Quick Fingers Nancy

 

My mother had a bit of a problem.

Now, I hesitate to say that because, while I have stories, I don't want you to think that I'm here to dump on her memory.

That's not what this is meant to be. In fact, it is how I opened her eulogy, in an attempt to make people laugh and relax.

As I recall, I opened with the following: "I can't help but think that there's a hotel on the road to wherever my mother is heading, so that she can steal the shampoo, condition, and coffee before continuing her journey."

Those weren't the exact words, but that was the idea, and I suppose you had to be there to get it. Nevertheless, she could be exhausting with her love of making hotel goodies disappear.

Oh and it was more than wherever we stayed. Our trips to Florida inevitably took us to a variety of Howard Johnson's restaurants and lodging in the early 80s. Trust me, I knew where every location was.

While sitting with our meal, Nancy would open her seemingly bottomless bag and shove jelly packets or whatever else she could find in there.

But, back to the hotel. I traveled to many a lodging establishment with her, especially in her final years. Without fail, the questions would happen:

- Did you take the shampoo and conditioner?

- Are you going to take the coffee?

And so on. The hotel pen was never safe and, in the days of postcards and stationary, well, they stood no chance.

Now, if the shampoo, conditioner, body lotion or anything else was somehow not in small bottles? If they were, say, permanently hanging on the wall? Well, consider that a loss in the eyes of Mrs. Adams. She was less than pleased.

Let's go her last trip -- my nieces wedding back in August. We stayed in a lovely Hampton Inn (a Hilton property) in Albany, NY. 

In this case, she wound up rooming with my sister, while Sean and I had our guys pad.

Indeed, the perusal was as always. Conditioner? Check. Shampoo? Check. Soap? Check. Coffee? Absolutely. 

Sure, I've taken my fair share of items upon departure but this time, it was different.

She was given flowers and needed a way to get them home. I dropped her off at dialysis and went back home to unpack the car.

I found the flowers and, attached to it was what had been a wet washcloth.

It was white and still damp, wrapped around the flowers with a rubber band securing it.

It had a tag.

It said, "Hilton."

All I could do was roll my eyes and laugh.

I still have it.

Sorry, Hilton. I'm hoping you'll forgive that one.

Sideways Sad Hank

 

News broke just a short time ago that Henrik Lundqvist's contract will be bought out by the Rangers.

That means the 38-year-old goalies career with the Blueshirts is over.

Honestly, it was time, but it's never easy.

Hank and I have had a tough relationship. I equate it to Bernie Williams -- whom I love -- in that he could drive me crazy at times.

"King Henrik" did the same. The great Hank was remarkable. The not-so-great Hank? Meh. Where does he rank in team history? I'm really not sure. 

Mike Richter? Eddie Giacomin? John Vanbiesbrouck? Gump Worsley? It's not an easy answer, but I'll say this: Richter got the ultimate prize, and the iconic penalty shot save against Pavel Bure in 1994.

The Rangers went to one Stanley Cup Final with the "King" but were nearly swept away by the Los Angeles Kings. That, however, shouldn't deter from his legacy.

Henrik stood on his head in the clinching loss in Game 5. He made 48 saves in a double-overtime effort before Alex Martinez broke New York's hearts from near the slot in the left circle.

Hank stayed on his knees after the goal, a combination of heartbreak and exhaustion on his face.

I'm surprised I didn't hear from the front desk at the the Hampton Inn in Meriden, CT where I was staying as I prepped for the baseball state championships the next day. I will admit I sort of yelled.

Paul Silverfarb still can't watch it and can barely talk about that goal. But, the truth was, the Kings were the better team, despite three overtime victories in which the Rangers played their hearts out (two in double OT). That didn't make the hurt any easier.

John Kovach, Paul and I all texted each other that night. Each one of us had a broadcast to prep for. We all wanted to go to sleep. Then that goal happened. We were all pretty tired the next day.

Oh, about that picture. Well, my mom plays a role in that one. You see, Mom had gone to the hospital to have a stent put in in Dec 2013. Pretty routine, she was told. My sister and niece took her the hospital in New Haven, allowing me to focus on work, as we had just began putting HAN Radio on the air.

I also had a credential to go Madison Square Garden that night as Cam Atkinson -- Greenwich's very own -- was in town to play Hank and the Rangers. Paul and I were both going.

Then I got a call that Mom was going to have open heart surgery. My family told me to go on with work anyway -- there was no need for me in New Haven.

Paul said the same.

"Go to the Garden," he said. It will occupy your mind.

So there we were, sitting in the media section on the Chase Bridge, and Henrik got shelled. He was yanked down 3-1 after 11 minutes were gone in the first period. We watch the rest of the game, and there were TV monitors embedded in the desks we were sitting at.

As the game got over, I aimed my iPhone at the shot of Henrik, a Rangers hat on his head, making his way off the bench following the 4-2 loss.

For whatever reason that Apple products do this, the picture turned sideways. Something about it made us laugh as it was a fitting end to the night for the King.

The legend of #SidewaysSadHank was born.

Sorry, Henrik, but thanks for the great memories you did provide. For whatever I thought, I fully expect number 30 to fly from the rafters of Madison Square Garden soon. In the meantime, go the Ray Borque route and win a Cup somewhere else.

You have the respect of a fan base forever.

Cathartic

 

ca·thar·tic (/kəˈTHärdik/)

adjective

1. providing psychological relief through the open expression of strong emotions; causing catharsis.

"crying is a cathartic release"

I've been a M*A*S*H fan since I was a little kid.

It was a constant presence in the Adams household, especially in reruns along with All in the Family on channel 5 in New York. Along with The Honeymooners and a few others those shows are, essentially, sacred.

I'll still watch them today, such as just now.

I caught the second episode from the first season of M*A*S*H , "To Market, To Market," which originally aired on Sep 24, 1972. A summary of the episode on the interwebs describes the episode like this: "Hawkeye and Trapper attempt to retrieve a supply of hydrocortisone stolen by black marketeers."

Jack Soo -- who would achieve greater fame as Detective Nick Yemana on Barney Miller -- was the lead guest star.

Back then, M*A*S*H was much more of a comedy versus the "dramedy" that it was later known for pioneering. In its earliest days the show was known for keeping up a lot of a hijinks of the movie on which it was based.

But in this episode, it's pure silliness. There's the negotiation of Hawkeye and Trapper John to get into Col. Blake's office to get his antique desk out to a waiting truck with an impatient delivery man. But there's also the quest of passion between Hot Lips and Frank Burns -- especially while Trapper and Hawkeye are hiding on the other side of the desk from the bizarre lovers.

There's Radar trying to keep the driver at bay while Hawkeye and Trapper figure out how to get out of Blake's office, which they're locked in.

Hawkeye and Trapper do figure out how to carve their way out of Blake's office and, despite the driver leaving, even find a way to make the delivery of the heavy antique desk.

Via chopper, of course.

There are brilliant reactions in the faces of each actor along with the usual sarcasm that was a hallmark of the series.

Something about all of it had me gloriously guffawing and it felt great.

The sight of the desk, dangling from a helicopter overhead, made me laugh even harder.

The follow-up episode, "Requiem for a Lightweight," featured Trapper in a boxing match with a goon from the 3099th. The sound of Hot Lips screaming out in the ultimate scene is always good for a laugh as well.

It was some much needed laughter for me. Don't get me wrong, I'm laughing and proceeding as normal overall lately but, as the title of this post suggests, there was something cathartic about truly laughing out loud tonight.

It was natural. There was nothing forced. It just happening and kept happening. It was a great release.

It felt like it was exactly what I needed tonight.

If you'll excuse the pun, laughter remains truly the best medicine.

A Long Sunday Ends

Mom was remembered at today's party

 

I knew today would be a long day and I was quite right.

I was up early for a drive to Milford for Hamden/Fairfield National baseball before motoring on to Cheshire for a birthday party.

Sean and I got home a few minutes ago following a long drive back featuring a guest appearance by terrible traffic through construction on Interstate 84.

So I don't really have anything profound to offer tonight.

