"WE" SHOULD NOT INCLUDE YOU AND ME

In the midst of this frenzy over the World Cup I can't help but notice a tiny word that ties London and New York together in a way that is absolutely maddening.

It's the collective noun "we," used relentlessly on both sides of the ocean during times of athletic excitement.

"If we can get past Croatia, we're into the final!" a chubby little man said to me in the local grocery story the other day.

It was all I could to do keep from asking him: When did you join British World Cup team? And why aren't you in Russia?

Same deal in New York back in the late 90's, whenever the Yankees were heading for the World Series. Words I'll never forget:

"We got this game in the bag, as long we bring Rivera in to pitch the ninth."

Oh yeah.  A double-we in that hum-dinger of a sentence, spoken in a sports bar by a mountainous guy who would have had trouble squeezing into Babe Ruth's pinstripes.

One of the best scenes in the movie "A Bronx Tale" happens when the bus driver's son meets the Mafioso after the New York Yankees lose the final game of the 1960 World Series.  The kid is upset because Yankee superstar Mickey Mantle wept over the defeat, and the Mafioso - played brilliantly by Chazz Palmintieri - replies:

"Mickey Mantle, is that what you're upset about? Mickey Mantle Makes a hundred thousand dollars a year.  How much does your father make?...See if your father can't pay the rent, go ask Mickey Mantle, see what he tells you."

Which is a brutal, brutal assessment of the situation, but come on.  You smiled when you read those words, didn't you?

I've had trouble with the word "we" for most of my working life, especially when I was a TV producer spending hours writing and editing stories long into the night. The next morning the story would be screened, problems would be assessed and some clipboard-clutching middle-management type would invariably say:

"We have to re-think the piece."

We have to re-think the piece.  Re-think! As if the clipboard-clutcher had thought about it in the first place!  When it came to additional work, we had a funny way of morphing into me.

So when it comes to things like the World Cup and the World Series, I appreciate the lightning-fast reflexes of these amazing athletes, their grace, their speed....all the things normal human beings can only dream about.

But I'm not part of their "we." I only wish I could be part of their "we."  Too old, too slow, too clumsy, too whatever.  Next life, maybe.

And sure, it's nice to take pride in your city's team, or your country's team, but let's not get too carried away.

Because I know what's going to happen if Britain loses the next round of the World Cup to Croatia, and I bump into that chubby little man in the grocery store again. 

"Did you watch the game, mate?" he'll ask me.  "Bloody hell, they really blew it!"

A GREAT RUNNER REACHES THE FINAL FINISH LINE

Once in a while you see a name on the obituary page and you say to yourself: That can't be right.

Which was my reaction the other day when I saw Don Ritchie's name, followed by two dates that say it all - 1944-2018.

I was thrilled when I was assigned to interview Don for the New York Post, back in 1979.  I was a training for a marathon and Don was a legendary ultra-marathoner, a balding and bearded Scotsman who'd come to New York to participate in a crazy event - a 100-mile race.

Which he won, in a time of 11 hours, 51 minutes and 11 seconds.

Don also excelled at an even nuttier event - the 24-hour run, in which participants run as many miles as they can in a full day.

He once covered 166 miles in such a race, and I'll never forget one particular detail about his long distance running style:

He didn't have to stop to urinate. He'd trained himself to pee on the run, to save time.

Time is what Don Richie ran out of, at age 73.  A funny, quirky, soft-spoken man who knew better than anyone that his passion for running ridiculous distances was beyond normal.

"It helps if you are a little crazy," he said.

The last time I saw Don was at the 1979 New York City Marathon, just a few months after his victory in that 100-mile race.

The big story that day was Norwegian sensation Grete Waitz, who became the first woman ever to run a marathon in under two and a half hours - two hours, 27 minutes and 33 seconds, to be exact.

I'd run that same race in a little over three hours, and while staggering across the lawn beyond the finish line in Central Park I saw Don Ritchie reclining on the grass, like a man at a picnic.  He'd completed the course in two hours, 36 minutes and 47 seconds.

He didn't look tired - after all, the 26.2 mile marathon distance was his idea of a warmup - but he looked sad.

"Hey, Don," I said, "are you okay?"

He sighed.  "Grete Waitz," he said, shaking his head.  "Never thought I'd see the day I'd lose to a woman."

