Thursday, April 21, 2016

No-Hitters

Jake Arrieta, working on his no-hitter in 2015 in LA. (Photo: Jayne Kamin-Oncea-USA TODAY Sports)

I just finished watching Jake Arrieta of the Cubs finish no-hitting the Reds.

I love love love love no-hitters. Of course, they're the less exclusive brothers of perfect games (295 vs. 23 as of tonight), but I love them both.

I've watched or listened to too many to count (both perfectos and no-no's).

David Cone. Dwight Gooden. Felix Hernandez. Johan Santana (what a farce). Dave Righetti. Jack Morris. The list goes on.

I remember sitting in the parking lot at Stew Leonard's listening to Jon Miller cal the end of Tim Lincecum's in 2014.

I remember missing every pitch of David Wells' perfect game in 1998 (the first one by a Yankee since Don Larsen - of course - in 1956). I was at a convention in Las Vegas, and found out via TV, and literally yelled.

I caught Cone's in 1999 while in a friends' car, and refused to change the radio. That drive from Albany to Danbury was something to remember.

As social media began reporting tonight's gem, I began to pull myself together for where I would watch the event. Of course, I would also address the so-called "curse."*

* It's said that if anyone says the words "no-hitter" or "perfect game," it curses it. This includes fans, players, coaches, concessionaires, taxi cab drivers, clubhouse attendants, and kindly little old ladies.

And broadcasters. Most of all.

Yet there's this guy - name's Scully - and he's called 20 no-hitter and three perfect games. Somehow, he has said those dreadful words in just about all of them.

Just saying.

So whenever I watch one, I'm reminded of a rainy Saturday: September 4, 1993 at Yankee Stadium. I didn't think the game would be played, and there were only 27, 125 on hand at the glorious old House.

I was there, in the lower deck right field seats. Jim Abbott - born without a right hand - worked his way through a talented and upcoming Cleveland Indians lineup. A group that, in fact, would be in the World Series in both 1995 and 1997.

The rhythm of a perfect game or no-hitter carries is as such: You largely downplay the first couple of innings. In fact, you might not even know what's going on. Innings 4-6 are when things start getting real.

After the sixth inning, people know**. Now the nerves kick in.

** Except for some of the people I was with that day.

In the seventh inning, the buzz builds. The stomach begins to churn.

In the eighth inning, the knuckles get whiter. Get through the eighth, and it's probably time to text, call, or contact your friends via social media.

To the ninth inning. You're jumping at every pitch. You're growling at Kenny Lofton for trying to bunt (BUNT! You wuss!) his way on. To paraphrase Mr. Scully: you're seeing the game with your heart, and not your head.

Two outs to go. This is brutal.

One out to go. Just throw the damn ball.

Then it happens. The ball hangs in the air for an eternity. The umpire calls a third strike. Wade Boggs strikes out swinging.

It's over.

In the ballpark, you're high-fiving strangers, because you now share something that millions will say they were at, but only (in my case), 27, 000 were. You're glowing. You never want it to end.

Of course, assuming your team won.

I smiled all the way home that day, and watched it again on TV later. On the other hand, I glared at the screen when six (yes, SIX) Astros pitchers combined to no-hit the Yankees in 2003.

Interesting side note: the Yankees still have no been no-hit by one single pitcher since September 20, 1958, when Hoyt Wilhelm beat them 1-0.

For me, I'll always have Jim Abbott. Along with the scorecard.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

The Final Opening Day for Vin Scully


There's a finality to today.

Vin Scully, the voice of 1000 Vin Scully Avenue (so dedicated yesterday), will ascend to the Vin Scully Press Box at Dodger Stadium in the City of the Angels, at Chavez Ravine, and begin calling his final opening day.

You think I talk about it too much. Write about it until it's over-the-top. Criticize, mock, and laugh at me. I embrace it all.

But we're never going to see his like again.

Ever.
Vin is second from left, and wife Sandi is third. (Photo: Rick Loomis/Los Angeles Times)
From the Duke and the Boys of Summer through Koufax and Drysdale to Garvey and Fernando to Gibson to Piazza to Kershaw. He's seen it all.

He told us the Dodgers were the world champions. Saw the greatest game ever pitched. Witnessed the year that had been improbable, when the impossible happened. Told us about 29,000 and a million butterflies.

We pulled up a chair for him.

We only have approximately 80 games left.

Savor it. First pitch is in about an hour.


Sunday, April 10, 2016

Thoughts on the Lawn and The Boss

Yes, I mowed that...and I liked it!

I mowed the lawn today.

Between, essentially, May and the end of October, that would be standard operating procedure. But on April 10 (National Siblings Day, because Everything Must Have a Day), when it's only 46 degrees, and the ground is still sort of soft from the winter, it's a little unusual.

But that's me. Weird, I suppose.

I loved it.

