Bob Cramer's Blog

With the first half in the books, and our halftime now complete, the question on the field is the strategy for finishing the game.  Where do we go from here?  What is the definition of winning?   How do we use our remaining time to not only end victorious, but personally satisfied, financially content, with a legacy good enough to qualify for our own hall of fame?

These are big questions.  All around me, men my age, in their 50’s and who have worked in technology-related fields, are in a period of professional transition, facing a tight economy not to mention even tighter hamstrings.  With non-stop digital and medical advances, we work differently, communicate instantly and hopefully live longer, dishing up intriguing complexity that makes defining our go-forward career path a bit of a head scratcher.

Working for one company for long periods of time is the exception and not the rule.  Changing jobs and careers is more the norm.  While our wives and our bank accounts tell us we are too young or too poor to retire, today’s workplace is not that hospitable to us.  Yes, while this five years and counting tough economy has taught us to be agile, inquisitive and opportunistic, that can only get us so far.

We are in a bit of bind.  People work differently today: 9 to 5 is a relic of the past on par with a three-martini lunch, secretaries and pensions; physical offices may be next.  We are not that comfortable camping out at Starbucks or Panera all day.  It is not good for our nerves, blatters or waistlines.  If we do have an office, we are not that accustomed to going in around 11am and working late into the night like the younger people do.  I’m not saying we can’t do it, but it interferes with our well-established sleep patterns, work-life balance and semi-fragile physiques.

Workplace technology also represents a challenge. We grew up on email, Microsoft Office and Blackberries, and while we may have upgraded to Gmail, an iPad and a LinkedIn profile, most of us remain behind the curve on using Twitter hashtags, integrating Dropbox or Google Drive or, at our lowest moments, connecting to the right wireless printer or successfully orchestrating an online conference (ok, maybe that’s just me).

Dressing for work too is not that easy. Business casual is great but leaves a lot for interpretation.  Should I tuck my shirt in or leave it out?  Is it OK to wear the same pair of khakis more than one day at time, how about three in a row?  Do I wear blue jeans some time or shorts in the summer time?  So many questions that my dear wife paid real money at our school’s recent gala to buy me a wardrobe makeover with a consultant who threatens to spend two hours in my closet or take me on an equivalent shopping spree.  Our fathers never had these problems.

Despite these potential pitfalls, we do have a lot to fall back on: our experience, our contacts and our levelheaded maturity.   After years of economic uncertainty, we are no longer intimidated by the prospects of not having traditional work, and we can use this time and our flexibility to our advantage.  We can multi-task, take on assignments out of sheer interest, volunteer, teach, go back to school, start our own business, become a consultant, read, write, retrain, or go into politics or public service.

Maybe it is time to rip up that AARP card invite, join an association for people not ready to retire, and mobilize, online and off.  As the youngest members of the baby boomer generation, we are tweener: not born with a cell phone permanently attached to our hands but not so far gone that we shouldn’t even bother trying to learn.  We can adjust, adapt and add tangible value to all we do.  We are men in our 50’s and damn proud of it.

Besides receiving an unexpected, oversized package from the IRS, there are few things people dread more than a Jury Duty summons in their mailbox. With its imposing State Court, Fulton County, GA circular logo, stern instructions to “please read all instructions carefully” and not too subtle threats that failure to obey is punishable by fine and/or imprisonment, this unwelcomed correspondence from the office of the Jury Clerk immediately triggers thoughts of excruciating hassles and lame attempts to come up with little white lies to somehow put this off until another time, all which usually fail.

My summons did contain a little tease and some hope: I was selected as a Standby which meant that I had a chance to be excused at the last minute if the Clerk’s office determined they had too many jurors for the expected case load. My directions were to call the standby hotline after 5pm on the night before to see if my group was called. If excused, my service would be considered complete and I’d have at least 18 months before I could be called again. If not, I was to be in line the following morning on the 7th floor at 185 Central Avenue downtown at 8am sharp, ready to serve.

Of course, that is where I found myself, with about 400 of my fellow neighbors, snaking our way through a makeshift line to turn in our filled out information form (you will be pleased that I answered, no, to the question if I have been convicted of a felony or a crime punishable by imprisonment for more than a year).

I had decided to forgo the free parking offered to prospective jurors in the Orange Lot of Turner Field. It was too bad the Braves were not playing that night as I might have taken up the County’s on it kind and generous doubleheader offer to do some public service during the day and then catch the Braves second game of the season, all without having to move my car. But the schedule did not cooperate, and the parking garage at Underground was a heck of a lot closer, plus it gave me a few more minutes to ask which building exactly I was supposed to report to, and only used up $8.00 of my $25.00 daily juror stipend.