(Oh for those pre-Internet days, when a man could say something like that without being buried in a social media avalanche!)

Grete Waitz went on to many more triumphs as a runner, but she was just 57 when she died in 2011.  Another person whose name shocked me when I saw it on the obituary page.

What can you say?  The Big Guy's roulette wheel stops in funny places.

Maybe that's what running is all about.  Trying to stay one step ahead of whatever's coming, for as long as you can.

Rest in peace, Don and Grete. I'll be thinking about you tomorrow on my morning run.

A LESSON FROM DAD, CARVED IN MARBLE

My father's midtown office was undergoing a renovation, and among the things being discarded was a rectangular slab of marble, which Dad wanted to salvage. Don't ask me why.

We didn't need a rectangular slab of marble.  Nobody needs a rectangular slab of marble.

But the idea of it going to waste was too much for my Depression-era father to bear, so he was determined to bring it home.

It was too big for him to carry on the Long Island Railroad, and it was too heavy for him to manage alone, which meant I'd be joining him on a trip into "the city" in our Dodge Dart one Saturday morning in 1975.

Manhattan traffic wasn't a bumper-to-bumper nightmare back then.  We sailed into town and parked right in front of the Young and Rubicam advertising agency on 40th and Madison, went inside and rang for the service elevator. That's when the fun began.

A janitor with a gray shirt, gray pants and a gray soul came waddling toward us, the last inch of a cigar stuck between his lips.  He reeked of attitude.  We probably woke him up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, scowling at us. "Where do you think you're goin'?"

My father explained that he was an art director with Y & R,  and he had permission to take a slab of marble up on the eighth floor.

"Yeah?" the janitor said, squinting one eye.  "Whaddaya gonna do with a piece o' mobble?"

Like it was any of his business!  My father told him he wasn't sure, but he didn't want it to go to waste. He showed the guy a sheet of paper giving him permission to have the marble slab.

The janitor scowled at the paper. "Hmm, An-tho-ny Carillo," he said, in his best never-heard-of-you voice.   He sighed.  "All right, let's go."

The three of us rode the service elevator to the eighth floor. The janitor was staring at my father.

"You're one of those creative guys, right?" he asked.  He made it sound like a disease.

My father told him yes, he was one of those guys. The janitor chuckled.

"Yeah, they come and go.  Three, four years apiece, right?"  He poked himself in the chest.  "Me, I've been workin' here eighteen years.  What do you think o' that?"

My father complimented him on his longevity, but I was boiling mad, the way you get when you're nineteen years old.  In the first place, this nasty piece of work had totally ignored me, figuring I was just my father's idiot helper.   Plus, he'd been busting my father's chops from the get-go, and did he have any idea of who he was talking to?

Tony Carillo had been with Y & R since he was a kid, starting as a messenger and rising to a vice-presidency!  He'd been with the company for more than thirty years!  Why wasn't Dad setting this clown straight?

We got to the eighth floor.  The janitor wasn't going to help carry the marble, so he stayed at the service elevator while we went and got it, a gray-white slab that weighed more than either of us.

"Dad," I said, as we dragged it down the hallway, "why don't you tell that jerk how long you've been here?"

"Doesn't matter."

"But - "

"Let's just load this thing in the car, and go home."

We struggled to stand it up in the elevator.  The janitor pulled the gate shut and we began the slow descent to the lobby.

"Yeah, you come and go," he said in his world-weary, seen-it-all voice. "Show me another guy who's lasted here eighteen years."

My father shrugged.  I was ready to explode. 

And then, a gift from the gods, as the janitor jutted his chin toward my father and sneered: "How many years you been here?"

My father smiled. "You really want to know?"

"Yeah," the janitor said, "why not?"

"Thirty-three," my father said softly.

The janitor's eyes widened.  I thought he was going to swallow his cigar butt. 

"Surprised I never seen you around," he muttered.

He let us out in the lobby, warned us not to scratch the walls on our way out and waddled away.

We loaded the marble slab into the back of the Dodge and headed for home. 

"Jesus, Dad," I said, "if that guy hadn't asked you how long you worked here, you never would have told him!"

"True," my father said.  His eyebrows went up.  "But wasn't this even better, the way it worked out?"

Yes it was.

