The last-minute

 

I thought I had the day off.

Sure, I had "Doubleheader" at 4 pm but it seemed like my night was open to chilling.

It's the danger of the freelance world, of course, especially in a pandemic.

Of course, it's that same pandemic that really created the videography job that I'm also doing now.

So on a day in which the weather was really bad (rain, wind, and potential power outages), I thought I'd just be around the house.

OK, I also went to the grocery store. How about me? I actually left the house and drove off my street. I last did that on Thursday morning!

I had things I wanted to do around the house but (as it always happens) I kept getting interrupted. Standard operating procedure.

I was also picking out music for a new podcast. As you know, I love music and have a decent ear for it (though I'm sure that's subjective). So because I have an idea of what I often want, I detest the process of finding theme music for a show or background music for a commercial.

Oh, I did it and it wasn't brain surgery this time, but it was just another part of the day.

Just before showtime, Dan Macom checked in. He's my boss in the depo videography world.

"Can you work tonight?" he asked.

What do I always say about adapting? Bang! I was in.

Then he texted me back.

"They canceled."

Blast.

Still, another text.

"A different one opened up!"

So I was set.

This is why I'm very tough to pin down. I have "The Clubhouse" on Wednesday, which is actually costing me a night of work because I'm already committed to it. In the next week or two -- so long as Uncle Ned Lamont doesn't screw it all up -- I'll be back to teaching at Connecticut School of Broadcasting (now the CSB Media Arts Center).

Plus I have my series of podcasts for Hunt Scanlon, "Talent Talks," that I'm really proud of.

Then there's the podcast that John Nash is starting (thus, nosing around for music) and I'm helping produce and host. 

All of this is making me realize that Mike Hirn and I have to restart "Tales From the Booth." I loved doing it but it got to be a lot of work.

We know there won't be any games before late January in Connecticut. New York doesn't look much more promising.

Sure, Local Live could step in with an out-of-state gig. Anything can happen. But it's probably going to be a while before I'm doing any events like that.

So I stay open to adjusting for Dan and Craig Jones and the wacky world of videography, just like I did tonight.

And tomorrow night.

In truth, I don't like last-minute things but as I've discussed before, you have to be ready to adapt. Or, at least as ready as possible.

Come 2021 with the Renegades, this could all change. We'll just keep an eye on it.

*****

I'm aware that the minor league story keeps shifting a bit. Four former New York-Penn League teams are joining the currently five-team MLB Draft League.

The Williamsport Crosscutters, Mahoning Valley Scrappers, State College Spikes, West Virginia Black Bears all depart the former NY-Penn league, joining the Trenton Thunder in the new league.

Things are starting to fall into place and we should soon know who is in the league with the Renegades for 2021. So far, we only know the Gades and Brooklyn Cyclones are in the new league.

Oh, sure, I can speculate, but so can you.

All questions will soon be answered.

At least I hope so.

See you in the Spring

 

Not a very exciting photo, but it satisfies me

Somewhere along the line, I began to obsess over my lawn.

There was a point in the summer where I was backing out of the driveway with Sean and I lamented the height of the grass.

"It's so high," I said. "I have to cut.."

"Oh would you STOP?" he said, cutting me off. "It's fiiine."

So I'd keep those words in mind but, of course, he didn't have to deal with it when it would get too high and clump in the push mower that I continue to use because the ride on tractor that I thought was gone for good still hasn't been returned.

That's a whole different story.

Oh, and before you say that he could cut the lawn, let me say a few things, most notably being that I like caring for the lawn. He also doesn't come here to work for me. He'll help me where asked. I also have an issue asking for help, which sounds deep, and is, and we're not going down that avenue.

I reach a point every November (ish) where I try to get out to the yard one more time to sort of close it out. I wasn't sure I'd get an opportunity but it's basically what I did this whole weekend.

I walked behind the mower on half of the yard on Friday. That's the side that grows the highest. It's also the side with the most leaves.

See, despite how much I like keeping a decent lawn, I'm not a great leaf cleaner. I don't rake much. I blow some leaves but I don't get insane about them. Not really. Normally, I have a tractor that I just let do the dirty work of mulching it all.