Today was the first time I'd seen a chunk of family members since Mom's funeral and her presence -- or lack thereof -- was definitely felt. I took my nephew and his family a few things from the house that I thought should go to them and I know they'll take good care of them.

Yet there was a point -- late in the day -- when I turned to look for my mother. While I was often checking on her, I was often her driver to events like this, so I looked for her in a way that suggested it might be time to leave. It hit me, and moments like that will continue to.

It didn't bring me to my knees or anything like that and I'm not looking for pity or advice. It was a fleeting moment.

I guess I'm a little sensitive in telling these stories thanks to the concern that I'm "seeking attention." Which is utter nonsense but, then again, I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

We'll climb back into the ring of life tomorrow and prepare to start taking the punches again.

I was glancing at readership for the past week. It's always easy to get too up or too down off those numbers and, more often than not, I wish I didn't know them, but I was grateful for those who read this thing. 

I'm also grateful for those who listen to the broadcasts and support the work that we do (Shawn Sailer, etc).

Then I wrote about the hot water problem and, wow, did those numbers crash. It's the nature of the beast, of course.

But the editorial thing still bothers me, and it's sort of a personal issue to me. I was actually kind of proud of myself for how I handled that and a few other knuckleheads this week.

Still I have to watch it before I turn into Clint Eastwood, telling people to "Get off my lawn."

Every day is live and learn, I suppose.

I'm babbling.

Monday awaits.

Never Underestimate a Hot Shower

 

That was the look on my face in the cold water

I'm a habitual shower-taker.

Even in the stretches of the early days in the pandemic where I wasn't doing much, I still carved out a few minutes to clean up.

So I went to climb in on Thursday morning when I came to a sad conclusion: we had no hot water.

That's where I go into my "don't panic" mode (even if it seems like I'm panicking). I've got this. I'll figure it out. 

Indeed, I grabbed a washcloth and dealt with the cold water. I even washed my hair.

Maybe we're just out of heating oil, I thought. I could grab some diesel (yes, true) until they make a delivery.

That didn't work.

By Friday morning, things were no better. I took another fairly cold shower, heated up some water for Sean to wash up, and boiled some water so I could shave.

These were hardly earth-shattering issues. I called the heating oil company and they offered to send a tech out to take a look.

But I also needed to get somewhere.

So it was time for Sean to step in.

"What do I do," he asked.

He handled it brilliantly. Is it rocket science? No, but if you've never done it before and you're a little shy, it can be intimidating.

He let the tech in who quickly diagnosed and fixed the problem.

So I'm proud of him.

That hot water felt great today. 

Don't take it for granted.

*****

I tweeted out some love for the YES Network Yankees broadcast booth tonight. I think Michael Kay, David Cone, and Paul O'Neill have been wonderful this season.

In truth, I've long-thought that both was terrific but they'd only do a handful of games before someone else would climb in the booth.

I get that 162 games -- plus pre and postseason -- is a lot so it would make sense for a Kenny Singleton to jump into games in Baltimore or John Flaherty somewhere else.

But the main booth -- the strong majority of games -- should be Kay, Coney, and Paulie.

I constantly see the Yankees broadcasters getting ragged on, mostly because they're the Yankees. OK, I get that. 

But give credit where credit is due. Kay calls a smooth, excitable game. He leans on cliches more than I do but it's hardly over-the-top. Then again, those trademarks have earned him a reputation.

Cone is the consummate pitcher and the person who has truly embraced modern statistics in the Yankees booth. It makes for a nice balance to the more traditionally-minded O'Neill, who also bring the legacy of the personality that has carried from Phil Rizzuto to Bobby Murcer.

Having O'Neill in his basement has been an absolutely hit and an enhancement to the broadcasts.

Let's also not forget Meredith Marakovits, who reports on all kinds of locker room information, even as she has no access to the clubhouse. She's an unflappable, nice addition to the team, to go along with the pregame and postgame broadcast as well.

There's humor, analysis, history and conversation and information. They hit everything on the bingo card.

They won't get the respect outside of Yankees Universe they deserve but, in my opinion, they've earned it.

The Nameless Editorial

 

I wonder which member of the board misspelled "Connecticut."
(For the record, I also make errors almost daily in these posts)

I'm not new to the newspaper business. Something tells me you know that.

I understand how editorials work. Sometimes there's an editorial "board." In smaller papers, the editorial is normally written by -- GASP! -- the editor. As it should be, because they know their audience.

But you have a general idea who wrote it.

An editor should write the editorial. It's a good opportunity to speak to the community. The editor puts their name on the paper. It should be their words.

But, alas, that's not always the case and it wasn't always true at HAN, for instance. When I was in Wilton, our editor wrote them, but she occasionally used one from another editor and, at least on one occasion, a broadcaster/writer penned the effort.

This leads to my belief that, if you're going to write, put your name on it. In this case, "it" is the writing of the Hearst Connecticut Media Editorial Board, as seen on the website of the New Haven Register. Seems the "board" thinks those who still want to play football in Connecticut -- when the majority of the US is currently playing football -- are "dangerous, elitist, and selfish."

Well, then, if you feel that strongly, perhaps you can come out from hiding and debate the topic. Tell that to the families in the state who want to play. From Danbury to Durham to Darien, and Greenwich to Guilford to Glastonbury, student athletes are adjusting and they don't need the equally "woke and elitist" Hearst board to push their narrative.

Connecticut is watching other states. Heck, I get pictures from Mike Hirn's setup for whatever game he's calling in Ohio. I see and hear the various broadcasts around the country. You can't help but understand the frustration, sadness, and desperation around these parts.

Yes, I'll admit that I've seen moments where the complaining has reeked of Gold Coast First World issues, but one of the things I remember hearing was that the private league (especially the one that was percolating in Fairfield County) would not deny any player entry, regardless of circumstances (including financial). Thus, that takes your "elitist" charge and kills that. So that pass is incomplete there, Ben Bradlee.

As of tonight, most of the chatter about the private club leagues has quieted down. Just to be transparent. My texts have gone silent. 

But, back to this topic.

I have far more respect for Sean Patrick Bowley, Scott Ericson, Pete Paguaga, Mike DiMauro, Dave Ruden, and others. While I might not agree with their opinion, they at least put their name behind it. They deal with the slings and arrows.

For Hearst to hide behind a board does nothing for their constituency. You know: their readers.

It also doesn't localize it. What someone is doing/thinking/saying in Canaan isn't necessarily the same as New Canaan.

This is still a battle of politics, and Hearst jumped right in with two left hands. Again, the athletes are stuck.

So as I write, 7-on-7 football (basically two-hand-touch) is being played in parts of Connecticut. Fairfield County will be climbing in next week.

Greenwich will be involved. As of right now, I can't tell you that I, Robcasting or WGCH will be broadcasting those contests. The same goes for the lineman challenges that are also sprouting up.

However, I can tell you if the community (you know, the listening audience) calls for it, then that will weigh heavily on the decision.

You know, actually listening to the people that I broadcast to. What a concept.

And putting my name behind it. 

Good or bad.

The Twitter Attack

 

A little war broke out on Twitter tonight and I was the target.

It's OK. I started it because I don't believe in everyone getting a trophy.

I think most awards are nonsense and I said so. 

I also think most people are better than searching for that kind of recognition but that's just me. I guess that's also a "generational thing."

My point was totally missed.

As I result, I was told I'm a "boomer." Sure.

So I got attacked.

About my resume.

About getting the Renegades job "just now." (Um...)

About lacking passion for broadcasting. (I mean...really?)

About crying to my "wife." (Yeah. About that...)

Even about my cat. (Oh, OK)

And so on.

It comes with the territory. I fired up the future and the future fought back. The point flew right over them and they just kept attacking.

Yes, it's true. I'm so new to this broadcasting thing.

I only had a neighbor tell me  -- at my mother's funeral -- how into broadcasting I was as a little kid.

Nope, I refused to explain my career to them as they continued to pile on.

I owe no explanation.

I made my career choices due to relationships, a child, family, money, and circumstances.

Could I have gone somewhere else and built the next phase? I don't know. Maybe? Instead I made choices that kept me around New York and Connecticut and called the hell out of every game that came my way.