By the time he retired, my father had worked at Y & R for 48 years.  It's probably some kind of record, but he'd be the last to know, or brag about it.  I think about that Saturday morning whenever I feel as if I'm about to lose my temper, or say something I'm going to regret. It was a great life lesson, and it boils down to this:

When dealing with knuckleheads, be cool.  It's the best revenge.

Thanks for the lesson, Dad.  I wish you a Happy Father's Day, and all these years later, I have just one question.

What the hell did you ever do with that slab of marble?

FAREWELL TO A SERIOUSLY FUNNY MAN

Did you hear the one about the copyboy who had no idea of who Bernie Bard was?

You'll love this one.

The year is 1978, and I'm busy sharpening pencils, getting coffee and running errands for the people at the New York Post who outranked me (which was everybody) when suddenly the city desk assistant hands me a pile of letters and says:

"Give Bernie Bard a call at the Board of Education, and read him his mail."

Bernie who? 

"The education reporter.  Call him already, he's waiting!"

I dial the number.  "Hiya kid!" says a man in a bright, chirpy voice. "What's your name?"

"Charlie."

"Got a garbage can handy, Charlie?"

"A what?"

"A garbage can.  Can't do journalism without a garbage can!"

For the next ten minutes I read Bernie his accumulated press releases. Every time we hit a useless one, he chants: "Throw it awaaaay….."

By the end of the phone call the garbage can is brimming and I'm laughing my ass off.

"Isn't journalism fun, Charlie?"

It sure was, whenever Bernie Bard was around.  In an age of new journalism, he was strictly old school - white shirt and tie, manual typewriter, and a clean, crisp writing style.  No wasted words.

Plus, the most expressive eyebrows I'd ever seen on a reporter. Whenever those eyebrows went up, something funny was coming.

Like the time in 1988, when the Post was (as always) in danger of shutting down forever.

"How you doin', kid?" he asked me in the midst of the crisis.

"I'm worried, Bernie. I'm going to be a father in a few months, and I really need this job."

Up went the eyebrows. "You're gonna be a father? Mazel tov, I didn't even know you were dating!"

Bernie was once pounding out a story on deadline and a frantic city editor eager for his copy asked how it was going. 

"Finished the story," Bernie calmly replied. "Workin' on the screenplay."

Nobody laughed harder than the city editor.

A reporter once complained to Bernie about the newspaper business - the lousy money, the bad hours - and said she was thinking of another career.

Again with the eyebrows, as Bernie put a consoling hand on her shoulder and said: "Do journalism….and walk humbly with thine accountant."

The newspaper business is hard on marriages, and it seemed to me that Bernie was the only one happily chugging along as everybody else was consulting lawyers.

"How do you do it, Bernie?" I asked him. "What's the secret?"

He stopped typing, turned and smiled at me. "The key to a long and happy marriage?" Eyebrows up, almost to the ceiling. "Do not get emotionally involved."

Of course, he didn't mean it - but man oh man, what an amazing line!

Bernie will best be remembered by his line that's been repeated a million times: "If it ain't catered, it ain't journalism."

But I'll never forget something he said to me in 1993, as staffers at the Post marched around the old building on South Street in hopes of saving our jobs. 

A bloodbath was imminent, and we all knew it.  I fell into stride with Bernie on that chilly night, his eyebrows hidden beneath a wool hat. We both knew this could be the last time we'd ever see each other. 

"I'll tell you something," he said, pointing at the building. "Whatever story I ever worked on,  I always gave it my best.  I tried to make it as good as it could be."

I already knew that, but I loved hearing it. 

Hey - did you hear the one about the funny reporter, the guy we just lost at age 90?

Turns out he was a serious man.  That's what I call a punch line.

THE SOUNDS OF HOME, WHEREVER I ROAM

Took the pooch for a walk around the block late last night and coming my way - thankfully, across the street - was a frantic man screaming "I love you!" over and over, to someone who wasn't there. I felt no fear.  Actually, I felt a little homesick.  Add the sounds of shattering glass, a car alarm and a siren or two and it could have been any Saturday night in Greenwich Village.

SOUNDS LIKE PUP FICTION, BUT IT REALLY HAPPENED!

Saw this British woman walking her dog in the park today. The pooch was lagging behind, ignoring her commands, so she backtracked, grabbed him by the collar and said: "Come along, you contrary animal!"