The tractor seemed to be dead. I had someone look at it. He essentially told me as much and, this was probably even a year ago. Then, magically, it was mentioned to me that it was fixed for a small amount if I was interested. All I had to do was say "yes" and I'd get it back -- just in time to mulch the yard!

A month later, it's still not back here. So, there's that.

I basically cut each row of the heavier side twice. It seemed to be the only way to truly clear the leaves. The crazy thing was, there weren't that many leaves, but the ground was damp. Thus, the leaves were wet.

I tried to convince myself I was done on Friday as my feet hurt and my muscles ached.

On Saturday, in an empty house, I went back outside. I decided to do the other half of the yard. 

This time, it was more of the same. Cut every row, essentially, twice. 

I even brought out a rake for some of the grass I cut Friday where I still felt I hadn't gotten enough of the leaves.

Again, I was sore when I finished. A hot shower felt fantastic.

I looked out the window.

It just wasn't good enough.

The thing is, I'll look out those windows all winter. I'll see it.

In other years, where I didn't get to the leaves before the snow hit, I spent the winter months shaking my head at what I saw.

I looked out the window behind where I eat meals. It's the one spot on the dining room table -- always my father's spot -- that is actually clean. The rest of the table has had stuff on it since Mom died.

I could still see leaves out that window.

I went back out today. The mower stayed in the garage. I returned with a rake.

I went back to the heavier stuff and cleaned more up.

I went to the view outside the dining room window and cleaned that up also.

Finally, I decided I had to let it go.

I had to declare the season over, barring some warm weather.

I went back to the window.

"It's sufficient," I said.

In other words, I have a hint of OCD and nothing would be perfect.

I don't have a green thumb. Never have. Some (of this, I have no doubt) are critical of my caretaking of the flower beds (read: weeds) and no, I'm never going to be a handyman.

MacGyver? To an extent, yes. But Tim "The Toolman" Taylor? Nope. Not really.

So give me my lawn.

When I mentioned it to Sean on Friday before he left to DRIVE home, he took note.

"It's your baby," he said. "You're proud of it."

I suspect this is the final time I'll be worrying about the leaves here. I think they'll be someone else's thing by Nov. 29, 2021.

So, I figured, I might as well go out on a high note.

Living up to his name

The crime scene

I named the cat Rascal because he's shown some crazy tendencies but also because that's the name of the mascot of the Hudson Valley Renegades.

You know, the High-A affiliate of the New York Yankees.

And for the love of San Diego Chicken I've had a picture of Rascal (the mascot) put on my Facebook wall enough times to remind me.

Or The Philly Phanatic. Or even...sigh...Gritty. 

But never "Dandy." 

Anyway, I was working in the office for a bit on Thanksgiving. Rascal (alternate title: "Squeaky") followed me, as he frequently does.

Much of my current office setup is ad-hoc. I'm typing on a keyboard on a folding tray table and there's another folding table to my right. I have a rolling cart nearby as well. One day I'd like to have my real desk back but this is the reality for now.

My laptop is a foot or two to my right.

You need all of this to understand that setup as Rascal unleashed carnage.

He stepped onto my open laptop. I reached to shimmy him away.

Cue the "Benny Hill Show" theme song ("Yakety Sax").

Rascal jumped. A lamp got knocked over. A can of seltzer slammed on the floor and begin to spill. The mouse for the very computer I'm typing on went flying. Something happened to the laptop -- I'm still not sure what.

I stayed calm.

Sure, I did...not even come close to staying calm.

I think I wove a tapestry of obscenity, that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Mahopac.

A lot of...everything...came flying out in one embarrassingly moment that could have been cathartic but wasn't even close.

For a moment, the laptop looked dead. The screen had that appearance of having been impacted.

I was furious.

The computer I'm working on was given to me by Craig and Dan for work -- as in, you know, my real life. Not something I'd want to break. Call me crazy.

I was seeing red. 

Sean came running. That cat went running.

I'd soon want to run and hide.

"HAD to get a ******* cat, didn I?"

I won't give attribution on that quote. No need.

I set about assessing the damage. For the record, Rascal was fine. He tried to come back into the room a few times and I quickly rebuffed him.

