1. They wear “Glamour-Don’t” uniforms and make them look great. I’m sure they never ask any of their teammates if their pads make their butts look big.
2. They are the definition of teamwork. At least publicly, no one acts like a star without whom the team would fall apart. And, even when one of the players that’s particularly good and whose presence is missed is out due to an upper or lower body injury, another player steps up and gets the job done. And, if a player from another team hits one of our guys in a particularly unnecessary or malicious way (legal hit, or not), one of our guys will see to it that justice is served.
3. They are the definition of humility. I’ve never heard a player take all the credit for a goal or even an assist. When interviewed they’ll say the only reason they were able to make that goal was because of a great pass from someone else.
4. They’re manly enough to wear helmets and mouth-guards.
If he can’t be at the game, Richard gets as close as he can.
5. They take naps.
7. They talk to the press anytime and anywhere, and are gracious about it.
8. They have wives and kids.
9. The team is a family and their families are part of the Chicago Blackhawks extended family. (Notice the absence of the word “dysfunctional!”) Look, I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors, but unlike other athletes who live their lives like a reality TV show, the entire Chicago Blackhawks family is classy in public. (There might be exceptions, but that’s not my point.)
10. Moms and Dads are invited on trips with their sons and get to see what goes on behind the scenes.
11. Statistics. I learn something new from Eddie Olcyzk, Pat Foley, or Doc Emrick every time I watch or listen to a game. Someone keeps track of each player’s statistics, but someone also keeps track of how many years a trainer, physical therapist, doctor, equipment manager, and anyone else who has any affiliation with the organization has been with the team; and they are appreciated and their dedication is celebrated.
I LOVE Tommy Hawk!
12. To my knowledge, there are no plastic surgeons in the locker room. These guys get slashed, get stitches, and get back out on the ice to play. As a Jewish Mother, I’m not saying I necessarily agree with this practice, but it does deserve to be mentioned. Each player wants to make a difference and knows he can’t do it sitting on the bench.
13. They give back to the City of Chicago in more ways than I can list here.
15. They all grow beards during playoff season, some more manly than others, even though some of them are only 19 or 20 years old and still practically going through puberty.
16. They beat each other up on the ice but act in a very dignified and sportsman-like manner when shaking hands with the opposing team after a playoff series, whether they lost or won a few minutes prior. It’s especially nice when two guys who had just practically knocked each other senseless shake hands, slap each other on the back, and say, “Good games, eh?”
17. When one of the team members has a family crisis, the entire team offers support, as if whatever happened affected each of them personally.
In 1987, a group of retired Blackhawk players got together to discuss their future in the Chicago community. Their main objective was to “give something back” to Chicago and to the sport of hockey. In that meeting they developed a three-fold mission statement for the non-profit Chicago Blackhawk Alumni Association.
• To provide a scholarship fund for the “most deserving” high school hockey players in Illinois.
• To become involved in community affairs and charitable causes.
• To protect and take care of their fellow alumni: “Players helping Players.”
19. The Chicago Blackhawks love their fans, and show it by raising their sticks in salute to them after every home game. Check out The Fan Zone (http://blackhawks.nhl.com/club/page.htm?id=86087)
20. They honor our county’s veterans at every home game.
21. Two words: Tommy Hawk. ‘Nough said.
22. Two more words: Jim Cornelison. Nobody sings our National Anthem better and no stadium shows its appreciation more than Chicago Blackhawks fans. The United Center is called The Madhouse on Madison for a reason.
23. I don’t think any of the team members are from Chicago, yet they are great ambassadors of The City.
24. In short, they make Chicagoland proud.
25. And the best reason of all: I’m going to the playoff game tonight!!!
If you received the Cup ‘O Jo Newsletter earlier today, you’re probably wondering, “Where’s the newest blog? Where are the fros?”
Everything is right here, my friends!
Enjoy! And thanks for subscribing and leaving great comments on this website, and for following me on Twitter, LinkedIn, Facebook, and Google+.
IT’S TIME FOR “FRO-BACK FRIDAY”!
A look back at some of the best ‘fros around.
Today, we feature Paul Chase, and his hair.
My Papa Tom with my brother, Paul Chase.
Thanksgiving with, from left to right, Robert Roth, Paul Chase, Barbara Roth Cohn, Beth Chase Avraham, Susan Roth Stricker, and me!
MY NEW CAMERA WAS SMOKIN’!