I didn't have parents who could send me to broadcasting camps. I didn't have the options that exist today. I worked in corporate and did radio on the side.

But again, I owe no explanation.

In this case, some very harsh words were aimed at me, and that's fine. They don't know me -- none of them -- so they don't have the first idea of what's going on.

If anything, some damage was done by some tonight. That's something they probably should have thought about but so it goes.

I've raised a great son. I was here for my mother until the end of my her life. My father's also, for what it's worth. I'm here helping this family transition out of this era.

Do you think I owe an explanation?

I've called moments that I'm incredibly proud of.

I even have awards -- none of which I pursued. In fact, the one time I did pursue it there was a major mix up. But it got me a trip to Boston.

They got their insults in tonight.

Ouch.

I'm good.

Deletions and Changes

 

The last image she took on her cell phone

Among myriad things, I was in charge of my mother's technology.

That's not to say I was her only tech support. Oh, no. But I was generally her first line of questioning.

My phone would buzz: "I'm having an issue with my phone/iPad/iPod/TV/printer..." 

I was responsible for helping her buy her two iPhones, for instance, and then painstakingly dealing with setting them up, as well as answering the myriad questions.

When my patience ran out or the answer wasn't to her liking, that's when she'd normally go to my niece Stephanie.

Well, today, I had the task of shutting her account down. I had to do it because we shared an account.

There was something turning her phone off that stayed with me all day.

It's a finality.

I mean, it's like you've deleted someone.

Verizon was awesome in helping me. But, before the phone call was over, my mother's cell phone was gone.

I tried calling it -- nothing was there. It was just deleted.

Now I have to clean her phone out and prepare to send it to Verizon. We won't be responsible for the remaining payments on her iPhone XR.

She wanted a bigger phone last time out. I made the the mistake of setting her up with a small, reasonably priced iPhone in the summer of 2016, only to hear her complain about how small it was. So when we went back to upgrade in the summer of 2019, we both got the same model and she was much happier.

Her smaller phone will stay with me as an extra device and I'll put it to good use.

The iPhone XR will go in a shipping box back to Verizon within a week.

I've downloaded the pictures onto the same computer I'm writing this post on. I'm working on cleaning out the apps.

Her Facebook account -- her beloved Facebook account -- will stay active. I've joked about taking over her Twitter account but I imagine that someone would get offended with my twisted/ghoulish sense of humor. I did think it would be fun to tweet as her from the beyond. Hell, I think SHE would have found that funny.

It's all just stuff, isn't it? Like the Instagram account she barely used to go along with the myriad other things. The apps and open memberships that will just sit there, unused, until some computer comes along and purges it.

And then it's just gone.

Like her cell phone number.

I also changed the home TV plan but couldn't bring myself to completely shut it all down. Not yet, anyway.

We've had the house phone number for roughly 60 years. I know, I know. Don't get emotionally attached. How others can be so cold is beyond me.

I often say I got most of the emotion in the family. Damn near all of it.

But her cell phone number is turned off. The texting that drove me out of my skull is no more.

You truly don't know what you've got until it's gone.

The Cat and The Grocery Store

 

5:26 a.m.

I woke up early today as I had an 8 a.m. appointment.

The alarm was set for 6 but my brain couldn't handle that so I woke up much earlier.

Rascal "The New Cat" was nowhere to be seen at first but I called for him and he quickly appeared.

The house -- quiet, dark, and cold -- bubbled with a glimpse of life as Rascal climbed up on my chest.

The kneading began. The engine began to purr.

The he settled down on top of me.

If my plan to was get out of bed, it was quickly thwarted.

The moment was pure happiness. 

I've had four primary cats since I was 11 years old. Fred was not much of a lap cat. Neither was Chico. Bandit (who should be a saint) was all about laps and chests and attention. Rascal leans towards the Bandit side of the ledger.

I think we were both in heaven but, given he still shows a lot of kitten tendencies (he's only 18 months old), he was soon off of me and on to other things.

I went about my business. I went to my appointment and made it back home. But that was a great start to the day.

Before I came home, I made a stop at Wegmans. The grocery store chain recently opened its first location in the lower Hudson Valley, in Harrison.

I've been a fan of them for over a decade, dating back to going to their stores in Syracuse and Pennsylvania.

My mother had been excited about their opening and we were plotting a visit the week she died, as she had become a fan when I took her to one in Pennsylvania that had a restaurant in it. She was hooked.

We never got there and I have to say I felt a hint of guilt going there today, even if it was to honor her on her 63rd wedding anniversary.

It was a great shopping experience and I bought both lunch and dinner there, but it highlighted some of the feelings that I'm still kind of dealing with. Guilt -- which my mother had a doctorate in producing -- is often chief among those feelings.

Guess that's all I have to say about that.

I'll go back to Wegman's soon.

The Most Dangerous Word

We'll get to them (Howard, Keith, and The Danderoo)

 The past two-plus weeks have been a bit of a fog.

All along, basically since March 10, I've been stalled. Heck, most of us have been.

Today, I stepped out the door and felt hopeful.

"Hope." That word -- that very concept -- is something that excites and scares me.

The exciting part is if it's good, of course (though I suppose it can be easy to be thinking about what could go wrong). 

The scary part is if it goes wrong. Then there's a feeling of despair, I guess.

I've tried to stay busy since Sep 4. Every day has brought a combination of cleaning, working, and organizing.

That is when I'm not driving.

Basically, it's been day after day of doing things until I'm ready to collapse. I'm not looking for praise or a pat on the back. I'm just staying active.

And so, back to hope. New adventures await.

At least, I "hope" so.

I always write with a voice in my head saying "Be careful because there will be questions."

All may be answered eventually.

Hopefully.

*****

"Monday Night Football" turned 50 tonight. I've watched more than my fair share of "MNF" since the 70s. I watched Giff and Dandy Don and Howard and Keith and OJ and Tark and Alex and Broadway Joe and Al and Dan and Boomer and...

I remember Joe Theismann and Lawrence Taylor. Bo Jackson and Brian Bosworth. Earl Campbell, Bum Phillips and "Luv ya Blue." The "Fail Mary." The "Brett Favre Game." Antonio Freeman. Steve Gleason.

I also remember the night Howard Cosell referred to a receiver named Alvin Garrett as a term that was deemed racist (though Cosell also used it in reference to his grandchildren as well as white receivers). The moment laid the groundwork for Cosell's exit from MNF and ABC Sports.

In truth, it was a convenient excuse for ABC.

Of course, "MNF" also brought us all of our "Rowdy Friends" as well as celebrity interviews and other culturally impactful moments.

It brought us John Lennon -- both alive and, sadly, dead. Most people rightfully wince when they hear the words "dead on arrival" because that's how Cosell described Lennon in Dec, 1980. His emphasis on those words -- "Dead. On. Arrival." -- still ring in the ears of football and music fans alike.

For the good (so many great games) and the bad (like the Booger Mobile), it's impossible to dismiss the impact of "Monday Night Football." Happy 50th to the idea that began with the Browns and Jets (a trivia question I answered on WVIP-AM in 1984).

Respect the Rules and Wear the Mask

 

We're not "sheeple." We just respect the rules

It was a different scene in Milford, CT than yesterday. Gone was the kindly teacher who was filling in as the site director for the day.

It was still a friendly, warm atmosphere but there was a dramatic change and it happened almost immediately.

"So nice to meet you guys," we were told. "You're welcomed to be here. We have plenty of room. We just ask that you wear the mask when you're in the booth."

And that was that.

I have friends who are total anti-maskers. Family members as well. Most simply do it because that's the deal. Others take it as an assault on their liberty and they make it known on social media (or from their pulpit).

Here's how I viewed it today in Milford: I'm a guest in your house. I don't necessarily like/agree with your rules and/or traditions but I have no choice. I have to respect it or leave.

You say Grace at you table. I don't. OK, fine. We won't say it when you're at my house.

It might seem like a clumsy comparison but it works.

They were nice in how they enforced the mask rule. It wasn't heavy handed and it didn't strike the nerve that turns me into a beast. It wasn't shameful. It was just this: here's the rule. The end.

