The latest installment of The Dirty Gig led me to New York to work in the aftermath of Super Storm Sandy (SSS) … Have you noticed that post-disaster is almost the only time we use the word “aftermath” anymore.

“Why … I can still remember when I was a boy and ‘Aftermath’ was a Rolling Stones album.” Ha … The Stones also blew through here shortly after Sandy left and Ping arrived. Yes we contacted the promoters. They traded a few e-mails about press passes. And then the PR person — very unprofessionally I might add — just blew us off without a “yes” or a “no.” I am not bitter … but needless to say, when a young media relations type drops the ball, I can’t get me no satisfaction. I digress …

 

The Dirty Gig is what some might call my day job … but more importantly it fuels my passion and takes me traveling around the world.

 

So anywho, here in New York, The Dirty Gig included a stint at NYU Medical Center and then it was off to public housing projects … Yes, just like the early days from “The Jeffersons,” if you can remember that urban classic, a spinoff of “All In The Family.” Remember when the hood was called the projects?

 

There have been all kinds of rumors and actual accounts of acts of violence on the various jobs around Manhattan, Long Island, Coney Island, Far Rockaway, Red Hook, etc. Me? I have been drama-free, but I have talked to a guy who was nearly hit by a bicycle that was thrown from a window 10 stories up. The story goes that the bike launcher was not mad at the clean up crew on the ground. He was merely “throwing out his old lady,” and he started with her means of transportation first. Can you believe some nut would do that?

 

We should outlaw bicycles.

 

There are many stories like that from here in the projects. There is a well-known story about someone throwing a sink out a window and actually killing a person on the ground accidentally. But that was in previous years.

 

We should outlaw sinks.

 

As for me and my crew, we have only seen a few “packages” laying around the grounds. Some of the residents change their children’s diapers and then just chunk them out the windows, letting the Pampers fall where they may.

 

We should outlaw babies … Oh wait, the other political party is already working on that one.

 

Anywho … I have been lucky. Having worked at several public housing projects, I have met really nice people – residents and the workers we bring in as well. They seem to be hardworking people who live here — at a discounted rate in pricy New York — they get up, go to work and are trying to get ahead and improve their situations. Many times the system does work and that is encouraging.

 

My job is to oversee crews of local laborers, who are cleaning up the basements of public housing high-rise buildings. In some basements, the water/sludge/funk from Sandy was only a few inches deep. In other buildings, closer to the East River, the water level was eye-high on the walls.

 

For the most part, the workers I oversee are some of the hardest-working, most polite, friendliest, most-respectful people I have ever met. About 20 of the team have worked with me for two months now. They are such hard workers, I wish that I could have them travel to all the disasters I see, all over the country.

 

However, there is lots of work right here in New York for now. We are “attacking” as one of my worker friends says, in six high-rise buildings at once. So, the ranks have swollen to 120 workers on my crew.

 

Each morning, to coordinate/count/pay all of these people we do a lineup … in a very militaristic fashion, if you can even imagine the laid back Ping doing that. It works.

 

And in the lineup, we talk about safety, the tasks at hand, and I try to throw in some team-building topics. Yesterday, I was apologizing to the crew because now that there are 100 more workers, it is hard for me to even remember all the faces, much less the names and anything about all these men and women. I try, but it is a lot of information for my limited “harddrive.”

 

But, I wanted to drive home that I desire to know them or at least a little something something about them. So, as I addressed the group, I gave them “the question of the day.” I instructed them to think about their answer, because throughout the day, as they were power washing floors, draining boiler room tanks, discarding contaminated bags of fertilizer (is that redundant?) I would walk up to them and ask the question. I told them to have their answers ready.

 

The question?

 

“What is your passion?”

 

I want to know the workers as quickly as I can. I figure that is a good way to cut to the chase and find out what makes them tick. And of course, get them to open up a little. Who doesn’t like to talk about their passion?

 

Great answers.

 

This one made me chuckle. One middle-aged man said he would get back to me. Later in the shift, he said, “About my passion … I guess it would have to be fancy cars and women.” Ha … my friend, you must get your priorities in order.

