Our senior team -- -- -- introduction

In 2005 our tennis team made it to the national finals.  The Columbia Maryland based USTA tennis team first won the regional championship then prevailed in the Maryland state championships and then went to the district playoffs.  In the district playoffs the middle Atlantic tennis teams compete -- -- the state champions from Maryland, Virginia, West Virginia, and Washington DC play a winner take all tournament.  Our team won the districts and then proceeded to the national playoffs in Palm Springs California where teams from 17 regions of the United States play for the national trophy.  

Turned out we won several rounds and landed up in the semifinals losing to the eventual champion -- -- we finished as the fourth best team in the United States.

What made all of this interesting was the drama leading up to it.  For about six years previous we had all but won at districts but found some magical way to lose -- -- it was as if there was some underlying mantra keeping this from breaking through to the national championship.  

It seemed some unspoken theme played out year after year -- -- and we were totally frustrated with our incomplete seasons.

The poem was written a year before we went to nationals  -- -- I felt the need to express this 'Casey at the bat' mentality in poetic form.  The magnificent team that somehow doesn't make it was becoming our yearly script, playing out over and over. 

 I felt like the ice had to be broken --- I wrote a pithy irreverent poem to unlock the 'magnificent but find a way to lose' programing. 

they had players who hardly knew each other and all came from different tennis clubs.What made this team special is that it was a neighborhood team that had played together for years, more than twenty years.  All of the other teams that went to nationals were recruited -- -- 

 When a team went to nationals it had to be broken up -- -- so as not to dominate its local league the team members all had to be dispersed on to different teams. 

And that was the underlying subconscious plot being played out!  The team members did not want to be broken up so each year we found a magical way to lose.

This issue is hard --- all the technique, practicing, conditioning in the world wouldn't undo this mantra.  A powerful unspoken destiny was in fact gaining strength year-by-year and no tennis technique was going to undo it.  The more we're practice to overcome the hurdle the more we bonded and the unspoken 'togetherness' agenda had a tighter grip.  

Something bigger then tennis was needed  --- a poem that could reorient our mindset -- -- we had to see things in a new way and break free from what was holding us back.

I wrote the poem at the end of the 2004 season, the team captain gave all 14 members of the team a plaque with the poem inscribed.  The poem addressed our unspoken elephant in the room, the ‘togetherness’ spell was undone and the lyrics had the desired effect-- -- the following year we broke the losing mentality and went to the nationals. 

Our Senior Team, The Hope and the Dream

After three times so close, so what’s the deal?
When you come so close it’s can’t be just bad serendipity, there’s a story being told, there’s a foreordination being revealed, karma unveiled, a surprise, upshot. What’s happening?
OK dear tennis Gods what’s the deal, when our horoscope repeatedly defies the odds there must be a larger lesson put before our face. What are we being told here?
What’s tugging at our consciousness, holding us back? Here’s the question – Were we to win, so what do we lose?
The only down side of getting the win is our team becomes Humpy Dumpty, all shattered for two years. So what are we afraid to lose? Here’s what:
Playing together for 20 years, sharing off-season stories about the almost win, rethinking the new years strategy, rekindling the upcoming hope.
Getting drunk with the spouses, reliving the points, adding to the 20-year folklore, comparing to the years before, it’s a venerable history, continuity assured, it’s a dynasty uninterrupted by a terrible win.
The Saturday clinics, the guys all show up, the array of bad clothing, some go back 20 years. It’s the making of fun; the Anderman caustic, like we’re fresh recruits each new summer, bonded into a team by the Anderman bombastic.