Contrary animal. Every time I forget what country I'm in, something like this happens to remind me.

AN UN-HAPPY ENDING

This legendary gangster makes an appearance in the pages of "Return To Shepherd Avenue." Harold "Happy" Maione was a hit man for Murder, Inc.  Between murders, he was dating the girl who lived upstairs from my grandparents. "A sharp dresser," my grandmother used to say. "Always tipped his hat - a true gentleman." Happy Maione died in the electric chair in 1942.

RETURN TO SHEPHERD AVENUE, AND THE ETERNAL QUESTION: CAN YOU GO HOME AGAIN?

You’ve written millions of words since “Shepherd Avenue” was published, but there’s something really special about that first novel.

You still remember that magical phone call from your agent, all those years ago: “Go celebrate! ‘Shepherd Avenue’ has been sold!”

Oh, man. You can hardly believe it. You’re going to be published! You say it to yourself over and over, right until the day you actually hold a copy of that novel in your hands, hot off the press.

The book gets good reviews. It’s the story of a sensitive ten-year-old boy who spends a turbulent summer at his grandparents house in a rough Brooklyn neighborhood after his mother’s death in 1961.

The house that inspired the story is the one your real-life grandparents lived in, on Shepherd Avenue in Brooklyn. You spent a lot of good times there when you were a boy, and one morning all these years later, a strange thing happens:

You wake up and can’t stop wondering if that old house is still standing.

You do more than just wonder. Like an aging homing pigeon, some primal instinct has you in its grip, taking you on that long subway ride back to Shepherd Avenue.

Your legs tremble as you reach the red brick house. It’s a different neighborhood, now. The windows have bars over them and the driveway is gated, but otherwise the house looks just as it did when you were a kid.

Everybody you knew from the old days is long gone, but the memories come flooding back, and that’s when the craziest “What if” of your literary life strikes like a bolt of lightning:

What if the troubled little boy from ‘Shepherd Avenue’ is now a troubled man in search of peace he’s never been able to find? What if he thinks he can find that peace by moving back into Grandma’s old house?

And as long as we’re being totally crazy: What if he knocks on the door of the Shepherd Avenue house and offers to buy it from the startled present-day owner, just like that?

There’s your story. That troubled man buys the house and moves into it. Nothing but strangers on the block, now, but he doesn’t care. He’s on a mission to make sense of his life with this trip to the past.

Meanwhile, the present will prove to be just as exciting as the past, with a beautiful and passionate young woman living just across the street….she’s every bit as lonely as he is….

Oh yeah. Now you’re cooking! You get back on the subway. You can’t wait to get home and start typing.

That’s how “Return To Shepherd Avenue” was born, fifty years after the original story.

The legendary Thomas Wolfe famously said You Can’t Go Home Again, but you know better than that. You can indeed Return to Shepherd Avenue.

Just don’t be surprised by what you’ll find, because many things can happen in fifty years. Amazing, heartbreaking, wonderful things.

Publication Day For "Return To Shepherd Avenue"

I do believe this sums up the story rather nicely:

Take that, Thomas Wolfe!

Oh Danny Boy, We Came So Close....

The legendary character actor Danny Aiello loved the screenplay for "Shepherd Avenue," and that looked like the break we'd been praying for.

Danny was eager to play the role of the grandfather. His career was on fire, as he'd just been nominated for an Oscar for his role in Spike Lee's "Do The Right Thing."

We met him at a restaurant on New York City's Upper West Side. The place was called Columbus and it was jammed with celebrities.

Danny was the kind of guy who attracted people to his table. Paul Sorvino and Ben Stiller dropped by to say hello. Everybody dropped by to say hello. Danny was hot, hot, HOT.

Producer Andrew Gaty, who wrote the screenplay with me, took me aside. "If Danny wins the Oscar, 'Shepherd Avenue' will get made!" he said with glee.

I was on a high when we left, and then Danny made the night even sweeter by driving me home to the Village.

"I think you'll enjoy this, Charlie," he said, popping a cassette into the tape deck. We rode downtown to the sounds of Danny Aiello singing show tunes.

I never cared for the Oscars much, but you'd better believe I was watching them with keen interest that year, especially when the nominees for Best Supporting Actor were announced.