I had to clean up the seltzer, which didn't get on anything electronic. I closed the lid of the laptop and opened it back up to discover it was fine. It's still as slow as ever otherwise.

The work computer was unaffected, but the right button on the mouse is sticking a bit.

The lamp was a loss. I can't get it to work.

In the end, truly the only thing damaged was my pride (and the lamp), as I was mortified.

I finished everything and left the room.

He tried to approach and start making nice

Rascal and I kept over distance overall.

He jumped up next to me at one point and even walked across me. The seemed like the first steps towards moving on.

Until this picture:

It was like he was trying to remind me that he still has a lot of kitten tendencies in him but not to give up on him.

He came to this house to keep me company and help some healing.

He also came here to be spoiled, which he is.

But he's still a little guy and there's some growing to do.

He probably learned no lessons. I'm hopeful I did.

In our own ways we're both adjusting

The legend of "Destructocat" had officially been born.

He's a Rascal though. No question about that.

The Queen's Gambit

 

It's a show about chess.

Yet everyone is raving about it.

So often, I'm not in the cool kids' room. In fact, I mostly avoid it. 

After all, a wise man once said: "Cool is a rule but, sometimes, bad is bad."

Sometimes I'm ahead of the curve. Many times, I jump on much later. Then, I get stubborn and don't jump on at all.

I have too many examples to cite. 

I've heard all of the praise for the The Queen's Gambit, the Netflix show about a chess prodigy and I'm here to tell you that it lives up to the hype.

I pretty shut down after "Doubleheader" ended on Wednesday afternoon. I'm in this weird place of having nothing to do, so I did the unthinkable: I watched TV.

Oh I still did laundry and took care of whatever Sean needed and mowed the lawn today and cleaned leaves and whatever stuff I did. But, still, I watched TV. I feel guilty typing those words.

I finished up The Haunting of Hill House before rolling through the first three episodes of Kaley Cuocco's The Flight Attendant on HBO Max. Funny, intriguing stuff with the star power of *knock knock knock* Penny. Her character is Penny on steroids; everything that Sheldon described her as on The Big Bang Theory.

With those finished the NFL having run out of Thanksgiving games (thanks, COVID), I decided to try The Queen's Gambit.

Wow.

I know, not exactly Siskel and/or Ebert in that review, right?

The whole cast is exceptional -- led by Anya Taylor-Joy, who brings her Beth Hamon to life as a teenager. I won't give anything away, except to again say the cast is phenomenal. But, more than that, as a period piece, it does a remarkable job of taking the viewer on a unique ride through the 1950s and 60s.

Again, you'd think a story that largely revolves around chess would be snore-inducing, but that's not even close to true. You don't need to know anything about chess to understand it. I don't really know a lot about it and haven't played in years.

The sets are great. The locations are great. The representation of the era are great.

It harkens back to a time when it acceptable to smoke and everyone dressed more formally. It presents it all with a certain level of whimsy for what was, while reminding us gracefully that our past also can be cringe-inducing.

Watching the characters evolve -- especially Beth Harmon herself -- is part of the magic of this seven-episode ride.

One last thing: chess play-by-play? Really? 

So, for whatever this post is worth (read: zero), The Queen's Gambit receives the Exit 55 Seal of Approval.

I'll call anything

JV Hockey -- Darien at Greenwich -- 12/28/2019

 

It was Nov 2002 and WGCH was evolving.

We were in the waning days of the Becker ownership (RIP, John T. Becker) and we were trying different things. One thing was "Mommy Drive," meant to get moms listening as they were in the car with the kids.

I was asked to do sports reports that included youth sports. Those would run during the afternoon hours -- drive time that was now "Mommy Drive."

It seemed silly but I was and am still a team player. So I did reports and conducted interviews as requested.

Then?

"You're going to go call the youth football championships," I was told.

"I'm sorry. What now?"

The GYFL, the youth football organization in Greenwich, wanted us to broadcast their championship. There were three games: Bantam, Junior, and Senior divisions.

For reference purposes, the bantam players are as young as eight, while the seniors can be up to 14.