It’s both vulgar and lofty. It’s the license to be foul: where else is there sweating, spitting, and swearing. It’s the soaring hope of getting better. It’s the dream of winning it all, almost!
Hell, if we won we’re have to be humble – what’s that. It’s only the excruciating defeat that makes the spirit soar. It’s always the terrible disappointment that creates the drama of folklore, myths, and legends. It’s ‘Casey at the Bat’, Pickett’s last charge, the Alamo. It’s our senior team.
It’s the picture of great long time friends, all framed by the green of a tennis court:
It’s Tim cracking a backhand volley for a winner.
It’s John with the thundering overhead snap, out playing in the dark, accompanied by his favorite music - rap
It’s Dave winking at Doug down 6-9in the 3rd set tiebreak, Looked at the other team with a grin, Cause they knew they’re win
It’s Greg and Rich wearing their opponents thin
It’s Norio thinking he’s a leopard, making winning such a habit, he really must be a rabbit
It’s man mountain Dean, the best athlete seen, carries a honey do list, volleys winners with a firm wrist
It’s Ken our Godfather and scout, finds the directions and food, gives his block time out
It’s Bob the coach, got us all singing the same mantra, his fiery tactics beyond reproach
It’s Leon the Lawyer, bandaged to the nines, the senior player he enshrines
It’s Frank the stout marine, without a cooler of beer he’s never been seen
It’s Don who’s the best, for when I screw up, he takes care of the rest
It’s Art with his clipboard, Keeps us all together
Tinkers with the lineups, the matches are all tossups
Poker is his forte, the drop shot his cachet



It’s been good year after year,
Wouldn’t have it any other way,
Been so long I’ve turned super senior, willing but grey
For me there’s a taste of childhood déjà vu,
Ignored the books, had a misspent youth,
For me it was the tar of playgrounds that held the truth

Had to grow up, had a company to run
Was harried all the time, far from fun

Sold the company, have a chance at a 2nd youth
Joined the senior team and now know my truth

The plush of country clubs is not at par
With the senior team and the sweet smell of tar

Here’s to the team, the team must go on
For winning the playoffs was just a con

There’s something much better than success
It’s being with you guys, you’re still the best.

Section II --- Stories

A collection of stories written the last several years about seminal events and life passages.


The Homecoming--- revisiting my alma mater University of Connecticut after forty three years and giving a lecture on entrepreneurship. What was the same, what changed?


Doug Hokenson ---- lost a lifelong friend and wrote of shared memories. Had it printed in a booklet and gave it to Doug's family. Brought back childhood memories that had to be told, couldn't let the shared experience be buried with Doug.


Flying home from Greece ---- how an disruptive flight had me recalibrate my life lens.


My creative process ---- how I work.


Thoughts about Paris ----- written to my 'Artist Connection' group of creative people. Lonely walks on Parisian streets transformed.


Launch Issues ---- gut check for entrepreneurs about to jump.

Riding the Pigs ---- January 12, 2007

 

Preface

The challenge post-career, in the second half of life, is to reclaim the soul.

We each have to put blinders on to make our mark in the first half of life -- to "succeed" in college, careers, marriage. What we study, what we do, our set of interests, who we hang around with are all largely influenced by the cultures we try to excel in -- corporate, military, academic.

 As an entrepreneur and business owner, I am grateful and aware of the benefits of the lifetime focus that success required. There are many benefits of the career focus -- position, money, prestige...but at what cost? What was the price of signing up for the 'success' agenda?

What got left behind was the soul's agenda. The early inner voice got put aside. Our initial sense of inner identity and what we really wanted to do got quickly demoted when faced with the rigor and competition of the corporate world.

So now the job is to reclaim and honor the inner child that got demoted so long ago. It's to rediscover what the soul’s agenda was before it got hitched onto the career agenda. It helps to remember early stories and adventures to recapture that sense of wonderment and innocence of early youth; this gives hints to who we really are. Our early friends say a lot. It helps to remember the early friends; many of whom got left behind because they were not on the ‘success’ track.

My boyhood was mainly focused on sports, little league baseball, and the school competitive teams. Some early friends got left behind when the first sports filtering took place. Some didn't make the first cut and immediately got socially abandoned. Back in the fifties there was an immediate social shift that created stragglers. The 'chosen' didn’t recognize this; their teammates would then form the social ‘in’ class. These early friends, many of whom got left behind, say a lot about who we really are -- and this subject of our real inner identity is the primary topic for our second half of life.

This is a story about such early friends, real people and real events. This was one of my early adventures; writing this made me realize that my career as an entrepreneur was driven mainly by this strong sense of adventure. To me, the adventure, the journey, the intellectual discovery are primal instincts. My road warrior career with a new technology was a double-barreled adventure; playing out a primordial karma formed early in these tender years.

