murraymusings

[murraymusings]

You Can Play Is The Only Way

I've been thinking a lot lately about Brendan Burke and Tyler Clementi, two young men who died seven months apart in 2010.

Clementi was just three weeks into his freshman year at Rutgers University that September when he learned his roommate not only used a webcam to spy on him and another man, but sent out Twitter and text messages alerting and urging others to watch when the man returned to visit Clementi two nights later.

When Clementi found out, he jumped to his death from the George Washington Bridge. He was 18 years old.

Burke, 21, died along with a passenger earlier that year when the SUV Burke was driving slid out of control on a desolate stretch of Indiana highway and into the path of an oncoming truck.

Like Clementi, Burke was gay and had only recently come out to his friends and family. His dad, Toronto Maple Leafs president and general manager Brian Burke, not only accepted his son and told him he loved him, but promised he’d march with Brendanin the Gay Pride parade in Toronto.

As for Brendan’s friends, many of them were players on the hockey team at Miami of Ohio, where Brendan was the student manager and Rico Blasi is the coach. 

“When he told me basically his secret I was like, ��Thank goodness it’s nothing serious!’”said Blasi. “I told him I really didn’t care, and he was part of our family and that was his choice and it doesn’t change the way we feel about him.” 

The concept of family isn’t just a word with Blasi and his team. The RedHawks proudly refer to themselves as “The Brotherhood,” and their one-for-all, all-for-one approach, to hockey and life, is the cornerstone of the program.

Bolstered by the support from his father and Blasi, Brendan had the strength and confidence to tell the guys on the team. Pat Cannone was the first to hear the news. 

“I don’t care, Burkie,” Cannone responded. “I don’t care at all. You’re a great friend. This has no bearing on anything or how we feel about you.”

The rest of the guys felt the same way. And it is their understanding, compassion and empathy that is the essence of  You Can Play (www.youcanplayproject.org), a noble project whose bold mission is “dedicated to ensuring equality, respect and safety for all athletes, without regard to sexual orientation.” 

The co-founder of the initiative is Brendan’s brother Patrick, a scout for the Philadelphia Flyers, who readily concedes that, before his brother revealed he was gay, Patrick had casually used that word as an insult—like millions of other kids around the world have been doing for way too long. 

Of course, we adults aren’t exactly immune as far as contributing to the lengthy history of insensitivity, intolerance and seemingly innocuous banter—in and out of locker rooms—on this particular topic.

Now, eight NHL players, including Henrik Lundqvist of the Rangers, Corey Perry of the Anaheim Ducks and Daniel Alfredsson of the Ottawa Senators, are appearing in public service messages on behalf of You Can Play, joining the drive to end homophobia in sports.

Thirty-five more NHL players have committed their support. And, slowly but surely, attitudes are changing: A 2006 survey in Sports Illustrated concluded that nearly 80 percent of NHL players would support a gay teammate.

In 2010, Brent Sopel of the Blackhawks showed up with the Stanley Cup at Chicago’s Gay Pride Parade. And last year, ex-Ranger Sean Avery was an outspoken advocatefor a marriage equality bill in New York.

“There are gay men in professional hockey,” says Brian Burke. “We would be fools to think otherwise. And it's sad that they feel the need to conceal this.”

Hopefully, with time, they won’t have to. And hopefully, initiatives like You Can Play will continue to change hearts and minds and attitudes—not only in sports, but everywhere.

Which brings us back to the tragic story of Tyler Clementi, a shy and quiet kid who played violin and was trying to figure out his place in the world.

Last week his Rutgers roommate Dharun Ravi, 20, was convicted on all of the 15 charges he faced in what a jury in his trial determined was a hate crime. He’ll be sentenced in May. Some of the charges carry penalties of up to 10 years in prison.

Two young lives, ruined. 

And all I could think of, after reading about the trial, was what if someone was there for Tyler Clementi when those tweets and texts started flying around, in the same way Rico Blasi and Pat Cannone were there for Brendan Burke when he came to them with a burden he could no longer bear?

Would that have changed anything? We’ll never know. All we do know is the response Brendan  received was extraordinary—and that’s a tribute to Blasi and the benevolent power of The Brotherhood.

But the response was also sadly unusual, which is why Tyler Clementi paid the ultimate price. And why the message of You Can Play is so vital—for a kid on skates, sneakers or cleats.

Or even for one who plays violin.

[murraymusings]

Toothless Tiger

So there he was, with all the necessary pieces of the puzzle poised, finally we thought, to fall seamlessly into their proper places: A Sunday afternoon, the red shirt, those dead, determined eyes and he was just four strokes off the lead.

