Halloween, 2020

 

It's dead.

Halloween, amirite? (You know, dead, Halloween...never mind).

One year ago today, I made an announcement that sat pretty high on the list of importance to me. What made it so tough was that I had to sit on that news for two weeks. Basically I told Susan, Sean, Mom and a few others, but couldn't tell the world.

I announced it a year ago today.

Mock it if you want (and a few have) but being named the Hudson Valley Renegades broadcaster was a huge highlight of my life. It was a story of perseverance and being in the right place at the right time.

It was something I had given up on several times, only to see the door open slightly. This time, I busted through.

Why it took as long as it did was a longer story than worth explaining (again, as life takes you to strange places) but the point was it had finally happened. I won't apologize.

Of course, I waited patiently for those precious 38 home games (and some road games at my cost) to begin. Of course, they never happened due to COVID-19.

No hotel room in Aberdeen on June 18 for opening night. Jon was going to drive up from Richmond and (he doesn't know this) but I was planning to put him on the air sometime during the game. Daughters Rose and Lilah (and wife Rebecca) would have gotten a good laugh from that!

No drive to Troy or Lowell or Norwich. 

No drive to any other place I thought about. 

No juggling for the off days to go to North Carolina.

No camp games at 11 a.m.

No tarp pulls (if necessary) or figuring out what to do during rain delays.

No doubleheaders and, to that end...

No "Doubleheader" or "Clubhouse" from Dutchess Stadium.

No creating a new game format for the broadcast and new imaging of music and sounds and creating the style that I envisioned.

No letting the audience hear Chris Erway or Chris Kaelin or Shawn Sailer or AJ Szymanowski or Jake Zimmer or Paul Silverfarb or the myriad other friends that I wanted to join me to do color. Nobody was getting dragged up to the Hudson Valley.

No getting my niece or cousin to visit the booth.

No visit for Mom or Sean.

No hanging and laughing with Kristin and Zolz and Steve and Joe  -- the friends I already knew there, along with the myriad new friends I looked to make with the team.

No nights where I'd just "Scully" it (that is, call it alone).

No watching batting practice quietly (you learn a ton there) or sitting in the dugout or manager's office just talking.

No visiting with other broadcasters and media to learn about their team.

No media guide to pour through and absorb.

No postgame stories to write.

No swag, promotions, fireworks, or fighting traffic. No grief, for that matter.

Nope. None of it.

I visited "The Dutch" twice -- once to do "Doubleheader" and interview Steve Gliner and once to do a tournament championship doubleheader.

A year later, I have different work responsibilities and I'm at least aware and concerned for how we're going to juggle all of it come 2021 but I'm hopeful all sides will work with me so that we can make it happen.

A year later, I remain concerned about the armageddon that has been talked about with Minor League Baseball. Yes, I'm very aware of the rumor that Major League Baseball wants to turn the New York-Penn League into a college league. But I'm also aware that the Renegades are supposed to be moving to a full-year league.

But what I'm also aware of is that it's all speculation and until I'm told otherwise, I'm staying the course.

The team has made it quite clear that I'll still be their broadcaster come opening day in 2021. Where will that opening day be? When? How many games? Those things are all to be figured out.

Right now, I remain patient as I await news. It has become a painfully quiet October and will continue into November from what I can see.

I truly don't know when or if my next game broadcast will be and, in some ways, it's OK. I keep using the time for other things.

But I missed the Renegades in 2020. I hope they have me up to the ballpark, even if just to hang out.

This is how I see Halloween this year because, otherwise, I'd be going out of my mind as I sit in this quiet house with only #TheCat to keep me company.

A year later, I sit here awaiting the news of next season. I sit here waiting for the game schedule.

I sit here waiting to hear "Play ball."

It will happen.

I hope.

Friday: Snow, Work, and Exhaustion

 

On the Taconic State Parkway this morning

I'm tapped out on ideas this week. It's a result of being exhausted.

I continued to do overnights -- four times since Sunday and six times in the past two weeks. Working with people in Singapore, we concluded at 3:30 this morning. By the time I finished up and drove away, it was 3:41 a.m.

I was home at 4:25. So, go to bed, right?

Well...

I had committed to be interviewed by Mixlr at 6 a.m. Mixlr is where I host Robcasting and I've long-supported them, going back to the first iteration of HAN Network, in the days of Hersam Acorn Radio.

Ah, the innocence of 2013. Good times.

I set up for the Zoom call and curled up nearby. I drifted off for a few minutes, then sat down at chatted with Erika from Mixlr (who was based in England).

"What time is it in the US?" she asked. 

"Six a.m.," I responded. 

We talked a little about Robcasting, why I'm on Mixlr and other fascinating topics.

"Get get some sleep," she said as we finished.

So I climbed into bed, passing on my Friday morning WGCH soiree with Tony Savino before remerging a little after 10.

It wasn't a lot of sleep (I know, it's overrated) if you're keeping score.

Besides, I'll talk to Tony on Election night (I'll be part of WGCH's coverage once again). 

That's when I first noticed it was snowing, and sticking in parts of the Hudson Valley.

I had to run Sean back to Fishkill, which is likely the last time I'll have to do that, as he has his own car now. Then it was back to Greenwich.

I worked, left, stopped at the grocery store, and came home.

The snow was gone, which is good, because I have a lawn to mow and leaves to clean.

It will be a cold weekend around the house, unless something changes. Safe to say that Halloween will be rather low-key this year.

And I guess that has to be OK.

It will be a good weekend to read Doc Emrick's book before he comes on The Clubhouse next Wednesday.

Finally, it will be a good weekend to block out the noise and nonsense that will persist into next Tuesday and, sadly, beyond.

Now I hope to sleep -- overrated or otherwise.

Travis Roy

I had an entirely different post written earlier today.

I was working the overnight again and decided I'd get some stuff off my chest. In truth, I still feel what I wrote but I knew that the post would generate concern and questions. The funny thing is that I wrote to not be concerned.

I'm OK, actually. I'm overwhelmed, which is my standard answer these days, but I'm surviving. I also feel defeated in some ways. The post was about waiving the white flag.

But, in the end, the words I wrote at 1:53 a.m. aren't necessary for now. Time and some sleep soothed the savage beast.

I had gotten past what I had written long before I got the news that Travis Roy -- one of the most sad and inspiring stories sports has ever produced -- has died. He was 45.

Travis was like so many of us. He was a kid with a dream. His was to play hockey. He worked himself through his high school years in Maine and Massachusetts to join the Boston University squad.

Just 11 seconds into his first shift, on Oct 20, 1995, Roy crashed head-first into the end boards against the University of North Dakota.

He was paralyzed.

Life takes turns and Roy took his fate to become a philanthropist, creating the Travis Roy Foundation in 1997. The foundation works to help fund research for a cure for spinal cord injuries.

He wrote a memoir (Eleven Seconds), earned his degree, and became a motivational speaker.

In 2010, Roy was linked with Matt Brown, a hockey player from Norwood, MA, when Matt was injured in a similar fashion. I've come to know the Brown family in a distant way and proudly call them friends.

Matt Brown also has a foundation, and they said in a statement tonight: "We are absolutely heartbroken after learning of the passing of Travis Roy. Travis was a pioneer in the spinal cord injury community, as well as the hockey community. His courage, vision, and determination helped to better the lives of so many. He was the shining light in so many families' darkest days. His legacy will live on for generations, and he will never be forgotten."

I'm heartbroken for all of them tonight. Travis was the guiding light on all of this, taking the awful circumstances of that night in 1995 and making the best of his life.

Complications from quadriplegia took Travis Roy's life today. ESPN's Greg Wyshynski reported that Roy died of "complications from a procedure he needed to maintain his quality of life."

Heartbroken.

It's Real and It's Spectacular

 

Justin Turner (red beard) is in the front row

You should know in advance that I don't like the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Never have.