This is the kind of story a career man would never admit to; he'd bury it. But the larger soul is proud of such an adventure, and in fact rejoices in it. This is a story of a early time in life when things didn’t make sense. After a consuming career, the beauty of this post-career age is that now, at last, things don’t have to make sense.

In his poem ‘after the election’ Michael Koch captures the dreamlike experience this story tells.

‘our teeth rattle & our souls.

from the socket of the mask

mice swarm & swans.

the mother’s eye is running.

a small boy spins thru

the furnace of grass,

thru wheat spear & spire

goes running.

deep in the soil deep in the gut

death’s bird-blue calyx is humming’

Riding the pigs

I grew up in Pawtucket Rhode Island in a middle-class neighborhood. Fairlawn’s location on the bus line to downtown Providence gave it an upscale standing—but it was surrounded by some pretty tough places. Woodlawn on the north was an elongated neighborhood running parallel to the railroad tracks; and in Woodland both sides of the tracks were the wrong side. North Providence was the southern boundary and it had gangs that would scare the hell out of you.

Jimmy Smith lived in Woodlawn in a house within one hundred feet of the tracks. It was a flimsy wooden house; you could see the outside through the cracks of missing plaster. I had breakfast with Jimmy and his family and I was the only one noticing the plates rattling when trains went by. Billy Marshall lived on the south border of Fairlawn but was culturally of the North Providence cut. He was a ‘street kid,’ never went home. He’d always be out in the neighborhood with his large springer spaniel. It was ironic, the rest of us got a free mongrel from the dog pound and a street kid who could hardly afford clothes would loiter around with an expensive purebred. 

Jimmy and Billy were not the ‘chosen’ of the day – the system abandoned them to make their own way. They were the drifters, being filtered out at the first gate. Back then sports were everything and these kids didn't make the first cut. I can't imagine what kind of mantra that sets in place. But in any case I was with them, they were my friends.

Right near Jimmy’s house was the local slaughter house. It was a haunting place. At age twelve we had trouble accepting that the cows and pigs were all on death row; we preferred an image of farm animal pets. It was an evocative place, scary. Nobody wanted to get caught by the people that worked there ---the butchers, executioners. The feeling then was how you now feel about a jail house executioner.

  

The story was that we were going to the slaughter house to ride the pigs. Billy Marshall and Jimmy had more experience at this than me. The slaughter house was parallel to the railroad tracks on Smithfield Avenue at the Pawtucket-Providence line. The whole setting was eerie and threatening. The confluence of rickety trains and slaughter animals produced strange noises and smells -- the whole place was dark and surreal. I gave mock protest that the pigs stunk but was overruled –- so off we went. You just knew this was going to end badly, you just knew it. But you had to play it out; you had to find out how it ended. 

The pig pen was on the right front of the slaughter house. It was about forty feet square with a tin roof that kept it mainly in shadows. The dung and the stench assaulted the senses and would have quickly turned a proper boy away. You'd hit the wall with the reek and stink; at first it constricted your breathing. It didn't go away, but like adjusting to extreme heat you'd focus beyond it.

The dung was different, it was uneven. There were pockets of fresh wet ooze like manure the pigs avoided and there were other hard mounded dried dung areas particularly around the perimeter. Each of us without saying so was studying the lay of the land; the trick was to keep the pig on the hard manure and at all costs avoid the loose stuff. This wasn't just the usual animal droppings -- this was aged muck, mud, and mire -- packed layers of it.

These pigs were big animals, they’re more properly called hogs, but this is a pig story. They were easy to slip off. Pig riding requires one to bend way over and hold on by the ears. The ears were no handle bars; they were hairy and felt like sandpaper. They were both foul and delicate; god forbid you're lose balance and pull one off.  I can’t believe people eat these things. The mistaken instinct was to steer with the ears; it was more like a balance beam -- you'd just hold on to keep your weight centered.

There were two gyro forces to simultaneously negotiate -- you had to keep balance and keep the pig from turning his head and taking a bite. That was the real trick, to stay up on the pig without getting bitten. The pigs had a good sporting spirit about all this; they could just roll over into the dung and quickly end the contest -- but none did.  My sense is they knew this was a mystic right of passage and they nobly rose to the occasion. This was no rodeo; the pigs weren't big on running. They panicked and moved in fits and jerks.  Success was to stay mounted through the fits and starts and not let the bucking beast throw you into the dung.