  We’d seen this scenario so many times before, when the mere sight of him striding purposefully from the practice range to the first tee on Sunday used to make his opponents quiver--whether they were waiting to play with him or just keeping a wary eye on the scoreboard.

  He was ruthless, relentless and coldly efficient and we’ve been craving for the return of that guy, that stone cold killer, who disappeared on that November night in 2009, running his SUV into a tree and triggering not only a global exploration of the sordid and seamy details of his personal life, but sadly for him and us, the seeming decimation of whatever it was--confidence, belief, arrogance, the complete absence of hubris?--that made him the player he was and the guy we had to watch.

  So there he was last Sunday, at Pebble, playing with Phil Mickelson on a course he knows and loves, where a lifetime ago at the 2000 U.S. Open he humiliated the field with a 15-stroke win.

  And there we were too, hoping, willing, praying this was the day. But he couldn’t buy a birdie on  the easy opening holes and missed several more birdie putts that used to be routine: A 5-footer that never came close to the hole, a 30-footer came up 3 feet short, another missed chance from 12 feet.

  Then came the 12th, when he holed out his bunker shot. And there it was: the fist pump, the gritted teeth and that roar from the crowd. And you thought, ok, here we go. He’s on his way.

  But of course, he wasn’t. Phil made his 30-footer for par and on his next hole, hit his approach to two feet.

  Tiger’s approach hit a divot. We didn’t know it then, but his day was over.

  Afterwards there were more of the same meek rationalizations that have become sad standards: I hit the ball really well, I couldn’t make a putt, I made some good improvements this week, and on and on.

  We want to believe he has it in him, we want to believe there are more Sundays lurking ahead like there used to be. But there’s this fear that lingers; it first emerged soon after that November night, that he would never be the same, that his best days and all those late afternoon roars for us and him were gone for good, that he would never win a another major.

  Not the guy. Just another guy, wearing a red shirt on a Sunday afternoon, trying to get up and down and out of town, like everybody else.

  Hope we’re wrong. So hope we’re wrong. Augusta is right around the corner. So we’ll keep watching and hoping, and remembering.

  For now, it’s all we can do.

[murraymusings]

Beyond Creepy

We're at the checkout counter at Best Buy, my youngest son and I, on a recent Saturday afternoon. He's to my right, purposefully doling out his gift cards as the smiling cashier patiently applies them towards his purchase--a flat screen for his video games. It isn't very busy in the store, just a smattering of customers, mostly kids and parents, wandering around, checking out the TVs and accessories. There's no one waiting in the line when we arrive there and I don't notice anyone behind us as we walk right up to the cashier.

And then suddenly there he is, to my immediate left, closer to me than my son. I feel his eerie presence before I see him. Tall, with a wispy red mustache, a thinning patch of hair, pale complexion and a stained gray sweatshirt. And his right side is pressing into my left arm. This guy is right on me.

What did you pay for that? he asks, in a matter-of-fact way, nodding toward the box while ignoring or not caring that he's completely overtaken whatever is the comfortable zone of private space that exists between total strangers in a public space. 

I'm so shocked, I answer him. About 150 bucks, I say, and then my creep meter--always heightened when I'm with my sons--kicks in, but still, not quite ready to be aggressive or even offend him, I soften my next comment into a joke. You know, I say, you're close enough to help us pay for this. 

Sure, sure, he says, quickly. I can do that. And then he tries a smile, revealing stained and crooked teeth, and I notice he's holding a bottle of soda in his hand. But he still doesn't move. Not an inch.

I turn and look at my son, catching his eye. He's stopped counting out his gift cards. So has the cashier. Now I turn back to my left. He's still pressing into me and I'm angry now. Finally. What took me so damn long? How long has it been since I noticed--no, felt this guy? Fifteen seconds? Maybe just 10? Back off, I say now. Give me some space. 

And he quickly complies, holding up his soda for the cashier as he slips away. Where can I pay for this? he asks. She gestures to another cashier at the counter behind her and now my son and I are exchanging glances. Oh my God, he says, that guy was weird. I thought he was with you guys, the cashier is saying. No, I say, never saw him before.

Dad, my son suddenly says, the transaction complete, let's get out of here. Yeah, I say, we're going.

