Dream On

Dreams, Edgar Allen Poe suggested in one of his better-known poems, may walk hand-in-hand with reality and might be indistinguishable from real-life events. He repeats the same thought, first as a statement, then as a question: “All that we see or seem/Is but a dream within a dream,” and “Is all that we see or seem/But a dream within a dream?” 

No telling, Eddie P. wrote. Dreams have intrigued people for thousands of years. Poets and artists and philosophers approach them from one angle, scientists from another. Despite numerous studies, there is no consensus about why we dream or their principal effects. Notable theories propose that dreams help us process memories and deal with emotions. 

I tend to think of dreams as the brain off the clock, free to wander and create and prowl around the attic, unburdened by waking attention to work and kids and fetching groceries and navigating the healthcare system. I dream most nights, but the details usually evaporate seconds after I wake up. There’s a recurring theme, however, that sticks with me. 

You know the dream where you walk into a college classroom to take an exam for a class you haven’t attended and have done none of the work? I routinely have the sportswriter’s version of that dream. I arrive to cover a game between two teams that I’ve never seen and know nothing about. 

There are always variations. I arrive late, after the game has begun. I don’t have pen or paper to take notes. There are no notes or statistics about the teams. I don’t have a laptop to write a game story. I don’t have a seat from which to watch the game and must piece together an account from the radio or TV broadcast in the press room. I don’t have a desk or space to work when I return to the office to write a story. Sometimes, there’s a combination of obstacles. One recent twist within the theme was that I had to write a story on a recruit’s college choice, but I couldn’t talk to the kid. 

It'd be nice to remember the happier dreams, but I don’t. I have no idea if my brain is plumbing my (formerly) professional anxieties or just having fun at my subconsciousness’s expense. I don’t know if others’ brains work similarly and mechanisms are geared toward their pursuits and worries. Like, if Dave dreams about walking into a class to teach a book he hasn’t read, or if Z or Marls have to go into a courtroom and argue a case they know nothing about. Does Rob ever find himself trying to sell AI services to a roomful of homeless people? Or are your dreams sunnier and more productive? Does Whit dream that he persuades Bill Gates and Tim Cook and Nvidia microchip chieftain Jensen Huang to relocate their operations to Hampton Roads? 

Research about dreams travels down numerous paths. Freud in the late 19th century theorized that dreams represented unconscious desires and leaned heavily into repressed feelings and sexual motivation. Though many of Siggy’s ideas have been refuted, research indicates that suppressed thought tends to result in dreaming about it, something called dream rebound theory. 

Another theory is that REM sleep triggers the brain to create electrical impulses and a compilation of random thoughts, images and memories that people organize when they wake, something called Activation-Synthesis Dream Theory. One called Self-Organization Dream Theory posits that the brain organizes the day’s activity while we sleep and memories are strengthened or weakened; helpful memories are made stronger, while weaker ones fade (yeah, tell that to my scrambling sportswriter dreams). 

There’s a problem-solving or creative dream theory that accounts for people waking up in the middle of the night or first thing in the morning with “Eureka!” moments. Yet another says that dreams help to prepare us confront dangers – fight-or-flight, uncomfortable situations – known as Rehearsal and Adaptation Dream Theory. Emotional Regulation Dream Theory says that dreams help people process their emotions within the safe space of sleep. 

There’s even something called Lucid Dreaming, where a dreamer is aware of being in his or her own dream and sometimes having control over its content, though that occurs more rarely. Much of this gets to the “what” of dreams, but not the “why.” We’d like to believe that our subconscious is assisting us – organizing memories, providing coping mechanisms, smoothing the day’s edges. But then how to explain nightmares and the agitation of bad or troubling dreams. Do dreams talk us off ledges in a non-threatening setting, or do our brains simply spit back a mashup of the day’s, or a life’s, input? Might we ever learn how it all works? To quote Eddie P. in a different context: Nevermore.

A Dream Deferred

My fondness for Porsches is well documented, so much so that I won't bother linking to some of my Porsche-related G:TB posts.  It will not surprise you that I like to peruse Porsche's finder website to look at cars I will never be able to afford with the hope that I will someday stumble across a hidden gem in the center of my ideal Porsche Venn diagram (manual, roofless, air-cooled, green on the outside, tan-and-pepita on the inside, mechanically sound, affordable).  A boy's gotta dream.