I would have especially hated them -- yes, hated -- in the 50s. Specifically in 1955, when they beat the Yankees in the World Series.

Plus I get more than a little tired at the "woe is us" of Brooklyn, even 62 years after the left for Los Angeles.

But, dammit, there's Vin Scully, and even I cared about #WinForVin.

Anyway, I'm burying the lede like Mookie Betts buried the ball in the left field stands when he homered late last night to give Los Angeles an insurance run as they beat Tampa Bay to win the World Series.

The boo birds (aka pessimists) appeared almost immediately, heartened by third baseman Just Turner's positive COVID-19 test. MLB received the result during the game and Turner was removed but was on the field celebrating after the final out.

There will be much to say about that but, for what it's worth, he contracted it somehow and had been around his teammates throughout. Still, family members were on the field also. The whole thing is sketchy for sure.

But beyond those taking the COVID-positive victory lap, let's address this season.

Sorry, folks, but it counts.

It's 100% real.

I don't care how many games they played. I signed up for a 60-game season and that's what they played.

I signed up for all of it, whether I liked it or not. Honestly, I never liked 60 games and, if you follow or listen to me, you know that's the truth.

Still, I was willing to suspend a lot to make the best of this year. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? 

If a concert or a Broadway show was staged for you in your front yard, would you dismiss it?

Aren't we supposed to take lemons and make lemonade?

Though a dash of vodka might be necessary in this concoction.

Some will simply not be happy and I get that. They will find any reason to whine. Such as...

- Sixty games aren't a REAL season.
- The playoffs were expanded too far.
- Blake Snell shouldn't have been pulled and computers are running baseball.
- Justin Turner's positive test.
- Joe Buck because he's Joe Buck
- Rob Manfred (ah, that's too easy, and what was going on with him in the postgame?)

And so on. Some of it is even few but, sorry to say, it is what it is.

Buck, by the way, paid tribute to his dad and Vin Scully before the final out and you probably know how I feel about that. Game recognizing game, I suppose.

But there is no asterisk. You didn't want this season to happen and, as I've said since -- what, April? -- take this year off if you don't like it. 

I like it. Hell, I love it.

I'm no Dodgers fan but Chris Erway is and I'm happy for him today.

I've been consistent from the beginning. It's a real season if the Yankees won it.

The Dodgers won it and it's real. Anyone complaining simply has sour grapes.

This is what we did to survive 2020. The countdown is on to a hopefully real season in 2021.

There are still labor issues to address as well as the future of the, ahem, minor leagues.

But 2020 is in the books. All along I said they would play.

It's a business.

They played.

The Dodgers won.

It counts.

Game over.

The Sad Clown

 

Thanks, Dave

I've posted that picture before. I thought I'd tell you more about it.

The frame was a very thoughtful gift from Dave Torromeo, who texted me before I got it to tell me to be honest if I didn't like it.

I loved it. He said it was inspired by another picture that I had posted but I immediately thought of the one I titled, "The Sad Clown."

Before I get to the story, I should mention that memories flow every day since Mom died on Sept 4 but things were a little harder today because her car was taken. Her license plates -- a tag that my father first got in the 1950s -- are off the car. It's probably the first time those plates have been off a car for even only a few hours in over 60 years.

I'm relieved that the transaction is over. I'm sad the car is gone.

Now, to the picture.

It was 2017 and Kristy's family was moving out of their rented house in Fayetteville for a new house in Stedman, a small community roughly 10 miles outside of town.

I offered up any help if needed. Kristy and Hector were grateful for the set of hands. Three sets, in fact, would come from New York, as Mom and my sister Laura joined me.

We thought we'd drive down on Friday for a long weekend but, after talking with Kristy and Hector, we decided we would get a head start on Thursday and stop in Maryland before hitting the road before daylight the next day.

Laura, Mom and I wanted to keep moving and keep costs low, by leaning on trusty Wawa for food, fuel, and restroom breaks. We piled into Mom's Toyota on Thursday night, fought traffic to Elkton, MD and jumped on the road first thing Friday.

Washington, DC traffic (and Baltimore also) were as bad as advertised on that rainy morning. I could hear my father saying, "I told you so" as I drove. The rain crushed us at times through Virginia into the top of North Carolina. It rained so hard at times that I pondered pulling off the road. The only problem was the side of the road wasn't easy to see.

Then, almost magically, it stopped raining and this late March day turned almost unbearably hot. The temperature had risen some 40 degrees since leaving Elkton that morning.

Our decision to get to Fayetteville earlier on Friday was fortuitous as Kristy and I grabbed the U-Haul and got to work on filling it. Hector was picked up from the airport, as he had been away on work. Kristy, Hector, Laura, me, my niece Laura and Kelly, along with the various kids commenced on packing that truck before shutting it all down for the night.

We jumped to it on Saturday morning (no Waffle House -- we had work to do!) and got ready for the first of four truckloads. I felt like my dad, serving as the trusty truck driver (I can't carry his work boots, for what it's worth).

It was warm again, so I was in shorts. Mom had done a lot of inside stuff -- packing up the kitchen and things like that. There was no heavy lifting for her at that point (she would turn 80 in a few weeks). So, decked out in jeans with a sweater and a plaid vest, she set up a camping chair in the front yard as kids and adults alike worked on filling the truck.

The kids at one point, had some kind of balloons that somehow wound up in her hand as she sat in the chair. It was her way of supervising and commiserating while we all huffed and puffed carrying things about.

It struck me as funny but I said nothing.

I grabbed my phone and snapped a picture without any fuss.

She was the local woman, maybe a little down on her luck, who plopped down in a chair and watched life go by as she hoped for someone to stop by for a chat and maybe bring her a fresh cup of hot coffee.

With milk and three Sweet 'N Low.

She was the character -- harmless but a little, well, unique.

She was the neighborhood sad clown.

I showed the others and they all laughed. Then I showed her.

She laughed that laugh. She got it.

So when Dave's kind gift showed up, I knew I had to make a print of The Sad Clown and put it in the frame. Others agreed.

The rest of the move went mostly without a hitch. Kristy and Hector have always been great hosts. They let me feel like their house is truly mine. I slept (not well) on a deflated air mattress that night and we went to Raleigh on Sunday to the North Carolina State Flea Market before dinner.

Oh and Waffle House for breakfast, as well as on Monday as we started a long drive back to New York.

One more funny story about that. Mom was notorious for her dislike of seafood but also known for her "Whatever you want" approach when it came to food. In truth it was whatever we wanted ... up to a point.

The long day was wearing on Laura and I as we got to Delaware. I texted her while sitting at a traffic light.

Please note she was sitting next to me in the car.

"Joe's Crab Shack?"

She was thrilled and intrigued.

The key was to show my mother that there was a hamburger or something she would like.

We perused the menu. Bingo.

"We've decided on dinner," one of us said, united in our treachery. "We're going to Joe's Crab Shack in Wilmington and they have burgers. We're going to enjoy seafood."

She went and enjoyed.

A good sport to the end as we ate and carried on back home.

Exhausted but another experience in the memory bank.

*****

This post reminds me that I'm sort of lousy at thank you cards and so on. I try to write it electronically but I probably come up empty. But -- please -- let this serve as a "THANK YOU" to the many people who wrote, visited, called, donated to the American Heart Association, and have checked in since Sept 4. Maybe I've said it and maybe I haven't but we're truly grateful. I've also long believed that it's after the funeral is over that is some of the most important time and there have been many people who have followed up with a simple "How are you doing?"

I can't say with enough certainty how much it means to me.

Captain Jeter's Dominant Winning Dynasty Band

 

Oh, that title? It was 20 years ago today (heh heh)...

