Neighbors in Time of Need

The pain associated with death and dying that paid our family an extended visit over the last year came to a somber culmination Friday when our matriarch and my wife’s mother Fayna Birnbaum was laid to rest.

I’ve never been much comfort to anyone during times like these dating back to my dear mother’s untimely passing at 66 in 1990.  I’ve never had to arrange funerals or quite understood the role of funeral homes. I’m good at crying and caring, but I’m prone to flee from the nuts and bolts of the discussion.

For the first time, I sat around a table at a funeral home and helped deal with the task at hand, and coming away from that experience, I’m forever grateful we chose Farrell Funeral Home on Franklin Square in New Britain.

My wife Lisa graduated from New Britain High with owner Bill Farrell, and I got to know him in passing during my sports writing career at The New Britain Herald as a prominent figure in the Hardware City to the World.

Bill, his son Mike and their staff left no stone unturned to spare the family any burden.  The biggest issues were addressed and flawlessly executed in one brief meeting.

On Friday, everything was in order for a beautiful ceremony that I’d be proud to share with you a bit later in this discourse.  Plenty of umbrellas were on hand with the skies threatening for the umpteenth day.  Rows of seats were arranged graveside.

But their true mettle and dedication to their craft arose when further adversity reared its ugliness at precisely the wrong time. 

The terrain at the Beth Alom Cemetery on Allen Street is rather treacherous.  It’s a steep hillside, and the Birnbaum plot was at the back after the hill has crested and began to slope down.  Footsteps are even more difficult because of the pitting left by previous interments.

A woman whose name I need not mention slipped down a small slope and fell down.  She had spent the last few years as Fayna’s very best friend.  They would chat multiple times a day, the way so many of past generations did.  The conversations were very soothing for Fayna as she declined.

Thankfully Lisa’s brother Neil is a doctor, as is his wife Ruth and their son, Aaron.  Lisa’s good friend Connie, a nurse by trade, was standing right next to the woman when she went down. The comforted her and put her in a chair, but the family had the responsibility of setting up the ensuing luncheon.

The Farrells stepped right in and saw to her needs as the family moved on to the final stage of the process.  They showed kindness beyond compare and compassion to aid the stricken woman.  They sat with her as the ambulance arrived and made sure her possessions were safe.

I can’t say enough about how the Farrells and their friendly entourage settled our jangled nerves as we paid our final respects to Fayna, whose contributions to the city as a New Britain General Hospital volunteer were massive.

I have a much different understanding of compassion at such times thanks to Bill and company, and for that we want to thank them with all our hearts.

While we’re thanking people, I must include my sister Marji, whose compassion is also off the charts.  Like the brunt of us, Marji was ailing with some strain of what’s been haunting so many of us in this time of strange weather.  She could hardly speak for days with laryngitis, but that didn’t stop her from arranging a warm graveside ceremony.

Marji’s husband Harold, another person at the top of the compassion list, is an accomplished flute player.  He brought smiles to the face of Fayna and other folks at the Jerome Home nursing facility with the holiday season impending.

He played softly, the gentle notes wafting through the air like we were all nestled in a corner of heaven.  The skies were so grey and our hearts were aching but Harold’s music lifted us as we settled in for 20 minutes of readings and two eulogies. My God, Harold and Marji, how can we thank you!

I also want to mention that the Birnbaum’s cemetery plot is adjacent to that of a man whom I treasured as a resource of New Britain sports and history.  Bart Fisher, one-time Herald sports editor, passed 10 years ago at 68.  I loved Bart, and couldn’t spend enough time with him.  He was a New Britain historian without equal.  He used to tell us, “You give me any subject in the world and I’ll tell you how it’s tied to New Britain.”

I’ll revisit Bart in my wrap-up.

We had lunch at Great Taste, the venerable Chinese restaurant on West Main Street, where Fayna and her late husband David were far more than just customers.  Their food is exceptional – has been for decades – but as with the Farrells, the owners did everything to lighten our burden. 

It’s all over now.  A page has been turned in our life.  A new chapter has begun.  Fayna is out of pain now.  No more of the worries that frazzled her for months.

As I summed it up in my mind, I recalled how my time writing sports at The Herald enabled me to get very familiar with New Britain.  Bart was instrumental at the start of my Herald career, and I tried to carry his torch after he moved on to Central Connecticut State University’s sports office.