 

My favorite answer … “The best answer of the day,” I told him. One guy said “my children. That is my passion … my kids.” That’s what I’m talking about!

 

If I am to lead these people in the workplace, I want to know their motivation. Everyone works for money. Everyone wants recognition. But there are other things that get them out of bed in the morning. Hmmm … how can I use this new information?

 

Other answers: “Music … I write and record music,” one young worker said, surprising me. Another has a film production company, with all kinds of cinematography equipment. As he stood there with a Shop Vac in his hand, I would never have guessed his other career. Glad I asked.

 

Another guy showed me some of the stellar graphic art he creates. He had a vibrant, abstract illustration saved on his phone — his modern interpretation of one of New York’s many bridges. Awesome! Another said laughter. And yet another, “gaining knowledge.”

 

One of my two favorite Haitian workers of course was in love with soccer, or “fütball” as they call it.

 

So to be fair, I shared with them one of my passions — writing.

 

One reason I like writing is because I fancy myself a storyteller. Ha … writers are just storytellers who don’t like to be interrupted …

 

HA … and that is another good thing about supervising a crew of 120 people in a hard-nosed lineup … they have to listen to what I say. We talk a lot about teamwork and we try to keep it lighthearted to make the messages sink in. Recently, we started awarding a “game ball” at the end of the day.

 

It is a tiny sphere made of tape. I tear off a piece, roll it up, fold the tiny roll and then stick them together. Each piece of tape in the ball looks like a piece of macaroni. This is a time-honored tradition I learned as a kid from the man who would become my high school basketball coach back home. The tape ball — “our game ball” — lives on now in the projects by The East River and Harlem. For the tapeball trophy, each worker rolled a piece of tape and folded it, then I stuck them all together to show what many guys working together could make with just a little adhesive.

 

Then I made them listen to one more story before we attacked the basements.

 

Years ago, when I ran a PR company, I thought I was too busy to coach my youngest son’s baseball team. I had coached the older son’s team, but thought my business was suffering. So, when “the draft” came around, I asked for my son to be on a team that was supposed to be coached by the popular favorite among all the parents. I put in the request expecting my son to make that team and to glide through the season.

 

The next day the phone rang and it was the Little League commissioner, asking me to coach again. The coach who everyone wanted had about 30 kids lined up. They asked me to take half of them. (Yes … “Bad News Bears” came to mind.)

 

I was a little reluctant … but I love my son and I love baseball, so I let them coerce me into coaching again.

 

At our first meeting, a baseball mother came up to me before practice and with a little attitude and a hand on her hip, asked me just what in the world her son was doing on my team. “We specifically requested ‘Coach Wonderful,'” she informed me.

 

Well lady … thanks for the vote of confidence and fyi … I requested this “Coach Wonderful” too and the team was full so I was asked to form a second team, which your misfortunate spawn landed on, along with mine. You’re welcome, by the way. We were not going to be BFFs.

 

Our team started practice and things were going okay. There were several good little athletes who were already way into baseball and there were also the typical collection of daydreaming, butterfly watchers out in the outfield … very cute at that age. They were 5 & 6 year olds.

 

Ha … how do you motivate 6 year olds? Well one way is just the same as with adults. You heap praise on them and you also build teamwork.

 

At our second practice we had a big, big secret meeting. We were to discuss our most important strategy for the year. The message was so top secret that it was only written on paper for me to show to the kids. No one … NO ONE … was allowed to say the strategy aloud. All the kids tried to read the word on the paper and we whispered the word together … Then yes, I wadded up the tiny piece of paper and ate it to dispose of the sensitive information. (I thought that seem like a secret agent, top secret intelligence operation … the kids thought “this crazy man eats paper” … I digress …)

 

For the rest of the season, before each game, we met in the dugout and whispered the secret word.

 

“Teamwork!” the tiny voices all pitched in, in their lowest volume — kind of half whispering, half yelling.

 

Our team, The White Sox, won the championship that year … even defeating Coach Wonderful’s squad.

 

The mom never mentioned our first meeting again. Her son, the second best player on the team (I am proud to say), went on to play in the Little League World Series in South Williamsport, Penn., a few years later, I might add.

 

Know what I sayin?