And so, Shawn Sailer and I called our first game while wearing a mask.

Oh, to be clear, I didn't like it. I think I can speak for Shawn also on this. There were times that I forgot I was wearing it and there were other moments when I felt like I was suffocating. It fogged up my glasses so I actually called the game without them. 

In truth, I think they were enforcing it because there's apparently one guy who tends to get a bit nasty about it and they didn't want any of us to deal with that.

But I can't be any clearer when I say these people were awesome. As you've probably guessed, I've stepped into a few press boxes over the years. Often, you're looked at like a disease (fitting, right?) when they don't know you. There is a feeling of "Who are you and why the **** are you here?"

Then there's the "Who said you could be here?" approach (a personal favorite). Often there's some stammering for a name as they try to intimidate you into hauling the equipment back to the parking lot.

Not in Milford. They were actually thrilled that we were there. They genuinely cared about our broadcast and, at least today, they didn't try to be a part of the broadcast.

As for the game itself, well, it was over early and we'll be back there next Sunday for the championship. I think -- regardless of winner -- we'll be on the call from Stamford from the Little League state championship.

With that said, a big thank you to the many people who have praised (and criticized) our work, and especially those who have spread the word about what we do. I was told that the Stamford North team we saw today against Fairfield National knew who won District 2 last week only because they listened to our broadcast!

I was also told Henry Vincent of National wondered how his home run sounded on the radio in the moments after he hit it. While I certainly don't want to take away from the focus of the moment for a player, I can't deny that I love hearing how into it players, coaches, families and more are.

While I'd be all about video if it could be, there's still something to be said for the simplicity of a basic setup and "radio" (internet audio) still serving as the theater of the mind. It's my job (and Shawn's) to describe everything to you. It's up to me to tell you what I saw in that game today.

You can just sit back (or drive your car) and listen. 

While I'm discussing this, I don't need a breaking news banner to tell you that, assuming there's a Greenwich entry into the "private" football league, we'll be there to call their games (and anyone else who wants us). Ideally, WGCH would be the home for the Greenwich games but we'll work out those details at a later time. Obviously it takes some things to make it happen but I'm planning on the possibility of calling football for my 22nd season after all.

If TEN -- the Trumbull Eagles Network -- also lights their "On Air" light, then you can guarantee I'll jump on a few of those.

Everytime I think it's time to put the equipment away, another intriguing door opens.

I hope, by making friends with Fairfield National, Fairfield American, and beyond, those doors will continue to find a way to swing our way so that we can provide you with our style coverage of sports events.

I Forgot

This looks comfortable (Marriott.com)

 I often think of blog topics in the morning and, occasionally, I'll sit down and write them.

That did not work today.

I know I had ideas but then I went and called baseball and did some other stuff before finally sitting down to write what today's post.

I totally forgot all of the ideas I had in mind.

So here we are, which I suppose is just as well because I have to get up and head right back out to Milford, CT to call more baseball.

I enjoy traveling as a play-by-play announcer. Many hate the travel but I feed off it.

Except driving roughly 90 minutes each way can be a drag.

I'd be thrilled to be tucked into a hotel somewhere tonight, having grabbed some dinner and reading a few notes before calling it a night. Maybe there would be a pool to jump into.

Then the drive the next day would be short.

It's rare I get those kinds of moments. I was given a hotel room a few times during the HAN Network days. I stayed in Shelton, Norwalk, Meriden, and Groton for one broadcast or another (to go along with Vermont and Boston).

I loved it.

I've stayed in Syracuse and Naples, FL and Cherry Hill, NJ.

And Aberdeen, MD.

And maybe other places I'm not remembering.

Even nicer is when the booth is set up and all I have to do it turn on the power. The folks with Trumbull Babe Ruth were kind to let me keep things as is each night. Then I'd go to my sisters place and sleep.

Even if it was on a couch or an air mattress it was still pretty blissful.

Anyway, I'm home tonight.

I'll be back in Milford tomorrow. Air time is supposed to be Noon but today's game started nearly 15 minutes early. I'd suggest you keep an eye on the Twitter accounts of me, Robcasting, and Shawn Sailer for more. We'd hate to see you miss any action.

Back on the road in the morning.

Maybe I'll remember what I wanted to write by then.

Oh and Blogger has officially taken away the "legacy" interface so I am considering abandoning this platform and fully integrate a WordPress site. Anyone want to help me design it? Inquire within.

Off The Bench is Back

RIP, RBG

Let's do some various and sundry.

There's literally nothing I can say to enhance the legend that is Ruth Bader Ginsburg. It's sad that the news broke barely two hours ago and there's more about who will replace Justice Ginsburg and not about her life and legacy.

She's an icon and worthy of the praise. I admired her.

Can we not celebrate her tonight?

(I removed the part where I lost my marbles on this topic. Nope, just not worth it. I stupidly posted on Twitter. You can all fight about this stuff.)

My common sense ideas are stupid, as is the concept of trying to talk politics. It's a waste of time.

*****
Hey, didn't you used to be Yankees/Red Sox?

Of course, NYY was hitting the ball all over the place until they went up against the Sox, who have been dreadful. Can't explain baseball, right?

(Though it's much closer than it was when I started typing)

*****
Joe Buck was named the winner of the Pete Rozelle Award, presented by the Pro Football Hall of Fame.

You might know that Buck was the youngest national announcer to take a full slate of NFL games.

And he's going to remain that way. Buck got where he is because he was in the right place, as Jack Buck's son. After that, he worked hard and earned his keep.

The public hates him for a variety of reasons. His bosses, most media critics, and his colleagues love him.

I've never heard a bad professional story about Joe Buck. There's no diva behavior. He won people over in press boxes all around sports.

I'm not sure how this is so hard to understand. Don't have others talking about you before you've even gone to college, I guess. Seems simple.

*****
Back to baseball tomorrow, which I think is where I need to be. I'm just going to call baseball.

I'll be on the call of Fairfield National/Hamden at 1 p.m. in Milford, CT.

*****
Thank you, Justice Ginsburg, for your grace.

Rascal!

Rascal of the Renegades

I've got...almost nothing.

I mean, I'm going to write a few words but I don't have many in me tonight.

I'm adjusting and I guess that's the best way I can phrase this. So I don't have a lot to offer.

Every day will be a collection of cleaning and cleaning some more.

I can tell you (for those asking), Rascal/Binks (Binx) and I are growing closer each day. He's slowly beginning to come to me when I call him and trusting me a little bit more.

That being said, he also spect the entire day under a bed again, so it's a work in progress.

As for me, I got into the world today and was genuinely concerned about how he was adjusting back here.

Also, he's not eating enough -- save for the treats that I give him.

But we're doing OK. It just takes time. We're hopefully going to be good for each other.

Oh, and he squeaks when he meows.

Now, why Rascal? After myriad suggestions were offered (Murcer, Bobby, and several others were thrown my way and summarily rejected by Sean). I reached "Rascal" because of his behavior but also because of the mascot for the Hudson Valley Renegades.

So I've got my very own Rascal and the name fits.

And that's about all I have for you tonight.

Home All Day

He's a "Rascal." Just like the Renegades' mascot.

I started writing earlier and deleted every last word.

Honestly, I don't know what I want to say tonight.

I did two radio shows today and mowed the lawn and lifted four air conditioners and cleaned and threw stuff out and simply occupied my brain.

There was some connecting with the cat -- it looks like "Rascal" will be his name here -- but he stayed hidden under a desk for most of the day.

My first draft of this post was just babbling. There was no rhythm to it and, frankly, no narrative. Not that this is exactly The Great Gatsby.

I'm hardly Nick Carraway, I can tell you that much.

So I think I'll just keep this short tonight. I did "The Clubhouse" and "Doubleheader" and planted the seeds for some more game broadcasts.

And there's the football news in Connecticut, which is basically, "We're not going to authorize you playing but we're not going to stop you from playing if you form your own league."

You can just hear the wheels turning towards a league in Fairfield County and Chris Erway and I will call whatever we can.