And the winner was....Denzel Washington, for "Glory."

Well, that's show biz. You can't let it get you down. You've got to remember the good stuff.

Like cruising down Broadway late at night in a luxury car, with a movie star as your own personal chauffeur.

Believe me, that didn't suck.

Dustin the Wind - Until Now!

One of the best things an author can have is a pushy mother who cannot be embarrassed.

When "Shepherd Avenue" was first published in 1986 my Irish-American mother happened to be checking it out in a midtown Manhattan bookstore when she spotted Dustin Hoffman browsing through the stacks.

She grabbed a copy of my book, marched straight to Hoffman, shoved it into his hands and said:

"Mr. Hoffman, this is my son's first novel, and I think it would make an excellent movie for you to star in."

The Oscar-winning actor had no response, save for a stunned expression.

Nothing came of it - Dustin the Wind, I like to say - but
the truth is, Hoffman was way too young to play the grandfather in "Shepherd Avenue" back then.

Now, he'd be just perfect. Hmmmm...

Time Not Only Flies, It Breaks The Sound Barrier

The first photo shows me interviewing former President Richard Nixon, back in the 80s.  Dig that crazy Steve McQueen turtleneck!  I was young and single and I loved to mingle. But I was also busy nights and weekends writing my first novel, "Shepherd Avenue."

Flash-forward  to the second photo. That's me holding my grandson Harvey just the other day, as I await publication of "Return To Shepherd Avenue."  Thirty-one years between the original and the sequel.  You can't rush these things.  

A "Shepherd Avenue" That Lost Its Way

Ideally, you want your new book displayed in a bookstore's window.

Or at least on a display table just inside the door.

But what you don't want is what happened to me when "Shepherd Avenue" was first published.

I'd been assured that copies had been delivered to this particular bookstore in New York City, and went to check on the display.

They weren't in the window, and they weren't on the indoor display table. Well, that would have been a lot for a first-time novelist to expect, so I wasn't upset.

But when I couldn't find them anywhere in the fiction department, I started to panic.

Nobody seemed to know where my books had gone, until a row-by-row search of the shop solved the mystery.

There they were, in the cookbook section. The cookbook section?

Believe it or not, there was an explanation.

The sheepish manager explained: "I think one of our clerks thought it was a recipe book for Shepherd's Pie."

Oh.

Together we carried my books to the fiction section, where they took up residency beside Truman Capote's books. Pretty good company.

The moral of the story?

Make sure they don't mistake your novel for a cookbook, or you will get burned.

SERIOUS AUTHOR PHOTO TAKEN BY A SERIOUSLY FUNNY MAN

I look at this picture of myself for the 1986 "Shepherd Avenue" book jacket and I wonder: What the hell was I so grim about?  I'd just sold a book! I should be smiling!

Well, you know how seriously you take yourself when you're young.  Also, I wasn't trying to be serious - just determined.  And on top of that, I was convinced that any pictures I'd ever seen of myself smiling made me look goofy.

The man on the other side of the camera, Michael Norcia, was a friend and colleague at the New York Post.  He was the best photographer around, whether he was covering a war or doing a story about a puppy in need of a home. 

The funny thing is that most of the time I was with Mike, I was more than smiling. I was laughing out loud.  He was one of the most inadvertently funny people I've ever known.

He had a big temper to go along with his big talent.  He was street smart, having grown up in New York City's Little Italy.  This gave him a way of putting things that shined with the kind of insight that hit you like a truck. 

Like the time he was venting over his troubled marriage one Saturday afternoon at my apartment.

"I got a theory about people who argue all the time," he said.

What's that, Mike?

"They don't like each other."

Bang! Years of costly therapy averted with one sentence.

Another time we were at a Greenwich Village bar hoisting a few when Mike, who was not much of a sports fan, noticed a baseball game playing on the giant overhead TV.  It was the final inning, and the batter said a quick prayer and crossed himself before stepping up the the plate.

"Why would God help anyone hit a baseball?" Mike wondered out loud.  I thought it was a great question, but before I could even attempt to answer it the batter popped up to end the game.

If that doesn't sum up life itself, I don't know what does.

Michael Norcia died ten years ago at age 59.  If there's such a thing as heaven, I'd love to know what Mike said to Saint Peter at those Pearly Gates.  He would have made him laugh, that's for sure.