As a sports fan, I know I've been blessed. I've got the Yankees of 1977, 1978, 1996, 1998, 1999, 2000, 2009. The Steelers have handed out six Lombardi's in my lifetime, with the latter four meaning the most since I really remember those. The Rangers blessed us in 1994. 

The Knicks? Remember when they used to win?

And there have been others that were meaningful. But there was one year -- one ring, if you will -- that was so painful that all I felt was pure relief when it was over.

The 2000 Yankees limped home that season. While they were the two-time defending champions, they limped to the finish line in the 2000 season, going 31-30 from August to the end of the season. There was cause for concern.

They fought the Oakland A's through five games in the ALDS before topping Seattle in the ALCS. Roger Clemens struck out 15 and allowed one hit in a complete game effort in Game 4 but the Mariners won Game 5 to send the Series back to The Bronx.

Trailing 4-3 in the seventh, M's manager Lou Piniella (we love ya' Lou) had lefty Arthur Rhodes on to face David Justice. It didn't end well for Seattle, as brilliantly called by Bob Costas on NBC.

In the end, the Yankees won 9-7 to advance to the World Series again. Over 56,000 at Yankee Stadium savored the moment.

But across town, the Mets were already waiting, having disposed of the Giants and Cardinals on their way to the Subway Series.

A f****** nightmare.

The Yankees couldn't win. Oh, they could win on the field, but they had to. Ask many of those Yankees and they'll tell you how it wasn't fun. The pressure of being THE team with THE owner was intense.

The only person I've heard different from was Bernie Williams, who told me he loved it when I interviewed him.

Personally, I went almost into hiding. I didn't listen to any sports media after the last out of the ALCS until the World Series was over. I listened to classical music in the car every day to and from work.

I was a living stress ball at Yankee Stadium for Game 1. The Yankees had a 2-0 lead on a Justice double in the sixth but Bubba Trammell and Edgardo Alfonzo put the Metsies on top in the seventh. Of course, Timo Perez cost the Mets a run in the sixth -- one of a couple of base running miscues.

(Oh, please tell me how overrated Derek Jeter is. It's laughable.)

I just felt like all the momentum was rolling with the team from Queens. I picked them on the air to win the title.

Game 1 ran into the ninth. Paul O'Neill stepped in versus closer Armando Benitez with one out. O'Neill fought through an at-bat that took over five minutes before taking a 3-2 (FULL COUNT!) fastball outside. O'Neill would eventually score to tie the game and Jose Vizcaino won it with a base hit in the 12th.

Nearly five hours of baseball. I think I got home around 2 a.m.

Of course Game 2 featured the Roger Clemens bat-throwing incident, but the story for me was the Yankees building up a 6-0 lead before the bullpen -- including Mariano Rivera -- struggled a bit to close out. Mo did get the last out to put the Yankees up two games to none but the 6-5 victory was too hair-raising for me.

The Mets grabbed Game 3 at Shea Stadium with two in the eighth to win 4-2. That cut the series to two games to one.

Then the Baja Men did "Who Let the Dogs Out" before Game 4 (embarrassing).

Then Derek Jeter happened. It was the first pitch of Game 4. The Yankees held on for a 3-2 win and a 3-1 lead in the World Series.

Quite often I found myself working on producing videos for the Philip Morris softball league in October, and Game 5 had me sitting in front of a monitor, helping to edit and voice where necessary, while keeping an eye or ear on a TV or radio.

I drove home listening to a chunk of the game as the Yankees tied the game in the sixth. Al Leiter was running on fumes and I admit I kept pleading for Mets manager Bobby Valentine to leave him in, as much as I wanted to see Johnny "From Brooklyn" Franco be the goat (no, not GOAT).

But Bobby V. complied, Al threw his 142nd pitch and Luis Sojo entered Yankees lore.

I watched the ball hop 37 times up the middle (sure, I counted!) and exhaled for a moment as the score grew to 4-2.

But it wasn't over. With one out, Mo walked Benny Agbayani.

I couldn't sit. I'd try, then I'd stand back up.

He got Alfonzo to fly to right.

Two outs. Here comes Mike Piazza.

Whatever you think -- frosted tips, steroids, the battles with Clemens -- the guy could play. He could hit.

Mo reared back with an 0-1 pitch. A cutter.

Piazza swung.

I said, "OK, let's get them in extra innings," as the ball climbed into the sky, looking like it was heading towards Montauk.

S***.

And then?

Elation and exhalation.

The ball didn't even get to the warning track (that's the dirt path near the wall, since I'm supposed to explain everything like you're a seven-year-old).

It was over.

Thankfully.

Sometimes, we make deals with the devil. Whatever the case, I was relieved to have it over.

Twenty years ago today.

Oh, and the dynasty began 24 years ago today. That's another night I'll never forget. 

A story for another time.

A Letter to Rob

Brett Philips: the hills are alive with the sound of victory (Photo: Ronald Martinez/Getty)

 

Rob Manfred 
Major League Baseball Office of the Commissioner of Baseball 
245 Park Avenue 31st Floor New York, NY 10167

cc: Tony Clark and fans of baseball

Dear Commissioner Manfred:

I don't need to tell you that we had quite a baseball game last night, but allow me to anyway. 

The Rays were down to their last out but Randy Arozarena walked on a 3-2 pitch (that's a full count, if you don't know*) and Brett Philps hit a 1-2 pitch (not a full count) into shallow right center field for a game-tying hit. Of course, Dodgers center fielder Chris Taylor bobbled the ball to allow Arozarena to motor around third.

Then, he stumbled, like Daniel Jones did in the Giants/Eagles on Thursday night.

But, lo and behold, the relay throw that should have been easily snagged by catcher Will Smith instead disappeared like sanity in Will Smith's marriage to Jada Pinkett.

Oh, right. Different Will Smith.

Anyway, Arozarena scored and those who watched lost their marbles. Perhaps you did also.

My son strolled out to where I was watching and said, "What just happened?" 

Honestly, I wasn't sure I could explain it.

The Rays won. 

Respectfully, Commissioner, dammit but it was beautiful. That's baseball, as they say. The Rays looked done. The Dodgers sat on the verge of a 3-1 World Series lead with a chance to win their first title in 32 years tonight. Instead, we're back to even.

I feel for my Dodgers friends, of course, but I do love some drama, which baseball knows how to produce. Dane Iorg, Dave Freese, Don Larsen, Luis Sojo, Pat Borders, and others headline the list of unlikely World Series heroes.

We don't need clocks. We don't need to stall. We need to put the ball in play.

I realize we once saw games that were played within two hours and you think that the best thing we can do is keep shaving, but you realize a lot of the initiatives have little to do with between the lines, right?

Pitchers being forced to throw to three batters? Maybe not a huge deal but still seems unnecessary.

Putting a runner on base in extra innings to start the inning? Might shorten extra innings and save arms, I suppose, but why change the game?

The automatic intentional walk? Just...why? 

Just a few head-scratchers.

Sir, let's start with commercials. Yes, it's a business and you work for the owners but there's a huge problem right there. Game 7 of the 1924 World Series, which went 12 innings before the Senators beat the Giants, took three hours exactly.

The two teams used eight pitchers but there was only a radio broadcast with no commercials (tape hadn't been invented) and no TV. 

Last night's game took 4:10. There were 13 pitchers and myriad mound visits. Yes, you've limited mound visits but what good has it really done?

Let's look at the batter/pitcher dynamic. Batters are allowed to stroll to the plate to hear their walkup song. Then they exchange whatever pleasantries, while getting signs sent to them via the third base coach which is coming from the dugout which is (sometimes) coming from the front office.

The pitcher, in the meantime, is doing a lot of the same. Nah, he doesn't want to throw that pitch. Cycle through the signs again. Then shake off the catcher. 

The batter steps out to adjust the myriad guards.

Maybe we'll eventually get to throwing a pitch.

What it comes down to is the pitcher needs to toe the rubber and make a decision. The batter needs to do his part.