I must admit I thought I was pretty good at it. I was the only one short of the baptism by dung. After all, I was the athlete, knew how to do things, riding high and looking good.

 Enjoying some success, I thought my pig and I had come to an agreement and we had a bit of a strut. I sent a confident wink to my be-shitted friends.  Just when I thought I had the knack of it, two of the pigs started to work together. There were only about six pigs in the pen, the non-riders were huddled in the corner, not amused by the undertakings. You could see two of the mounted pigs -- mine and Billy's -- make eye contact and decide to outfox the local hooligans. They decided to go after Mr. Clean Rider first -- that was me.

My pig suddenly became calmer and steadier; I should have known trouble lurked ahead. He evenly sauntered up to the second pig at just the right angle. He planted my leg right into Billy's pig's biting zone.

So I dove. These were big animals; it was like getting off a bike. You couldn't just jump feet first, you had to dive. Right into the dung, splat. And I slid, like sliding into second base head first, only a whole lot more slippery.

And that was it. We unceremoniously left hardly speaking; we had been defrocked. We approached excited with the pigs panicked; we left panicked with the pigs excited. No one thought it funny; that is, except the pigs.

Our misguided adventure had certain nobility. It served a final homage to these unappreciated magnificent beasts being led to the slaughter. In their last rite they showed spirited sportsmanship and these six outdid the three young locals. This was the pigs’ shining hour, of all the swine thoughtlessly slaughtered in that ghastly place it was these six that had the most ceremonious send off...they’re on the honor role.

It was a long walk home. My mother had repeatedly warned me not to go near the slaughter house. I was resigned that no white lie could mask the horrendous stench of pig dung. I had my mea culpa well rehearsed for when I’d have to face the music with my mother.

I had underestimated the stink; it got home before I did. I hadn't made it halfway up the stairs to our second story home when my mother came running down and told me “you’re not coming in the house smelling like that.”

She took all my clothes off and buried them in a hole she had me dig in the southeast corner of the backyard. In a stern and businesslike manner she told me to hose off with soap in the yard and get in the house.

It was never mentioned again in the house. It was as if my mother knew this was an inevitable adolescent right of passage. She knew she didn't have to tell me not to go to the slaughter house again.

And in a deep hole in the southeast corner of the backyard at 516 Grotto Ave, Pawtucket Rhode Island, is forever buried a boy’s clothing and a story of riding pigs -- until today, the story escaped.

The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken

T McCabe

August 2017

The notion of linear time never sat right with me. Time, when measured in the years of a person’s life is more circular, more recursive. We interpret new events and experiences with a learned and nuanced perspective; we interpret new events from the framework of our personal history. I have always believed in an integrative narrative that connects the dots of our experiences into a personal meaningful history -- a story, our story. Neurologists tell us that at the time of death the sum total of our life’s experiences flash before us; they playout before our closing eyes – that set of seemingly unrelated experience spools out as a coherent whole. Jewish proverb tells us ‘story is truer than truth’. Your truth is your story; storytelling at its most soulful.

Why wait… the sage writes his integrative narrative while it can be fully celebrated; especially on a 75+ tennis team. Like any coherent story, there is a strong connection between the beginning and the end. The chapters all relate and build. The seminal events of the tennis tournament in Forest Hills connect an earlier chapter of mine to my 75-year-old present; a gift of the moment, a gift of a lifetime.

There’s something unique about a tennis match – it’s only over after the last point. It’s never over til it’s over. In other sports, an overwhelming lead in the fourth means it’s over. Not in tennis. More than other sports, a tennis victory has a powerful presence, never to be taken for granted. Our Forest Hills victory had that kind of dramatic presence--- the exultation of a moment. Rare among moments at this tender age, or at any age. This was a gift of an exhilarating moment, but also a gift of a lifetime that connected to an earlier self – to form an integrative narrative.

So here’s a story, a new chapter connected to a six decades earlier old chapter. Part of my integrative narrative. It may be part of yours.