Today I found an achingly perfect 911, a 1977 911S Targa in Oak Green over beige-and-pepita with a 5-speed manual transmission and in preposterously crispy condition at Rusnak Porsche in Pasadena, CA.  

Smack dab in the middle of my Venn diagram!!  Except it's a little too mechanically sound--it has only 437 miles so it's literally a museum quality car.  Which means the most critical aspect of the Venn diagram, price, is waaaaay out of wack.  Rusnak wants [double-checks notes] $896,488.  That's American dollars, not yen or baht.

Alas.  I'll keep on dreaming.

Hope, Dreams, and the Genius of Harry Redknapp

I caught a story on BBC Radio during my drive home last night that fits so squarely with the Gheorghian ethos that it must be retold. It features, among other things, beer, irrational fandom, tattoos, the thickest of East End accents, and Harry Redknapp.

Let's begin at the beginning, shall we?

Ever since he was five years old, Steve Davies dreamed of playing for West Ham United. He grew up in the rain-thrashed English working-class town of Rushden, where by birthright he should have supported Rushden Town, or Northampton, or even Coventry City. But after watching West Ham triumph over Fulham in the 1975 FA Cup final, he became a long-distance fan, pledging his allegiance to the claret and blue of the Hammers.

Davies and a few mates traveled all over England to watch the Hammers play, cementing his love of the team and bonding over football. He became a decent pub league player, but like most of us, his professional dreams never amounted to more than the most wishful of thinking.

West Ham earned promotion to the Premiership in 1993, while Davies married, had a child, and began working as a courier, while still following the claret and blue.

In 1994, West Ham played an exhibition against lower-division Oxford, and Davies' friend Chunk wanted to attend.

"He's a true mate," says Steve. "My first wife was called Kelly, and Chunk's missus was also called Kelly, and they got pregnant at exactly the same time." The Steves and their Kellys once drove 230 miles to Torquay to watch West Ham play when the Kellys were five months pregnant. "Every five miles we had to stop for them to be sick at the side of the road," Steve says. "We nearly missed the kick-off.

"Chunk called me up one day and said, 'We got a pre-season game over at Oxford – fancy it?'" remembers Steve, who never said no to West Ham. "We liked to get a couple of games in early. We get withdrawal symptoms when the season finishes in May. I very rarely missed a game, and I fancied a little away trip to Oxford anyways." Steve's mate Bazza was also in Chunk's Cavalier as it idled outside Steve's house.

As the first half of West Ham's knock-the-rust-off friendly with Oxford Football Club kicked off at Court Place Farm, Davies found himself irritated at the Hammers' striker, Lee Chapman. Davies' loud protestations were impossible to miss in the tiny venue.

So loud, in fact, that Harry Redknapp, West Ham's assistant manager (and later legendary skipper) walked over to the barrier separating the field from the fans at halftime to speak with Davies.

The rest of the tale is hallowed football folklore. "I slung a leg over the barrier and Harry walked me down the tunnel," says Steve. "What's your name, son?" Harry asked, sizing up this apparent hooligan. "I couldn't believe it. Inside the dressing room, the players were sat down resting at half-time." West Ham were two-nil up, but the team was carrying injuries. "Then Harry and says, 'Lee you're off; Steve you're on.'"

The West Ham equipment manager gave Davies a kit and boots, and he entered the game at the beginning of the second half, replacing Chapman. As he tells it, the next 45 minutes were a bit of a blur (and he was two beers and a dozen cigarettes in). When it was over, all he had to show for it was some sweat, abused lungs, and a hell of a story.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the dream was over. The kit manager wouldn't let Steve keep his No3 shirt – they'd need it against Newcastle the next week in the Premier League. And 25 minutes later, Steve was back in the Cavalier with Chunk, Bazza, and his missus, stuck in traffic on the road back to reality.

But there's a twist that I won't ruin for you. Read the story in its entirety - it's long, and textured, and guaranteed to make you smile.

Good on you, Steve Davies. May you meet Irwin Fletcher some day, and may the wind be always at your back and the ball land softly at your feet.