I'm frazzled too, still trying to process what just happened. Was this guy merely a weirdo lacking even the rudimentary social graces, or might he have been one of those people we all know are out there, waiting for the right opportunity, exactly the right moment, the right victim. But then I think no, someone like that doesn't make himself known by literally rubbing shoulders with the father of a potential target, right? And is it even possible I was the target? That all this guy wanted to do that day was exactly what he did? And now he's gone, satisfied in some bizarre way, his mission accomplished.

I shudder.

I'm freaked out, my son says, snapping me out of my thoughts. We're leaving the store now and he starts jogging towards our car. I follow. We get in and head for home. There was something wrong with that guy, my son says, I knew it the moment I saw him. And Dad, he says, what kind of a guy goes to Best Buy to just get a soda? I mean how weird is that?

We're quiet for a moment or two. Trust your gut, kiddo, I tell my son. Always trust your gut. And then we make a few jokes. We tune into a stand-up comedy station on the radio. And when we get home we tell his big brother about the encounter with the weirdo in the store. More laughs.

But the next day when we discover the stand is broken and the TV needs to be returned, my son and I head for a different Best Buy branch, much further away. 

I never want to go to that store again, my son tells me.

And I understand. I'm not quite ready to go back there, either.

[murraymusings]

New Old Wheels

I bought a car the other day.

Not a new one. An old, used one. Actually, "old" and "used" are words that simply aren't seen or heard in the car business anymore. "Pre-owned" is the industry standard euphemism, but I've only learned this recently because it turns out I only change cars every 10 years or so.

I don't have an aversion to cars. On the contrary. I just don't feel compelled to change them that often because I spent most of my youthful years--when romances with cars are born and blossom--in New York City, where cars are completely unnecessary, even burdensome: No places to park, hideously expensive garages, constantly getting dinged and bumped....you get the picture.

So I didn't get my first car until I was 21 or so, a 1964 Buick Skylark inherited from my grandmother when she stopped driving. I kept it in a garage when I was living in New York, paid for by my employer. Wow, was that ever a luxury. I think the monthly bill was under $200. Now, you could pay that much in a few days at a midtown garage. But my boss sprung for the bill because it was cheaper than paying for rentals when I needed a car for work-related jobs.

I kept that car until I was in my mid-30s. Then I got a job in Dallas. The Skylark was almost 25 years old. Time to go back into the hands of an older, more sedate owner, as my grandmother had been. And then I actually bought my first car--one of those 5.0 Ford Mustangs that were so popular in the late 80s. Now that  was a car! Not great on gas, but that wasn't the point, was it? 

That joyride lasted until after I was married and had my first son, almost 10 years later. I had to give it up--very reluctantly--mainly because it was way too difficult to properly install a car seat for him in the rear of that 2-door sedan. It was much easier in my next car, a 1996 Volvo 850R, safe and kid-friendly  but also, I thought anyway, sporty and speedy. That stayed with me for another 10 years or so, through my divorce, until I had piled on well over 150,000 miles and the car--uncharacteristically for a Volvo--began to nickel and dime me to death with all kinds of irritating expenses that never seemed to end.

So I sold it to one of those guys on Craigslist who was looking to rebuild the engine and restore the body and for $2,500 or so I bought another very old, very used Volvo 850, a slower and less sexy version of the R--just a year older. It had a myriad of problems that turned out to be too expensive to fix--starting with the air conditioning, which in the the beginning of my tenure with the car was balky and by the end was completely broken. I spent way too many summer afternoons driving that baby to the Valley on the 101 Freeway to pick up my son after football or soccer practice, all the windows completely down, inhaling fumes and dreaming of some blissful day in the not-too-distant future when I'd be driving a car with AC that actually worked.

Last summer I left LA for good. I didn't even think about bringing the car with me. It had served its purpose and more importantly was a vestige of a life I was leaving behind--but that's a whole other story. I gave it to the sweet Mexican woman who helped me raise my boys from the time they were born. 

So last week, after spending way too much time and money getting ripped off by various rental agencies, the day to buy my next car finally arrived. It's a 2010 Mercury Milan, kind of a jazzy version of the Fusion. I'd called the guy in the pre-owned department of the dealership a few months before, told him I was going to need a car soon and he picked this one out for me. I took it for a test drive, did a little research online and then called my friend Scott in California. Scott likes cars. A lot. How much? Well, he's almost 10 years younger than me and is currently driving his 35th car.

He told me he liked the Milan. I figured he knew what he was talking about. So I bought it: The payment is cheap and I got Ford's maximum warranty plan. It was all kind of a painless no-brainer and the guy who sold me the car--we all know the reputations of used car salesmen--couldn't have been more competent or honest. How's that for an anomaly? 