The Road Not Taken – – it’s not only Robert Frost’s seminal poem but also the literal experience I had on July 31 and August 1 in the venerable Forest Hills NY tennis complex.  Each of us makes difficult life decisions that mould our careers, our friends and our experiences – – each of us takes a particular road, and my guess is that each of us has a nostalgic ‘road not taken’ that they miss. For me, this road not taken has been in the forefront of my consciousness for decades and I thought it never to be reconciled. And then "poof", out of nowhere appears a wonderful surprise and somewhere ages and ages hence, I get to tell a story of ‘my road not taken’. Like Robert Frost –

“I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence”

When I was a kid, sports was my whole life. It started with Little League baseball, then football, basketball, and baseball in junior high school. Followed by varsity basketball, football, and baseball at St. Raphael Academy in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. This was in the early 60s and our thoughts were only about sports – – academics were just tolerated and hardly an item of interest. My closest friends were all good athletes – – Paul Dalpe went on a football scholarship to the University of Rhode Island, Bill Farley got a football scholarship to Bowdoin College in Maine, Paul Anderson had a football scholarship to Colgate University, Jerry Philbin and Dennis O’Brien had football scholarships to Buffalo University and the University of Bridgeport. These were my friends, all "jocks". I had a football scholarship to the University of Rhode Island and a separate basketball scholarship to Rhode Island College. This was the path we were on, our path. The unconscious destiny would have me continue with sports, either football or basketball, at URI or Rhode Island College. 

The friends were wonderful. Academically, they did well enough, and God knows had plenty of intellectual reserve – – untapped. In high school playing basketball, football and baseball left little time off between practices and games. Whatever time off we had off, was spent at the local Pawtucket YMCA playing basketball. Sports, sports, sports.

I took the road less travelled. I decided athletics was not my future. The mental image I carried was the picture of a mathematician working on a computer, the picture appeared in Look Magazine in 1959. The article described the many opportunities for a mathematician in the expanding field of computers. That image captured my imagination – – it seemed to

come out of nowhere, none of my friends ever discussed this, my parents never brought it up. But it stuck in my imagination, picturing wide open opportunities and a better life. Somehow that black-and-white picture of a nameless mathematician colored my imagination fire red – that image became my clarion call to a bigger life.

And that was the path I took. Instead of the athletic scholarships, I went to Providence College and studied mathematics. It was no easy transition; rigorous study was not in my portfolio. It took a couple years before the academics clicked in. It wasn’t until my senior year that I really excelled. It was then onto graduate school at the University of Connecticut for a Master’s degree in math. Many decades later, in 2013, I was awarded as a Distinguished Graduate of the University of Connecticut Mathematics Department – – the fourth time in its history it was awarded. My professional life was spent as an entrepreneur in mathematics and computer science; I  built a 175 person company in Columbia MD; (see Epilogue below).

All of this was way beyond my earlier imagination. However, the ‘road not taken’ with my good jock friends was front and center in my consciousness and, in a good way, haunted me. It was a nostalgic longing never to be reconciled; my career path taken would never converge to my athletic road not taken.

Until the events of July 31 and August 1, 2017 – – that changed everything.

The Atlantic Coast Cup is held every year with four teams competing for the trophy – – New England States, Eastern States (the NY counties), Middle States (NJ & PA) & Mid-Atlantic States (MD, DC, VA, WVA). This year it was to be held at the Westside Tennis Club which resides in the Forest Hills facility in Queens New York. Forest Hills hosted the US Open on grass courts for years, until

the U.S. Open was moved to a new neighboring facility at Flushing Meadows. Forest Hills was the place for tennis in my era. History was made there – – Althea Gibson, Arthur Ashe, Rod Laver, Ken Rosewall, John McEnroe, Jimmy Connors, ….. This was the place of my dreams in the 60s. During my sports-minded adolescence, I watched these great athletes in this venerable place; never imagining to visit, never mind playing there.

During July I was asked to join the Mid-Atlantic team, a powerhouse team of men who devoted their lives to tennis. The age category was 75 and up. My teammates had been playing at Forest Hills when I was watching on TV and pursuing my entrepreneurial career – – teammate Gus Castillo beat Arthur Ash there and played Rod Laver on the Forest Hills grass. Bob Andaman and Tom Bronkow won seven national doubles titles and were ranked #1 in the US several times. Bill Poist was rated number one in the world by the ITF (International Tennis Federation).

