 years.”

This financial debacle is much more serious. The government is pledging $700 billion dollars to stop the bleeding from Wall Street to Main Street, and the latest CNN poll showed voters blaming Republicans for the banking mess by a 2-1 margin.

Virginia has been a Republican stronghold for the last 44 years, but could go to the Democrats for the first time since LBJ won his landslide election in 1964. Other polls show John McCain with a large advantage over his younger challenger on various issues of national security. But voters have turned their focus to shrinking 401k’s and plummeting home values, which could paint Virginia blue on November 4th.

Tom Schaad