That's it.

Why screw it all up? Just make it flow better.

But we need more help than that. Last night was glorious in a lot of ways but, as I highlighted, could have been better. What could FOX have been running on a Saturday night that made starting the game at 8 p.m. so fantastic? Was there another reality show? A ridiculously, unnecessarily long pregame show?

If you're going to have a four-hour game starting at 8 p.m. in the east, then I'm likely going to fall asleep, which I did. Fortunately I was back for the bottom of the ninth.

And the marketing of the sport is terrible.

Last night should be celebrated for what it was. Despite everything else, when all was said and done, it came down to a pitcher who couldn't finish the job, administering a two-out walk, followed by a clutch base hit, compounded by some Keystone Cops errors.

The Rays are back in the Series. The Dodgers have to forget the whole thing.

And you should be forgetting about messing with Minor League Baseball today (I'd like a little guidance there, sir, as it impacts my life) and other things that you and the owners are trying screw up.

Instead, you should be banging the drum around the world to promote your game -- my game -- to get eyeballs to their device (and, ahem, radio) tonight for Game 5.

I have to work overnight. I'll be watching on an iPad.

I'll love it.

Let's grab coffee soon!

Take me out to the ballgame!
Rob

*There was a thread in the Facebook Play-by-Play group yesterday about nuisances and pet peeves. I chimed in with my displeasure on the use of "full count, three-and-two." Well someone called it redundant but necessary to explain the game. Look, I'm all for educating (as you know) but do I need to explain what a full count -- a fundamental piece of baseball since 1889 -- is? I've been told myriad times people learn things listening to me but nobody has ever inquired about my explaining such a basic piece of information. My head is still shaking over this nonsense. If that's how you want to conduct your broadcast, have at it. Safe to say we have very different styles, but it's very simple. Allow me to demonstrate.

"The 2-2 pitch is outside. Full count. (Shouldn't one conclude NOW that it's 3-and-2, thus being a FULL COUNT?)

"It's 3-1, Renegades, top of the seventh at Dutchess Stadium. (Do I need to explain anything more here? Like, "seventh" what or anything else?)

"Three balls, two strikes on Gonzalez. Johnson peers in, gets his sign, kicks and brings the payoff pitch home..."

For the love of Babe Ruth, what was so hard about that? We're done here.

EXCLUSIVE: Rascal says "I can't live up to standards!"

 

Rascal's struggle is real (Tom Garfield photo)

In an exclusive interview with CNN (Cat News Network), erstwhile cat Rascal/Binks/Squeaky told Don Lemon that he'll never be able to achieve the heights of his predecessors.

"I can't live up to their standards," Rascal said while nibbling on a handful of Friskies treats. "All I hear about is Chico. Chico did this. Chico did that. Chico! Chico! Chico!

"How am I supposed to do that?"

Rascal explained he has taken to drinking heavily along with copious amounts of catnip.

Chico, the large gray cat, died back in July at the age of 15. In a 2017 interview, Chico also talked about expectations.

"I'm fine." he told TMZ (Tuna Meow...Z), "I'm just going to hang out here. I won't be here forever anyway. Besides, I get fed whatever I want. I hear a lot about a cat named Fred, I guess, but whatever.

"Would you excuse me? I'd like to sleep."

Fred was the previous cat, who disappeared without a trace in 2011. The black tuxedo was known for wandering off, and did so for stretches at a time.

All live in the shadow of Bandit, who perfected a saintly life before dying in 1996. His beatification is pending, even if he had no religious affiliation whatsoever.

Getting back to Rascal, a therapist that CNN spoke to said his behavior may be the result of these high expectations.

"It makes sense," Dr. Felix Bigglesworth said. "Rascal is looking for attention, so the best way to achieve that is by acting out. He feels the pressure of these lofty standards, so a ripped screen here and there is a good reminder that he needs to be taken seriously.

"He'll bang on the closet door at 4:30 in the morning, if necessary. He'll get what he wants."

Dr. Bigglesworth suggested that lower ideals will allow Rascal to settle in.

"The best way to get him to stop chasing his tail around -- literally -- is to just let Rascal be Rascal," he added.

"I'm just a young cat," Rascal said. "This is hell. It's impacting my chances for my music career, as well as my reality show, 'Real Window Hanging Housecats of the Hudson Valley.’”

Told that the screen that he destroyed on Thursday night might be fixed as soon as tomorrow, Rascal seemed unfazed.

"There are plenty of other windows," he said as he eyes shined like a snake ready to attack its prey.

Rascal will be making the interview rounds, with upcoming appearances on Ellen and a decidedly more outrageous turn when he sits down with Howard Stern.

No telling what he'll say in that interview.

At least not here.

This is a family publication.

This is satire, of course. Also, a full count in baseball has been three balls and two strikes since 1889 and I'm willing to bet I don't need to teach anyone that. Don't ask.

Harmless, and Yet...

 

Not Sean's car

I meant nothing by it.

It was supposed to be funny. Sean told me he was going to drive to me for the first time in his life.

It would, effectively, end over a decade of trucking him to and from his other home.

The days of having to meet at the salt shed at the ramp off the northbound Taconic State Parkway onto New York Route 301 to do "the handoff" were over.

But it also meant that Sean -- my child, who was in no rush to earn his drivers license (unlike me) -- would have to travel that very same Taconic Parkway. After all, it's the straightest line between his two homes.

The Taconic has terrified many a driver, especially the stretch Sean would be driving.

It's narrow and windy (and has actually been improved, if you can believe that). It glides past Peekskill Hollow Road, curves through Clarence Fahnestock State Park, moves past Pudding Street, which is going through major construction, and heads up into Dutchess County.

So as proud as I was of Sean, who casually mentioned he drove to college the other day, I was also nervous.

Somewhat playfully.

Thinking I could have some fun with it, I texted and messaged a few people, before putting the very same thing on Facebook.

As you can see, it was all for naught. He soon texted me to say that his car hadn't passed a New York State inspection, and I relayed that to my followers. He needed better wiper blades and his brakes need fixing.

Again: my post was all meant to be lighthearted. 

So that meant that I had to finish a longer-than-expected day at gig number I've Lost Count (the new videographer one) and make my way up to Fishkill to get him.

I got there around 8 p.m. and he climbed into the car.

"When will your car get fixed," I asked.

He said it would be handled, but then...

"Did you put something on Facebook about it?"

Um...uh oh?

In the end, I guess it wasn't a big deal but it was enough of a deal that it cycled all back around to me. Guilt ran through my mind.

"Honestly," I told him, "I was trying to be the 'nervous dad.' It was supposed to be funny, and I made sure to say that it turned out to be a false alarm!"

"It's OK," he said.

The idea was to make people laugh and I guess some did.

But I guess the joke was on me.

"I'm enjoying driving," he told me. "I wasn't going to take the Taconic anyway!"

The Screen. Pass.

 

I had to get a cat.

Had to.

Remember a week ago when I posted pictures of (appropriately named) Rascal as I asked for help fixing an external USB hard drive?

So I got a few suggestions and decided to go with a SATA to USB adapter that would supposedly help me achieve exactly what I wanted to do.

I got the cable tonight and plugged it in.

My computer recognized it.

It recognized the cable, that is.

What it did not recognize was the hard drive itself. So, Houston, we still have a problem.

Mr. Rascal felt a need to hang out nearby as this was going on, which is quite usual for him.

However...

Nearby is a window, looking out over the driveway. Rascal felt the need to climb in the window, which is always nice to see.

However...

He spied something. A bird. A bug. I'm not sure.

He stood on his hind legs.

I got him out of the window with no damage and got him out of the room. Problem solved.

How...

Ever...

He returned, climbed back in the window and, before I could reach for him, did the same thing, producing the rip that you see.