I just fired up the satellite radio a few days ago. So I can listen to the NHL channel to my heart's content and perpetually swat away the hand of whichever of my sons is sitting in the front seat when he dares touch the dial when I'm tuned into Siriously Sinatra. He doesn't even sing! they moan. He just talks! Really? I respond. And what exactly are Fiddy Cent, Lo Rida and Gucci Mane doing on those stations you guys listen to?

The debate rages and the heat rises. It's getting warm in here, guys. Pretty soon we'll need to turn on the AC. Oh yeah. It was the first thing I checked out when I slid behind the wheel for my test drive.

Works like a charm.

[murraymusings]

An Epic Match

It's 9:05 pm EST and I'm just now getting to posting for today because I am completely wiped out, ready to go to bed in the next hour, at most.

Woke up this morning at 3:30, just I did on Thursday and Friday mornings because I couldn't bear the idea of missing tennis from down under--at the Australian Open. On Thursday it was Nadal and Federer. On Friday, Andy Murray and Novak Djokovic. And then after a merciful break yesterday, it was the final between Nadal and Djokovic. The match began at 7:30 pm in Melbourne, 14 hours ahead of where I lay, in bed each of those mornings, headphones plugged into the laptop resting on my knees. No cable where I'm residing these days so I resorted to googling the web for a streaming feed of all the matches and ended up getting the terrific coverage on Aussie TV all three mornings.

No need or desire for me to analyze the match. The folks who were actually there have already done that brilliantly. it took 5 sets and almost 6 hours before Djokovic finally prevailed. I'll just say that I consider myself very lucky to be living at a time when these two guys, and Federer too, are dominating the sport.

But what makes it so special is their exquisite skills on the court are exceeded only by the grace, consideration and mutual respect--for the game and each other--which each of them displays off the court.

And so while I was rooting hard for Rafa to win this morning, how could I be dismayed or sad when Djokovic pulled it out? He richly deserved the victory, as Nadal would have if things turned out differently.

And in many ways the best part of the match, great as it was, occurred afterwards, when the two heroic warriors tried to stand as a slew of sponsors and tournament organizers made a series of speeches that went in way too long. Nadal slumped against the net cord, Djokovic bent over, fighting cramps. Someone finally, mercifully, brought out a couple of chairs and the two guys sank into them as each replenished himself with a large bottle of water.

And then each shuffled to the microphone, received his trophy and paid tribute to the event, the fans, the great Rod Laver, for whom the tennis stadium is named, and finally to each other.

It was perfect. Not a missed note by either man. God, I thought, I love these guys--and Federer too--and wish all of them nothing but success, good fortune and, please, more matches like the one this morning.

But that's all I have for now. Going to bed. 

[murraymusings]

I Know This Guy.......

.......who went through a really ugly divorce. He has two boys in their teens and he lives for them. But during the divorce proceedings their mother went through three different lawyers and one mediator to try and get full custody.

It didn't work. This guy got 50-50 custody--he deserved nothing less--and he settled into the rhythm of divorced life, seeing his boys on his designated days, trying to put his life back together.

Then last summer his ex-wife told this guy she had an opportunity to move back to her hometown for a full-time job. This guy wasn't working regularly--in addition to going through his divorce, his career had also been pummeled by the downturn in the economy--but he knew what was the best thing for his boys: He told his ex-wife to take them with her, get settled into the new place--the schools, the friends, the life--and he would follow them. He'd get a job there too, so he could be near his sons.

In a matter of minutes, and without even thinking about consulting his lawyer, this guy surrendered the custodial rights he'd fought so hard to secure because, he says, it was the right thing to do for his sons.

So when his sons and their mother took off for their new city, this guy put virtually everything he owned into storage and moved into a tiny little bedroom off the kitchen in his mother's apartment, across the country. He figured he'd spend some valuable time with his mom--who is in her early 80s--get some home cooking and look for a job there, as well as in the city where his sons had moved.

He spent the better part of the summer, right up through Thanksgiving, bouncing back and forth between the two cities, flying here for one meeting and then back there for another, grabbing visits with his boys whenever he could, trying to time his meetings with one of their football, basketball or hockey games.

By the time the holidays arrived he'd had dozens of meetings in both places and had developed some promising leads, but no job offers. And since he couldn't afford to continue to rent cars and stay in hotels where his sons were, he went back to his mother's until after the first of the year. I'll hole up here, this guy figured, save some money and spend some more time with my mother.

It turned out to be a wrenching time for him.