After depositing my form with the clerk, I joined my fellow “FultonCountians” in a large room with a few old school television monitors (no flat screens or HD). We watched an informative video about the importance of our participation, heard from two Supreme Court justices and got kind of pumped up about the big day ahead. We then got a live audio welcome from one of the local judges who again thanked us for our service and said everything was going to be just fine.

Without hesitation, a nice young woman started calling names for the first trial, and low and behold, I heard Robert Crammer (it’s Cramer) and I was given number 39 (I had to write it on my crumpled newspaper so I wouldn’t forget it which should have disqualified me immediately from being able to serve). Nevertheless, I was honored to be included in the first case, psyched to being doing my civic duty and ready to shout out, Guilty, and throw the key in the Hudson River.

Actually, my case was dull, really dull; a traffic accident, with no debate over who was at fault, but a real debate if the actual accident caused the actual injuries that the plaintiff said it did. Boring. I was ready for a little Al Pacino in …And Justice For All (“you’re out of order, you’re out of order, this whole trial is out of order”), but everything in my little courtroom was quite orderly and our nice judge, who I think did the live audio welcome minutes before, proved to be quite a sports fan talking about the Braves opening game, the upcoming Final Four and the Masters.

She then told us about the Voir Dire process (I must admit when she started to talk Latin that I had an innocent little crush on her). But I was there to do a job, and that job was to not get selected for this jury. With a clear conscience, I was able to raise my little number 39 card for so many questions that after about three hours of waiting, going in and out of the courtroom, and seeing just how slowly the wheels of justice work, my service was thankfully no longer needed.

Free at last, I look back favorably on my time keeping the pillars of justice in balance. I await my paycheck but eagerly anticipate my certificate of attendance, suitable for framing. Ironically, when I got home from jury duty, I got an unexpected surprise in our mailbox: a nice offer for my wife to do the whole process again.

When you don’t shop often, going to a department store can be intimidating.  The dazzling display of row upon row of clothes from designers I have never heard of and looks, styles and colors that don’t resemble anything in my existing wardrobe makes me want to immediately leave just moments after arriving.  When that fight or flee response kicks in, I’ll dodge the hip and stylishly dressed sales associate who offers to help me find something, I’ll make a beeline for the nearest exit knocking over the Salvation Army bell ringer if need be and I’ll make a promise to myself to return sometime soon and, next time, buy something outside of my clothing comfort zone.

Well that all changed this past weekend.  Maybe it was the power of the New Year, the unseasonable warm weather or my new position in my newly transformed company, but whatever the case, I manned up in the men’s department.

Yes, it was a good thing my wife was there, and with her kind encouragement and steady support, I did it.  I asked for help; for some fashion guidance, for some hip advice and hop counsel.  You see I needed to buy some new jeans, and for once, not have the name Levi or Relaxed Fit sown into the fabric.

Well, let me tell you, the jean market today is uncharted territory.  Who knew there were so many brands, so many shades of blue, so many stitch patterns, so much spandex.

The whole scene was downright funny, kind of an out-of-body experience, here a 52-year old carrying a few extra Holiday pounds pouring through pile after pile of jeans named 7 for All Mankind, DIESEL, AG, True Religion and Citizen of Humanity (am I at the United Nations?), and looking for just the right fit be it Boot Cut, Straight Leg, Slim and, heaven help me, Extra Slim.

Somehow, thanks to my excellent Nordstrom’s advisor (who was half my age and 100 times cooler), we selected four pairs to try on and took this mid-life crisis party into the dressing room.  I was a little nervous about the length of each pair as it seemed like only NBA players could wear them.  Undaunted, the tailor measured me up when I made the ultimate selection, only after texting a picture to my 19-year old fashion fashionista daughter for final approval.

The deed being done, I look forward to sporting my new jeans when I’m out on the town. Next, I might need some new boots; maybe a few new tees, some tats, and a Harley Davidson might work.   Or, maybe I’ll just stick with the Hyundai.

Being a “tennis player” has always been part of my identity.  Left-handed and a native New Yorker, there is a little John McEnroe (minus the tantrums) in my game, a craftsman with surgeon-like touch, an artist on a tennis court canvas; stubbornly consistent, creative but lacking big power, my game is ideally suited for a wooden racket era.

I learned tennis under the tutelage of one of the finest men I have ever known, Elwood Cooke.  Elwood lost in the finals of Wimbledon to Bobby Riggs, and for years was one of the top ten players in the world.  He later went on to become a scratch golfer and I bet that if you handed him a ping pong paddle, horseshoe or a baseball bat, he would excel in no time at that too.

Elwood taught me a very conventional continental forehand and for that time an unconventional two-handed backhand, which for years was my signature shot.   Today, it is just the opposite:  I have a one-handed backhand with a mean slice and a forehand that I keep trying to make look more like Nadal’s.