 These were guys who lived tennis, they took my path not taken, just like the jocks of my childhood. My newfound teammates indeed took the athletic path – – not only that, they were rated tops in the USA. The camaraderie was something special only shared among athletes of age 75. Here was my path not taken. A spontaneous bend in the road that converged to my long-lost path not taken. It was glorious. What a gift.

After a few practice sessions, we drove to New York on Sunday, July 30th and settled in at the Comfort Inn on Maurice Avenue in Queens, NY.  Our first match was at 2 PM on Monday the 31^st. We all arrived early to take in the historic ambience of Forest Hills. The Tudor architecture of the clubhouse speaks history – – the same architecture is visible in the entire neighborhood. All the rooftops are the same rusty red and the local covenants preserve the Victorian look throughout the neighborhood. It was wonderful to just sit there and take it in.

At 2 o’clock Bob Smethurst and I walked out to court number 15 to play number two doubles. The tournament competition consisted of two singles matches and three doubles matches. Warming up, it was clear our opponents had all the strokes; it was also clear they were 75 years old. I’m sure the opponents thought the same of Bob and me.

After going up 3-1 Bob and I were behind 3-5 while receiving serve. After multiple deuce serves we broke our opponents, the score 4-5. Bob and I held serve for 5-5. We broke the opponents serve, held serve again to win the first set 7-5. Coming back from 3-5 in the first set gave us a certain confidence that we wouldn’t buckle when under pressure. We’d need that confidence in the next match.

Our Mid-Atlantic team won our first match against the Eastern States 4-1; we split the singles and won all three doubles. There was a wonderful reception and meal that evening in Forest Hills. There was a speaker from Tennis Magazine who related the history of Forest Hills amidst the setting sun over the historic grass courts of this fabled tennis Mecca.

 Our Captain Tom Brunkow told Bob and me at breakfast that we would be facing a really strong New England team of Roy Anderson and Bob Dilworth – – they had won several national tournaments. Bob and I had a real Zen relationship, we both welcomed the challenge. Bob is totally relaxed and yet a good competitor, which is about perfect for a tennis partner.

New England had beaten the New York team on Monday so we played them in the finals for the Atlantic Coast Cup. The match began at 9 AM in the morning. It was a busy morning; we had to check out of the Comfort Inn and drive through traffic to get to Forest Hills. Somehow there is a magical calming virtuosity with 75-year-old athletes. They love the competition, they also love the opponents. They were all big-minded and rejoiced in the special gift to be competing at such a high level at such a high age – two gifts for the price of one. The thing I loved the most as a teenage athlete was the camaraderie – – being with other gifted athletes and sharing the challenge, the grit, the planning, the practice, the competition. Here it was all back again, the same conversations, shared with great athletes, rejoicing in the competition, and loving it. This, at age 75. Only at age 75 is it so profound.

Bob and I repeated the same beginning in our Tuesday match. We went up 3-1, and then lost the first set 5-7. Even though we lost the first set, we toughened up near the end and recaptured that mental toughness we shared on Monday. The first game of the second set Bob was serving and the game was tied six times when Bob finally held on and won. We were physically stronger and faster than Roy and Bob and that became pronounced in this first game of the second set. We kept the momentum and won the second set 6-0.

It was onto a third set tiebreak – – the first team to win 10 points by a margin of two will win the match. We fell behind 3-5 and then went on a tear to get up at 9-6. We were stronger physically – – quicker to the ball with bigger hits. We then got a bit conservative, they crept back in, the score was 9-8. On the next point, we steadied out and forced an error. We won.

Bob and I were elated and congratulated Roy and Bob on a great match.

Our mid-Atlantic team won the day – – we won one singles match and two doubles matches.  The mid-Atlantic team won the Atlantic Coast Cup. We all celebrated the win, each other’s company, and the adventure. We all drove off our separate ways.

My wife Linda and I drove to the northern point of Long Island and spent a couple of days in the Montauk Ocean. The ocean waves were a tonic for a sore tennis back. The twilight ocean mist was reverie for Robert Frost’s closing stanzas:

"Oh, I kept the first(path) for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference."