Frank Sinatra as the Grandfather in "Shepherd Avenue?"

You always hope your book will make it to the silver screen, and in the case of "Shepherd Avenue" old Blue Eyes himself was in the running to play the Italian-American grandfather, Angie Ambrosio.

Oddly enough, it was a British film company that was willing to bankroll this Brooklyn-based movie if Frank Sinatra signed on for a cool million dollars.

Which might not sound like a lot of money these days, but this was quite a payday back in the late eighties.

Frank says "yes," and the cameras roll. Weeks went by, and all we could do was wait.

Would he do it? At that time Sinatra was still giving concerts, though he was far from young. He reportedly needed a Teleprompter to help him with the lyrics.

At last, word came from one of Sinatra's representatives: an extremely gracious "No." The rep went on to say that though Mr. Sinatra liked the story and was a big baseball fan, he was not considering film roles at this time.

Had he actually read "Shepherd Avenue?" I guess I'll never know. But he did know that baseball played a part in the story, so he must have read it! Hmm....

Well, it was a long shot. To this day I can't help wondering what a "Shepherd Avenue" film would have been like with Frank Sinatra in it. Guess we would have had to throw in a few songs.

Meanwhile, I can think of a few more Italian-American actors who've aged beautifully enough to fill Angie Ambrosio's shoes.

Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino...could I have a word with you?

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Frank Sinatra As The Grandfather?

You always hope your book will make it to the silver screen, and in the case of "Shepherd Avenue" old Blue Eyes himself was in the running to play the Italian-American grandfather, Angie Ambrosio.

Oddly enough, it was a British film company that was willing to bankroll this Brooklyn-based movie if Frank Sinatra signed on for a cool million dollars.

Which might not sound like a lot of money these days, but this was quite a payday back in the late eighties.

Frank says "yes," and the cameras roll. Weeks went by, and all we could do was wait.

Would he do it? At that time Sinatra was still giving concerts, though he was far from young. He reportedly needed a Teleprompter to help him with the lyrics.

At last, word came from one of Sinatra's representatives: an extremely gracious "No." The rep went on to say that though Mr. Sinatra liked the story and was a big baseball fan, he was not considering film roles at this time.

Had he actually read "Shepherd Avenue?" I guess I'll never know. But he did know that baseball played a part in the story, so he must have read it! Hmm....

Well, it was a long shot. To this day I can't help wondering what a "Shepherd Avenue" film would have been like with Frank Sinatra in it. Guess we would have had to throw in a few songs.

Meanwhile, I can think of a few more Italian-American actors who've aged beautifully enough to fill Angie Ambrosio's shoes.

Robert DeNiro, Al Pacino...could I have a word with you?

THE REAL-LIFE BASEBALL STARBALL FROM "SHEPHERD AVENUE"

How great is this photograph?

That's my Uncle Sal, the real-life model for baseball star Victor Ambrosio from my novel "Shepherd Avenue."

He won a baseball scholarship to NYU, and as you can probably tell from this photograph, he could give a baseball quite a ride.

Sal had a much better life than Vic - a longtime marriage, three sons and a bunch of grandchildren.

But there's a sweet surprise for Victor Ambrosio in "Return To Shepherd Avenue," which comes out in June.

Batter up!

MUM'S THE WORD TO MAKE TROUBLE GO AWAY

I'm walking my dog past the local pharmacy when a young Englishman comes flying out to confront a traffic agent who's poised to hit him with a ticket for illegal parking. "Please don't give me a ticket!" the Englishman cries. "I was in there for just a moment, getting a prescription for me Mum!" No reaction from the traffic agent until the Englishman adds: "She's on her deathbed!" The agent smiles. I smile. My dog smiles. We all know it's a tall tale, but it's damn entertaining. No ticket.

BECAUSE SHE'S MY MOTHER, THAT'S WHY

When my first novel was published my mother was in a midtown bookstore busily carrying stacks of it to the front display table - nobody dared to stop her - when suddenly, her task was interrupted by a celebrity sighting.

She’d spotted Dustin Hoffman, browsing in the fiction department.

There wasn’t even a thought process involved in what happened next - just an instinctive move by my mother, as natural as a shark reacting to the scent of blood.