He desperately missed his sons and spent every night in a near panic, wondering if he'd ever get a job, before he finally coaxed himself to sleep.

And while he valued those days he spent with his mother, talking, preparing meals, taking her out for walks and an occasional movie, he realized he was spending all this precious time with her in the advanced stages of her life, while spending no time at all with his sons.

This guy realized he had to stop worrying about saving what little money he had left. He realized he couldn't remain in the safe haven of his mother's home because it was only preventing him from engaging in the process that life demands: You can't manage it from the sidelines or, in boxing parlance, from the corner of the ring. You have to push yourself off the stool, wade into the fray and start throwing punches, as hard and fast as you can.

So this guy, right after the first of the year, he flew to his sons' city with an overstuffed duffel bag. When they saw him, the first thing they asked was how long are you here for, Dad? For as long as you guys are, he replied. This isn't a visit. I'm not going anywhere this time.

And then this guy started looking for a place to live. Not a house or an apartment. He couldn't afford it. This guy started looking for a room, preferably furnished, near his sons. And he found one, in a condo, with three computer whizzes from India who are half his age. Ten minutes away from where his boys live. His bedroom wouldn't be ready for another week or so but the landlady offered to put a mattress in the basement. You can sleep there, she told him, until your room is vacated and you can move in.

And then this guy realized that he couldn't keep getting ripped off renting cars, so he bought a used--they call them "pre-owned"--Ford with 25,000 miles on it and a low payment. And he began to follow up on all the contacts he made before the holidays. And he realized that not being a visitor, but a full-time resident of the city, was somehow making a huge difference. He still doesn't have a job but he's full of confidence and optimism and the feeling that some how, some way, it's all going to work out, it's all going to be OK.

And most important of all, he doesn't feel as if he's making guest appearances anymore in the lives of his sons. They know he's here now. And so does he. And it's making a huge difference for all of them.

It's a lousy day in the city. Dark and snowy and cold and dank. But this afternoon this guy is picking up his sons. The little guy needs a book for school. The big guy needs to finish up his homework. And they both need haircuts. So they're all going to SuperCuts and then to the local library. Then they'll grab an early dinner. And this guy will undoubtedly ask his sons if they want to go see a movie. And they will undoubtedly say no. They're at that weird, often cruel, teenage boy stage of adolescence where they don't want to be seen in public with their father--especially at the local movie theater.

They'll argue, the three of them, they always do. Maybe they'll go to a movie, maybe not. But when their evening together ends, this guy will drop off his boys and go back to his bed in the basement and he will put his head on his pillow a happy man, thanking God for his good fortune.

He's in the fray now, right there in the middle of the ring, throwing those punches as hard and as fast as he can, believing with all his heart that something good, maybe even great, is just around the corner.

And his sons are just down the road.

[murraymusings]

I'm Thinking......

.....it's no surprise the bloviating buffoon, Donald Trump, said recently that among the reasons he might enter the presidential race is because his wife Melania thinks it would be a swell idea.  Not a big shock here: This is the same woman who tells Donald every day before he slaps on his smirk and struts out the door that his hair looks just wonderful. And by the way, does that double-parted, double comb-over candy cotton-like whatever-the-hell-it-is swirl still truly deserve to be described as hair?

...Tim Thomas will regret it. The goalie for the reigning Stanley Cup champion Boston Bruins--and MVP of their championship run last spring--blew off a visit to the White House with his teammates, deciding it was more important for him to release a statement about, among other things, the government "threatening the rights, liberties, and property of the people." Blah blah blah. What a selfish, self-centered and incongruous gesture for a guy who plays the ultimate team sport. Whether you agree with the message or not is irrelevant. Thomas has the right to think what he believes and express it to his heart's content. But this just reeked of wrong time, wrong place, wrong timing, wrong everything. Bad move for a guy who is revered in Boston on and off the ice.

....Rafa Nadal needs a new tailor. Got up at 3:30am EST to watch the fantastic semifinal between Nadal and Roger Federer at the Australian Open (which Nadal won in four tight, taut and hotly contested sets). You could even say that after a slow start, Rafa pulled the match out of his a**--along with his pants, literally. What is it with this guy's habit of perpetually tugging on his pants, seemingly between every point? The theories abound: He does it for good luck, he wants to attract more attention to that part of his anatomy, his thong is too tight, etc., etc. Nadal himself explains that it's simply a habit he picked up as a young player and he's trying very hard to break it. Yeah, right. Here's a thought: Maybe the whiz-bangs at Nike, who pay Rafa tens of millions for the privilege of outfitting him from head to toe, can designate someone to fit him for pants that are cut just a smidge looser than the current version. Doesn't look like he has a whole lot of material to work with back there. Not that I was looking that closely :) 

....