As each day passed, I became more in tune with New Britain and how it differs from other cities of similar size.  I’m proud to have made my contribution, and even prouder of the love that Fayna helped course through town.

Happy New Year to all, and please make 2024 a damned sight better than its predecessor.  I’d like to have a cup of coffee, or a Great Taste order of General Tso’s, with everyone.

 

 

 

More than the games have gotten worse

One of the great blessings of my life is having been spared from any hospital stays since I was 16.

That was the summer of 1968.  I remember bits and pieces of the experience.  To nobody’s surprise, I can best sort through it if I put it in baseball terms. 

1968 went down in baseball annals as the Year of the Pitcher.  St. Louis Cardinals Hall of Fame righthander Bob Gibson, perhaps the best ever if you ask me, recorded an ERA of 1.12.  Detroit’s Denny McLain won 31 games, the first to break the 30-win barrier since Dizzy Dean in 1934.  MLB starters threw 339 shutouts. 

Mickey Lolich tossed three complete games in the World Series to lead the Tigers over Gibson and the Cards. 

I watched the 1968 All-Star Game from a bed in St. Raphael’s Hospital in New Haven.  If memory serves (give me a break; it was 55 years ago), the great Willie Mays singled off Luis Tiant of the Cleveland Indians the first inning and scored the game’s only run for a 1-0 National League victory.  Mays reached second on an errant pickoff attempt, took third on a wild pitch and scored on a double-play ball.  That was it.  The pitchers took over.

Aah, those were the days!  Tight, briskly played ballgames.  No weird geeky statistics.

Baseball wasn’t the only item that was better in those days.  Visiting the hospital in 1968 wasn’t exactly fun, particularly for a teenager who hardly knew why the hell he was even there.  Apprehension bracketed my body and mind as the nurses, student nurses, aides and interns did their best to brighten my spirits.

Since I was 16, I was placed in a pediatric unit.  The toys that filled the solarium and the pastel colors on the walls softened the apprehension.  Kind, elderly volunteers went from bed to bed like gentle grandparents making sure fear left the room.

Wouldn’t you think that the hospital system would be much better 55 years later? 

My wife’s mother is currently in New Britain General Hospital, which we were quick to discover is now part of Hartford HealthCare.

I can’t comment on the medical attention she’s getting because I’m not a physician, but the services in the hospital are nowhere near the 1968 level.  I certainly wouldn’t blame the hard-working souls who work there.  They’re just doing their jobs, and doing the best they can, but there simply are not nearly enough of them. 

My mother-in-law was on the third floor, where they had two nurses caring for 38 patients.  The incessant beeping of calls for help were like the soundtrack of a horror movie.  Hospital administrators would have had to go to the Cloning Department five times for the department to run efficiently.  If I was sick that may be the last place I’d want to be.

So what has happened since I went in for my childhood adjustment so long ago?  I wish I knew half of it.  On the other hand, maybe I don’t want to.  Those are not the type of statistics on which sports fans care to dwell.  Suffice it to say that drawing up a plan for renewed efficiency and high-quality care requires money and lots of it.  The massive majority needing hospitalization can’t come close to affording it.

Less populated countries like Canada have socialized medicine, but I’ve heard terrible tales about waiting lists.  It seems Canadian residents often prefer to be treated here because timing is critical.  Can the US government pay the bills?  Should the government be responsible? 

I’m not into political arguments, but even the person on the streets can see that something’s amiss as soon as they pass through the beautiful lobby.  I don’t wish to discuss which party was in power when the crisis took a turn for the worse.  What I do know is we’re sending billions overseas and don’t appear to have the resources to take care of our own.

When politics enter the fray, I start scanning the Comcast grid for a ballgame because I’m out of my league.  Unfortunately, Major League Baseball is just another indicator that something is dreadfully wrong.  We don’t have money to improve hospitals but the Los Angeles Dodgers have $700 million to hand to Japanese superstar Shohei Ohtani over the next decade?

Sure, we’re talking about apples and oranges here but no one can deny that something is indeed dreadfully wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unionville a center for coffee and good tidings

As the effects of the pandemic tightened their grip on us, I couldn’t help but think how important it is to get back to basics as a means of coming together against a common enemy.

We stayed home for days and weeks on end, venturing out for necessities only – food and medicine.  When we began to circulate again, we focused on all the small businesses in our area.  Many of them never recovered.  These are friends and neighbors who generally supplied us with quality goods and services for years and were now thrust into survival mode.

