Living has a way of knocking the life out of you, and so it is that I’m a bit bit miffed that a cool public radio station in Pittsburgh, Pa. just accepted my donation, but failed to pass along my call-out to its listenership.

But wait, even as the words are written, indeed they do, at WYEP, mention my name not once, but three, and not just “Richard” but “Richard of Maryland.”

They do so sharing a secret, and with barely discernible chuckles at its suppression, say something to the effect of “Richard challenges the people of Pittsburgh” to renew their membership, or become a new member at WYEP.org, or by calling 412-381-9900, the latter of which is what I did.

Echoing the fabled battle cry of Betty and Wilma, I charged it, and was surprised when she answered the phone, to be talking to Anna herself, one of the two voices on the radio. I’d called once while they were still on the air and the phone rang and rang, and I eventually hung up to confirm the number, imagining as I did so, the poor girl screaming that the phone was ringing and she couldn’t get to it. A failure of proper engineering in the studio, perhaps. Or maybe a bathroom trip.

In any case, a few minutes later I called back and thanked her for doing what she did, either volunteering or being paid peanuts for her efforts in service to song, and I asked the young lady to pay my compliments to her DJ partner Brian, who spins the Block Party, which has over the past year or so yielded three downloaded songs that rock my socks and further bust my faded eardrums. And while you might say that three songs ain’t worth all that much, certainly not $40 for a basic membership, you’d be wrong in that regard because it’s all brand new to me, like virtually everything on the indie WYEP, and besides, it’s more than song, it’s the letting go allowed, the unique transport of every tune that touches deep.

Man is accorded only so many rocking songs; to borrow Gollum, they are precious.

They’re not political at all, the radio station. Neither Red nor Blue. Just of the Muse.

The great uniter.

So after dialing 412-381-9900 and finding myself chatting with Anna, and having imbibed just enough brew to be semi-cute in borderline incoherence, I issued forth the challenge to which the duo later alluded, but failed to fully articulate.

Because I asked Anna to share not only my name and hometown, but a phrase that resonates, from Mountain to Sea, across the state nee Free: “Go Ravens!”

She chuckled at the proposal, a bit nervously I thought, and promised to bring it to Brian.

Warming to the spirit of bubbles ablow and coal’s orange glow, I elaborated.

“Tell them, ‘Go Ravens!’ and a Ravens fan challenges Pittsburgh to do the right thing. Support WYEP!”

She laughed some more, took my card info, and bade farewell.

So there I am waiting by the radio that is my PC, and when they come back from the playlist, Brian didn’t say a damn thing. And as sweet Anna flawlessly delivered her script, I was frankly feeling a little bit used. They acknowledged that one person had called toward their hour-long quota of three, but that was it.

And I got pissed and sat down to share my indignation, tactfully of course, when they came back on, and mentioned “Richard.” And “Maryland.” And “challenge.”

But not a word of Ravens.

And I know I heard them giggling in a professional DJ way, and it was evident to me that the two had shared a quick debate of what to do. No station manager to ask for clearance, no time to go up the chain. God love ‘em, they didn’t discard my request altogether, but were forced by circumstance to guess the will of management, gauge the mood of Steelers Nation, and like the head coach at a game-changing moment, make that critical call.

“Can they take it?” Anna and Brian must have asked each other of the Pittsburgh masses, can they stand to hear such words o’er hometown broadcast stream heretofore deemed safe haven?

“Go Ravens!”

Taking their measure of the mood along the banks and heights about Three Rivers, Brian & Anna understandably concluded that Steelers fans indeed could not handle it. The truth, that is, of their team’s progressive decay and imminent decline. Of a power rising in the East.

Truth don’t reside in Pittsburgh anymore, not after that opening-game smackdown, because denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, it courses down the Monongahela and Allegheny, taking full form at the confluence-birth of the Ohio.

Now, a date once anticipated is dreaded. Like walking on egg shells and tip-toeing past a graveyard, ya gotta be delicate with Steelers fans these days. Somebody go “Boo!” and say “Ravens!” and they all be running for the doors, tearing out their hair and wetting their pants in abject dread at the enemy’s imminent approach;  Baltimore come to town, Nov 6. Sunday night. And the distinct possibility of another nationally televised Steeler humiliation.

As the vile general of the Mordor armies observed upon the siegeing of Minas Tirith, “I smell fear” in Pittsburgh.

And yea, I bet that Ray Lewis & Co. wouldn’t mind being compared to the battle trolls, Orc hordes and forces of massed menace assembled on Pelennor Fields, only the Ravens are on the side of good. Especially when they play the Steelers.

Having been borderline upset that they didn’t initially give me a call out, I enjoyed the fun of being in on our little secret, just me and the two DJs of WYEP. And I was fine with their call, in the quiet way the Ravens dominate, no need to spook the Steelers fans with a “Go Ravens!” challenge. Let ‘em slumber peacefully, dreaming dreams of Terry and Franco, Stallworth and Swann, the Steel Curtain, and even Big Ben and Hines Ward. They’ll always have their memories.

So it was, Steel City all tucked in and go nite-nite, that I was content to go on the broadcast record, not as a Ravens fan, but simply Richard of Maryland.

Because Maryland, her colors emblazoned upon the team’s uniform, kicks ass every bit as much as the Ravens.

But that’s for another day. Suffice to say, “Steelers suck!”