Back in the 1970’s, my parents gave me a Pentax K1000 camera after 8th grade graduation. It was, and still is, the coolest gift I’ve ever received. Because it was completely mechanical, I had to learn how to manually set everything, including film speed, shutter speed, aperture/ f-stop, and focus. Luckily, my father knew his way around camera settings, or I would have been as stymied about that camera as I have been about every computer I’ve innocently caused to implode.
I experimented with black and white film, and color film in a range of speeds. My Pentax had several interchangeable lens attachments and a removable flash the size of a football. In order to remove the camera case or put it back on, I had to screw it to the bottom with a button the size of a half-dollar. I only needed to remove the case to load or use the hand-crank to rewind the film, so I usually kept it on, even though it flapped and flopped as I walked around; I decided I looked cooler that way, anyway.
I fancied myself quite the photographer after getting that camera. All I was missing was a burgundy tam. I remember taking a photography class in high school where we were assigned to tell a photographic story of ourselves. I artfully arranged my toe shoes on my parents’ slate entryway floor, along with my tap and jazz shoes. I took a self-portrait using a mirror. I took photos of my Standard Poodle, Fred. I felt like an artiste. I was ready to head to Santa Fe or Taos in a vintage Volkswagen bus, and sleep in a tent with Hippies. One problem: I wasn’t old enough to drive.
The best part about that class was that we got to develop our own photos in a darkroom. I loved the chemical smells and watching a piece of blank paper blossom into a black and white masterpiece. I’m sure all of the toxic fumes from those chemicals — that are probably now banned — permeated my brain, leading me to believe that all of my photos were of professional grade.
That summer my parents had a party, as they often did. It was a beautiful evening and I decided to take pictures of their friends and relatives as they milled about in the backyard sipping wine and being fabulous; the men in lilac, and powder blue Leisure Suits, with open collars revealing thick gold chains that lay upon chests of thick hair, and the women in multi-colored caftans, with lilac or powder blue eye-shadow to complement their husband’s attire, and, as it was the shade of that decade, orange lipstick.
I loaded my camera with 400-speed film which was, at that time, the fastest film available. It always took several attempts to load the camera because I had a hard time lining up the slits on the sides of the film with the cogs on the loading device of the camera. I chose the lens I wanted to use and attached the flash. It took some time to set up my cherished Pentax K1000, but it was worth it because I was a P.I. T. M. (professional in the making.)
With that camera in my hands, I was Victor Skrebneski, Irving Penn, and Annie Leibovitz, all rolled into one. I was capturing moments in history in whichever way my creative mind thought would make for a good shot. I was so excited and so proud.
With a huge smile on my face, I walked over to my Aunt Aldeene, who was talking with another woman, to show her my new camera. “Oh, that’s nice, Dear,” she said, not even looking at me or the camera in my hands. And then, to my absolute and complete horror, she took her cigarette and snuffed it out in the open camera case. In her defense, I guess she thought I was bringing her an ashtray. But I was 14 years old, and we were at my house! Why would I be bringing her an ashtray? Even if it had been a catered affair, why on earth would I, the daughter of the hosts, bring her an ashtray? And why would anyone bring anyone an ashtray? This was our backyard; not Hugh Hefner’s.
There I was, standing there waiting for my Aunt to admire my pride and joy. Instead, she scarred my prized possession for life.
When I think back to that frozen moment in time, I see myself looking down as if floating above, watching the carnage. I remember exactly what I was wearing. I remember having used empty frozen orange juice cans in my hair the night before so my hair would be straight for the party. I remember the psychedelic headband I wore with my bell-bottom jeans and un-tucked white button down shirt.
I remember feeling over-exposed.
At the time, I was mortified. I was stunned. I was angry. But, there was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t say anything to her or to my parents. In fact, I didn’t tell my parents about it until about 20 years later.
When I can get the film to load properly I still use the camera every once in a while. I recently took it to a camera shop to try to find a replacement case because the leather has worn off and what’s left of it barely resembles a camera case anymore.
The shop owner admonished me for not taking better care of it and said it’s the kind of camera that gets better with age and needs to be used often.
Then, he spotted the burn mark.
He examined it and then slowly looked up at me. I thought he was going to call DCFS.
“I swear I didn’t do it,” I said.
He disappeared behind a curtain that must have led to “the back” of the shop, leaving me there to wonder what he was going to do. I didn’t leave because I thought he might watch to see which car was mine and write down my license plate number.
He finally emerged from behind the curtain. Had he tucked in his shirt and combed his hair? Maybe it was his way of pacifying himself before being able to meet my gaze again.