We did our best to comply.  We shopped for produce, vegetable plants and flowers at places like Jillybean’s on Route 6 and Hein’s Farm.  We dined at locally owned and operated establishments, even when hard times forced cutbacks, the sudden need for outdoor dining and created staffing problems.

We would all like to believe that the COVID nightmare has passed.  The politics of it continues to shake the very foundation of common sense, but Americans have always persevered well in the face of adversity.  Sure enough, as the masks began to disappear, the community surged back toward normalcy.  It’s that surge that should define the experience, and we witnessed a sign of it Wednesday morning.

Two new coffee spots have opened in Unionville recently.  We haven’t gotten to Bruno’s on Mill Street yet, but we went to The Daily Grind in Depot Place to kick off our pre-Thanksgiving festivities.

The coffee was great.  We had bagels, and they were also top-notch.  But it wasn’t the food or drink that captured my thoughts.

Two members of the Farmington Police Department stood near the window.  A young family enjoyed their breakfast treats at a table across the room.  Others came and went.  Everybody chatted.  Everyone was friendly.  Community indeed can be restored if we seek face-to-face communication ahead of that addictive rectangular device in your pocket.

These are the scenes you don’t see while local and national news reports center on the hatred that grips our world.  We need reminders that there still are smiling faces out there, people with their hearts full of holiday cheer, folks who would go out of their way to help a neighbor.  I’m not prone to lose sight of life’s pleasant side, but the national issues are so divisive that it’s easy to lose focus.

Not everyone is consumed by the dark world of social media, and we’ve got to meet and communicate face to face to restore the virtues of American culture that got us though the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, two World Wars, a cold war, the errorism of 9/11, a pandemic, and terrorism abroad. The guy you may be calling names on Facebook because of his political views has aging parents, growing children and the need for compassion just like you.  If you had met at the Daily Grind instead of a forum that breeds antagonism, you’d be smiling instead of cursing.

The Daily Grind is the realization of a long, difficult process shouldered by a true Unionville legacy.  I’ll call it the Evan Parsons Project, with all due respect to musician Alan Parsons.  When we arrived in town we grew to appreciate Parsons Hardware in Unionville and the Parsons automobile dealers in Farmington and Plainville.  Evan has now taken the baton and brings his family name back into the mainstream of Farmington life.

Evan took the time to chat candidly with us as business flourished.  Life has come full circle here and we hope The Evan Parsons Project bears fruit like his ancestors’ endeavors did for them.  It’s all up to us as residents and consumers.  Whether you pay Evan a visit, drop into Bruno’s, dine at local restaurants and use local services, it’s all money that stays in the community.  Nothing against Dunkin’, which I believe is managed by people who care, too.  I’m hopeful that all three coffee shops thrive.

So what are we waiting for?  Let’s think globally, but act locally and go have a cuppa Joe!

Yanks net 31st straight winning year yet fans moan

Heartfelt congratulations to the New York Yankees on another winning season.

That’s right. Despite all the grousing and groaning from discordant Bronx Bombers fans across the Evil Empire, these Yankees finished at 82-80. That’s a winning record, in case those throughout the seven boroughs need remedial mathematics.

I know quite well that finishing out of playoff contention and being mired in fourth place does not meet Yankee expectations, but need I remind New York fans that while winning championships may be expected every season, it isn’t some sort of megalopolitan birthright that you win more championships than any other team.

In fact, the New York Yankees have not had a losing season since 1992. For 31 years, Yankee management has desperately doled out exorbitant contracts and snatched pick-of-the-litter free agents to amass such a string of winning seasons. Meanwhile, the lowly peons in such second-tier cities as Cincinnati, Pittsburgh, Washington D.C., Detroit – virtually every other city with a franchise – cannot approach that rate of success.

You would think the Yankees finished 50-112 like the A’s, 71-91 like the Nationals, or even 78-84 like the Red Sox, or 74-87 like the overhyped, mismanaged Mets. No, the Yankees, despite injuries and the paucity of athletic players, were once again on the winning side of the ledger.

Yet the whining emanating from the $500 seats at Yankee Stadium would make one think the facade has caved in. No, although perhaps they were focused on the denizens of MetLife Stadium and the raging disappointment that NFL 2023 has brought New Yorkers. Fire Cashman, they howl.