Further thoughts about the cat or life shall not be passed along at this point, except to say I'm pretty pissed off about everything.

The hard drive.

The computer.

The cat.

Life. 

Ev...

Ery...

Thing.

It hadn't been a bad day. I promise.

Peace out, y'all. We'll try again tomorrow.

(The cat and I will make up. Eventually.)

By George! He Was My Most-Hated Athlete When I was 10

 

John Nash threw down the gauntlet.

"Hey Rob Adams -- The ball is in your court!" he wrote.

Damn you, good sir.

Plus he went with an excellent choice: Roger Staubach.

My God how I loathed "Roger the Dodger." You know, the quarterback of "America's Team."

I can already feel the bile building. 

But that disgust was taught to me. I had no real reason to dislike Roger Staubach and time has mellowed me. Sure, I did detest Staubach and Landry and Tony Dorsett and Cliff Harris and everything and everyone associated with "The Star."

Screw you, Dallas Cowboys.

However, two Super Bowl wins against Dallas laid the foundation of a 40-year affair with the black and gold of the Pittsburgh Steelers. Mean Joe and Lambert and LC and Mel Blount defensively knocked Roger around enough.

Nah. Time marches on. I'm good.

I still hate the Cowboys.

But...

The Yankees made their first playoff appearance of my lifetime in 1976.

Still stinging over the departure of Bobby Murcer (46 years ago tomorrow, not that I'm counting), the Bombers won their first American League Eastern Division title and were looking to go to the World Series for the first time since 1964.

They squared off against the Kansas City Royals, led by George Brett, who paced the Royals with a league-leading .333 batting average. He'd also finish second in the Most Valuable Player voting to...

...

a Mr. Thurman Lee Munson. Mwa ha ha.

But Brett would dazzle and personally torment the Yankees at every turn in his career. In that '76 ALCS, Brett hit .444 and hit an 8th inning three-run homer off Grant Jackson to tie fifth and (at that time) deciding Game 5 at 6.

Of course, Chris Chambliss made it all right in the bottom of the ninth with a home run on the first pitch off Mark Littell that sent New York into insanity.

(Incidentally, those 70s ABC broadcasts featured a plethora of people speaking over the play-by-play guy, led of course by Howard Cosell. Drove me nuts then...and now.)

But the die was now cast for my hatred of Brett. 

That series was, of course, simply the warm up act. The Yankees and Royals would meet again in the ALCS three more times, with the Bombers taking 1977 and 1978 and the Royals sweeping New York in 1980, capped off with a three-run moonshot off Goose Gossage in Game 3 in The Bronx.

He also homered three times in Game 3 of the 1978 ALCS in New York.

In those four ALCS against the Yankees, Brett hit .352 with six home runs and 14 RBIs (forgive my use of such "outdated statistics").

Oh yeah. I hated him. I hated him because he was so damn great and especially great against my favorite team. I hated him because he continues to hate the Yankees to this day, going so far as to making sure he wouldn't acknowledge any of the Yankees items that his hitting coach Charley Lau's son gave him at his Hall of Fame induction.

In truth, I now respect it, but again, that's the wisdom of time.

But I hated Brett enough that I admittedly reveled in his troubles in the 1980 World Series, a true "pain in the butt" for sure, and I especially enjoyed the Phillies knocking off the Royals in six games.

Then, of course, there was July 24, 1983.

"The Pine Tar Game."

I have not the energy or bandwidth to express how it still bothers me.

In short, Brett did it again, hitting a monster home run off of Gossage in the ninth inning to give the Royals a one-run lead.

Billy Martin, encouraged by Graig Nettles, said that Brett's bat violated a rule about too much pine tar. The umpires agreed and ruled Brett out, thus handing the game to the Yankees and nearly causing a riot as Brett went after the men in blue.

American League president Lee McPhail overruled the umpires, upholding the Royals' protest of the outcome. McPhail cited the spirit of the rule.

I took the news well, of course.

I was apoplectic then and it's still stirs me up.

My hatred -- or respect, if you will -- of Brett reached a point where Sean's mother wouldn't go to Royals/Yankees games with me and, I have to say, she was probably right.

He drove the Yankees -- and me -- nuts.

It's all long in the past of course, but I can still feel some of those old emotions.

Today, few realize that the Yankees and Royals were such bitter rivals, but it was pretty heated for the length of Brett's career.

In truth, he's an all-time great.

In the mind of a ten-year-old, he was the worst.

Roger and George. Quite the duo.

The Overnight Show

The view. Riveting.

 It's 12:21 a.m, as I begin writing and I'm sitting in an office.

I'm in Greenwich but I'm not at WGCH.

Funny how life works. An opportunity to get involved doing technical work came my way within days of my mother's death.

I'm able to put my skills with computers and videography and multitasking and even my voice to use on technology around the world.

As such, a job opened up for something international tonight and I figured I'd give it a go.

I had to come in at 7 p.m. and I have no idea when I'll be done. It might be 2 or 3 a.m. It might be later.

To an extent, I have to be vague about this because there's a level of confidentiality about it, though I'm not sure my writing this is a violation. Honestly, I've told you nothing.

The critics can say whatever they want but they never know the whole story. This is hustling to create and keep a life going.

It can also help keep the blues away.

I'm doing this overnight thing for only a few nights (Monday to Tuesday and Tuesday to Wednesday). Otherwise the hours are in the more humane side here on the east coast.

This is also a job that is still being structured. We're all trying to see how it works where I can still dash to games.

Plus it keeps me open for Hunt Scanlon podcasts and conferences.

In short, it's another building block and I'm so grateful for the opportunity and flexibility.

Again, it's hustling.

So I might keep updating this post as long as I'm sitting here or I might finish it up later tonight when I return, or both.

One thing's for sure: I do like when the post is done nice and early, but this is too early!

1:13 a.m.: Still going...as I hear an alarm go off nearby. Nope. Not my fault. It's a car alarm across the street. Well at least it gave me something to look at. There are elements of zoning out in this gig so that was a welcomed respite.

1:49 a.m.: I've opened the blinds to glance out at the Greenwich night. We're approaching the time in which traffic is completely dead and I'm here for all of it. The stillness is wonderful. But, of course, a car roars by as I type those words.

2:28 a.m.: A little secret: I woke up before 5:00 on Monday morning but laid low most of the day. I tried to nap around 1 p.m. to see if I could get my body to adjust but I had a feeling I was kidding myself. So I'm guessing I'm just hanging in there on pure adrenaline and fear of falling asleep at this point.

Working hard for the money at 2:43 a.m.

3:09 a.m.: It's over! Now to see if I can get home! Bonus: I get to do it again Tuesday night (as in, tonight!).

3:56 a.m.: I'm home. Well that was...fun? It was something, I guess. I'm not sure I entertained you much here but I'm going to get some sleep and try it all again.

Doc Emrick Retires

(Photo: Getty)

This wasn't the post I was going to write today. 

That idea has been "WAFFLEBOARDED AWAY!"

That's the funny thing about play-by-play: you can do all of the preparation in the world and it can all fall apart.

The same goes for talk shows and, to an extent, writing. You've prepared to do something else but you have to be ready to adjust.

A play-by-play announcer has made me adjust today, as Doc Emrick -- the best hockey announcer I've heard and one of the top play-by-players ever -- has announced his retirement.

Mike "Doc" Emrick had a long career, calling 22 Stanley Cup Finals, among many other accomplishments. He was also known for calling Devils games, as well as Flyers games, along with being a backup on Rangers radio broadcasts in the 1980s.

He earned his nickname upon receiving a Ph.D. from Bowling Green University but he brought a studious presence, a quick wit, and great humanity to the National Hockey League.

Smart? He essentially created and updated the NHL's pronunciation guide.  I usually kept a copy nearby in case I needed it for the morning sports reports on WGCH.

He also famously used 153 different ways to describe passes in a single game.