You don't have to be Woodward or Bernstein (ah, they're priceless, aren't they?) to know that a private club league is forming as we speak.

But that's for another day.

This is where this one ends.

“No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man will store up in his ghostly heart.” -- Nick Carraway, The Great Gatsby

A Little Light

There's a long road ahead.

Kind of like US 6, which rolls through Mahopac as part of its 3000-plus mile jaunt from Provincetown, MA to Bishop, CA (and used to go all the way to the West Coast).

I'm babbling.

Anyway, there was some real darkness* today.

*I feel like I should stop here. I don't say this for attention. I'd like to believe most people don't open this window for attention. Sure, we want to be heard -- OK -- but there's also a certain level of desperation involved with that. But we (well, at least I) want others to know that you're not alone and it's OK to talk.

So, yeah, darkness then, if that's OK with those judging.

Anyway, these moments are bound to happen as I wade through the minutiae. Fortunately, I was able to get a break as I drove to Bridgeport to call baseball between Fairfield American and Fairfield National.

I got there and thought my 2020 (once again) would be over for broadcasting games. Nothing has come up from any outlet for fall high school sports and the football debate feels lost. No matter what anyone else is doing in any other state, it just seems like the CIAC isn't going to let football happen.

The Department of Public Health definitely won't.

The individual superintendents and town officials might not allow it either.

Regardless, I assumed we could be heading into another break. I planned to come home, unpack the notes, file away the scorecards, and break down the equipment.

And then I got a visit from a coach.

"No matter who wins tonight, someone will want to talk to you about more game broadcasts."

Oh really?

I'm proud to say that we've achieved a nice reputation for being reliable, professional, and making games sound good. The reviews always reveal that we make players feel like they're big time, which they are to me.

I call Little League baseball like I call minor league baseball or high school baseball or anything else. It's reporting, informing, educating and entertaining.

So I talked about Graham McNamee, who I'm sure most have never heard of (unless you read this blog). I talked about why giving the lineups during a game broadcast used to be extremely important. I work in little nuggets.

In the end Fairfield National prevailed with a 4-1 win in the double elimination round to win the district. They now head to Milford, CT beginning Saturday.

Meaning -- at the very least -- I'm heading to Milford beginning Saturday.

I love building this through the grass roots efforts of calling a game in the style that I feel is best. I love the regard and respect for that work and how people continue to discover it.

So with that, and a few other irons, I feel a hair better than I felt this morning.

It's something and that's better than nothing.
 

Class Action Park

Really, Sean. Dad did that.

My friend Jeff Terranova invited me to go to an amusement park with him and a few other friends.

I'd need a bathing suit for the water rides before changing for the dry stuff later on.

No big deal. It was 1984 and I was 15. It would be a day of fun.

My parents seemed fine with it.

We jumped in the back of a station wagon and we headed off to New Jersey.

To Action Park.

You know: Action Park, "Where You're the Center of the Action."

I went a few times through the mid-80s and, somehow, my parents didn't flinch.

I look back and laugh. Like, how -- HOW -- was I (and a lot of other kids) allowed to go there?

A few of the legends of Action Park (aka "Traction Park") had been reported, including a few deaths.

A new documentary -- Class Action Park -- details the full story of Gene Mulvihill's empire on New Jersey Route 94 in Vernon.

I still marvel at the fact that I -- a major klutz, mind you -- escaped basically unscathed. OK, sure, there was the ride called the Kamikaze where you slide down on your back, propelled by water. A certain amount of that water also rushed back at you.

Hard.

I stepped off that one, not wanting to be a party pooper, and told my mates that I'd sit out the next one while I recovered from the intense pain surging through my...er...midsection. Just a little too much rushing water to the groin.

Beyond that, shockingly, I survived. I was glorious unaware that the ponds near the motor rides had an intense amount of snakes in them, for instance.

I avoided any damage in the wave pool (though I did have a brief moment that concerned me).

I laughed when I lost my mat on Surf Hill, and just slid to the bottom. It stung but it was funny.

I noticed how cold the spring water was when I landed from the Tarzan swing or the cannonball plunge but never experienced anything bad as a result.

As for the Alpine Slide, well, I somehow mastered that, including the more intense "expert" path.

Seriously, I don't get how I was never seriously hurt...or worse!

Instead, it was a slice of normalcy in a teenagers life that including laughing, being "boys," laughing more, girls, eating, even more laughing, flirting, and being overall dumb teenagers.

We drove go karts and played mini golf and arcade games and whatever else there was to do.

But the documentary highlights just what a mess Action Park really was.

Besides the snakes, there was the famous Cannonball Loop along with the lax security, overall "frat boy" atmosphere, and as I said, the occasional death.

No big deal.

The documentary is a fascinating look back at all of it (and, again, it's amazing to think I basically did all of this), as well as the stuff we didn't know about. It's really well done and, well, it's basically all true.

If you have HBO Max, or can watch it with a free trial, it's worth the time. I almost want my son to see it, if only to see that Dad wasn't always...

Dad.

Meet The New Boss

So this happened.

His (current) name is Binks and he's roughly a year and a half old.

It's hard to argue that we seemed destined for a partnership.

As you probably know, I went to Bridgeport last Friday afternoon to call baseball following my mother's passing. I decided -- and everyone seemed to agree -- that it was the best thing I could do. It would take my mind off things and I could stubbornly honor my commitment to the broadcast.

Paul Silverfarb and I had originally scheduled to grab dinner postgame (even before the events of Friday, Sep 4). Shawn Sailer was set to join us.

Yet we couldn't come up with a place to go that was "COVID-friendly."

So I texted "nephew-in-law" Eric to see if he knew of anything in the Black Rock area of Bridgeport. My thinking was that Eric and Meaghan live nearby and maybe they would meet up with us. I figured we could all use a cold beverage and a big hug.

Eric told me to come to their apartment instead. Knowing that this was truly where I belonged, I begged off with Paul and Shawn.

It was the right call. We toasted my mom's memory, told stories, and I finally ate something more than cereal and pretzels.

A black cat walked by and nuzzled me.

"Do you want him?" asked Eric. "I'm not kidding."

"Um...er..."

It seems code name Binks is a loving, snuggly guy that's become just a tad aggressive with their other cat, Wilson. Plus there's the matter of two cats and a baby in a small apartment.

I mentioned it in passing to others and the response was overwhelming and resounding.

I came up with arguments: cost, responsibility, cost, waking me up at ungodly hours, cleaning a litter box, cost, and cost.

All were shot down. Fast.

Most of them pushed me to text Eric and see if the offer was real.

All felt it was fate that Sir Binks-a-Lot walked into my life on the night of my mother's death.

And so, we're here tonight. I picked him up earlier this afternoon. Eric and Meaghan were not only serious but feel that the cat will be happier here with me and that I'll be happier with the cat.

It's a long drive from Bridgeport to Mahopac and he meowed and explored the car before soiling himself. A fairly inauspicious beginning.

And now he's hiding, which he's been doing for close to five hours. Fairly standard new cat behavior, I suppose.

There have been many times since July 17 that I've looked for Chico. I guess I'll be looking for this cat now.

Oh, and the name can change, but I have no idea what it will be.

He's here now. Just hiding behind the couch.

My mother didn't really want a new cat after Chico, fearing there was only one Chico. She was right, of course. There is only one.

And now there's only one whatshisname. I hope he brings me just as much joy and companionship.

Even Nancy would have to see that fate brought him here.

Onward

As I remember, it was a Sunday. Maybe March 26, 1989.

That sounds right.

My family had been together for probably nine days as we mourned my father's passing. My brother's family stayed with us for a few days after the funeral.

Maybe that's longer that it actually was, but that's how I remember it.

When they left -- my oldest niece was eight at the time -- my mother and I looked at each other as if we knew that the house would now be really quiet. There was definitely a feeling of, "Now what?"

It was time to move forward.

That time has arrived once again.

I stayed home alone on Monday and Tuesday nights of this week but I knew people were coming. Laura and Emma stayed over. Stephanie was here a few days. My sister Laura was also.

Plus the funeral crowd.