Fire Boone! Release Stanton! Hal Steinbrenner is terrible. Ah, here comes that eternal holier-than-thou sentiment that I’ve been hearing for 60 years. That holier-than-thou 20/20 hindsight that makes their whining as unlistenable as Roseanne Barr singing the National Anthem.

Well, let me say that generally my heart bleeds for the downtrodden, but you’re just one team of 32. And not one of those teams, not even the cash-laden Dodgers, can boast of such a 31-year run. In fact, the Dodger string of winning campaigns is a “modest” 13 years. They shop the annual MLB fire sales magnificently, don’t they?

The Cardinals had a 15-year legacy of winning baseball snapped this season. The Red Sox put together 14 seasons between 1998 and 2011 before their rollercoaster ride through the early 21^st century.

So where is this heading? Major League Baseball must establish ways to balance the playing field. The MLB Players Association gained an upper hand after the Curt Flood case and obviously is reluctant to give back to the fans who pay the freight. Don’t fans in Pittsburgh and Cincinnati rate the same opportunity to see their teams succeed as those in the cities that MLB yearns to have in the postseason?

A Dodgers-Yankees World Series represents a ratings coup for MLB as it battles to maintain its foothold in the advertising race. A Twins-Brewers World Series would be rather calamitous as MLB scraps for the dollars that have shifted toward the NFL, NBA and the two most popular college sports, football and basketball.

Wouldn’t you think that odds would have favored at least one losing season since Jay Leno debuted on the Tonight Show? At least once since Bill Clinton was elected President? If only former NFL mogul and purveyor of parity Pete Rozelle were still around. 

The NFL benefited and continues to do so in an environment where the population centers don’t always win. Green Bay, a city of 107,395, is Titletown USA. New York City, with the 8,804,190 still hanging around after the COVID migration to New England and the Adirondacks, is as sorry a football city as exists in NFL lore. Yet the NFL prospers as the premier sports league in America, turning what was once just Sunday afternoon into 17 national holidays. 

So quit your bellyaching, New York. You’re not better than anyone else.

 

He Does His Best For Peace and Love

 

Richie Furay is a rock ‘n’ roll pioneer.

The 79-year-old native Ohioan brought his lyrics of love and catchy tunes to Buffalo Springfield, Poco and the Souther-Hillman-Furay Band through the 1960s and 1970s.  More recently, Furay, who will retire from live performances in May as he turns 80, brought them to the Katharine Hepburn Cultural Center and Museum on October 25.

Furay, a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, is one of the godparents of a musical genre that has always been my favorite.  It was dubbed “country rock” back then. 

Buffalo Springfield was a virtual all-star lineup that included Stephen Stills and Neil Young before they gave us “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” and “Ohio.”  Among its biggest hits was Stills’ protest song, “For What It’s Worth,” which became an anthem shortly after its release 57 years ago. 

Like so many of the era’s great rock acts, Buffalo Springfield crumbled when the artists developed conflicting notions about what the future might hold.  Furay united with Jim Messina, Rusty Young, Randy Meisner and George Grantham to form Poco in 1968.  Timothy B. Schmidt replaced future Eagle Meisner and Messina was gone by 1970, but Furay’s lilting voice and the upbeat nature of his music coursed through the genre.

Furay left Poco in 1974 to form the Souther-Hillman-Furay Band, his sound having attracted legions of fans.  When the numbers didn’t add up to success, he became drawn to Christianity and became a pastor in the Denver area. It was his Christian demeanor that was on display after his stellar performance at The Kate.

The tradition at The Kate is for artists, if they’re so inclined, to meet and chat with their fans after the show as they sell their music, shirts, caps and the like.  I’ve had the chance to chat with many of my favorites and as the show ended, I felt compelled to meet him.  After all, his music is part of my life’s soundtrack.

He chatted amiably with some folks and made his way toward me.  What a time for the cellphone to beep.  My son Jason sent me a very ominous text – “Dad, whatever you do, don’t look at the news.”  I quickly texted back.

“What happened?  Did (Celtics great Jayson) Tatum get hurt?  Is there more Hamas treachery in Israel?”

He piqued my curiosity.  I had to find out what happened.

My wife Lisa and I had just returned from a nice trip to Maine and had only been home for a few days.  The report Jason was alluding to was the mass murder in Lewiston.  No, please, not in Maine.  We went up there to escape from I-84 road rage and the other grim occurrences that now happen where too many people live too close together.

