Abacab

The late 70s, early 80s were seminal times musically for the artist eventually to be known as Rob.

It was around this time that I was listening to a lot of Imus, learning really how to time a radio program, and figuring out what my own musical tastes were, as opposed to what was influenced.

Disco? Sure, I dabbled. It was unavoidable.

Our car radio was an AM. It would be a short time before I'd grab my first stereo system (turntable, 8-track...and AM/FM tuner).

None of this is relevant, except that unless I was in my sisters car (probably the yellow Camaro, although the red Camaro was sweet), I wasn't getting that sonic boost of FM with the cassette player!

All of this made me think of "Abacab," the whoosh of electronic with a pop heart from Genesis. While they still had a few years left in their evolution from prog rock masters to full pop artists (oy, Phil Collins, what happened?), their more deep pastures had been left behind for what would eventually be "Invisible Touch" and "I Can't Dance."

The lyrics were catchy and energetic to a kid in 1981...

Look up on the wall
There on the floor
Under the pillow
Behind the door

Not exactly "The screen door slams. Mary's dress waves" of Springsteen, but it worked.

Still does. Great song. Great album.

Done

I was furious last night.

The details aren't relevant, only because I'm not a bridge burner, though I will say I confirmed something about the Greenwich situation that I suspected all along.

I. Just. Knew.

Top that off with things that truly disappointed me, and you've got one hot, steaming pile of Rob.

I'm burying the lede (or lead, you call) here. Back to my point: I was pissed at something and instead of keeping it to myself, or ranting to Paul Silverfarb or Lisa, I did something else.

I posted on social media.

I also ranted to Paul and Lisa, but you get my point.

I wrote, simply: I'm done. Just done.

I wasn't bothered by it either, but then my mother, who comments on everything (and I mean ev...ery...thing), did her thing.

That was one. Then my friend Harold asked if I was OK. Then I got a text from John Kovach. Lisa was getting texts.

I deleted the post.

Oops.

Regardless of the situation, I should have been better than that. I shouldn't have let that happen. In a time in which watching the collapse of people by watching the insanity they write on Facebook makes for great entertainment, I need to be better.

I'm always advocating to not be that narcissistic tool (except for harmless self-taken pictures). I'm always saying to be wise, and not flash your social media muscles. Don't be a keyboard genius. I try - hard - to take the high road.

In this case, I goofed, and I own up to it.

I'm super, hyper-stressed these days (enough that it's kept me off the blogsie wogsie). To explain would have people saying that I complain too much behind my back, so really, why? I'll just say the stress has been unhealthy, and we'll carry on, won't we?

Am I OK? No. Not really. But there's really nothing to see. I should have kept it offline.

Move along. Move along.

Game Day

Chris Erway, right, and me, at the Rye-Harrison (NY) game in 2010. Ignore the Greenwich football logo.

Every September, there's a moment. It's one that I have privately.

It hits me at a high school field, or in the car, or somewhere else. It can't be predicted.

This morning, it hit me at home. I had just finished brushing my teeth, stepped back into the hall and slapped my hands together.

It was that moment that can only be described as a combination of pride, excitement, and nerves.

It has hit me, every year, since 2000. I was too terrified in 1999 (my first year) to feel anything else.

It's opening day for me of football season. The beginning of my broadcast year. Normally, the Greenwich Cardinals were involved. Today, it's a prep school game between St. Luke's of New Canaan and Cardinal Spellman of The Bronx.

I'm nervous. Always nervous before the first game. I have to remind myself that I'm here for a reason. People tell me I'm here for a reason. My friends believe it. Some of my peers believe it. My boss believes it. That, yeah, I'm good enough to do this.

I'm proud. Proud to have the opportunity that I have, and of the team assembled around me.

I'm excited. Hey, it's sports! It's supposed to be fun, and all I have to do is talk about what I see in front of me.

Lastly, it's all of that above that makes me a little emotional. Largely because I'm an emotional guy to begin with. But, somewhere, I hope people I love are listening and smiling. Somewhere I hope people that I don't know are smiling and listening.

Lastly, I feel sad at the thought that who knows if they have a radio or a computer or a smartphone in the great beyond because, honestly, who really knows if there's a great beyond?

That's too philosophical for me.

If it all goes well, around 1:20 or so, the music will begin to play. My emotions will hit their peak. Finally, I'll have no choice. It will be time to speak. After that, hopefully, it's like riding a bike.

It's game day. Listen live at hanradio.com.

Let's go.