And now -- Sat, Sep 12, 2020 -- they're all gone. Sean is still here and he's doing his school work and talking to friends.

So we move on.

It's time. It's time for Laura and Emma to go home and for Stephanie to have a day to herself.

It will just be a quiet night and I'll be busy tomorrow (Little League baseball at 11 a.m. on Robcasting). Sean says he's staying for a few days before it's just me again.

But we have to keep going.

I'm scared. Nervous. No question.

With COVID's able assistance, my life basically shut down. It stopped, especially as I took care of Mom. I worked in a small handful of games but I'm starting over in many ways.

I know I've mentioned this but it's worth mentioning again (and again).

I should have called Greenwich-Westhill today in Stamford but we know that's not happening anytime soon.

In truth, I tend to think Connecticut (and New York) are playing politics. That's what many aren't seeing. It's not about flattened curves here. There's football being played across the majority of the country. Most of my broadcasting friends are out calling games.

So I have to look into things that will help me cobble together a life again.

A band called Timbuk 3 once said, "The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades."

My brain certainly didn't think so at four this morning.

I'm still not so certain right now.

But I have to start finding out.

Everyone Has a Story

Mark Messier

I had an interview for a temp (to maybe perm) position. The interview was in White Plains for a company located in lower Manhattan.

But first, I had enough time to go to WGCH and do some prep work. Greenwich and Norwalk were scheduled to play football that Saturday and I wanted to get the rosters, create the promos, and whatever else I needed to do.

It was, of course, Sep 11, 2001.

I was merging from NY route 139 onto NY 100, near the wonderful Muscoot Tavern (great food). I was listening to Imus in the Morning, when Warner Wolf -- who had a perfect view from his apartment -- of the Twin Towers phoned in with the first report. A short time later, while moving along on Interstate 684 and changing stations, did I hear that the other tower had been hit.

I've told these and other stories so many times. I checked on the pertinent people -- Mom, siblings, friends -- and did some things around the radio station.

I called the job agency about the position, who still considered having me come in for the interview, before heading back home on roads so empty and eerie that it felt like a Sunday morning.

Except it was a Tuesday afternoon.

Things changed. New terms were introduced ("Ground Zero," anyone?). Our world was rocked.

Our spirit was hurt and then quickly rebuilt.

We're so far removed from that.

Nothing is normal in 2020 of course. Basically every Sep 11, I would listen to a collection of audio files I assembled from that day and play an album that was meaningful about that time.

I eventually stopped playing the album. I don't think I can bring myself to listen to the sound bites.

Most years, I watched the footage all over again. MSNBC played the NBC Today show and eventual NBC coverage. I've watched and listened to so much of it, just as I have with the Kennedy assassination. Morbid? I don't think so. It's more about history for me.

It's also about remembering the sadness and anger of those horrible days.

I don't think I can do it. I also realize that's a product of this week. Like much of 2020, some traditions just might have to take a year off.

But I do remember. I paused at 8:46 a.m. I thought about that guy in the black Honda on route 139. I thought about the faces and the stories and lives lost. I thought about -- look away if you can't read this -- the jumpers who felt they had choice.

I thought about the missing persons flyers and the many tears and the many memorials. I thought about Mike Piazza and Tino Martinez and Derek Jeter and Scott Brosius.

What a different time it was. What a different life. Sean didn't exist yet.

Everything was just surreal.

I only met one or two of the many lost that day and have always considered myself to be fortunate.

Next year will be 20 trips around the sun since we last saw those faces that morning.

Greenwich never played that football game.

There was never another word about that temp job.

Those are just a few of my many stories. We all have them.

Maybe sharing them can get us to a common place again.

Because we should never forget.

I know I won't.

There Will Be a Tomorrow

North Carolina, 2017. I call this "The Neighborhood Sad Clown"

Just like that, it was over.

My mother was laid to rest today. There were many words said, many tears shed, and many memories shared.

Sean heard about how tall he was and I heard how much I look like my father.

There were people who I haven't seen in years. A former coworker of my dad's who disappeared from our lives circa 1990 was there and reminded me how I mentioned him in my dad's eulogy. I was stunned.

I'm grateful for every face that showed up and every heart that was thinking of us even if they couldn't be there. I get it. I really do.

I appreciate all of it. I soaked it all up.

I spoke at the funeral. As I've done here, I tried to sum up her life with love and laughter. I didn't make any attempt to push for tears.

For me, I've shed just a few. I think I'm still in shock.

I nearly snapped at the cemetery. We put roses on her grave. I stepped up second -- after my sister -- placing a rose and planting a kiss on my hand before touching the wooden casket. I then stepped aside and did the same to my father's side of their grave and moved away.

It was at that point that I thought it would all flow. Somehow a voice inside yelled out: "Hey! Knock it off. People are going to think you're just doing this for show. It's all a ploy for sympathy."

I rallied, buoyed by having to sturdy myself for others who needed to let it out. It's my shoulder they needed.

There were a few times I thought I might break during the eulogy, yet somehow I steadied myself.

I mean, for the love of everything, what was going on? I was telling stories of life, of the house, of the "dead horses" my mother knew how to turn into glue and of her pilfering of hotel supplies. I tried to reach people (and actually stopped myself from talking about the best newspaper editor when I mentioned Darien, CT in a story, but the mere mention of that was a shout out to said editor). I did little prep. I remembered the few things I wanted to say. I wanted people to just relax.

But, again, there was a voice: "Pull it together!"

I buckled when I saw Harold and Kris and his wife Lori and my niece Meaghan and my nephew Michael and my cousin Jon and my buddy Scott and the wonderful visit from Tim.

Tim and I are these strange brothers. We get it. Then we don't. Then we do. Then there's Waffle House.

I struggled in a few people's arms and thought Susan might be the one to send me cascading. Yet, somehow she timed everything just right to keep me from reaching that breaking point.

I suppose it will happen.

Somewhere, Esther Rolle smiles. Damn, Damn, Damn.

Back at the house, while fighting rain and humidity, we turned far more lighthearted in our approach, as one should after all is in the rearview mirror. The dirt and earth remains moved and will soon grow back.

Time, of course, moves on.

There's still more work to do. A car to return, a cellphone to turn off. Other things that slightly eradicate a life in a matter of speaking.

But I also loved it all. I loved seeing great nephew Carson, whether crying or smiling away. I loved seeing Logan (too hard to explain how he's related) asking if there were toys in the house. The kids brought vitality and innocence. I loved seeing cousins who don't get together enough, I loved talking with my mother's lone surviving sibling and having her tell me about how she kicked my mother in the throat once in Peekskill because my mother was a kicker.

"You didn't dare kick the BABY!," Aunt Nina said. "Boy was my father mad!"

She told me memories of their house in New Jersey as well.

For a day, it didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. The group hug was there and needed. The house was alive and there was much laughter.

Just as Nancy and Don would want it.

And I've rarely been prouder of Sean who stepped up as a pallbearer and as my shadow, making small talk with people he's never seen (and will probably never see again). He's been a true champ.

I've also been told that people either a) read the blog if the cover picture attracts them, b) don't read if it it's about sports or some random sports person and c) I write like I talk. I'm almost embarrassed when people say they read this but also thrilled and that last note makes me especially happy. It's always how I want people to read this.

And a big thank you to Susan for this. I was deeply moved by her words on Facebook tonight.

This long distance dedication today goes out to Rob Adams. (Being the biggest radio fan I know, he appreciates the reference.) He has shown boundless grace, courage and strength - not only this week, in the face of the heartbreaking loss of the great lady that was his mom- but in the years of dedicated and selfless care for her.  

Today, he continued that strength through a difficult day that included him giving a funny, loving and heartwarming eulogy. I always say I could never do what he does on air - but I was never more in awe of what he was able to do than today in spite of all he was coping with inside. We battle, talk, share commonality and laugh about music - this one is on both of of our favorite lists. Casey, can you play Harmony by Elton John for Rob in Mahopac?

She's the absolute epitome of everyone who has called, written, texted, hugged, supported us through this time. Nobody has shown more loyalty and her presence today was so welcomed.