“Look,” he said. Was his chin quivering? “This is a really good camera. You take good care of it and use it as much as possible. If you don’t, it will be useless.” I think he wanted to say, “It will die,” but knew he’d burst into tears if he used that word.
I assured him I would take the best care of it and use it often. I bought four rolls of film with different speeds. I smiled. I held the camera like a swaddled baby. I kept smiling and swaddling as I paid and backed out of the store.
And, because I was afraid he was going to send a camera-retrieving swat team to my house, I paid with cash.
In 1974 I chanted Hebrew as a member of the Jewish community in front of family and friends, and celebrated my new-found womanhood at North Shore Congregation Israel, in Glencoe.
In 1981 I danced onstage as a member of The African American Dance Company (AADC) of Indiana University, and celebrated the resurrection of Lazarus’ “dead” body, played by the only other Jewish white girl in The Company on the stage of the Ebenezer Baptist Church, in Indianapolis.
After the performance, we were treated to a delicious dinner supplied by the Women’s Auxiliary of the church. I ate food that was better than anything I had ever tasted. I said to one of the male dancers, “Wow! That spinach is really good!” He laughed and said, “That’s not spinach. That’s greens.” Talk about feeling white.
Years later, while having lunch with our friends, Savannians Alex and Michele Raskin, at Mrs. Wilkes’ Boardinghouse, I learned the secret of making great-tasting greens. Now, I make some of the best non-Kosher greens east of the Mississippi.
As members of the AADC we danced, took lecture classes, had exams and learned about African culture. We learned how African dance evolved, forming the basis of tap, and many other forms of dance. Since my mother was a tap dance teacher for 25 years at the Carol Walker Dance Studio, I found it all fascinating.
Professor Iris Rosa (ProRo) founded the AADC in 1974, and poured her heart and soul into all of us. The alumni were recently told that ProRo is retiring at the end of the year.
My parents performed in many benefit shows together while I was growing up.
If you have one of these, please leave a comment after this blog post.
[ Taking a Master Class from Dennis Wayne of Joffrey Ballet at Barat College c. 1975. Notice I straightened my hair so it would look nice. It didn’t look that nice after the class.
I was a dance-studio “rat.” I grew up at the Carol Walker Dance Studio, in Highwood, Illinois, where my mother taught tap dance classes for 25 years, and my much-much older sister, Beth Chase Avraham, and I used to perform at local schools with The Carol Walker Dance Troupe. Of course, because of the huge age difference, we didn’t perform together.
After taking a Jazz class with Randy Duncan or a Modern Dance class with Carol Walker, I’d come home and thank my parents for genetically giving me their strong legs and sense of rhythm. After ballet class, I’d come home and “thank” my father for genetically giving me his flat Fred Flintstone feet that made being able to get on pointe next to impossible.
Auditioning to become a member of the AADC was especially important to me because, even though our years at I.U. never overlapped, my brother had been a member of The Company five years earlier.
The experience of being a part of the AADC family is an integral part of who I am now. Plus I had the opportunity to dance every day, which I loved, and to perform frequently, which I didn’t. But, once I’d get onstage, I had no choice but to do what I was supposed to do, which helped take my mind off of being perpetually nauseated. Vomiting onstage? Not cool. Unless you’re a 70’s rock star.
I remember once standing frozen in the wings, thinking, “There are four other dancers already out there. They won’t miss me.” Iris Rosa, the director of the AADC, found me and told me to get onstage. I’m glad she did. I didn’t like it, but I knew I’d eventually get used to it. I haven’t.
I know that a big part of the reason I didn’t go out on-cue was because all I was wearing was a purple leotard, purple tights, and tap shoes. Nothing else. No skirt to cover my adipose tissue. No dress to smooth out my curves or tame my boobage. Plus, my boyfriend at the time had thoughtlessly remarked that in that particular costume I resembled a grape. I broke up with him shortly thereafter.
The first time I remember truly enjoying myself onstage was when we performed at the Indianapolis Children’s Museum. The stage was low and closer to the audience than any other stage on which I’d tried desperately not to throw up. And, being able to look into the eyes of kindergarteners who sat with amazed, mesmerized faces thoroughly enjoying every single move we made, gave me a newfound confidence to smile at the faces smiling back at me, allowing me to temporarily forget how terrified I usually felt in front of an audience.
I knew I didn’t have what it took to be a professional dancer; like arched feet, weighing 80 pounds, and little things, like being able to balance and pirouette on pointe, so I decided to transfer to Lake Forest College to study Creative Writing that upcoming fall.
