Chapter 8 roll call

I flew to London in a few weeks.I was there to cover Wimbledon, the premier tennis tournament in the world and one of the few sporting events where no crowd booed and no one got drunk in the parking lot.Britain is very warm and cloudy. Every morning I walk on the tree-lined avenue near the tennis court, and from time to time I meet children waiting in long queues to get their tickets refunded and vendors selling weed poison and ice cream.There was a newsagent outside the gate of the tennis court, selling British tabloids in five or six colours.Close-up photos of nude girls, 'pat trash' royal press photos.Astrology fortune telling book.sports magazine.Sweepstakes contest and a small amount of current affairs news.They wrote the day's top stories on a blackboard against a stack of newspapers, and they were usually: Diana feuding with Charles or Garza asking the team for millions!

People welcome these popular tabloids and read those gossip with relish.I did the same thing on my previous visits to England, but this time, for some reason, whenever I read those meta-chats, I thought of Morrie.I keep thinking of him counting his breaths in the house with the Japanese maples and the hardwood floors.Squeeze out every minute to be with the situation of the one he loves.And I spend a lot of time on things that mean nothing to me: movie stars, supermodels, rumors about Princess Dee, Madonna, or JFK.Strange to say, though I bemoaned Morrie's short life, I envied its fullness.Why do we spend so much time on trivial matters: movie stars, supermodels, rumors about Princess Dee, Madonna or JFK.Strange to say, though I bemoaned Morrie's short life, I envied its fullness.Why do we spend a lot of time on unnecessary trifles? The O.J. Simpson case was so hot in the United States that people were willing to give up their entire lunch time to watch this report, and they had to pre-record the part that they couldn't finish watching in the evening.They didn't know Simpson, nor did they know anyone else connected to the case.Yet they are willing to waste their time doing it, wallowing in other people's farce all day, all week.

I remembered what Morrie said the last time we met: "Our culture doesn't make us feel comfortable. You need to be very strong to say, if the culture isn't working, don't accept it." Murray, as he said, built his own culture -- long before his illness.Small group discussions, walks with friends, dancing at church in Washington Square.He also created a program called Green House, which provides psychotherapy for the needy.He read widely to find new ideas for his classes, visited colleagues, kept in touch with graduates, and wrote letters to distant friends.He prefers to spend his time enjoying food and nature, never wasting it on TV comedies or weekend movies.He established a pattern of human activity—communication, mutual influence, mutual love—that enriched his life.

I also created my own culture: work.I work four or five news media jobs in the UK, jumping around like a clown.I spend eight hours a day on the computer, sending reports back to the United States; I also make TV shows and follow the crew all over London.I also host the Listener Call Live Festival every morning and afternoon.This burden is indeed heavy enough.For several years, I considered my work as my companion and left everything else behind. At Wimbledon, I dine on the tiny square work table, assuming the task is done.One day, when a group of frenzied journalists were chasing Agassi and his famous girlfriend, Brooke Shields, I was knocked over by a British photographer who just muttered "I'm sorry" and ran away A human figure with a huge metal lens around his neck.I couldn't help but think of another thing Murray once said to me: "Many people live meaningless lives. Even when they are busy with something that they think is important, they seem lethargic. It’s because they’re chasing the wrong thing. You’re going to make life meaningful by dedicating yourself to love, to the community around you, to creating values ​​that give you purpose and meaning.”

I think he is right. Although I'm doing the opposite. When the Open was over—I'd been knocked down by a lot of coffee—I turned off my computer, cleaned up my workbench, and headed back to my lodging to pack my bags.It was already late at night, and there was no picture on the TV. I flew back to Detroit and arrived in the evening.I dragged my tired body back home and fell on the bed.Woke up to the breaking news: The union at my newspaper had gone on strike.The newspaper was closed.Pickets stood at the gates, and petitioners marched in the streets.As a member of a union, I have no choice.All of a sudden, for the first time in my life, I lost my job, my checks, and my boss.The head of the union called me and warned me not to deal with any of my former bosses and to hang up if they called to explain.Many of them are my friends.

"We will fight to victory!" the head of the union swore like a soldier. I feel both confused and frustrated.While my part-time TV and radio jobs were a nice side hustle, the newspaper was always my lifeline, my oxygen.When I see the stories I write hit the papers every morning, I know I'm alive, at least in a sense. Now it's gone.As the strike continued — one day, two days, three days — there continued to be anxious calls and rumors that the strike could last for months.The way of life I knew was disrupted.It turns out that there are sports games that I need to interview every night, but now I can only stay at home and watch them in front of the TV.I'd taken it for granted that readers would desperately need my column, but I was surprised how well things went without me.

After a week of this, I picked up the phone and dialed Morrie's number, and Connie put him on. "Come and see me," his voice sounded more like an order than a question. can i come "How about Tuesday?" Tuesday is fine, I say.Just Tuesday. In my second year of college, I took two of his other courses, and we met and talked often outside the classroom.I'd never been this close to an adult who wasn't a relative before, but I found Morrie extremely easy to get along with, and he seemed happy. "Where are we going today?" he asked excitedly as soon as I walked into his office.

In spring, we sat under a big tree outside the sociology building; in winter, we sat at his desk.I wear a collarless gray long-sleeved shirt and Adidas sneakers, and Morrie wears Lockports and corduroy pants.Every time we talked, he listened to my ramblings and then moved on to life lessons, reminding me that money wasn't all that mattered, contrary to the prevailing opinion on campus.He told me to be a "whole person".He spoke of the alienation of youth, of the need for some kind of connection with the society around him.Some things I can understand and some things I can't, but it doesn't matter.Discussing the issues offered me an opportunity to have a conversation with him that I never had with my father, who wanted me to be a lawyer someday.

Morrie hated lawyers. "What do you want to do after graduation?" he asked. I want to be a musician, I said.play piano. "That's great," he said, "but it's a tough road." Yes. "There are a lot of masters." I've heard it before. "But," he said, "if you really want to, you should make your dreams come true." I wanted to hug him and thank him for saying that, but I'm not very outgoing, I just, nodded. "I'm sure you have a lot of energy when you play the piano," he said. I laughed.vitality? He laughed too. "Vitality. What's the matter, is that term outdated?"