5 things on my mind: An ode to my best friend, Rich Buffa
Papa Buffa is *0 today. Just don't tell him.
My dad isn’t the kind of guy who likes a lot of things being said about him, good or bad. It’s not like he’s not grateful for a kind word, but it’s not something that gets an instant reaction. Like his son, he doesn’t know what to do with praise when it’s initially given. He’s old school that way, I guess.
But that’s too bad, because today is his birthday. Fuck the rules, Richard Bryan Buffa. 38 years before I landed on Earth at Barnes Hospital, Papa Buffa, aka Rich, made his first appearance. A south city native, there are few streets he hasn’t driven down in St. Louis. After a sterling X-ray technician career (mostly at Barnes Hospital), he retired and we started hanging out about once a week.
Sickness and sudden plans may derail the occasional Friday, but most weekend-eve evenings are spent strolling around town in his car. Where are we going? The destination is not often known, but the good times continue to roll.
A couple cigars, lots of laughs, and topics that cover a wide range of emotions and tempos. If you ever wondered where I got the versatile ability to discuss an array of topics with the verve of a stand-up comedian, switching gears as fast as we can make a right turn, he’s the location. The genesis. The perfect big guy to my adorable mom, who stands a good ten inches below Rich.
The passion I have for movies came from him--with my mom supplying the initial itch for baseball. The way I speak and break down things comes from him. It’s a DNA speed elevator that hit the ground and shot up towards the ceiling way back in 1982.
The weekly ride and hangout is essential. Without it, I get homesick and lonesome. While there are friends I could hang with, I’d rather hang with my dad. Outside of seeing my mom and getting a hug, it’s our time to cut the mechanism away and drop the worries. That’s what best friends do. How old is he, you may ask? He’s been around as many years as McGwire hit homers in 1998, just don’t tell him.
If you ask me, climbing to 70 is a privilege. He knows it. I know it, and so do you. The life we get here is an undetermined amount, carved from genetics and fate. Don’t get romantic with the latter term; all that means is what is lying in front of you. My dad has experienced and done a lot. I doubt you could find a better X-ray technician since the very first shift that my dad joined the game. Dad worked the shitkicker shifts, overnights and in the emergency room for a part of his career.
Late in his career, he worked 12-hour shifts on less days per week. There isn’t a part of the clock my dad was afraid to work, or a rough house he wouldn’t step in to provide for his family. That’s what he and my mom pulled off for all those years: earning, providing, loving, and preserving. That’s what good parents do. Give until it’s gone, and go find some more to give… somehow, some way.
Like me and every other person still breathing on this rock, my dad is flawed. He could be the most intimidating person on the face of this Earth after a tough shift. He wasn’t scaring my brother and I; work, life, and the rest takes a toll. He never gave in to anything. If you ask me, it’s the flaws that make us great. Sometimes, I hate my temper. Sometimes, I love it. It’s a part of me.
I’ll end this very long first thing by telling you the best story that describes how my father took care of his boys. When Bryan and I were young, dad told us how to deal with physical confrontation and bullies. Paraphrasing but:
“If you absolutely have to fight, if there is no other choice, hit him directly in the nose. He’ll bleed, it’ll be over, and there will never be any trouble ever again.”
I’m pretty sure Bryan punched a kid in the nose and won that fight. Good for him. Those bullies need to be knocked down now or later. I punched a kid directly in his chest, taking away his breathing. It’s not telling a kid to fight no matter what, or to imitate my on screen heroes like Schwarzenegger and Stallone. If you had to go, there was one sure route to success. That’s tough, direct parenting.
Thanks, dad. See you Friday.
Here’s four other things on my mind on this warmer-than-comforting May afternoon:
~The two-year contract for Drew Bannister is a wise move. If Doug Armstrong couldn’t get the guy he wanted, Jim Montgomery, going back to the guy who helped the St. Louis Blues finish with a very respectable, if playoff-less, 92 point season is a good plan B. I think the popular consensus was that Montgomery and the Bruins moving to round two axed the idea of a spot being made here--at least for the time being.
The NHL playoffs are long and grueling endeavors. The rounds last a long time, and the final games aren’t played until well into June. Waiting to see how the Bruins fare with the Florida Panthers (so far, so good) may have looked like desperation. Even John Cusack, Peter Gabriel, and a boom box in the 1980s could pull that kind of romantic gesture off.
Instead, let Bannister take a whack at a full year, while Montgomery finishes his contract in Boston. I like the move. The man who looks like Lex Luthor’s calm and collected brother got through to the team, and helped them create some fun down the stretch. Retools, fresh blood, and a few trades could push this team further along. Bannister gets to take his shot first.
~I know some of my followers and subscribers are fans of warm weather, but you can fucking keep it. Even on a more mild day like today, where the temperatures did reach 90 degrees and became extra muggy, I couldn’t wait to sprint into my air-conditioned office and write you a little something tonight. Cool, with whiskey and a Coke Zero tall boy can nearby, this is my comfort zone. The area I spend most of my day job in literally sucks the life out of me. I’m the guy who looks like Linus if he drove a box truck and grew a big beard to go along with his blanket, or towel.
I hate this weather. Like true hatred, it grows with each year. The sweating is a bigger problem than those blood-sucking nature terrorists. Going through a shirt before noon can even approach is about as enjoyable as running around south city naked in January. Give me October, which is less than five months away.
~John Mozeliak and Bill DeWitt Jr. need to do something soon. The Cardinals look as interested as a group of people at the DMV on the baseball field right now. They’re 15-20, hitless and lifeless. Oliver Marmol can only do so much. After all, he’s a YES man.
He’s a guy who leans towards whatever upper management tells him. The last guy, Mike Shildt, was fired because he wasn’t a YES man. However, if Marmol can’t reach the players, something that Blues analysts said about Craig Berube’s firing, maybe it will be time for a change there sometime down the line in this 2024 season.
If the team can’t hit, they won’t climb out of this rut. Losing two of three to the White Sox and being generally unable to produce more than three runs won’t cut it, even in the softer N.L. Central. Sonny Gray has been amazing, but he can only affect 30-35 games per season. Nolan Arenado needs to keep building that slugging percentage up, and Paul Goldschmidt needs to find a pulse. The big guy either strikes out or grounds out harmlessly, or he walks. Hard contact is a dream scenario, and it’s not just the big dogs.
Brendan Donovan is a fine ballplayer, but he can only do so much. Willson Contreras is continuing his robust second half to 2023, slugging and bashing baseballs while offering a decent backstop. But Nolan Gorman and Jordan Walker aren’t doing what they were doing last year, the latter currently playing for the Memphis Redbirds. A lot of things aren’t going as planned, and the fans would kill for some proactiveness from the front office.
~Finally, a complaint, filed by this fella who cares for six pets. I find it awful and terrible that dogs, and cats for that matter, only get 12-15 years, and that’s a more best case kind of scenario. When you do the untimed but let’s google search for how long a certain breed has to live and the number barely climbs over the number of championships owned by the Cardinals, it’s a bittersweet punch to the gut. Dogs should live longer. They just should. If some group of very smart individuals aren’t trying to make this happen, I don’t know what to say. Dogs should live longer than humans.
On that note, I bid you good evening.