I mean, the thing to understand is that I wanted to make sure the mower would start. It did (after I jumped it off my car), so I wanted it to run for a bit. So...I mowed. Some of the grass didn't go wrong from having it cut (including in that image above). The rest of the yard benefitted from having the twigs and tree branches mulched up.

Don't get me wrong. I won't enjoy it in the not-too-distant future. When it's 95 degrees and the grass is too high.

Yet that time is often my time, in that while my phone is omnipresent, I can still sort of zone out. Maybe I can listen to a ballgame of music (and, yes, good music). Many times, I just think. Which is dangerous.

Blog posts get written after I think.

I will dispel with the #Robcasting, thus sparing my thoughts on things like Bo Bice and Rob Thomas* (Jesus, can stores not play drivel that pounds a spike into your brain for hours after you listen to it?).

* More proof that looks matter with music.

Therefore, I will not climb back onto the American Idol soapbox (that's where ol' Bo comes in...I mean, who really likes him? Nickelback fans?). Oh believe me, I wasn't done the other night. That was the tame version.

I smiled a lot as I buzzed around the yard. My hands were cold, but the smell was that of spring. Of summer. I could smell the cut grass, albeit mixed with the exhaust of the machine, but after it was over it smelled of warm, sunny days.

Of lots of catches with footballs and baseballs.

Of my comfy folding chair with the little tray that pops up to hold a cold beverage and a book.

Of taking a walk or riding a bike.

Of kids playing (even if they're all playing a video game. Sean included).

Despite the thoughts of wanting to write about things that grind my gears, I enjoyed being outside as the daylights faded and the evening grew even cooler.

Sunday nights aren't always my favorite anyway (Sean has gone back to his mother by then), so it was nice to just do something that perhaps seemed strange to others.

*****
A final thing, and this has been percolating in my mind for about 48 hours: Bruce Springsteen can do what he wants. I know he's socially and politically active (yeah, go play another Dem fundraiser). All well and good. Part of what puts him in that line of Woodie Guthrie to Bob Dylan.

But...

Deciding to bail on a concert in North Carolina 48 hours before showtime just isn't cool. Some kid in Greensboro has never seen you before. Some family has booked a hotel or plane tickets to get to this show. Let's be real: if you were a nobody trying to make it, you'd play the show. But because you have more money than you know what to do with, you can afford to be socially conscious.

I get it, Boss. You're the man of the people and you care about human rights. But try telling people that when they can't afford to plunk down $200 to go to one of your shows.

You and I weren't on the best of terms recently, for multiple reasons. I feel like you've lost touch. Something has been ruined for me. As I've said before, maybe it's because I couldn't afford to see you more than that one time, thus rendering me a terrible fan**.

** Yes, there are people who really think this way.

Let's be clear: the North Carolina "bathroom law" isn't cool, but it isn't entirely what meets the eye either.

This isn't a "shut up and sing" thing. It's a "make good on your commitment to your fans" thing. A little more lead time to cancel it, and I'd likely think nothing of it. Forty-eight hours before the gig? No.

We'll make up eventually, I suppose. But let it known that I never had such issues with Mssrs. McCartney, Lennon, Starr, and Harrison. Or a Mr. Lewis of Marin County, California.

You were born to run, Bruce. Back to the mansion on the hill. But don't look for Crazy Janie. She's with Rosalita, trying to get the machine that's a dud, out stuck in the mud, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.

You left her there.

Thursday, April 07, 2016

Adios, "Idol"


I'm going to try to be polite about this.

Apparently, "American Idol" ends tonight. The short version is, I have never - ever - ever multiple times - cared about that show.

But since I'm writing about it, I suppose I'm guilty of caring tangentially. So hey, where's Dunkleman?

I care about quality, and am pretty damn passionate about music. I have long believed that American Idol played a role in the death of popular music. Ot at least in the damaging of it.

Let's let Dave Grohl speak:
“When I think about kids watching a TV show like American Idol or The Voice, then they think, ‘Oh, OK, that’s how you become a musician, you stand in line for eight f*cking hours with 800 people at a convention center and… then you sing your heart out for someone and then they tell you it’s not f*ckin’ good enough.’ Can you imagine? It’s destroying the next generation of musicians! Musicians should go to a yard sale and buy and old f*cking drum set and get in their garage and just suck. And get their friends to come in and they’ll suck, too. And then they’ll f*cking start playing and they’ll have the best time they’ve ever had in their lives and then all of a sudden they’ll become Nirvana. Because that’s exactly what happened with Nirvana. Just a bunch of guys that had some sh*tty old instruments and they got together and started playing some noisy-ass shit, and they became the biggest band in the world. That can happen again! You don’t need a f*cking computer or the internet or The Voice or American Idol.”
Indeed.

Here's the thing: talent is talent. If you want to believe Kelly Clarkson or Carrie Underwood are talented (they are, but I don't think much separates them from what's currently out there), then they would have gotten discovered, just as Dave Grohl implied. Because at the end of the day, the public has a way of deciding. I mean, hey, it didn't quite go for all of the winners, right?