I admit I was skeptical of the whole thing. How would we pull this off?

We arrived at Western Middle School in Greenwich to see that, as promised, we'd be calling the games from the back of a flatbed truck. Our power would come from a generator. There was a scoreboard and it may or may not work. My recollection is that, mostly, it didn't.

But we got rosters and powered through it.

My skepticism was gone. The championship games were at Cardinal Stadium the next year. No more need for the generator. We'd still get rosters and, yes, they're sometimes hit or miss, but it was all as organized as anything else I've covered.

I've called those championships several times since then. Some years, we had the whole game. Other years, I did the whole thing solo.

I bring this up because there was a thread on the play-by-play page on Facebook in which a member professed they'd never call junior varsity games again due to shoddy rosters.

Most of the members responding to the thread agreed. Literally, as of press time, only three have disputed it: Shawn Sailer, Mike Hirn...and me.

What the GYFL taught me was that I was willing to call anything. If you've asked me to be there, I request power, a decent view, and rosters. 

I'll sit with you as you write them up, if necessary, or whatever we need to do to piece it together.

I've done middle school girls basketball. I've gone on the air before a varsity game and picked up the call of the JV game. I've called it. All of it.

If I don't get a roster, as I didn't with 7-on-7 football a few times, then it's up to me to handle it how I wish. I made the best of it and actually wasn't bothered by it. I did my best. The broadcast was still professional. What more was needed?

I called JV hockey last December, in the Greenwich Winter Classic. The Greenwich Athletic Foundation asked me to do so, and I was going to be there for the varsity girls and boys games on Robcasting and WGCH anyway. 

So, why not? They asked. I said yes and had fun calling Darien and Greenwich. Again, I worked solo and was pleased with how it all sounded and looked.

It took a little work to dig up those JV rosters, but I harassed enough people to get them. 

Check out the game broadcast for yourself (the game begins after the 13-minute mark). I don't think I struggled.

I realize rosters at lower levels can be hit or miss but, with a little work, you can secure them more often than not. So if the game involved eight-year-olds, little leaguers, Babe Ruth Leagues, American Legion, Freshman, JV, Varsity, college, or pros, I'm there. I've encountered roster headaches at literally every level.

At the end of the day, it's not about me (shocking, right?). It's about the athletes and coaches. I'm the conduit. I'm the reporter, the storyteller. 

So I was a more than a little surprised at the reaction of my fellow play-by-players. Stunned, actually.

But, when you get right down to it, they can have that approach.

I'll call their broadcasts.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving

 

Baldwin Place, NY. Thanksgiving, 2019

It's Wednesday, Nov 25.

Normally, I'd be pouring over notes.

Have I printed my scoresheet? It's the same one I've used since 1999. I've touched it up a bit over the years, I suppose.

Enter the team names -- visitor and away -- along with any pertinent details. Senior Day? Playoffs? Homecoming?

So, in this case, it would say Greenwich Cardinals vs. Staples Wreckers on Nov 26, 2020 at Cardinal Stadium in Greenwich, CT.

Chris Erway would be my partner and Sean Kilkelly would be the studio host. I put their names on the sheet as well because, honestly, I get overwhelmed and don't want to forget. Hell, I even put my own name on the sheet.

There would be rosters to print and stories to pour over. Where is Greenwich in the state rankings? Are they in the playoffs? What are the scenarios? What's Staples' story?

By this point, I'd know all about Greenwich. But perhaps there's a statistical item to note. And the history. Fortunately I have the matchups all the way back "BR" (yes, "Before Rob") or, in this case, 1997.

I'd have to make sure the alarm was set. I'm always at the stadium -- Greenwich, Staples, Boyle in Stamford or even Danbury High School -- very early. 

For most games I tend to be 90 minutes to two hours early. Admittedly, for late afternoon games, I arrive a little closer due to time constraints and types of setup.

But special games? I soak it up. I'm there early. Sometimes three hours early.

That didn't thrill the people in the Carrier Dome that time we drove up for a Rye/Chenango Forks championship game in New York. However, I couldn't risk lake effect snow or any other problems during a four-hour drive. Plus, if I'm going to make the trip, I'm going to make it worth it. So we were there early, Carrier Dome staff be damned.

