Dino Baskovic Can’t Lose

It's simple, really. I will blog about whatever the first 10 people tell me to blog. Ten posts in all, first come first served according to datetime stamp. Even if I haven't a clue as to the subject matter and I have to ad lib as I go.

The only stipulations are that you must tweet me your suggestion at @ProfessorDino via Twitter, and only one entry per person, please. No changing your mind, so make your tweet count.

Nothing's off the table here, and I can't guarantee you'll like what I write. But I will of course credit you for your suggestion.

So, what say ye?

How profound it must have been for my Nonno to hold my newborn mother, and later my aunt and two uncles in his arms for the first time. I can relate to it having two daughters myself. How proud he must have been, as I was for those first few moments of life.

A former soldier, he was a stern father and hard laborer. He held dearly his heritage but wanted more for his family. In the late '60s, he moved them all from Bari, Italy to Cleveland, Ohio, to the United States, to the land of freedom and opportunity.

I knew him as a diligent man and doting grandfather. He and my Nonna would watch over me while their own children grew up and my working mother dealt with being a widow at an early age. How he must have cried for her at night.

He was loyal to the Teamsters, his Italian-American club, St. Rocco Parish and his many friends and family. As I grew older, I came to know this man that would drive me to school and soccer practice as a wise, compassionate, generous soul who would always find a $20 bill in his pocket when I needed gas money and he knew I was too proud to ask.

I get my pride from him, I know I do. My temper, too. But as I watched him grow to become a quiet and humble man, I learned to relax and enjoy the simpler things in life. This was largely because of him. He tended to his garden, made his own wine, cured his own meats. Even in old age, he kept his health in check for my mom's sake, and limited the fender benders on the way to see his wife in the mausoleum to a minimum.

For him to see all of his children marry, my cousins and my own girls born, and my aunt adopt a daughter of her own. To be so far away from his beloved family back in Italy. To be married to his beautiful Anna. To live with her suffering. To see our family through sickness. To watch his own children mature and become hard workers, good spouses and loving parents. To watch me become a responsible adult. And not screw it up. At least not too much.

For him to dance with my wife at our wedding.

He was so proud of me. So very proud. My mom always told me that. He just wanted to know that I was okay, that nothing was wrong and everything was right. That I had a good job, a house, a good home for my own family. That I would become a loving father, just like the one he met and I never knew.

If something was good, he would declare it good. If something was no good, he would simply say, "No good, Dino." Whenever I bought a new car, he would admire it more than me. He was a GM man. "Dino, time come you go wanna buy car, you buy Chev-ro-let. I drive Chev-ro-let. That 'a nice 'a car, now. Other cars shit."

I never did get to show him my new Chevy. But I did get to watch him sit on my deck early this spring, staring at the birds, the morning sun bearing on his ripened face. A little espresso, maybe a John Wayne movie he could barely understand anymore, a nap in a chair and he was happy.

What I wouldn't give to be 8 again and fiddle with tools in his basement. Or play Gin Rummy with him in his dining room back home. Even to have just said goodbye and that I love him, one last time, and that I am so very proud of him.

Antonio Ranieri, my Nonno, died peacefully early this morning in Cleveland. He was 91.

Not to be outdone by a good friend of mine who (thinks he) writes like Oscar Wilde, I analyzed a random post on my blog using I Write Like to see who writes most like me—er, the other way around. And?

I write like
David Foster Wallace

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

That's about write—er, right. Which reminds me that I am due for that fluid flush.

I've never agreed with the statement "It's business, nothing personal." I owned and ran my own business for eight years. It's very personal.

That's not to say I had a right to publicly and visibly burn every bridge I felt like. As a result of last night's nuclear explosion over "The Decision" of LeBron James, Cleveland Cavaliers majority owner Dan Gilbert woke upto an ounce of remorse and a pound of damage control. Were I the Cavs PR guy, I'd be a bit rankled at my boss for having singlehandedly turned crisis into crises.Comical (Sans) that Gilbert's letter was, holding the webmaster at gunpoint to pull the trigger without first running it through a few filters was just as foolish as the entire LeBron-ESPN debacle in the first place.

Still, it's near impossible for me to be completely objective throughout all this, being a lifelong Cleveland fan and having endured all "The" monumental sports failures over the years. Personally, I loved "The Letter." This is why I turn to Brian Windhorst, the Cavs beat writer for the Cleveland Plain Dealer who offered rationale, factual reporting throughout this free agency messmoreso than his source-frenzied media peers at other papers. He gave a glimpse of what Gilbert went through the past seven years in service to the King. James wasn't perfect. Then again, neither was Gilbert, nor could the two of them hoist a trophy together—at least the only one that matters.

It's good to know that guys like Gilbert, wealthy and at times pigheaded as they may be, actually give a damn about this business. Now the question for Gilbert and the Cavs is how to turn that terse letter into lemonade -- and five subsequent rings. It will take a lot of fast and right moves in the coming days and weeks, as well as rebuilding the franchise in mere months, not years. Sure, that harsh rebuke has sports pundits wondering why on earth any superstar agent would send their clients Gilbert's way at this point. But if a few choice words become the impetus for turning the team and perhaps all of Cleveland into champions, then Gilbert made the right choice.

Countless letters throughout history penned by the powerful and the passionate have become catalysts for change, war cries, rallies for victory. You see, business is about winning. (Yes, it's also about learning from failure and fostering talent and the people and the children and the manatees and on and on, but ultimately winning.) And if you don't like winning, then get out of the business.

Down to two business cards left, from months of networking and travel, it was time to restock.

My official title is "Manager, Social Media and Online Public Relations and Public Relations Services." Exactly. My old cards simply read "Manager, Social Media + Online PR."

This time, I decided to be simpler. And drop the cutsie plus sign. Enter: "Manager, Public Relations."

PR pros, at least the real ones, know that social media is no longer trendy. I tell people up and down that, guess what, it's just part of who we are and what we do. No longer a value-added add-on or whatever, we blog, we tweet, we meetup, we connect with people through social networks and iPads and PlayStations and on and on. Execs get it, editors get it, and eventually you will too, you so-called self-proclaimed social media gurus.

From one reformed guru to another,
DB