My final performance with the AADC was in the spring of 1982 on the main stage at I.U. I was going to miss this family with whom I had spent nearly every day during the school year. We had fun, especially when we weren’t in rehearsal and spent entire classes dancing to Michael Jackson’s 1979 album “Off the Wall”.
But I was excited,too, because my parents had come to see me dance. We debuted “Lemonade Suite,” a piece that combined Iris Rosa’s choreography, Dr. Kenneth Ware’s original score, and the poetry of Gwendolyn Brooks.
My bio in the program read, “Leslie Jo Chase (dancer) is a junior from Highland Park, Illinois. Majoring in General Studies, this Capricornian likes to dance, play tennis, read, and cook.” I was grateful the editor of the program added our astrological signs; otherwise, mine would have been as plain as, well, white bread.
I was one of the dancers in a part of “Lemonade Suite” titled “The Mother.” It was the most dramatic piece in which I have ever danced, and the only one that didn’t cause me to be afraid to be onstage.
The stage was dimly lit. The background music sounded like a funeral dirge that intensified as we walked slowly and aimlessly with blank stares out onto the stage, and then fell to our knees.
We clutched and contracted our midsections, as if we’d each received a fastball to the stomach delivered by a Major League pitcher, as the narrator spoke the first word of the poem with agony in her voice: Abortion.
My parents must have been so proud.
There was much more writhing, contracting, and rolling around the stage in remorse as the narrator repeated the words of Gwendolyn Brooks, “I Loved you All.” It was haunting, and powerful, and, just a tad embarrassing because I knew my father was videotaping it.
The last segment of ”Lemonade Suite” was “The Wedding Dance.” That was really fun, and not at all embarrassing to perform. But, I had to rein in ”the girls” by binding them up with an ace bandage beneath my dress to prevent getting a black eye.
That would have been quite the Pas de Don’t.
The audience didn’t just sit there clapping politely when we finished a piece. This audience enthusiastically showed us all of its love — while we danced — by cheering, screaming, clapping, and then jumping to its feet yelling, “Break that body!” Their infectious enthusiasm and encouragement moved me to dance better, harder, and have more confidence than I’d ever had before. I knew I might never feel that way again so I let loose and became “Leslie, the African American Jewish White Capricornian,” “breaking her body” to the delight of the hundreds of people in that auditorium. It was exhilarating. It was magical for me.
For my parents? Oy.
But, to this day, they laugh about a letter I sent to them that included an article and photo from a local newspaper about The AADC. I noted on the side, “I’m the first person on the left on the 3rd step.” My mother called and said, “Did you really think we wouldn’t be able to pick you out?”
Before the end of the year, we recorded a DVD of “Lemonade Suite” at the I.U. television studio. It was shown on local cable stations and used as an educational tool in schools, helping children learn to make good choices.
Years later, I contacted the Black Film Center at I.U. and bought a copy of the DVD that I watch from time to time, always feeling proud to have been a part of something so profound. (Of course, when I showed it to my husband and kids, they thought it was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.) But, most importantly, I actually DID weigh what my driver’s license said I weighed for once in my life.
My brother and I went to th 25th reunion of the AADC in Bloomington, Indiana in 1999 and were invited to come back in April, 2014, for the 40th reunion. We thought about going, but then realized it fell on the same weekend our family had decided to have an early Passover Seder so everyone could be together to celebrate our peoples’ freedom from bondage in the land of Egypt, as it is said.
I’m looking forward to the 50th reunion, so, in case anyone on the planning committee is reading this and wants the three or four Jews who were in The African American Dance Company to be able to celebrate with you, Passover is Tuesday, April 23rd through Monday, April 29th, 2024.
If it doesn’t work out, don’t worry. I’ll just sit in the dark, alone, waiting for the invitation to the 60th anniversary. May we all live and be well, and still be breaking those bodies!
Update:
My brother, Paul Chase, was killed in a car accident on June 25th, 2014, three weeks after my father passed away from a sudden heart attack on June 6th, 2014. As they say, hindsight is 20/20. If only we had attended the 40th anniversary celebration. But, we didn’t. Iris Rosa, and her husband, Anthony Artis, attended a memorial service for Paul in Indianapolis, on July 6th, 2014, created by all of Paul’s friends and colleagues. Iris, the most thoughtful person I’ve ever met, brought along an AADC 40th anniversary commemorative pin, and gave it to me at the service. It’s one of my most prized possessions.
Images of Lemonade Suite are the legally protected property of Indiana University.