[murraymusings]

Mr. Goalie Deserves Better

Before I write one more word on today's subject, the great Glenn Hall, also known as "Mr. Goalie" to anyone with even a passing familiarity with the National Hockey League and its storied past, I feel compelled to confess that I am anything but an impartial observer.

I grew up in the suburbs of New York City in the 50s and 60s. So I not only started going to New York Rangers games in the Original Six years, when Hall was the goalie for the Chicago Blackhawks (1956-67) but I was also a goalie, a position I continued to play through my years in college. 

Glenn Hall was and still is my idol. He holds a record that that we can say with certainly will never be broken: For more than seven years, he never missed a game. Between the start of the 1955 season and the night of November 7, 1962, Hall played 502 consecutive games. It was actually 552, if his 49 playoff games are included in the equation, but the NHL doesn't count the post-season in its tabulations. And it goes without saying that they don't count the games he played in his minor league career, which inflates the number to 881.

And he did it all without a mask, his face bearing the scars of the 250 stitches he sustained during his career.

"Our first priority was staying alive," Hall once said, "our second was stopping the puck."

All of which is a prelude to a visit I made with my two sons to the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto last summer. As we wandered around, soaking in the exhibits devoted to all the greats of the game--including some of Hall's goaltending contemporaries, like Jacques Plante, Terry Sawchuk and Johnny Bower, I eagerly anticipated what I was sure would be a terrific exhibit devoted to Hall.

I not only didn't find it, but the staff on hand at the Hall of Fame that day weren't much help in explaining why.

I asked a young girl on duty on the first floor about where it might be. After I repeated Hall's name a third time, she looked at me as if I'd sprouted a second head and asked me if I was "sure that he's in the Hall of Fame."

Incredulous, I turned to another attendant, a young man, who shrugged his shoulders and mumbled something about the only permanent exhibits being the Big 4--Orr, Howe, Gretzky and Lemieux--and that everyone else gets rotated to mothballs for periods of time.

I found this hard to believe. So I sent an email to the folks at the Hall of Fame and also contacted my friend Tom Adrahtas, another old goalie and unabashed fan of Hall who wrote Glenn's biography, Glenn Hall; The Man They Call Mr. Goalie, which was published in 2002. 

Adrahtas weighed right in, urging the Hall of Fame to create an exhibit that is much deserved and so long overdue.

The good news is that they were receptive to the idea and Hall, whose brilliance during his career between the pipes is exceeded only by his humility and self-effacing sense of humor, is in the process of gathering some artifacts and old equipment from his career. Adrahtas is hoping to have all of it delivered to the Hall of Fame by February 1, with the exhibit tentatively scheduled to open sometime this summer.

Better late than never. And I can't wait to visit the Hall of Fame once Mr. Goalie's exhibit is in place.

[murraymusings]

A Promise To Keep

I worked in Los Angeles for just over 20 years, spending the bulk of my time as a sportscaster, covering and even getting to know many of the most famous athletes in the city.

But the guy I'll never forget is undoubtedly someone you've never heard of.

His name is Tim Marcia and he's a senior detective in the cold case department of the homicide division at LAPD. I got to know him after my career as a sportscaster began to wind down (a whole other story) and I reinvented myself as a writer/producer/director of documentary-style programming and came up with an idea for a TV show that would help cops all over the country solve cold case crimes. It was called "Lost Lives" and the pilot for the show (which unfortunately never progressed beyond this stage) included Marcia and a case that obsessed him.

Several years ago I profiled him in this piece for the LA Times Magazine:

*********************************************************************************************

Tim Marcia’s cubicle is on the fifth floor of the spanking new Police Administration Building downtown. Marcia is a senior detective in the LAPD’s Cold Case Homicide Unit, and his cramped workspace is a cluttered shrine to a job that is largely administrative: a buzzing BlackBerry here, a ringing phone there, two computers, several foot-high piles of case folders and a rickety organizer marked Things to Do. “I push a lot of paper,” Marcia says.

But look a little closer, and you’ll see something that doesn’t quite fit the profile of a pencil-pushing police bureaucrat: a small headshot of a beautiful girl with long blond hair and perfect white teeth. Her name is Kari Lenander, and she was just 15 when she was raped and strangled, her body dumped in a gutter in South Central on an early July morning in 1980.