Don't get me started on Adam Lambert (it still sickens me that Queen went on tour with him). Not an "Idol" winner, but he was still part of the circus.

It takes good material and talent to make it. From there, it's fairly hit or miss. The public does occasionally make mistakes, or get caught up in a fad. Then we all wake up and say, "What the heck were we thinking?"

When it came to "Idol," I was never in.  The same goes for The Voice and anything else. As you can imagine, I was no fan of any effort to have a sports broadcasting talent show. I mean, ESPN's "Dream Job?" Really?

Then again, I can't imagine you'd like it if, after years of studying and toiling to succeed in your job, a talent competition came along to find you a colleague/replacement.

Anyway, I'm in the minority. I get that. While the rest of the world fell for Simon, William Hung, Paula, Randy (DAWG!), Justin, Kelly, Carrie, the Soul Patrol, Ryan-freaking-Seacrest, and whatever other godforsaken stuff that went on for 14 years, I stayed vaguely aware of it all.

But virtually never watched.

Peace out, "Idol". Rock on.



The Simpsons Judge American Idol by sir-roddick

Saturday, March 26, 2016

It Matters


I was looking at something a moment ago when I let out a big sigh.

It is well known that I sigh. A lot. Some of the sighs are exasperation of one form or another. Others are just a result of my breathing pattern.

This, indeed, was exasperation.

In the midst of video games, The Big Bang Theory, Vin Scully talk, dinner and other home activities, Sean paused to check on his old man.

Yes. He thinks I'm old. He reminds me of it frequently.

Sean: "Daddy? What was that sigh for? Are you OK?"

Me: "Yep" (as I sighed again).

Sean: "You don't sound it."

Me: "It doesn't matter."

Sean: "Yes it does. It always matters, and you sounded upset."

Me: "I'm fine. Just foolishness."

He's becoming a bit of a "teenager." Yep, it happens. But he still cares a great deal about his dad, and I'm thankful for that.

Holy cow. I love that kid.

And a Very Good Evening To You


Our friend Mr. Scully is beginning the swan song of 67 years of magic in the broadcast booth. The Dodgers can say they're not replacing him, and believe me, they can't. If they think what they've hired or have in mind or currently have on staff will suffice, they're nuts.

There are people (present company included) who will care about the Dodgers only because of Vin. Next year, they go right back to the being the hated Dodgers. Once a bum, always a bum indeed.

But for now, let's enjoy the approximately 87 games that the master will give us in 2016. He met the media yesterday for the first time in spring training before calling his first spring game. The gremlins at MLB.com (or here at the Exit 55 Rest Area) won't allow me to embed the video.

Vin and Joe, circa 1984. Yes, I want those jackets. Photo courtesy Getty Images

Also worth watching is this wonderful tribute to Vin's Game of the Week partner, Joe Garagiola.  Here are Vin and Joe, calling a 1987 weeknight game on NBC as the Royals (and George Brett, again) beat the Yankees.

There was a reason why I hated George Brett. He devoured the Yankees.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

27 Years

My dad's picture book, ca. 1940

I had a post written this morning, and it somehow got deleted. I'm not going to try to repeat it. Somehow I feel like someone is saying to me, "Dude. Get over it."

My dad's been gone for 27 years.

I've written words and words and words. I still feel the loss everyday.

I looked at picture I posted of him and I this morning and said, "Was he real? Did he ever really exist?"

I don't know if that makes sense. I know he was real. I can still hear his voice and his laugh.


Anyway, so ends another St. Patrick's Day. 

Saturday, March 12, 2016

An Update


A few minutes ago, I posted the update to a post called Award Winner, now renamed Award Winner (Not Really).

It was also referenced in this post.

Anyway, as I wrote in the award post, Susan and I were not the winners of the NENPA award for Multimedia, as we originally thought. Our colleagues Maureen, Jenny, and Mario were the winners and through a series of mistakes, I wound up going to Boston and accepting the award that I thought Susan and I had earned. They should have been the ones heading to Massachusetts instead of me.

I think I can still talk for Susan when I say we're both incredibly proud of our work. The crew that accompanied me on the broadcasts related to the 2015 Connecticut Girls Ice Hockey Championship game and subsequent interviews helped create memorable audio that was heard around the world. Susan was inspired by us to write a stunning editorial.

It would have been remarkable to share the award with a person whose work I greatly admire (I mean, read this - a gorgeous poem about loss - and get back to me).

The stars were the teams and coaches (Simsbury, East Catholic, Glastonbury, South Windsor). They showed the greatest grace of all.

Hopefully we called attention to what was a confusing situation in 2015.

That confusion rolled into 2016.

Incidentally, a worthy watch (since we're talking about girls ice hockey) is Anya Battaglino's appearance earlier this week on Nutmeg Sports. Pretty cool. A great reminder that athletes are athletes, regardless of gender.