text: Backtrack Frank didn’t like himself. He really didn’t. The feelings first visited him at his wife’s funeral five years ago. He realized he wasn’t feeling the way he should be feeling. It was sad and all, but he wasn’t devastated, as if he had just lost his soul mate, the true love of his life. That was because he hadn’t. He sat in the front pew, just feet from the bronze casket, and the sad reality sunk in. Frank had “settled”. Darlene was a good woman, and a good mother, but it wasn’t the true love he had once dreamed of. At his age, Frank knew he wouldn’t have another shot at it, and that was a sad place to be. He caved to family pressure and spent thirty-seven years in a law office dealing with paperwork contrived by others. He hated every minute of it. He took more pride in a rabbit cage he once built than all the wills, real estate contracts, and leases he had drafted. At least he could see the real life purpose to it. Accurate or not, there is nothing in the human experience quite so sad as the perception of a wasted life. He was a loner, not by choice, but by the natural evolution of lack of energy and loss of interest in almost everything. He wasn’t suicidal or anything like that. He was just unhappy, not because of things happening to him, but because of what he done, or not done, with his life and what he had become. It was all made so much worse because he could remember a different Frank, a Frank he did like. Every night would end the same with Frank sitting alone at the kitchen table under a ticking clock with a cup of coffee and a stack of photo albums. Disappointed with his current life, and being too old to have much of a future life, Frank sought solace by visiting a former life, which he recalled as happy. The albums helped him remember who he once was. Frank kept it simple. He labeled the albums Backtrack #1, Backtrack #2, and Backtrack #3, each covering discernable segments of his life, grade school years, high school, and college days. He visited the Frank he found in those pages every night. Unlike many who look at the past with a melancholy sadness, Frank enjoyed the time he spent with the old Frank. Those were great times, and he was a great Frank. He opened Backtrack #1. A young boy stood in front of his garage, disheveled hair, a smudge of dirt on his face, the right pant leg on his blue jeans rolled up to his calf, and holding a worn basketball under one arm. The picture was taken the same day he led the Celtics to another championship. Sometimes he would bounce a pass to K.C. Jones at the elbow, or rifle the ball to Heinsohn who would hit one from the corner. Most of the time Cousy took it himself, faking out his man and driving hard to the basket. Taking care not to hit the electric wires hanging over the basket, Frank developed his three-point shot before there was a three-point shot. He hoped he’d end up playing for the Celtics, but he’d be okay with a spot on any NBA roster. Dreams are so much better before they are unfulfilled. The alley looked so small. How could they have done so much in such a small place? The venue was narrow, the asphalt cracked and pitted, but it was Wrigley, The Garden, and Lambeau to those boys. It was all they needed for an outfield for whiffle ball games, a basketball court at the hoop on Cortzen’s garage, and a football field between the two telephone poles, the same poles that served as the goal and outer boundary for the games of “Ghost” at night. There were so many kids in the neighborhood. Frank could always round up enough bodies for some kind of a contest. It was such a good time, such a good place, and Frank liked going back there. Frank loved the picture of him holding his racers in front of the warming house at the town’s ice rink. He had to coast into a snowbank to stop, but those cold winter nights were the best. He would call Weather right after supper every night hoping the temperature was below 32 ̊ so the rink would be open. He would meet Cherri there. Even with the thick winter gloves, it was exciting to hold her hand as they skated in circles to the scratchy tones blaring out of the old loudspeaker hanging on one of the light poles. It was all the more delightful as his parents never knew the reason for Frank’s sudden interest in outdoor sports. Frank could name every kid in the picture of his 5 th Grade class. He remembered muffling cries of anguish whenever his good buddy Billy Sandler kicked him in the shins when Sister Mary Martin had her back to the class. No one ever understood why, but that’s what Billy did. It hurt back then, but Frank laughed about it now. They played with a mini football in the blocked off street at recess. Frank was always the first one picked, and he would play quarterback. When they weren’t playing football, it was Four Square, Red Rover, or just acting goofy. Frank liked recalling the carefree days of just being a kid. His mother kept most of his report cards, A’s and B’s across the board. Funny how a 77-year-old man can still take pride in that. A quarterback with top notch grades, not enough fingers for all his NBA Championship rings, and a girl’s first love. It doesn’t get any better than that. Frank closed Backtrack #1, and poured himself another cup of coffee. He opened Backtrack #2. He wished he didn’t have his eyes closed in the picture, but he was happy the local newspaper photographer snapped that shot of him hoisting the league championship trophy his senior year. The box score was posted right next to it, and his mom had circled his 17 points in red. He must have been embarrassed at the number of pictures his mom was taking at his Junior Prom. He cut a handsome figure, and the girls were all so