When the cold-case unit was formed in 2001, and Marcia was one of just seven detectives who began to wade through more than 9,000 unsolved murders still on the books, Kari’s case was assigned to him. Her picture has been a fixture on his desk ever since. And every day when he arrives at work—usually no later than 6 a.m., “I say hello to her,” Marcia says. “Sometimes I say it out loud. Sometimes it’s just in my head. But I talk to her all the time, just to reassure her I’m still trying to find her killer.”

So when Marcia was promoted to his current position two years ago and his supervising lieutenant told him his new duties would mean cutting back on his caseload, Marcia was adamant: He would keep Kari’s case. The lieutenant understood. “A good homicide detective takes his victims and puts them inside him,” says Marcia. “And they never leave.”

Marcia knew he wanted to be a cop when he was just six years old and his class visited the West L.A. station. He joined the LAPD at 22, starting out as a patrolman—a “uniform” in cop talk—and making detective 10 years later, in 1996, working most of the time in the gang detail until his 2001 assignment to the cold-case unit.

He’s 46 now, a 24-year veteran of the department. Except for the closely cropped hair and mustache that seem to go with his chosen calling, Marcia could be a professional in any number of fields. He’s tall, bespectacled, with a professional demeanor and a self-effacing disposition. He mingles easily—an affable colleague who has earned his stripes, as well as the respect that comes with his position.

Including Marcia, there are now 16 cold-case detectives who work in robbery-homicide, more than double the number five years ago. The cold-case file has grown, too: An estimated 10,500 unsolved murders, starting in 1960 and going through 2004. While all of them are theoretically still open—there’s no statute of limitations when it comes to murder—the detectives mainly focus on the 126 cases with an active lead.

The unit has cracked over 70 cases since its inception. Twelve were Marcia’s. “But no one solves a case alone,” he says. “We all help each other out.”

Unlike a detective’s work on a fresh homicide, where speed is of the essence—“There’s a public—safety issue,” says Marcia, “because the offender is still out on the streets”—the process for cold—case detectives is much slower, more ponderous. “The first step is reviewing the documentation, seeing what you have to work with, analyzing the physical evidence and making a determination from that evidence what can be done with it.”

This process can take years—even for those cases deemed active. So when Marcia is asked if the popular Cold Case television show bears any resemblance to the reality of his job, he chortles at the uncanny speed with which those fictional cases are solved. “Drives me nuts,” he says. “Good show, no question. But it’s entertainment. I only wish it happened that quickly.”

Virtually all cold cases start the same way—with files of material for the detective to absorb in order to understand the nuances of the investigation. According to Marcia, it’s a question not of when but how long it will take each of the investigators to identify with or completely “own” a particular case. For Marcia, that visceral reaction occurred the first time he read through the details of Kari Lenander’s background.

“Our lives basically paralleled each other,” says Marcia, who was the same age and in the same grade as Kari and also grew up on L.A.’s Westside. Kari lived in Brentwood and went to Palisades Charter High, while Marcia grew up in Mar Vista and went to University. “We were hanging out in the same places,” says Marcia. “Westwood. Santa Monica Beach. I hung out at [lifeguard] station 25. The people from Pali hung out at station 26, the next station north. We were 300 yards from each other. There was a likelihood we even saw each other at one of those places.”

On that fateful summer night in 1980, Kari and her best friend, Toni Garfield, were alone at Toni’s Brentwood house, preparing for a sweet-16 party. Her parents were out of town, and the girls—described by Toni as being “pretty wild” for their ages—were drinking tequila. They decided to go dancing in Hollywood and began hitchhiking at the corner of Wilshire and Barrington.

They were picked up by a white male, who told the girls his name was Ken and he was visiting from Canada. Once they got to Hollywood, they stopped at a restaurant to use the bathroom, where Toni realized she’d had way too much to drink. “Kari,” she told police, “was much better at holding her liquor than I was.”

Ken agreed to drive Toni home, and when they arrived at her house, Kari told her friend she was going to stay with Ken and “keep partying.” It was about 10 p.m. when the girls said goodbye outside Toni’s house. Just five hours later, Kari’s body was found under a brightly shining moon, a world away from Brentwood.

Once Marcia got the case, he realized he’d been at a concert with some friends on the night of Kari’s murder. The concert was at the Coliseum, just a short distance from where she’d been found. After spending their adolescence at the edges of each other’s lives, Marcia doesn’t believe it was just a coincidence that he and Kari were in close proximity on that final night of her life. “Just putting all those things together, you know?” he says. “There’s a reason I got this case. That’s the way I feel.”