Pat Tomasulo interviewing Tom Skilling at the 2013 Chicago/Midwest Emmy Awards. It was one of the two pictures I was able to get while squeezing myself between all the paparazzi.
It takes a real man to admit he crapped his pants as a child on Disneyland’s “It’s a Small World” during a live broadcast. And even though they kept shoveling it at you, you weren’t afraid of a little backwash from your coworkers. (The flying roll of toilet paper was pretty funny, though.)
Your story brought up a very unpleasant memory for me, as well, and I’m sharing it with you so you’ll know you’re not alone. I have a not-so-fond memory of that ride, too.
On a family road trip back in the 1960’s, my dad drove the station wagon from Chicago to California and back while my mother sat next to him taking movies of every cactus and mountain we drove past as they harmonized to show tunes. It all made for weeks of fine cinema to watch later in life.
My father smoked cigars with the windows rolled up, which, my husband, Richard, says explains everything there is to know about me.
My much-much older sister, Beth, and I shared precisely measured, equal amounts of square footage in the back seat. A piece of luggage was meticulously placed between us so we wouldn’t fight over who had more space. Of course, we fought anyway.
One of us would either purposefully or accidentally nudge the piece of luggage toward the other one. It didn’t matter whether it was an accident or not. If that suitcase budged a nano-meter toward either one of us, it would cause pandemonium.
Also, I wasn’t allowed to look at her, touch her hair, or breathe too loudly. She was a lovely older sister. Just lovely.
Surrounded by all of our suitcases, my older brother, Paul, made a mini man-cave in the “way back” out of couch cushions from our house, and spent most of his time making signs he’d display to other station wagon-ing families we passed. I have no idea what the signs said, but it kept him busy.
But, when Paul got bored, he’d sing. And his favorite song on the trip back east to Illinois after visiting Disneyland was, “It’s a Small World.”
We had stopped for lunch somewhere in Colorado and as soon as we got back on the road I fell asleep, carefully resting against the suitcase that separated me from the wrath of Beth. I remember waking up because I felt my eight-year-old body being bounced between the door of the car and the suitcase, and I heard Paul singing THAT SONG.
I looked out the window and saw that we were on a particularly winding mountainous road, and felt the contents of my stomach beginning to defy gravity. I begged Paul to stop singing, but, being my older brother, it was basically his job to sing even louder.
I begged and pleaded with him to stop, even warning him that I was nauseated and would throw up if he didn’t stop. He didn’t.
I did.
I threw up all over myself, the back seat, and the perfectly placed piece of luggage sitting between my sister and me. My father pulled over at a rest stop so my mother could dig through my suitcase in the “way back” to find me something clean to wear.
I felt a little smug because I actually followed through on my threat, and my brother got in a little bit of trouble. Paul is, and always has been, the undisputed favorite child, so even when he did something considered “bad” by most people, my parents considered it just slightly less than 100% perfect behavior, so he didn’t really get in any trouble at all. He did stop singing that annoying song, though.
All my life my family thought that story was hilarious. Paul even bought me a jewelry box that played “It’s a Small World” when I’d open the lid, and Richard used to tell our kids about it as a bedtime story.
Over time I became immune to the effects of THAT SONG, but knew I needed closure. Those mechanical kids from Finland were not going to win.
So, when our kids were still little, my parents, Richard, and I took them to Disneyland. I decided it was time to conquer my fears and take that crappy little boat ride among the scary little moving mechanical people from around the world who sing one of the most annoying songs ever composed in any language.
So I did.
And then I did it again! I rode through twice! In a row! Without vomiting! I had been cured!
Since that day, I can safely say I will never be harmed by the song “It’s a Small World” again, not that I’ll ever go back on that ride, again.
I did run out of line, and possibly through a small section of the set, of the “Raiders of the Lost Ark” ride just before boarding, though, because it looked really scary. And don’t even get me started on the animated Presidents.
If only your dad had listened to you and my brother had listened to me. But, then we wouldn’t have these great stories to tell.
Here’s the other picture I was able to take of Pat and Tom while being smooshed between photographers at the Emmy Awards. I think I’d better stick to writing.
Note: If you haven’t seen the hilarious Pat Tomasulo talking about his experience on It’s a Small World at Disneyland with the equally hilarious Larry Potash, Robin Baumgarten, and Demetrius Ivory, please click here:
22. Two more words: Jim Cornelison. Nobody sings our National Anthem better and no stadium shows its appreciation more than Chicago Blackhawks fans. The United Center is called The Madhouse on Madison for a reason.