The Champs

Right to Left: Bob Smethurst, Donald Mathias, Bill Poise, Gus Castillo, Captain Tom Brunkow, Phouy Sengsourinh, Bob Anderman, Tom McCabe.

For years I have been the captain and player in a 55+ league. This is the first time I have ever played in my age group; felt like a "coming home" celebration. We share so much; most of all we share the joy and wonderment of playing competitive tennis in the twilight of our years. This gift is not lost on any of our teammates. ‘This is Forest Hills baby’ – it way exceeds the thrills of adolescence – fine champagne compared to wood alcohol. All of this happened spontaneously with a stroke of luck. Thank you teammate Phouy for recruiting me, thank you, Captain Tom Brokow, for putting up with me. Thank you, teammates, from this old man who had an "out of body" experience at the fabled Forest Hills Tennis Club. Thank you for bending destiny’s path back to where I belong.

I have had this plaque on my desk for years to remind me of the cost of my obsessiveness about tennis. The inscription makes a good point, but it’s only a very limited truth. The etymology of the word idiot came from the Greeks who considered an idiot somebody set apart, somebody not in the mainstream, somebody not taking part in everyday political life, somebody who’s an enigma, inscrutable.

The point the plaque makes is more about obstacles than truth—it’s about the pain and sting of losing. Many friends have quit tennis along the way because their age was accompanied by many losses and injuries. That’s really what the plaque is about.

There was something in the air in Forest Hills with my tennis buddies. It was exactly this 'quitting issue', but the 75-year-old’s transcended the quitting hang-up. They got on the other side of the fear of losing and rejoiced and celebrated in playing the game. No easy thing here – – most of our contemporaries have long since dropped out.

That was the ethereal truth that bonded us. My enigmatic tennis cohorts could see a larger truth beyond the fear of losing, and they lived this truth. That 75-year-old truth is that ‘not quitting is winning’ – a shared epiphany. Some 75-year-old should re-write that inscription.

My tennis buddies in Forest Hills transcended the frailties of old age and our brotherhood was something beyond tennis, bigger than tennis. More like poetry. Like the poem ‘IF” by Rudyard Kipling:

“If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’”

Epilog.

Dennis O’Brien became a high school teacher and returned to our alma mater, St. Raphael Academy, Pawtucket Rhode Island. He coached the football team to three Rhode Island state championships. One championship was in the class A league even though St. Raphael Academy is a small class B school.

Paul Dalpe studied for a PhD in Medieval Mysticism. We connected after a 50-year absence and he attended a lecture I gave in Paris in 2013.

Jerry Philbin became an All-American at the University of Buffalo. He played on the Joe Namath led New York Jets team that beat the Baltimore Colts in the 1968 Super Bowl. He was a perennial All-AFL selection at defensive end and was later named to the All-Time AFL team.

Bill Farley became the chairman and CEO Fruit of the Loom. He was listed among the 400 most rich Americans in Forbes magazine 1985. Bill works out with the Chicago White Sox; he is a part owner.  Bill was my wife Linda’s boyfriend before she met me.

As for me, I became an entrepreneur based on a mathematical breakthrough that I published in 1976. It’s known as McCabe Cyclomatic Complexity and it was awarded one of the top 13 highest impact papers in software engineering. I grew McCabe and Associates to 175 people with European subsidiaries, published many articles, and wrote four books. During the year 2000 software crisis, I appeared in front of Congress and appeared on CNN television. I sold McCabe and Associates, simplified life, and now write stories.

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The Homecoming ----- April 09

The Homecoming

I went back to the University of Connecticut on April 21, 2009 to in some way repay a debt. My graduate experience and MS degree from UConn laid the foundation for building a business based on a mathematical idea. I wanted to give something back.

In my graduate days, a visiting professor held up a book saying ‘if you know what’s in this book you can make a huge impact in industry.’ That image changed my DNA. I believed it and making a ‘huge impact’ became my mantra. And it played out -- bigger than I had ever imagined.

Forty three years later, I came back to Uconn to give a talk to the math department. I brought that same math book and my story. My dream was now to change some student’s DNA and sow a seed that would play out in a similar way.