In the case of Thanksgiving, two to three hours gives me time to make sure the booth gets opened and we get out space established. That's not a problem in Greenwich, of course. Sure, I lost my corner thanks to the scoreboard installation a few years back but that's showbiz. A new booth there will resolve that anyway. I was only in that corner for 17 years or so. No big deal.

No, Brian Kennedy would make sure I have a spot. Chris and I are always taken care of. Once Ian Barto stopped joining us, we basically eliminated the sideline reporter. Not that I'm against bring the role back. Just nobody else has offered or qualified.

Gotta be on your game to join the "A-Team" of course.

Early arrival on Thanksgiving means time to set up and make sure things work. It's one broadcast that is definitely widely listened to. Then I can go to the tailgate, have an egg and cheese sandwich with chili and whatever else they have around. Grab some coffee, orange juice or even a mimosa -- virgin, of course.

I swear. 

Really.

I still remember the time that MSG Varsity -- by their choice, our competition -- decided to film us at the tailgate for their pregame B-roll package. They had no idea the plates and people they were filming were the opposite broadcasters. 

I always liked the tech people on those crews. Occasionally you ran across a jerk producer, like the one who yelled at me to turn the music down in Trumbull. Do you see the problem there? 1) I don't work in Trumbull and 2) I'm a broadcaster. Not a sound engineer for Trumbull High School.

There's a reason why I walked around a job later one telling my colleagues, "Don't act like MSG."

Indeed, MSG left Fairfield County and, gosh, they were replaced by...who was it again? A three-letter thing as I recall...H...A...what was that last letter?

Weren't they the ones that I told to not act like MSG?

Ah, it will come to me. Now it's Local Live rocking the FCIAC. I can't remember the name of the lead broadcaster there either.

Oh well. I'm sure he (or she) is terrible anyway.

All of this should or could have been in play tomorrow. The game. The setup. The prep. The early departure -- on the road around 6 a.m. and taking the picture of the sun rising on Baldwin Place Road, where it meets US 6 and NY 118. It seems like I take it every year.

Tradition.

The game would end and I'd be off to Thanksgiving dinner somewhere. It was Pennsylvania one year. Shelton another. I went back home a few times. I even stayed in Greenwich once or twice. We went to Golden Corral a few times. Don't knock it. Mom seemed really happy, as goofy as that sounds. The family thing was getting complicated so we simplified it: Mom, Sean, Stephanie, me. It was glorious, actually.

Of course, we know the reality. It's all out the window. Travel restrictions have piled back up. Football is off in Connecticut.

Stephanie is off to see her sister and mother. Mom, of course, is having her own Thanksgiving with Dad, I hope. Sean is here with me.

We're not going anywhere.

I have turkey in the house. Boar's Head.

Football will be on TV. I'll actually see the Lions kick off in Detroit for the first time on Thanksgiving in 20 years.

I'll miss high school football tomorrow.

It will be weird.

It already is weird.

But it's 2020.

Do the right thing and let's not have this happen again, OK?

A conversation with The Cat

 

I was at a loss. I had a headache and I was tired. Plus I was also working.

I looked at Rascal.

"I've got nothing," I said. "No topic to write about."

"I can tell," he squeaked. "You're toast. Plus you look like (bleep)."

"Thanks."

"Well didn't that guy tell you yesterday on the Zoom call for the podcast that you have a 'face for radio?'"

"Yeah. Because I haven't heard that one a few times in 30 years or so."

"Well stop being a tired old.."

"Is this supposed to be helping me?"

"Not really," he purred, before stopping to give himself a bath. You know, that classic move of licking his paw and rubbing it all over his face. "But it's helping me."

Damn. He was right about that. He seemed fairly amused, if not proud of what he was saying.

"You realize," he continued, "that if you keep talking to me, and interrupting me from sleeping/napping/whatever it is I do, that I'll be back to bouncing off the walls and walking across that table you're working on. Who are you 'Zooming' with tonight?"

"Singapore," I said, shocked that he'd been paying attention. "Same as those other nights I've sat in here."