While all of us in the play-by-play biz should shoot for originality, I can't deny that a few "Doc-isms" snuck into my descriptions.

Every time I say "corralled," I can't help but think of Doc. Or, where Doc would count down the end of a penalty or a period, I would do something similar. Doc might say "down to two and one and the penalty expires," I might utter "the period is down to three and two and horn sounds..."

Last one: Every time I say, "One hundred seconds remaining in the period/quarter," or, "Down to the final 100 seconds," well you get the idea.

Guilty as charged.

How could one not? Truly, to not like Doc Emrick, it means you're a fan who thought he was biased against your team or you simply didn't like his style. Bias-wise, I'll always point you to his work in Game 6 of the 1994 Eastern Conference Finals. 

As for style, well, I can't help you there.

He didn't go for exaggeration. He reacted. There was true joy and amazement when he would see a great save or a great play, thus his "My goodness!" or "What chaos!" exclamations in particular moments.

He would chortle with glee during those moments as well. You could tell he was in his element.

You could hear it when he'd cry out on a shot that "rings off the pipe!"

He brought a sense of humor (he and Bill Clement lose their minds during the Easter Epic in 1987).

And, like Vin and other greats, he knew how to report and get out of the way, whether to allow analysis to break the play down or to let the crowd fill in.

When you'd expect him to lose his marbles over the team winning the Stanley Cup, Doc would sometimes simply say "the (team) wins the Stanley Cup" in a mostly understated manner. It had a sense of poetry and of timing. He did this when the Bruins won the Cup.

He did more than the NHL, by the way. He did Olympic hockey (men's and women's), the NFL (that's him on Brett Favre's debut), college basketball, Olympic water polo, and his other favorite sport: baseball.

He still did exemplary work from his Michigan home during the Stanley Cup Finals but not being there hurt him. I would have preferred to have him do one more year under "normal" circumstances but Doc is smart enough that he might be telling us that "normal" is a long way off and, more to the point: he has nothing left to prove.

Doc Emrick is 74 years old. He has his beloved wife, dogs, and horses. He will stay at NBC Sports to do some writing and video essays.

But the travel drags after a while. Vin Scully could tell you that.

Too many hotel rooms and planes and bus rides. Too much room service and hotel restaurants. Most of all, more often that not, no family. Intense loneliness.

I've never met Vin Scully and have only been in the same building as him once to my knowledge (1985, Yankee Stadium). However, I have a personal account with Doc.

Again, it was at Yankee Stadium (the new one). I was there for the Stadium Series game between the Rangers and Devils. I had a media credential, but I had actually been assigned to a conference room with a view of 161st St and a TV monitor.

Frankly, it was bull, and Paul Silverfarb agreed. To that end, I met up with him in the main press box.

"I was waiting for you," he said. "I just saw Doc Emrick."

I'm no stalker but, sure, it would have been nice. I'd eventually see his partner, the great Eddie Olczyk, in the media dining room as well as Kenny Albert, Linda Cohn and on and on. Pretty cool, no doubt.

Paul found an empty seat next to him in the main press box as we watched the Rangers wallop the rivals from New Jersey. They knocked Martin Brodeur out of the game, and even scored a penalty shot from left to right in my view from behind home plate.

The game ended and, as Paul and I made our way to the elevator, I noticed a shorter man with white hair and glasses.

Doc. The hockey GOAT.

I held the elevator door open.

"Thank you," he said in the perfect voice of his.

"You're welcome, Doc," I replied.

He looked at me and smiled. He and Eddie O were talking about needing a car to whisk them away from the Bronx.

I had a brush with greatness.

Doc Emrick is hockey broadcasting in the United States. Canadians will argue other voices, of course, as they're passionate and protective of such things. Up north, they'll speak of Bob Cole, Danny Gallivan, Jim Hughson, and Foster Hewitt (who essentially invented hockey play-by-play).

Here in the States, we'll tell you about Fred Cusick, Gary Thorne, Dan Kelly, Jiggs McDonald, Sam Rosen and some others.

There's only one Doc.

He's my number one.

He's probably in my top five of any play-by-play announcer, with Mel Allen, Red Barber, Dick Enberg and (duh) Vin.

He's that good.

If you had the pleasure of hearing him, smile because you did. If you didn't, we're blessed to have plenty of examples on the interwebs.

He now sashays away to Michigan. We can only hope he pitchforks back so we can hear him ladle his writing and audio essays to us.

We'll be waiting.

Thanks, Doc. 

My goodness but I will miss the chaos that you brought into my world so many times.

Staying Quiet

 

Sometimes I'm just tempted to post nothing.

Well, it would be something, but more like a picture or a blank page or whatever.

A blank space (where I wouldn't write your name).

I'm not that chatty today.

I hurt my back earlier today trying to move some stuff around. Nothing that bad but enough that I finished up a little of what I wanted to do, threw some Tylenol in me and settled down.

Then I listened -- yes, as in radio -- to the Steelers beat the Browns. They blew them out, actually. The Browns' day is coming against Ben Roethlisberger but it wasn't today.

Oh, and I know they have to show the Jets and Giants here but the Giants/Washington game was so incredibly boring that I put "The Office" on while I listened to the Steelers game.

I don't really know who's open these days anyway, even if I wanted to go out and watch the Steelers but, then again, going solo wouldn't have done anything for me.

So, I was just as happy to listen to Bill, Tunch, Wolf, and Missi at home (the Steelers' radio team). Quick note: Tunch Ilkin, lead analyst and former Steeler, announced he has ALS last week. Good guy. He could use a little positivity sent his way.

Then again, couldn't we all?

Incidentally, Joe Buck is in the middle of a great run of multiple days of consecutive game broadcasts. Haters, line up! He's calling Rodgers/Brady...ahem, Packers/Bucs...and has more football sprinkled into his call of the World Series.

I love those stretches. They're great challenges, though obviously I'm not calling the magnitude of what Buck is calling.

But those days of four games in a day or a doubleheader or games over multiple days both wear me out and bring me such joy. There's a certain level of pacing involved. Still, excitement is excitement and it's hard to lay off the accelerator.

There's also the need for honey lemon drops. Lots of them. Because my throat hurts and my voice fades. I learned that lesson back in the 2015 Babe Ruth tourney in Trumbull.

So I hope Joe has a great run.

Lastly, I know the private football leagues kicked off around Connecticut yesterday. Kudos to all for making it a reality. They did a remarkable job of keeping it quiet. The silence was deafening at times but people would whisper to me that it was still a go.

Still, they didn't want any media attention and, at one point, any references to it were quickly deleted from the interwebs. Then a story appeared from Game Time CT on Friday and the cat was really out of the bag.

A few games were played yesterday. I saw some of the coverage, and listened to some more. I admire the tenacity of everyone involved. I'm actually fascinated by all of it.

Now I just hope everyone stays safe and they have a successful season.

Just stay safe and prove everyone wrong.

Greenwich Football, 2020

 

Seniors and their families line up at Greenwich

The crowd was small.

There was minimal contact on the field and off.

The press box was mostly empty, except for me.

But it was sanctioned and official and appreciated.

It was 7-on-7 football at Greenwich High School, and I called it on Robcasting.

If nothing else (selfishly), I can say I got one Greenwich football broadcast in for the 22nd consecutive year.

I was asked to serve as the public address announcer for the senior salute as well and it was my honor to be the voice behind that.

There weren't many people there, and I'm sure my audience was small (for some reason, Local Live didn't even pick up the audio) but I received thank you's from people for being there.

Some liked hearing "a professional" announce everything, while others appreciated "a sense of normalcy."

If I could bring even a small measure of joy to people, I was happy to do so. But it's everyone else who serves as the stars of the day.

It was different -- no doubt. I wore a mask the whole time I was there and worked solo in an empty booth but it was otherwise the same broadcast you'd always get, except it was only EXCLUSIVELY! on Robcasting.