My peak level at tennis occurred when I was about 12, coming off one of the highlights of my career winning the Camp Androscoggin singles championship with a thrilling comeback from down 4-2 (you used to play to 5) in a third and deciding set tie-breaker.  My poor opponent, Tony Meyer, after having lost three match points, burst into tears as his return sailed just wide.  I remember as if it was yesterday seeing the out ball mark on the red clay court and scene that followed.

For someone who didn’t focus primarily on just tennis (I was the George Plimpton of my high school, trying all sports including playing goalie in ice hockey despite not being able to skate, being the barefoot kicker on my varsity football team, a technique that worked well until the weather got cold and the other team tried to step on my foot, and a few other semi-successful adventures including soccer, basketball , baseball and a short lived squash career), I have had some pretty good successes on the court.  They include making the Emory varsity tennis team as a freshman, winning both the Sunningdale (New York) and Druid Hills (Atlanta) country club championships, losing in the finals of the Journalist Tennis tournament at the US Open where Mike Kandel of CNN and I barely fell to defeat at the hands of tennis legend Bud Collins and sports reporter Mike Lupica and of course, losing consistently to Barbara Potter.

OK, let me explain the last piece.  I went to a boarding school in Connecticut where as a 10^th grader, I was the best boy tennis player in the school (that is not saying that much for the tennis quality but bear with me).   However, the daughter of one of the school’s legendary teachers was an incoming 9^th grader.  She also happened to be ranked number two in the country behind Tracy Austin.

One of the nicest and most talented people you could ever meet, Barbara Potter was a tennis powerhouse, with a huge serve, an awesome volley and big time return.  She decided to play one season on the school team, and was way too good for the girls team, so she played on the boys team.

So here was the situation: a freshman girl playing number one on the boys’ team, with me not so conveniently positioned as number two.  We would go play some of these big time prep schools like Choate and Hotchkiss with generally a senior boy in their top position.  This freshman girl would show up, and most of the time, put a serious beating on her opponent, and not just with finesse, but by overpowering them with a serve and volley game not typically found in the Connecticut hills.

As you might expect, my school friends didn’t care about all of this, and I took a lot of ribbing and the like for being second to a girl (of course, none of those “friends” had made a varsity team of any kind and now with years of therapy, I am over it).  Fortunately, Barbara decided after a year of inflicting trauma on the entire New England Boys prep school tennis conference or whatever the heck it was called, she went on to focus on national tournaments.  She did reach the semi-finals of the 1981 U.S. Open and had a long and distinguished professional career.   One year, she even asked me to hit with her as a warm up when she was in New York, an opportunity that I thoroughly enjoyed.

My tennis unlike Barbara’s meteoric career has gone basically nowhere, due to playing golf, other forms of exercise, children, a crazy entrepreneur career and a general lack of ability.  However, I feel a resurgence coming up, with my new semi-western forehand grip creating a lethal weapon that needs to be registered with the state of Georgia, playing the deuce court in doubles so the new lethal forehand is in the middle, making a commitment to jumping rope and overall fitness to wear down the 50-and-over crowd I now encounter and a renewed enjoyment of the competition and camaraderie that tennis provides.

The way things are going I might even breakdown and buy one of the oversized tennis bags serious tennis players lug around.  Add some new designer clothes, a few fresh rackets and a no-fear, take no prisoners attitude, it might be time for the senior tour.  Or I might just take up paddle tennis.

So there I was yesterday, on the 12th tee box, watching time stand still. A well struck 8-iron, with a controlled draw that barely missed the trees on the right, continued to work it way left, catching the right side of the heavily tilted, smooth-as-silk green on the venerable Somerset Hills golf course back nine. It was the hottest day of the year in the New Jersey, but up early and keeping cool, my twosome overlooked a beautiful lake with a little green carved into the side as my little Calloway number 4 came in for a soft landing.

The conversation on the tee box had been all about making a hole in one, but I don’t think what was about to happen ranks up there with Babe Ruth calling his homerun shot, or even Broadway Joe’s Super Bowl prediction (though those thoughts bounced around in my head). Upon hitting the green, my ball as if following orders made an immediate left turn down the slope towards the pin and the lake, and moved tantalizingly close to the intended target. We watched all of this from 135 yards away, and the ball appeared to have stopped. But no, it kept moving and before you could say “drinks on the house”, it simply disappeared.

My brother in law, who was nice enough to invite me out on this humid morning, and our trusted caddie, Mike, who brought up just moments earlier that the only hole in one that he had seen on that hole was from Charles Swartzel, the Masters champion, both jumped for joy. The twosome behind us, who must have been watching, also joined in the celebration. My reaction was rather muted, as if I expected this to happen (only kidding). Later, my kids would say it was “amazing” which I took as an insult to my finely tuned golfing ability (it is amazing this hadn’t happened sooner, right?). In any event, it was all quite exciting and of course, I had “post hole in one let down” as I popped up my next drive about 80 yards straight in the air.