I even retraced the same route I used to take, along Rt. 44 from Ri to Storrs. I wanted to recreate and revisit the whole experience. I wanted to bring it back -- same highway, same scenery, same feelings, hopes and trepidation -- all things that stirred me as a young man. The mission this time to really tell the story with impact and change a student’s DNA so he could recreate the entrepreneurial story.

Thomas Wolfe wrote ‘You Can’t Go Home Again,’ and I had the reservation that I’d be out of touch, that the place would be cold and stiff and aloof. Reservation aside, I kept myself open to the experience, however it would unfold.

Here’s how it went.

The Homecoming Trip

April 21 was a rainy day along Rt. 44. It was a light rain, like I remembered the trip 43 years ago. Back then, I wanted to stop at several scenic lakes and pastures but was in too much of a rush. I remembered the obsessive focus that let the beauty of youth pass by. But not now. I stopped and took it all in, and it was as beautiful as I had imagined as a young man. I appreciated it more now. The beauty passed by in youth was indeed recaptured. And it was magnificent!

Talk about time warp -- my consciousness went back and forth, in and out --- young man, old man. When young and too disciplined, I was seeing with an old man’s eyes. Now an old man was seeing with a young man’s eyes. The Rt. 44 lakes and meadows still held the same allure; this time I took it all in and rejoiced. George Bernard Shaw said that ‘youth was wasted on the young’ --- not on this trip. The retraced trip was my first of several homecomings.

The mathematician’s homecoming.

I had dinner that Tuesday, April 21, with two mathematicians and it was another homecoming, of a different sort. I had spent much of my career with computer scientists whose culture is to use theory; the mathematicians are about creating theory. And so am I, that is my true passion – creating mathematics, creating new theory. So dinner was a homecoming of blood brothers. I felt as if I had been away  much too long and was now at home with people of like mind and spirit, birds of a feather.

The student’s homecoming.

The on-campus Nathan Hale Inn was like any other hotel and it felt that way going to bed that Tuesday night -- until I opened the curtains to see the adjacent dorm with students studying at their desks. Do I ever remember those hours and days, struggling to understand math theory. And the occasional eureka when I got it. At the time, it just seemed like every day student life. It came to be my biggest passion.  I spent my career learning, applying, and creating math. It drove and stabilized me though the tumult of an entrepreneur’s career. I gave about 25 lectures a year over 25 years at conferences, universities, and board rooms, all explaining a mathematical invention. And that’s what carried me – the passion of the mathematical invention. The student’s passion for learning is deep-seated -- thank you Uconn.

The teacher’s homecoming.

The talk was scheduled for 5:30 that Wednesday evening; here’s the announcement:

University of Connecticut Department of Mathematics UConn Math Club Thomas J. McCabe (McCabe Software) A Mathematician's Dream: From Idea to Company - The Adventure of Following Your Dream CLAS 105 - Wednesday, April 22, 2009 at 5:30 pm

As students were filling in, George Raney came up to the podium to reintroduce himself. Dr. Raney taught Abstract Algebra to us graduate students in 1964.  George, now 94, had a childlike enthusiasm for both his subject and his students. He was emphatic, respectful, and had this kind of magic – he made math discovery seem like revelation. When stating a conclusive math theorem, he had a wide-eyed, childlike excitement.

After the introduction, I went through the graph theory proofs establishing the properties of the cyclomatic complexity  --- a way to quantify the tests in a program that I built my business on. When I got to the conclusive theorem I looked at George Raney. He was seated in the lower left, and there it was -- he had that same wide-eyed, childlike wonderment. But this time for my work. Talk about role reversal -- the student became teacher, teacher became student. It was a student’s homecoming -- bringing something back.

To Dream.

Then I talked about the computer science applications of the math. And next talked about building my company, McCabe and Associates. And emphasized that the idea and math drove it; the company followed.

Finally I got to the reason I came, to get the students to dream. About their breakthroughs, their vision, their companies. I held up that same 43-year-old book and said ‘if you know what’s in this book you can have a huge impact.’ I concluded ‘that’s my dream, now build your dream and come back and give this talk.’

I asked George Raney to stand and told the students how much George had helped me; he got a standing ovation. Tears in my eyes.

I came back to Uconn a second time, 43 years later, to repay a debt, give something back. But just like the first time, I left with much more than I gave.

Thomas J McCabe,  May 09