John Foley

I’ve been a fan of film critic Roger Ebert since I first began reading his columns and watching his famous TV debates with Gene Siskel back in the early 80s. Early on I think I admired his caustic wit the most, but now I admire him more for other things…Of course, the caustic wit still surfaces from time to time. Remember a few years ago when Rob Schneider came out with the deplorable “Deuce Bigalow: European Gigolo”? Schneider got very upset at film critic Patrick Goldstein, who ripped the film (along with nearly every film critic in America), and he took out a full-page ad in major publications to attack Goldstein. He noted that Goldstein had not won a Pulitzer Prize or other awards, but Ebert came to the defense of his fellow critic: “As chance would have it, I have won the Pulitzer Prize,” he wrote. “So speaking in my official capacity as a Pulitzer Prize winner, Mr. Schneider, your movie sucks.”…When I entered the journalism profession myself, I heard tales about Ebert’s remarkable ability to write — and write extremely well — at the speed of typing. I’m a fairly fast writer, and can crank out a readable column (800 words) in twenty minutes or so and a novel in about six weeks during my carefree summer months. But that pales in comparison to Ebert. He’s a machine. A few years ago he lost the ability to speak after several cancer surgeries on his jaw, and in 2008 he began writing an on-line journal. He’s written over 500,000 words in that journal. To put that in perspective, a 200-page novel is about 50,000 words — so he’s written the equivalent of 10 novels in the last two years. Beyond his formidable writing skills, though, I admire Mr. Ebert for the way he’s handled his hardships. He could’ve felt sorry for himself, retired, become a bitter recluse…Instead, he’s accepted the hand life dealt him and contnued his work. Eckhart Tolle said that our hardships can provide a portal through which we can access the richness of the world right here and now, and I think Ebert has done just that. Here are some recent words: “I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our curcumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.”

A friend of mine recently had an argument with his girlfriend, which ended with him saying, “If you’re going to be like that, I’m just going to leave!” To which she replied, “Go ahead and leave, you son of a bitch!” She’s an animal lover in calmer moments, and her collection includes a young parrot…I visited them recently, and after a pleasant time I rose and said I had to leave. The parrot croaked, “Go ahead and leave, you son of a bitch!”

Today was one of those inspiring days that come along now and then. I’m not a fan of the dreary and endless (despite what the calendar says) month of February, so perhaps such days are necessary this time of year. In any case, while standing at my class door between periods, I saw two boys who could really sing — they wear sweatshirts that say, “Will Sing For Food” — serenade a girl down the hall, who appeared charmingly embarrassed and pleased at the same time. I’m guessing it was her birthday but didn’t catch the details. Then this evening, while refereeing basketball, a coach put his scrubs into the game in the second quarter. A boy with Down Syndrome was running around a bit aimlessly, but then the ball bounced his way on a rebound and before he could think about it, he tossed it at the basket — two points! I sensed it was the first, and possibly the last, basket he would ever make in organized play, and his coach fittingly called timeout to let the team celebrate the boy’s achievement. While they mussed his hair and patted his back, I asked the coach if he wanted a 30-second timeout or a full one. “I could care less!” he shouted with a smile, then returned to the celebration. I gave him a full.

My son Sean Michael is 15 months old today, and he apparently decided it’s time for him to start walking. He’s been furniture surfing for a while, and taken a couple of tentative steps now and then, but always dropped to the floor to crawl. No more. Today he walked across the living room, repeatedly. Sure, he looked like a miniature Frankenstein (yes, I know, Frankenstein was the doctor, not the monster), but who cares? My wife Jules and I applauded his efforts every time. The kid is on the move.