Don Becker called me that morning. He said a bunch of us were going to that new ball field on Illinois 58 and play baseball. I was invited.

The new ball field is the one at the northeast corner of Summit (Ill. 58) and Hiawatha. There were Little League fields on each side of the road and they just opened this larger field with regulation bases and mound and a longer fence. I knew all the guys who would be there; Ron Schimmel, Art Benner, Roger Eckholm and the same guys I hung around with the summer before.

We were out of high school now, a year of college on our resume. Some spent their first year at ECC, a few went to Arizona or SIU. Some were home by Thanksgiving. For good.

But it was late July and the air was warm, the day bright and sunny and there was baseball to be played and the past to recreate, if only for an afternoon.

One of the guys brought a radio because he wanted to hear the big news that was supposed to happen that day.

Along about the fourth inning I was in the on deck circle and I heard the broadcaster say, "The Eagle has landed." We stopped the game for a few minutes and everyone gathered around the bench and we heard a crackling, static-filled voice say, "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

July 20, 1969. Me and a handful of friends playing baseball and listening to history.

We looked at each other. No one cheered or jumped up and down. The high-five hadn't been invented yet. Neither had overwrought celebration or false patriotism.

The space program had fascinated us for years, first enjoyed at 10 years old when we listened with sweaty palms and indescribable tension as Alan Shepherd shot up into space and came back down in less time than it takes to get an auto insurance quote now.

John Glenn went around the Earth three times and various other expeditions performed a variety of feats that had come to seem routine.

And now, the culmination of John F. Kennedy's promise, we had put a man on the moon before the end of the 60s.

It was pretty remarkable when you look back on the technology and the science of the 1960s. There's more computing power in an iPhone than they used to launch men into space.

But there was still a majesty, a sense of achievement and pride on that hot July afternoon. We still had a swagger then, a sense that nothing was impossible if we really wanted to do it. We took risks and chances and failed sometimes but kept trying. We were working toward something and there was a unity of purpose.

I always thought Kennedy was a great president not because of what he accomplished but because he made us believe in the promise and hope of America. He made us proud to be Americans and called on us to make our country even better. I never felt he was just shining us on for the camera or offering false hope and change. He offered action and the absence of fear. And most of all, the absence of shame that we were a great country and wanted to be greater. We were a nation, not a random collection of self-interests.

When Neil Armstrong eased out of the capsule door and plopped onto the moon, it seemed like the beginning of another new era of achievement, just another notch in the belt of a country for which tomorrows stretched to infinity.

His death last week brought into sharp focus the contrast between an America which believed in itself and one which has gone off the rails. Add a comment

Today I'm going to discuss algebraic equations and their ultimate uselessness in the face of modern technology.

Although there are some who have become absolutely tingly with anticipation at the thought of the subject matter put forth in the opening sentence, my guess is, if anyone is still reading, it's because they're giving me one more chance before checking out kitty videos at Youtube. And that, my friends is an example of free will or an extremely generous nature for which I am grateful.

On the list of everyone's favorite wills, free is usually either first or second, depending on one's feeling about Shakespeare, and with good reason. Free will is a gift and a right and sometimes a way to really mess up your life. Still, those of us that can exercise free will, value its nature and would never, willingly hand it over, save for the universal practice which occurs everyday when every man, woman and child (and dog) slips between the sheets and relinquishes every ounce of choice in exchange for the ability to function in our daily lives. That period of time is best known as sleep or night-night, depending on one's age and/or level of maturity.

During this time, we allow ourselves to be held captive and forced to watch the worst movies ever made, including The Batman with George Clooney who, as a rule, improves every project he participates in, if only by his jaunty handsomeness.

Clooney's corner on charisma not withstanding, every evening, we, the people of this planet willingly purchase a ticket from the sandman, (or the bogeyman), in order to be subjected to hours upon hours of the most bizarre behaviors ever presented as entertainment or cautionary tales, unless we're fans of the Kardashians.

Not one of us would shell out the money it takes to make a phone call fifty years ago to watch a movie or play with the plot twists in a basic night's sleep. Unless you're Steven Spielberg who probably has the coolest dreams ever.

But my dreams, and most likely yours are lacking even the tiniest amount of cohesive story lines and realistic plot development. We are pummeled with badly written theater, directed and produced by our innermost thoughts and the worst part is we willingly go back for more every single night, most times with a sigh of contentment.

Do we balk at the idea of returning to this theater of sorts? No! We're fascinated by nightly sagas to the point where we feel the need to describe them in detail to unsuspecting friends and co-workers who, unless they are prominently featured, have little or no interest in our nocturnal meanderings

Which brings me to my latest nocturnal meanderings: I dreamt I was clad in an ill fitting robe and little else, which begs the question, what is it with dream and their universal fascination with inappropriate attire? I wandering down a street, which seemed to be in my mother-in-law's neighborhood, attempting to decipher which direction I should turn in order to reach her house. As I attempted to solve this puzzle, I came across what seemed to be an awesome sale on garden art housed in a pre-self-service era gas station. I drew nearer and peered into a window to ascertain if the store was still open. (Now, here comes the fascinating part.) Rather than a going-out-of-statues-business, there was an inviting buffet filled southern-style delicacies. I thought to myself, "I love southern food. I'll need to remember this is here." The end.

Now, what in the wide world of sports was so important about that scenario that justified my brain paralyzing me to make me an unwillingly audience member to it's little self-produced vanity project?

I love southern cooking and it's hard to find in The North? I am aware. Time is passing and the friendly gas stations of yesteryear are fading away? No Kidding. There's a big sale on garden art somewhere in the world and I'm missing it? Really? Where? I love sales! If there is indeed such a sale my mind has chosen to taunt me with less than adequate details.

Which leaves the "people shouldn't walk around the city in flimsy sleepwear" message which has been duly noted since the incident of March 30, 1976, on which I prefer not to elaborate. So, even the one piece of pertinent information is redundant and therefore of no use to me, thereby leaving absolutely no new information which justifies kidnapping me in the middle of the night, holding my metaphorical eyes open ala A Clockwork Orange and forcing this ill conceived ad for southern food on me.

I suppose that's why there are people whose livelihood is based on sorting out this nonsense. Dream Interpreters and psychiatrists and a few best friends would, most likely find some meaning along the lines of "You long for the days when you knew your gas station owners by name, but now they are as lost to you as a piece of exquisite garden art which is also lost to you, much like the recipe for dreamy fried chicken is lost to the Chicago area. Oh, and don't go outside for a long walk in a robe which is too small for you."

Life can be a dream? Let's hope not.

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