Poor Dustin never even saw the fin in the water, rushing his way.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hoffman!” she said, startling the actor as she shoved a copy of “Shepherd Avenue” into his hands. “This is my son’s first novel and you really should consider it for your next movie!”

Hoffman stood there slack-jawed as my mother moved on. No need to linger, or chit-chat, or ask for an autograph. Mission accomplished.

And the mission is always the same for Terry Sullivan Carillo:

What can I do next to help my family?

My sisters and I appreciate it, Mom. Not that it always goes smoothly.

When I was a senior in high school I was taking the garbage out one day when I noticed an unopened piece of mail at the bottom of the pail. It turned out to be a recruitment letter addressed to me, from the United States Army.

This was while the Vietnam war was happening. My mother had thrown it out before I could see it.

I was enraged, the way only a 17-year-old boy can be enraged. I screamed at her. How dare she do such a thing, treating me like a little kid! Interfering with my personal mail! What if I wanted to join the army?

(Note: I didn’t want to join, and the war ended before I turned 18.)

My mother let me rant and rave, and when I was through an amazing thing happened.

She apologized. I knew she wasn’t really sorry for what she’d done, but she apologized anyway.

That takes a big person. My mother - who’s around five feet tall, if she stands on a dictionary - is a big person. Maybe the biggest person I know.

She’s upbeat, she’s energetic, and she greets each day as the gift she knows it to be.

She’s had more than her share of health issues, but like an Irish middleweight taking a beating in the late rounds she always insists she’s okay, and manages to throw the winning haymaker time and again.

If she had a motto, it would be: Don’t stop this fight!

Which is what this life is, after all. A sweet, endless battle to keep going, keep trying, no matter what stands in your way.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I think you’ve got a few bouts left in you.

Which reminds me - when are you going to follow up on that Dustin Hoffman thing? Come on, Mah, it’s been thirty years! This is no time to start coasting!

Charlie Carillo is a novelist and a TV producer. His website is www.charliecarillo.co

(photo courtesy of Jamie Sutherland)

Follow Charlie Carillo on Twitter: www.twitter.com/charlie carillo

ONE FOR THE RECORD BOOKS

A writer reaches a new level of humility the first time he finds one of his books for sale in a second-hand bookstore.  It's like finding your first gray hair.

There the book sits on a dusty shelf, like a full-grown dog hoping to be adopted by a kind-hearted person.  And what are the chances of that happening, with all those frisky new puppies to choose from?

It's happened to me numerous times in New York City, and the really painful part comes when you open the front cover and find your handwritten inscription to one of your friends.

Yeah, that's right. Your "friend" sold the book for a quick buck, without even bothering to tear out the inscription page!

The first time it happens, it really hurts. Then you have time to think it over, and you realize that space is precious in New York City, and new books come in all the time, and there's only so much room on the lifeboat.

At least your friend didn't throw the book in the trash, right?

Now this story takes a hairpin turn - a 3600 mile turn, to be exact - all the way to the leafy British suburb of Hampton, where I live.  Check out this little bookstore, right by the local train station:

It's one of my favorite places, filled with rickety racks of second-hand books.  I've been going there for years, and sometimes I'm shocked by what I find.

Like the time I came upon "The Boys Of Summer," by Roger Kahn.  A book about the Brooklyn Dodgers, in a British book shop?  How the hell did that get here?

But that was nothing compared to the shock that hit me on my latest visit,  when I dropped in to browse and my eye caught a familiar yellow cover on a dog-eared paperback.

Oh yeah.  It was my 2009 novel "Raising Jake," jammed on a rack beside Dashiell Hammett's "The Maltese Falcon."

I'd been second-handed in a second country, and to make matters worse, the inscription page was intact.  No need to identify my British "friend."  You know who you are!

I brought both books to the sweet little old lady at the desk.

"I wrote this one," I couldn't help telling her as I handed her my book.

"Oh my!" she said.  "Well, we cannot charge you for that one!"

A lovely gesture, but I insisted upon paying.  Hell, it was only one pound and fifty pence -  a little over two bucks. Same price for "The Maltese Falcon."

I left the shop laughing.   I'm not even upset at my British friend who ditched my book.

Because for a while there, I got to stand shoulder to shoulder with Dashiell Hammett.  First-rate company for a second-hand book.