I showed up. I called it. I improvised. I finished.

I did what I said I'd do.

And it's now posted online.

And now I'm going home.

The Right Companion

 

I saw this question on Instagram before and I felt the question needed better options.

The answer to the question, "Do you prefer to travel...," isn't really "with family/friends," or, "by yourself."

It's, "With the right person/people."

It can be like a broadcast booth. Chemistry is everything.

I didn't realize that for many years. My early travel partners were my parents and my siblings. We had the routine down for the most part. I knew where to look for us to stop for meals (that was one of my jobs) and where to stay.

I had different travel companions as I got older. Some got my style; others didn't.

I adapted where needed.

I worried when Mom, Sean and I decided to go to North Carolina in 2014. Sure, we'd done little trips here and there and, normally, I'd be worn out by the end of the day or even couple of days. Now here we were -- father, (then) 12-year-old son and mother/grandmother -- embarking on the journey.

It was almost over 10 minutes in.

We had just gotten on the Taconic Parkway when we realized that Sean didn't have his DVD player. I asked him if he could wait and I would actually buy him another one down the road at a Wal Mart. He, obviously, wasn't interested in that, so now I was stuck with 1) feeling like the pre-teen was dictating and 2) dealing with a bored pre-teen.

I decided to stop at the very next exit for breakfast at a bagel shop. Tensions were high. I checked the back of my mom's Toyota. Nope. Not there. It was clearly back at the house and, with one snarky comment (I don't even remember what it was), I groused back to the parking lot from the bagel place.

We drove back home -- in reality, a mere 10 minutes -- and I found the DVD player sitting in my room. We'd now lost roughly 30 minutes total and, overall, I could really only blame myself.

It was also the only problem between us from that point on. The rest of our travels went smoothly.

Mom and Sean, 2014

So that chemistry matters. You need someone who embraces your sense of whimsy/weirdness/whatever.

"I don't care," my mother would say about almost everything. (Truth: she cared about more than she let on)

No fighting over what plays on the radio.

Agreeing over where to eat.

No back seat/front seat driving.

And giving you some conversation, especially when exhaustion begins to take over.

There were very few questions among us about whatever hair-brained route I chose. Maybe questions about how much longer or what time we would stop but even those were few.

So the right traveler -- for me -- is one who doesn't mind Waffle House or Wawa or Sheetz and is OK with things like driving to a state/country line just because or some roadside wonder. Then again, they're someone who wants to get to the destination while still having fun.

It seems more complicated than it is but it's really not. I was talking with someone about road trips just before the pandemic began. She told me it wasn't her thing.

"You'd like my road trips," I countered. "We have fun!"

Short of that, I'm content to go it alone but I really don't prefer it. Sure, I enjoyed my drive from New York to Charleston, South Carolina back in 2012 and I loved the time I had in San Francisco in Sep, 2019 but it still feels like something (or someone) is missing when I'm flying solo.

Sure, there's nobody to tell you ... anything ... but there's also no one to tell you anything!

I still want to share it (beyond social media).

There are pluses and minuses.

That's why -- in my opinion -- the correct answer to my favorite traveling companion is the person with the best chemistry.

Speaking of which, Sean and I are planning to make good on a trip for a day (at the least).

We owe Mom that to honor her.

Can Anyone Help Fix a USB Hard Drive (Oh yeah, and Cat Pictures!)

 

Some days I think I'm just talked out.

Sure, I could write here. I could grouse, grumble, or whatever it is that is on my mind. But, then what?

Instead I've decided you need a picture of a cat. Well, two of them.

Here's one of him yawning.

You see, doing this keeps me from getting in trouble. They're cat pictures -- what could possible be bad about that?

Besides, what's going on in his head?

Other than lack of oxygen, I suppose.

Obviously, I worried when he first arrived. He had another cat at his original home and, sometimes, cats miss that companionship. Plus he was so nervous from the change in home.

But our Squeaky Rascal seems perfectly content to rule this roost on his own. He gets plenty of attention and runs around all day.

And sleeps occasionally.

Oh and he eats. A lot.

So I think he's fairly happy here. He seems to have settled into a nice rhythm of letting the human (that's me) sleep so long as I leave him something to eat overnight.

In turn, he has taken over a fuzzy Yankees blanket that I've had for years. It was also a favorite of Chico's, but Rascal has truly made it his own.

For now, he's on a purply and white creation that was no doubt the work of my grandmother Jennings.

Now, does anyone know how to fix a USB connection on an outdated external hard drive, just long enough for me to get its contents off of it and onto a cloud?

Not asking for a friend. Asking for me.

Just Watching Baseball

 

I know. 

Nobody is going to click on this post.

Baseball. Boring.

The ratings are tanking. The game is slow. It's currently 15-1 Dodgers over the Braves as I watch in the FOURTH INNING.

The Yankees aren't in it.

And yet I'm still watching. And I'll switch over and watch the Rays/Astros soon.

I love talking about the history. The minutiae. The uniforms. The baseball cards.

While I hate the passing of all of these great players in 2020 (Kaline, Brock, Seaver, Gibson, Ford, Morgan), what I appreciate is that it gives us pause to remember how great they were.

And these games allow us to appreciate these current players.

I know. "Get off my lawn!" They make too much money and they're too political and the rules are getting dumb and so on.

And, in truth, I agree with some of it. Yet, here I sit.

Dodgers 15, Braves 1.

I know plenty of people who are watching none of it. No pro sports, in fact. Good for them. That's their call, and I hope there's a mutual respect. It makes me sad in some cases but so be it.

People stop watching when their teams are out and I suppose that's where I'm different. I watch it. I watch most of it.

I've watched every World Series since 1975. Because I'm not just a fan of a team. I'm a fan of the sport.

And I love it. I love being able to pass on stories.

Stories. Isn't that part of why I love calling play-by-play?

I find it funny when someone tries to educate me on these things. Especially baseball history or sports media history.

I love talking about Ted Husing and Bill Stern and Roone Arledge and Curt Gowdy and Mel and Red and Vin and Scooter and Messer and White.

What was the "lesson" I was getting recently? Some item about sports media that just made me laugh out loud.

I say it all the time: "Don't try to be the smartest person in the room."

But they'll never learn. It just gets pacified.

Anyway, it's 15-1 and the underappreciated Joe Buck and John Smoltz are calling the action.

I'll head back to that.

The Perfect Selfies, Nancy Style

When a cat climbs in front of you (North Carolina, 2018?)...

 My mother was anything but tech savvy. 

There was nearly a daily diet of concerns from her for her iPhone, iPad, cable TV box, the house phone, her laptop...

She was never going to pump her own gas (I'm not kidding. She'd go to full-serve first). Oh, speaking of not doing self-serve, it was normally up to me to check her out of any store.

And ordering online? A lot of that also.

You get the idea. Pretty much everything. And if I didn't have the answer for one reason or another, she'd go seek it somewhere else, normally starting with my niece Stephanie.

So her selfie game wasn't always strong, such as in the picture above, as the late Space Ghost Coast-to-Coast -- aka Ghost -- piled on her in North Carolina.

And her mastery of this House Party in April gathering with some family members (right column, second from bottom). Yeah. We got her eyes.

And, well, more of the same here (trust me, it was even worse than that at one point). But we got half a face.

Keep in mind, in each case, Sean and I were maybe 15 feet away. In fact, who do you think got her set up on the video chat?

Part of her charm, of course.

Yet she basically mastered Facebook and a few other things (she never quite got Twitter or Instagram down).

Verizon got her cell phone back today. Her number is no more.

And yet, I still expect a text, telling me that her iPad isn't working.

None of this is real.

Except it is.

I leave you with a few selfies she got right.

For the ID card from Putnam County that she never got (taken in March).