Marcia doggedly pursued all possible leads. While working with Canadian authorities to track down “Ken,” he also explored the possibility that Kari might have known her killer. But Ken was never found. He’d never even been positively identified by Toni Garfield. And the theory that Kari’s killer was a spurned suitor or stalker didn’t pan out either.

Marcia also tried to find a match for the DNA that was recovered from Kari’s dress and body. Every time his computer pinged, it meant a fresh DNA profile had been recorded by a software system known as CODIS—short for Combined DNA Index System, a national law-enforcement databank for a wide variety of convicted offenders. With more than 1.3 million convicts listed in CODIS, and others being added every day, Marcia’s fervent hope was that one day there would be a ping that meant a match, and Kari’s killer would finally be identified.

Marcia’s first big break in the case came four years ago, when his computer finally pinged—not with a match but with a significant update on the DNA in Kari’s case. “There have been tremendous developments in the science of DNA in the last few years,” he says, “and there was some technology that was developed that can take a DNA profile and determine the race of a suspect.” Marcia had provided a private lab with the DNA from Kari’s case. They ran the test and came back with irrefutable scientific information: “The profile was in the sub-Saharan category, which meant we could confirm that our suspect was African American.”

It was a stunning revelation: Ever since her murder, the focus had been to determine the identity of the mysterious Ken, along with several other persons of interest who were known to Kari. All were Caucasian. The ever-evolving marvel that is modern science had refined the investigation. Marcia was thrilled and energized by the news. “That information limited the direction I needed to go,” he says. “Instead of having one big, whole pie, I got it down to a quarter of the pie.”

But without a definitive DNA match, Marcia was still looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. As often happens in cases like Kari’s, that one day of exciting news was followed by a long, wrenching stretch of no news at all. “The case went stale for a period of years,” says Marcia. “And even though I still said hello to Kari every morning, I hadn’t opened the books on her case for well over a year.”

Then last summer, right around what would have been Kari’s 45th birthday, Marcia had a dream—about Kari. “I can’t remember if she was in it,” he says. “Everything was in shadows. It was kind of vague. All I remember is I was finally getting to talk to a suspect, and a couple of the questions were ones Kari wanted me to ask.” He pauses, his voice catching, the fingers of his right hand trembling. “Why me? She wanted to know, Why me?”

The very next day, Marcia got an email from the California Department of Justice—which had conducted its own investigation on the DNA in Kari’s case—and was given what he describes as “substantial” information pertaining to the killer. Because of its sensitivity, that’s all Marcia will say for now, but it’s clear this latest turn in the case is a major development. “This definitely is information that could lead to the identity of the suspect,” he says.

And the fact that it came in the wake of his dream about Kari? “I don’t really believe in coincidences,” says Marcia. “But I do believe that Kari’s guiding me in some way, and I believe it’s my job to carry the torch for her, for the detectives who originally worked the case and for her family.”

Time is always a factor in unsolved murders. A case runs its course. Detectives come and go. If Marcia chooses, he can retire with a full pension long before his 60th birthday. But when that possibility is mentioned, the eyes behind his glasses narrow ever so slightly, and he sits up a little straighter in his chair. “I have no question I’m going to solve this case,” he says firmly. “I won’t give up. I won’t. I have at least 10 more years to go before I retire, so if you’re out there, I’m going to get you.”

In a little while, Marcia will go home. He just celebrated his 26th wedding anniversary. He’ll kiss his wife, say hi to his 23-year-old son and hug his daughter, who’s just three years older than Kari was when she was killed.

And tomorrow morning, it’ll still be dark outside when he walks through the door to his office. He’ll get to his desk and pause. He’ll either say good morning to Kari out loud, or he’ll just look at that picture and think about her for a moment. And then he’ll sit down and get to work.

*********************************************************************************************

Tim Marcia continues to work to solve the murder of Kari Lenander. As soon as there's an update in the status of the case, I'll be sure to pass it on.

[murraymusings]

Hi Everybody

It's 8:46 in the evening, EST, and I am sitting here, obviously on my computer, on the verge of diving into the world of blogging, armed only with the knowledge that I'm interested in a lot of things, have opinions on all of them and also that I like--no, I love--to tell stories, all kinds of stories.

All of which means that right now I don't know that I have a theme or even necessarily a goal for this space, other than I'm determined to show up every day and write about whatever it is that interests, inspires, amuses, outrages, offends, makes me chortle, or simply compels me to write about it, whatever "it" is.

So without further ado, welcome to Murray Musings. 

More coming very soon. I promise.