beautiful. Judy was beyond beautiful. Every time Frank looked at those pictures, he smiled as he remembered his father’s final admonition as he left the house- “No drinking and keep a lid on the moochie-moochie stuff.” Frank was a fun guy back then, steep in mischief, and clever. He was the undercover guy who planned, organized, and assisted, but never got caught. Henry Hooper got busted, but it was Frank’s remote control fart machine that poor Henry was holding in the picture. He was the one who talked Dick Larson into riding his motorcycle up and down the school hallways, and even held the door open for him when blasted his way in, but he was never connected to the prank. The memorable day the aging Miss Helstern ran screaming out of her classroom, Frank’s little brother was missing a hamster. Frank liked that high school kid and his sense of humor, the boldness, the creativity, and the good sense to never get caught. The program from the high school talent show his sophomore year was bittersweet. Frank played the guitar-sort of. He and a couple of his buddies fancied themselves as the American version of the Beatles. Benji on the organ totally lost his place, and then the speakers went out. The group garnered lots of laughs with only a smattering of sympathy applause from some parents. His dad called him Elvis for the remainder of the year. Frank now laughed louder than anyone in the audience that night. Report cards weren’t in the album, but his grades were always solid. As he crept closer to the real world, he sensed a professional basketball career was no longer a certainty, and he started to contemplate more cerebral options. He had the grades and resources to consider a wide variety of possibilities. It was like “Anything Can Happen Day” on the Mickey Mouse Club Show that he watched as a child. Frank was in the starting blocks. He could go anywhere. He could be anything. He could be a doctor, a lawyer, a writer, a scientist, a photographer, a veterinarian, a pilot, a sports reporter, anything. That is the beauty, the wonder, of the teenage years. One is free to imagine doing anything, of being anything. Frank loved visiting the guy who had the ability to dream, and every night Backtrack #2 put him there. Frank was tired, but he needed to spend just a little time with the guy in Backtrack #3. Those bothersome green leaves of summer were falling all around Frank, and he felt like he deserved, needed, the smiles to linger just a bit longer. Frank opened Backtrack #3. He almost couldn’t recognize himself in his track uniform. He couldn’t make the basketball team, but hard work can get you a spot on a small college track team. Shaggy long hair, a moustache, muscular shoulders, and tanned, toned arms and legs. Man, you were one good looking guy, Frank. At first, track was only his fallback sport, but Frank learned to love the comradery, the competition, and the trips around the Midwest. He ran the 880 and the mile, and he had a nice four-year career. Frank admired that guy's efforts and accomplishments. He remembered his dad telling him there was no better status in life than that of a college student, and Frank learned he was right. The party photos weren’t always the most flattering, but what the heck, they were college kids. Roger in a toga passed out on a park bench in front of the firehouse. Who took that picture?! Frank got him up and took him back to his dorm. The fraternity snow sculpture was disqualified for being “tasteless”. (Frank told them it wouldn’t fly.) The basement beer pong “battle to the death”. It was all so stupid, but it was so much fun. He remembered the northern pike being bigger than it looked in the picture. Every summer, he and Charlie would head up north for a long weekend fishing trip. Frank imagined himself in that rowboat, holding a cold can of beer, soaking in the sun, while keeping half an eye on that oversized red and white bobber bouncing around atop the glistening waves. If that wasn’t heaven, it had to be the next best thing. Some nights Frank would substitute a cold beer for the coffee. It helped put him back in that boat. Matters of the heart turned more serious. Frank was that incurable romantic who had the deck stacked against him from the get-go. Finding that “love-at-first sight, true love, soul mate” proved to be more difficult than coming up with a good match, so he remained largely unattached. He dated a number of girls, and somehow a few pictures survived the years and found a place in an album. They were all pretty, and he liked them all. There were parties, picnics, bike rides, canoe trips, the movies, days at the beach, repeated visits to the no entry fee zoo. Keeping it light, there was no drama, no stress, no pressure, no hurt, and it was all good. College Frank could be patient. He was young. There was a whole world of women out there. He knew he would find true love someday. It was a little like “Anything Can Happen Day” again. He could dream of her and what she would be like. That was the best part of Backtrack #3 for Frank. He liked thinking of a Frank at time when he could still imagine the moment he would meet his true love. Frank closed his eyes and blended it all together, that little boy shooting hoops in his backyard, holding Judy close to him as they danced at the prom, and giving it everything he had on the bell lap. It all swirled around in his mind until he could see one pretty good guy. He was proud to have been him. Frank put the albums away, rinsed out his coffee cup, and went to bed. He would get through another day tomorrow, and then sit down at that small table under the ticking clock for another meeting with the old Frank, that guy he once knew and loved.