I'm so glad Sean, my niece Laura and my great niece Emma are still here tonight. Yet I know -- just as it did in 1989 -- we have to dry our eyes, expect more moments of emotion, and turn towards the next sunrise.

My niece Stephanie put this amazing video together, featuring a who lot of pictures of my mother and the life she built. I'm happy to share it. (Linked here if the embed doesn't work)

Another One of Those Nights

A little baseball after a family dinner

I guess I'm tapped out on words.

I'm yawning up a storm.

Up around 7 and I was simply a tornado of activity from the moment I woke up.

Clean this, throw out that, mow this and so on.

Now, I have family with me which makes the house less quiet.

Monday and Tuesday nights were just too quiet. It felt like she as back in the hospital or the nursing home and that's exactly the problem.

As it is, I haven't exactly dealt with the the emotions of it all.

We're going to celebrate mom tomorrow.

Damn right we are. We need to laugh and I suppose we need to cry as well.

I'm planning to speak. Would you expect anything less? Would she have it any other way?

I say no.

I've been debating what to say since last Friday. Should I script it? Should I do an outline? Should I wing it?

I guess I'll find out tomorrow.

But, once I that this laptop off of my lap, I'm going to settle down.

Something I haven't done a lot of today.

#LetThemPlay

I wish there could be an easy answer to this.

I wish politics could stay out of it.

I wish the athletes and coaches could just do what they do.

They can for so many other sports. Heck, I've called a nice little number of baseball games since July and it's been great. I'm hopeful for some fall baseball also.

So what we know -- in both New York and Connecticut -- is that soccer can happen. So can cross country and field hockey and other "low and moderate risk" sports.

Girls volleyball? Yes, with masks in CT but not in NY.

Football? Oh, they can practice, I guess. Sure.

But, at least in CT, they can't play 11-on-11. Sure, the DPH says that they can do a passing league (you know, 7-on-7), which is essentially two-hand touch. So, the big boys (read: linemen) aren't welcome.

The vitriol has been off the charts, of course. I can't abide by threats to anyone. You're certainly not making your case at that point.

Let me be clear: despite the title of this post, I'm not blindly thinking #LetThemPlay. But I'd like to see them have a chance to play.

Look, I've favored common sense, which hasn't exactly worked well at times.

I'm concerned with how athletes will handle too much down time. During the summer, the only hiccup wasn't due to athletes playing sports. It was due to parties and so on.

I'd like to believe the structure of sports can keep things under control.

I'm also concerned with the mental health of all involved. I'm concerned (frankly) about the financial impact as well (and yes, there's an impact).

What has troubled me the most is the back and forth of politics between the DPH and the CIAC with the athletes stuck in the middle.

Obviously, I haven't had the time to really dig into everything. The news of high school football being canceled (and yes, that's the word) hit last Friday morning. Not exactly the best of times for me to react.

What I don't like is the finality of it all in that the CIAC Board of Control said that football would be canceled -- not moved to spring.

And that was true...until a glimmer of hope today.

More Lamont: "I thought very early on that swapping baseball and football made sense (but that didn’t happen) … I’d still like to see a football season happen a little bit later.” #cthsfb

— Sean Patrick Bowley (@SPBowley) September 8, 2020

So, as you can see, the governor of Connecticut is interested in having football.

I mean, how exactly is it "fair" (no, life isn't fair) that everything else but football can play?

This story from the Bangor Daily News (John Nash's old stomping grounds) says there are 35 states that are offering football "as normal" (whatever that is). Oh, did I mention John Nash and Bangor? John was interviewed on 92.9 The Ticket about being one of the collection of owners of Kentucky Derby winning horse Authentic.

I know Mike Hirn is calling games in Ohio and I very well might go call a few there for them. Even if I drive one day, call some games, and drive home. Maybe a three or four-day inexpensive run out there. (Of course, they're on the New York restricted list so that might invalidate the whole idea).

I want football back but I want it for the right reasons and with safety for all.

Maybe -- just maybe -- with Ned Lamont's support, football will still happen.

Even if it's a part of 2021.

Of course, I still wonder what's magically going to change in 2021.

I'm going to try to do a show tomorrow (I could probably use an hour of sports talk to keep checking out of the real world occasionally) so hopefully we can talk about this. I feel awful that I haven't been available for the families, athletes and coaches who look to me as a voice of something.

The Goals

A Nancy selfie, March 13, 2020

I've told you how my mom had three goals:

- Sean's graduation
- Sean's graduation party
- Eric and Meaghan's wedding

She also, under no circumstances, wanted a COVID funeral.

And, while we'll wear masks and social distancing and so on, she'll be able to have a celebration of her life.

Her family -- those who can attend -- will be together.

But, back to those other goals. We got her to an early dialysis appointment for Sean's graduation. Then we flew up to Fishkill for Sean's graduation ceremony. In some ways, the gods were kind to us as she never had to leave the car and could sit in the air conditioning while watching grandchild number 10 walk by in his cap and gown.

Then, when it was time for his name to be told, she was right there, watching it as we drove.

She got to have her picture taken and express her pride in him.

Then she went home and relaxed.

A few weeks later, we had a small gathering at the house. Again, as with everything, social distancing mattered and everyone behaved themselves.

And mom -- really more than Sean -- was the star of the show. Nor that Sean minded in any way. She held court all afternoon being tended to by those in attendance.

Yet there was a poignant moment when she telling stories to my nephew Jake and his girlfriend, Malia.

She got to talking about her brothers, all three of whom have died.

I was standing nearby, talking to others when I heard the sniffles and glanced at my sister.

Then we both aimed our eyes at her.

"I'm fine," she said.

It was strange and sad. A sign? I'm not sure. But there was something interesting in that moment.

Still, you could tell the party meant a lot to her.

The big goal was the wedding. She had bought clothes and packed weeks in advance (a Nancy specialty). You'd mention traveling and the answer would almost always be, "I'm already packed."

I think she really relished it. She was relaxed and happy, enjoying champagne at the reception and having so many pictures taken with her grandkids and her two "partners in crime."  That would be Sean and me.

Those pictures will be very bittersweet when the professional ones finally come out.

But, again, she enjoyed every last moment of it. She loved seeing my sister happy and my niece getting married. She adored Eric and was so pleased to be in this space.

It was as if she said could die happily. Literally.

She took her first and only Uber ride to the wedding.

She had a bagel one morning for breakfast that raved about for days after.

She watched us swim, though that made me sad because she loved the water and didn't go in.

She enjoyed the energy -- the hustle and bustle of it all. Need to go to Target? Sure, Robert will take her!

And, of course, she made sure to take whatever hotel toiletries and anything she could pilfer.

We had to change her dialysis schedule that week to get her to the wedding so that she could enjoy the rehearsal dinner and make the most of the days. I drove her back from Albany and we went straight to Carmel so that she could go in for more dialysis.

I went home to unpack and do laundry before returning to pick her up.

Mission accomplished.

While at Meaghan's wedding, I told the newlyweds what the day -- the trip -- meant to her.

"We have to cherish all of this time," I said.

I repeated the same thing to Katie, Meaghan's older sister, who is marrying Marshall next year.

Yet, I felt I sounded like the creepy, dopey uncle in hindsight. I felt totally guilty. I fretted about it for the rest of the night into the next day, like I was some kind of drunken fool.

"You were absolutely fine," my mother said without prompting, and she would be the first to take note of any hijinks.

She began talking about Katie's wedding and I actually thought she'd make it to next October. But her heart had other plans.

She died less than two weeks after we got home.

What's that saying about making plans and God laughing?

Sometimes, it's just not fair.

Just Thinking and Remembering

Near New Orleans, 2003

"Mom, we've got to go. Mom? MOM!"

No. We can't start there.

There's not enough space to go all the way back to 1937. There will be time for stories. Lots of it.

I suppose we could start with a week ago Thursday, when I came home to find my mother's car gone from the garage.

See, the thing is she leased this car in March, only a short time after I drove her away from a nursing home.

Since then, she had driven it a couple of times. I did the rest of the driving. But last Thursday, Nancy felt the need to return a shower curtain liner that she believed was too heavy (and too expensive) so she drove to Macy's ten minutes away, walked in, returned the damn thing, and left.