June 24: Wearing "the FREAKING mask!" (her words)

7-On-7

 

Trumbull and Fairfield Ludlowe

I needed to come to an understanding with football this season.

Let's call it a "Come to Lombardi moment."

You probably know that there is (currently*) no tackle football this fall. Instead, Connecticut is allowing 7-on-7, which is glorified two-hand touch.

*I say "currently" because there's still a movement to create a private league. As of today, that idea hasn't gotten off the ground for myriad reasons. However, I don't have "sources" to fuel any speculation.

I resented 7-on-7 at first. I was angry for the athletes and coaches and families and everyone else. I was annoyed watching and listening to my friends around the country as they prepared for their game broadcasts. I was angry that linemen would have to participate in challenges that are separate from the 7-on-7 games.

I talked with Chris Erway about it from a broadcast perspective. I wondered if we would both pass on it.

I wasn't sure I'd give in, then two things happened.

First, Jeff Alterman of the TEN Network asked me to call Fairfield Ludlowe/Trumbull last Friday.

Then Greenwich coach Tony Morello asked me if I was interested in calling any GHS games.

WGCH declined to carry these fall games, so that left me to my own devices. 

I will add that, if there's a spring football season, WGCH will indeed be in on that. But it is worth repeating again that the only way to get the radio station (and me!) on those broadcasts is with sponsors. I've beaten that door about getting more games on WGCH but I can't do it alone. I still think WGCH and the Greenwich Athletic Foundation should team up for the most professional broadcasts possible from all angles.

But I'm just one person.

Having committed to Trumbull first, I honored that one.

As I've said, I show up to broadcasts when I say I'll do them. Are there circumstances that change things? Certainly, but how often does that happen? I feel guilty if that presents itself. Then again, I guess it's easy to bail on things when there aren't consequences.

So I went to Trumbull. Jeff Alterman and Sawyer Nicholas helped me call the action on Jeff's TEN (Trumbull Eagles Network), Trumbull Community Television, and on Robcasting.

It wasn't smooth. Not entirely. Ludlowe didn't have a roster, let alone coherent uniforms. Trumbull did and that certainly helped. On the air, we had an echo chamber at first, and the ladies from the TV station showed up just before game time. Also, the game started before the broadcast did. You know -- normally -- I'd be volcanic, right?

I was like a zen master. I was calm. I was chill.

I did what I could to get that Ludlowe roster and, at that point, had to accept there was nothing I could do, except call the action and have fun. The same went for the tech issues. See if I could help, have Sawyer jump in and explain what's going on, and laugh.

So I did.

As of now the analyst chair is open for Saturday at Greenwich High School at 10:30 (11 am game). There are things I don't like about any of this (personal stuff) but what I do like is the small measure of normalcy.

It was weird, yes, but it was nice to see some football. It will be nice to be at Cardinal Stadium on Saturday. It also gets me out of the house, and that's a good thing.

Plus, Coach Morello texted me this morning to ask if I would serve as the announcer for the senior day ceremony before the game. How could I say no to that?

If 2020 has taught us anything, it's that we need to be grateful for anything we can get. I understand so many things have been canceled, and for a good reason. There are other things that might have been canceled (or postponed) too quickly.

So if I'm grateful for a 60-game baseball season and bubbles in the NBA and NHL and for football in empty or partially empty buildings, then I'm also grateful for a short season of calling high school football for the 22nd fall in my life.

It's not tackle. I wish it was. I wish it was 11-on-11 with all of the trimmings. Plus, I still can't fathom being home for Thanksgiving.

I still can't fathom a lot of things about this year on a lot of levels.

But, as has been my theme of the year, I'll take what I can get, and I needed to realize that with 7-on-7 football.

It wasn't perfect. But it was something and I had fun.

So, I'll (most likely) see you Friday again at Trumbull and Saturday at Greenwich.

Home sweet home indeed.

Little League Baseball Prevails

 

I feel a little guilty writing this, as Shawn Sailer has already summed up today's events over at Sailing with Sailer.

It's a little "Pete and Repeat," but we'll persevere nonetheless.

In truth, I took a nap this afternoon. I mean, a deep sleep.

Welcome to "Post-Championship Exhaustion!" 

I've told you before about this before. I consider championship broadcasts to be a huge honor and don't think they should ever be taken lightly. I think it's something that should be earned, and I work my tail off for those calls.

So when Robcasting was asked to serve as the exclusive (yes, I'm using that term correctly) broadcaster for the 2020 Connecticut State Little League Championship, I put the usual amount of stress on my shoulders to do it right.

Then I fell asleep.

I had those great emotions (a lump in the throat and a touch of nerves along with chills) as the I listened to the national anthem before the first pitch of Hamden and Montville today.

As it often happens, we didn't know these teams before everything started a week ago. We barely knew Hamden, having covered them against Fairfield National.

But they -- Hamden, Wallingford, Montville and South Windsor -- had fun with us and vice-versa. They couldn't miss us, perched above the first base dugout.

I tweeted with pride after Hamden won 12-1 in four innings today that we felt we were "The Voices of Little League." Sure, the tweet was tongue-in-cheek but it spoke to the belief that listeners (and viewers on Facebook) will get a reliable broadcast.

I know, we've been down that road before. I've explained the simplicity of the style. It's reporting, information, explanations, educating and entertaining. But I think it's also worth reminding people that we show up and do the gig and stay out of the way. Reliability -- honoring the commitment -- is always an important selling point.

As for the game, Hamden's "Dragons" breathed fire from the first pitch and never looked back. Players like Nate Marczak, Sean Figueroa, and Kam Gamm -- the top three in the Hamden lineup --  dominated. Those three alone accounted for eight of the 12 runs as they went 7-for-7 with two home runs, a walk, and a hit by pitch.

Marczak struck out six and allowed only a fourth inning home run to Eddie Torres to get the win.

On a smaller scale, you never like to see a team get "mercied" (losing by 15 after three inning or, in this case, more than 10 after four) but that spoke to just how good Hamden was today. This was the same Hamden squad who needed a crazy finish to beat Montville 6-5 last Sunday.

Today, they were decidedly the champions.

And, thankfully, we all lived to see the day three without getting any grief from the Health Department, who apparently had a visible presence at the game. Players were constantly being reminded to stay apart during the game but, given the passion and energy of athletics, was next to impossible when Marczak struck out Bradley Strickland to secure the title.

While there was no dogpile, there were still excited hugs for all.

But as I've been saying all along -- hiccups aside -- "they will play," and play they did. Little League Baseball in Connecticut can hold their heads high, having completed the season.

The tournaments Shawn and I called -- at Bridgeport, Milford, and Stamford/Springdale -- were each run well, with the state tourney being the most stringent on social distancing efforts. 

The thinking by Perry Pierce (State Little League Administrator), who was the boss in Springdale, was that Shawn and I could be the eyes and ears for the families who wanted to attend but couldn't or shouldn't.

Quick side note: Perry asked us to call all of the games. We would have happily called every game at the other sites as well. Just ask (rates are reasonable!). I truly live by "Have headset, will travel!" Though I'd also love a hotel room sometimes!

Chris Kaelin (in Billy Wagner "jersey") goes over details with Hamden

Perry, our friend Chris Kaelin, and a host of others volunteered their time and effort to make this tournament shine. Shawn and I also volunteered and had a blast doing so.

There was music and public address and a field that you could eat off of (Pete Stokes and company for the win). There were even little things, like the scoreboard being left on after the final out so that families could get pictures with it. It was all class.

They played. The Connecticut Department of Health can learn from that.

Hamden won. So did Little League Baseball.

Thus (most likely) ends baseball for me in 2020. Given where things were in March and April, I'm thrilled for each game I got to call. But I'm itching for more in 2021, led by the Hudson Valley Renegades.

You know I'll be there if I commit to it.