Yes, the report said 22 people had been shot and the gunman was still at-large.  A peaceful evening of music was tainted by the painful reality of 21^st century life in our country.

Richie Furay looked at my reaction to what I had just read and his instinct told him something was wrong.  I held the cellphone up so he could read it.

A tear formed in the corner of his eye as he scanned the news.  He looked at me and said, “What is wrong with us?”  Richie, I wish I knew.  I felt a deeper connection with him as a contemporary who spent a lifetime singing songs of love.  I shoveled out many dollars that I shouldn’t have spent to have his soothing music in my library.

“Good Feeling To Know,” which Richie chose not to perform at The Kate, was always a go-to song when I was feeling down.  “Kind Woman.” “Sit Down I Think I Love You.” “Go And Say Goodbye.” “Pickin’ Up The Pieces.” They were sung with love.  That’s what so many artists in the genre did.  Love was the prevailing emotion that occupied our hearts as we entered the real world, married and had kids.  The chance meeting between Richie and I nearly 60 years later showed how the Life Meter has gone from love to hate during our time.  That wasn’t how we planned it.  We had more faith in humanity that peace could truly prevail beyond just the music.

I wish I could present you with a happier ending. Less than two weeks later, Hamas displayed the barbarity that an idealistic songwriter like Furay could never have comprehended with its senseless attack on innocent people, most of whom were enjoying a concert at the time.

Richie couldn’t understand how that could happen.  Neither can I.  Hate, you see, has dumped love onto the back pages of life.  I’m glad a vestige of the love and innocence we once enjoyed could return to us, even if only for a fleeting moment.

A Good Feeling to Know

When I need good lovin' I always come home to you. You free my lifetime of the blues.

Yes I got that old time feelin' burnin' deep inside my soul and I'm yours, baby I'm home.

And it's a good feeling to know. It's such a good feeling to know. Oh it's a good feeling to know. Somebody loves you.

Kind Woman

I got a good reason for loving you.  It's an old-fashioned sign. I kinda get the feeling like, mmm, you know when I fell in love the first time.

Kind woman, won't you love me tonight. The look in your eyes.

Kind woman, don't leave me lonely tonight. Please say it's alright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Autumn Weekend -- Football and Music

The transition between two of my greatest pleasures was delightful.

On Saturday, we attended a live sporting event for the first time since well before the first wave of COVID, courtesy of the Connecticut High School Coaches Association and its well-managed relationship with the UConn Athletic Department.

The CHSCA, dealt a crippling blow in September with the sudden passing of director Joe Canzanella, moved forward with its annual induction ceremony slated for pregame and halftime of the football game between the Huskies and Utah State. The rain abated just in time and despite cloudy skies, the event went off like clockwork.

On Sunday, with the sun shining brilliantly, we shifted back to our music scene by attending an outdoor concert at a quaint family farm in East Haddam. While Shakedown Street provided its consistently seamless tribute to the Grateful Dead, children and adults danced, wandered the garden and visited the domestic animals on hand.

PLAYING “THE RENT”

The last time I attended a UConn football game at Rentschler Field in East Hartford was September 12, 2009. I remember it well because on that day, I was inducted into the CHSCA Hall of Fame, which has its home on the Rentschler concourse.

Later that year, I was honored along with my induction class at the CHSCA’s annual banquet at the Aqua Turf in Southington. My dearest friends came from around the country to be with me for what truly was my finest hour. To have my likeness on a plaque at Rentschler and to have a gorgeous ring commemorating the moment mean more to me than anything else I’ve accomplished professionally.

Memories of that day 14 years earlier came back to me as we entered tent for pregame festivities. Since I retired from the Meriden Record-Journal in early 2018, I hadn’t seen many of the people who made my 28 years on the state sports beat so enjoyable.

That grand New Britain gang from those days immediately pierced through the meteorological gloom.

Michelle Abraham remains the volleyball coach at New Britain High after all these years.

When I started at the New Britain Herald in 1992, her teams were suffering. The Golden Hurricanes lost nearly every match they played that year, saved only by winning matches against tiny Class S school Housatonic Regional.

Seven years later at East Haven High School, Michelle guided an incredibly skilled, deep and focused young women to a Class L state championship, despite being down 2 games to 0 against the likes of powerhouse Cheshire.  I wept as I watched one of the more remarkable comebacks I’ve ever witnessed.