She went to a fruit and vegetable stand that's been around here forever, and I think there might have been a Dunkin Donuts stop in there, but I was too in shock to find her gone to question her route.

So it was that I felt we might see a good sign. She could get around occasionally, and she didn't always need me.

That was the thing about her. We knew it was bad. It's been bad for years, beginning with her open heart surgery back in Dec 2013. Then came the mystery issues of Dec 2017 before the determination that her kidneys were done.

Plus there was the heart problem.

But she believed in not worrying anyone and making sure we made a buck. That night in 2017, I was getting ready to call Greenwich/Warde basketball at GHS when she texted me. She said my sister was coming to get her. She wanted me to do the game (she obviously knew me quite well) and then join her at the hospital.

She knew I wasn't a big fan of hanging out. I get restless easily.

I did as told, and as I promised. In my restlessness, I leaned on technology to occupy me.

She was home by Christmas Day but she wasn't right. I told her we should go to the hospital but she refused. So began probably the worst Christmas ever -- even worse than the one I spent alone. It was just...off.

The next morning, my phone buzzed around 3 a.m. Yup, it was her and it was time to go the hospital. It took until January but dialysis was the prescription and that became a three time per-week escapade. She didn't drive herself at first and so my sister, my niece, a few others (my nephew and a cousin) and I became the drivers. Eventually she got back behind the wheel and, for the most part, we made our way through 2018 and 2019.

Then came Jan 20, 2020.

I was supposed to call a hockey game at Brunswick.

I was just about to leave for the rink. Sean was with us and he planned to stay home. He had strict instructions to be in touch. I was heading for the door when I heard, "Is your father still here?"

I was. She said she couldn't even walk down the stairs to the car. We had to call 911. They got her out and Sean and I went to the hospital behind the ambulance. My sister joined us. We had a long night of tests and talking and confusion.

They admitted her. This time it just seemed bad.

It was medication that she had been taking but it just seemed worse than that. Either way, she was weak. Gaunt. Tired.

In Vegas, the odds weren't great, but we figured she'd pull it off again.

I thought about honoring my commitment. About not letting Brunswick down. My friend Joe Early, then my primary contact there, texted me and told me to stay with my mother. End of discussion.

She stayed at Putnam Hospital before they sent her to Vassar in Poughkeepsie, supposedly for surgery. Except, that never happened.

She seemed to baffle literally every doctor.

Eventually, a nursing home was decided on. My mother -- patient to your face, impatient otherwise -- only wanted to go home. No nursing. Just home.

Visiting nurse? Er. No. Rehab? Screw that.

But the days grew into weeks and she wasn't walking. She needed to get active.

So she went to a nursing home. She was checked in by my sister. All good, right?

My phone buzzed at seven the next morning.

"Get me out of here or I'll check myself out and call a taxi."

I took the bullet and drove there. Our exchange was not exactly "Hey thanks for coming to get me!"

"I know you're pissed," she said.

"OK. Good," I replied.

"But I'm out of here."

"Got it. Done."

We were out within the hour and, to be clear, we were fine. She stayed at the house through the weekend, and I was planning to go to my cousin's Super Bowl party, but I could tell that wasn't going to happen. She was weak and there was no way she was going to go. I felt there was no way I could either. I watched the game on the couch. She slept for probably most of it.

But she knew she needed help. She opted to try another nursing home -- one with a hallway out of The Shining (movie, not book). She said it was for the food but, in truth, she needed the therapy that she mostly resisted. My mother did eventually get back to walking, mostly with a cane, and occasionally with a walker. On the rarest of occasions she opted for a wheelchair.

Eventually, she moved around the house just fine without any assistance. These were small but nice signs.

I visited for stretches as often as possible, sometimes to watch "Jeopardy" or to grab her laundry. In fact, I did her laundry from that point on.

COVID-19 moved things to a new level. I developed a nasty cold at the end of February into early March that kept me from visiting her and I was going to stop in to see her on Mar 9 when I was told that visitors were no longer allowed.

I called two basketball games that night and went home with instructions to "get her the hell out of" the nursing home on the 10th.

Connecticut was shutting down the winter sports season due to the pandemic as I waited in the lobby of the nursing home. I wasn't allowed to go to her room.

We felt like there were bombs falling as we drove away.

That began the final stretch -- the final not-quite six months. There was frustration and laughter and long talks and tons of explanations (who will she get her tech support from now?) and some sports watching and "Judge Judy" (ugh) and more "Jeopardy" and old movies and food. Always. Food.

Between the pandemic and caring for her, my own life came to a stop, and I know I'm hardly alone. Yet we were surviving. We made the goals she set: Sean's graduation and, later, his party, plus Meaghan and Eric's wedding.

Then she went to Macy's. That brings us to this week. While there were concerning signs, she also talked about a Waffle House trip and other things.

We made it to Tuesday and she wanted to go out. She was all set to go on her own but I knew that, with me around, she wanted her trusty chauffeur. So it was back to the fruit stand and Dunkin Donuts and an Italian shop for sandwiches.

It was weird to do on a Tuesday since we were used to the Monday/Wednesday/Friday routine of dialysis, egg and cheese sandwiches, and occasionally something else. Most Tuesdays and Thursdays were either for staying home, me running errands for her, or eventually for me to reenter the world just a bit.

Then this past Thursday came two doctors appointments. We considered rescheduling them, though she said she could drive to one of them on her own. Again, you know the script. I told her to get them done in one day and I'd saddle up her Toyota once more.

The dialysis port in her arm was clogged and she'd need to come back in two weeks to clean it out. Grumble grumble. That was in Mount Kisco.

After grabbing lunch, the cardiologist in Peekskill told her that her case has frustrated her doctors. Her heart clearly wasn't great but that her length of time remaining would be, in part, her own doing. She needed to back down on sodium.

She made her way back out where I waited, and she told me the news in the car.

"So when we go to Waffle House this weekend, I need to see what I can eat," she said.

"Um. Nothing?" I laughed.

We got home. She rode her chair lift upstairs. Eventually, I walked the mail up to her. She texted me around 8:30, asking if I still had the small bottle of apple juice that the first doctor gave her. I said I had put it in the refrigerator.

"OK. Will look. Thanks," came the reply.

We know she was on Facebook sometime that night, with her last social media steps made into Fri, Sept 4.

That's when I found her and told her it was time to leave to go to dialysis. Of course, she never replied.

The prevailing belief is that she died in her sleep, and most likely it was a heart attack.

She married my father in Sep 1957. He died in March of 1989. That was 31 years.

She was without him until Friday. That was also 31 years.

Life's funny that way.

They're back together now. At least I hope so. I want to believe so. And so, when I asked Alexa to play some instrumental jazz this morning, the first tune that came on was John Coltrane playing "Nancy With the Laughing Face."

Well played. Well played indeed.

*****
I know I'll be writing much more this week about her and I hope you'll indulge me. There are stories to tell as I said and I'll be dealing with all kinds of emotions as I try to avoid an "Esther Rolle/Sally Field" moment (Google them).

My friend Lucy Shultz texted me yesterday and told me she wished she had met her. So many people did meet her, and so many others never got the chance. But I promised Lucy I'd tell her stories of my parents.

Also -- and excuse me if this seems political, because it's not meant to be -- but I wish to thank the members of the Carmel Police Department and Putnam County Sheriff's Department for their professionalism and decency in dealing with the events of Friday. I also wish to thank the paramedics and representatives from the Mahopac Falls Vol. Fire Dept -- a place we were proud to be members of in various forms as a family for many years. Each person had a job to do. They asked me questions and I answered them. They were patient and understanding and I treated them the same. I'm forever grateful for how they handled everything.

Also thank you to Kim, the 911 operator who patiently helped me try to save my mothers life and apologized that she couldn't do so in person.

Lastly, and this will probably need to be said again, thank you to literally every person that has called, texted, posted, messaged me privately, and approached me in person. The kind words mean tons. The memories of my mom also mean a lot. It's all appreciated and it's helping us find some...something.