Vanished

April 4, 1995

April 4, 1995 Diary

My Cub Scout, A
My Cub Scout, A

In retrospect, it’s ironic my youngest son “vanished” the day after Vanished aired on NBC. (I wrote the teleplay, based on the Danielle Steele novel.) It’s about “a man and woman faced with an almost unthinkable tragedy – the mysterious abduction of their son.”


Vanished 1

My fascination with kidnapped children began with a Reader’s Digest condensed book, Kidnap: The Story of the Lindbergh Case by George Waller.  Half a century later, I’ve read almost every book on the subject (and there are a lot).  IMHO, Bruno Richard Hauptmann was innocent, but we’ll never know for sure. That enduring mystery is one of the reasons the case still captivates. Kidnappers Leopold and Loeb also inspired their share of films and books but in their case, the mystery wasn’t who did it, but why.  More recently, the 2007 disappearance of Madeleine McCann is a hot case and the subject of a new Netflix documentary.

I didn't know this until today, but this version of the DVD lists me as the director and the director as the writer.
I didn’t know this until today, but this version of the DVD lists me as the director and the director as the writer.

Missing children – in fiction as well as true crime – capture public imagination because the stories speak to a primal parental fear. I suspect most parents survive at least one heart-stopping moment where their child appears to vanish and the previously unimaginable is agonizingly imminent. In a moment of clarity, you understand that one mistake – an instant of distraction – can shatter everything. Since all of us are human, all of us make mistakes. I made several. All my children terrified me with at least one disappearing act. Luckily, none of them were gone very long.

A, again.
A, again.

 

 

May 9, 1993

May 9, 1993

Jim McCann, Judith Russell, CD Rowell, me and John outside the Great Western Forum.
Jim McCann, Judith Russell, CD Rowell, me and John outside the Great Western Forum.

I rarely watched sports at all (certainly not by choice) before my obsession – some might say my addiction – with the Lakers began. A novice at rolling with the ups and downs of a long season, I took every loss to heart. Viewing the game through the lens of a die-hard fan, I was outraged at how the referees routinely called phantom fouls (and otherwise screwed) my beleaguered Lakers. Did somebody pay them to make my team lose? When obsessed, my thinking gets increasingly deranged.

1985-86 Lakers team
1985-86 Lakers team

How did this obsession begin? My very first Lakers game – an early round of the playoffs, 1986. The Forum was shaking; Laker fans were confident they’d breeze past Houston on their route to a second NBA Championship. The Lakers led the scoreboard every single second of the game -– until the last one, when Ralph Sampson drained an impossible three and the Lakers were out. Dream over. If they’d won as expected, I probably wouldn’t remember it so clearly. The out-of-nowhere last instant loss was high drama, to say the least. I was hooked.

The Forum basketball court
The Forum basketball court

John’s theory was after a loss like that, they’d come back strong and win the championship the following year so we bought our first season tickets. We were high in the rafters but we made friends with the interesting crew of people who owned the seats around us and it was a great year. They did indeed win the championship. I almost fainted, it was so exciting. We videotaped the games (VHS) so – if they won – we could watch them again when we got home.

Arty night shot of Forum
Arty night shot of Forum

Yeah. We were really that crazy about the Lakers. And it was a blast to be a fan in 87, 88 and 89  when they won everything. Less so in 90 and absolute misery as I write this. I’ll never give my heart to another team, though. It can only be broken once.

John and me in front of the Forum.
John and me in front of the Forum.

When I wrote I was a “smidge” down, I was trying to manage my emotions. I’d read that using words that minimized pain could actually reduce one’s emotional reaction. It worked, but gradually I slipped back into my catastrophizing ways. This entry is a timely reminder it’s far better to be a “smidge” disappointed than bereft because my life is over.

 

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