Michelle is the epitome of what makes the CHSCA as essential as it is festive. The records of those teams were not of the utmost importance to her. Of course, she wanted to win as much as any coach who ever commanded a sideline huddle, but she was driven by her commitment to her student-athletes, on and off the court.

Her mission has not diminished. Neither has her passion for fulfilling it. She also has so much love for many of those she met along the way, and I’m delighted to be counted in that number, all these years later. She graciously referred me to Executive Director Canzanella to do some writing for CHSCA. I was delighted. My computer keyboard has been rather silent since leaving Meriden, yet I knew I could step right in and hit the ground running for any organization that needs my services.

Four days after we discussed the possibilities, Joe Canzonella, 71, was dead of a fatal heart attack. Canzonella and retired New Britain High athletic director and football coach Len Corto were truly like twin sons of different mothers. The burden was on Len, Michelle and others to pick up the pieces of an organization nurtured for 31 years by the late Southington High baseball coach John Fontana until his death in October 2019.

Lenny addressed 25 or so on hand for the informal pregame brunch. He introduced David Benedict, UConn athletic director, who made a short but poignant impromptu speech that had most heads nodding affirmatively. The relationship between UConn athletics and the CHSCA is surely strong. A visit from venerable UConn legacy and New Britain native Andy Baylock, the Huskies’ former baseball coach who still throws batting practice in his mid-80s, represented a powerful link in the chain between the organizations.

When Lenny’s thoughts turned to Joe, he wore his emotions on his sleeve, as both he and Joe were prone to do. His voice cracked. He fought back the tears. The two had forged a powerful bond, enabling CHSCA to maintain its integrity across the scoop of high school athletics in Connecticut. He reinforced that CHSCA was going to continue its mission the way Joe and John would have wanted.

Lisa and I had an enjoyable day. We didn’t even mind paying $27 for two Chick-fil-A sandwiches and a $6 bottle of water. The weather improved, but unfortunately UConn faltered, losing 34-33 when a potential game-tying extra-point placement was blocked. We all felt for the UConn kids and Coach Joe Mora, but that’s the nature of competitive athletics.

WRESTLING'S SOUTHLAND: A LEGACY OF LOVE

Ray Southland stood at the head of the class.

When I was assigned to cover high school wrestling back in 1992, all I knew was the orchestrated, pre-ordained legacy of what is known as the professional version of the sport.  I attended a high school that didn't even offer wrestling as a varsity sport.  Only hockey was spoken during the winter season in Hamden.

So when I was gently pushed toward wrestling in 1991-92, my facial expression must have screamed to the close-knit community that I didn't know the difference between a fireman's carry and a single-leg takedown.

Ray Southland was among a group of officials whose incredible passion for the sport propelled him well beyond his appointed duties.  I had many questions.  Ray offered all the answers, not only efficiently in basic terms but with his love for the sport sparkling in his smile.  Ray's sincerity, thoughtfulness and his profound love for the young athletes were so fluent, leaving no doubt in my mind that his broader mission was softening life's difficulties for all he knew.

Working with officials like Ray was a tremendous asset for a reporter looking for angles that superseded victory and defeat.  Extrapolating their perception of the teams and individuals they scrutinized and the gnawing issues wrestling faced facilitated my ability to write more insightful pieces that transcended championships.

Among the ways Ray stamped his outgoing, candid personality on an issue was discussing the difficult calls he sometimes had to make.  When calls would affect the outcome of bouts and matches, he was forthcoming in discussing it with me, fully knowing that he could be laying himself open for controversy if I wrote the issue up a certain way.

Wrestling, perhaps more than less grueling scholastic competitions, served as an excellent foundation for the lives of former competitors now spreading the gospel that Ray helped lay out.  I saw a comment from former Southington All-Stater Zach Bylykbashi that echoes my feelings.  Bylykbashi said he was always uplifted when he saw that Ray was going to officiate his matches because he respected his competence and understanding.

I regrettably never had an opportunity to know Ray beyond the wresting arena, but I can discern exactly how he approached his work as a secondary school teacher and administrator.  Those who had the chance to work with Ray at Washington Middle School in Meriden will continue to benefit from his style, his demeanor and his unbridled passion for improving life around him.  His words of guidance came directly from his heart, depositing a sparkle in his eyes that conveyed righteousness, integrity and authenticity, intermingling as part of the legacy he leaves behind.