"You don't want to wind me back up again, do you? I'm sure Singapore would just love that."

"Well..."

"I saw there was a cat in the background of that Zoom call yesterday. Do you expect me to be all docile like that thing?"

"Well, yes. Most of the time."

"Hahahahahahahahahaahaha."

"You've literally been of no help to me," I added. "You were sent here for me. Keep me from the blues and so on."

"Ha! Like do the dishes and some laundry and vacuum? Maybe some handyman stuff? Are you on crack, man? Oh, wait. That's me on catnip. All of that stuff is on you, Dude.

"Look, you know the deal. I know Bandit, Fred, Chico and a few others taught you that. I do what I want basically WHEN I want. I'll sort of do the snuggle thing occasionally. But it's on my terms."

He had me. Checkmate. Plus, he had called me "Dude."

The Cat pondered his next move. Go bug Sean, on his computer a room away? Go ignore the food in his dish? Make further messes in a variety of ways? Bite the hand that feeds him -- literally?

All in good time, I suppose. He opted to finish bathing before he curled up on the bed.

"Find a topic, Bro," he said, mockingly, perturbed that I had bothered him. "You do this every night. I'm going to sleep. Since you're going to try to sleep late tomorrow, I'll wake you up nice and early."

Those last words oozed out of him, as if he were stalking a mouse. Then, he paused.

"Write about that."

So, I did.

Monday monotony

 

Am I in Facebook jail or just on probation?

Amazing. Simply amazing.

Common sense, they say, isn't common.

I have a tradition of responding to all birthday wishes. I've caught up on the calls and texts. I still have to get to the ones on LinkedIn. I've answered the Instagram and Twitter ones.

And I tore into Facebook tonight.

Well, it seems Zuckerberg and company have a limit to the number of things you can comment on. This, astonishingly, includes saying "Thank you" to birthday greetings.

Check, please, right?

So I've tried. Those I couldn't recognize got a "like" from me.

It's funny, I've actually considered turning off comments on my birthday before and now I feel like I should have. Not because I don't appreciate the kindness -- I do -- but because of utter foolishness like this.

So now I feel rude for not finishing. So it goes.

*****

Oh, to follow up on yesterday, I'm listening to George Harrison's All Things Must Pass. Hare Krishna, but it's a great masterpiece of music.

Simply the group assembled around George was mesmerizing. George and Ringo Starr. Eric Clapton. Billy Preston. Peter Frampton was there. Phil Collins(!) plays congas on "Art of Dying." Bobby Whitlock and all of Badfinger and Ginger Baker and Gary Wright and Klaus Voorman are all there.

The result is an album (well, three records) that still hold up very well.

It's great for so many moods. Driving and thinking and more.

*****

Yesterday was truly wonderful. I watched Back to the Future with Sean, talked to a few people, watched more The Haunting of Hill House, had a funny Facetime call with Susan and special guest star Kathy and generally took it easy. I'm grateful. Truly.

*****

Today is Doctor Who Day. I realize that doesn't quite register with many but it does for me, mostly because it's become a bond between father and son. I've mentioned here before that I knew of Doctor Who but wasn't an aficionado at all until Sean got into it. I'm still no expert but I care about it.

Doctor Who debuted the day after John F. Kennedy was assassinated in 1963 on the BBC. Despite a break and definitely issues with the quality of writing and production values, it's still rolling after 57 years with its next episode being teased for Jan 1.

Sean knows far more than I do and I know that the current stories aren't his favorites at all. He loves Jodie Whittaker as the thirteenth Doctor but the writing has been so-so at best. So I don't like seeing his interest wane in it but I guess phases and tastes change.

In any event, happy anniversary to the peace-loving, jelly-baby eating, bow tie wearing (bow ties are cool) time lord from Gallifrey. This is what that first episode looked like.

A deck would be lovely

I'm sitting in the living room, having just finished sipping a cup of coffee from my favorite mug. It's from South of the Border, and it features various images of the famed tourist trap.

You know a good mug when you find one. It's sized just right. It feels just right.

And I like how it looks. It's often perfect to gaze at with a sense of whimsy for days gone by and hopefully days to come. Dumb as it may seem, there are still people I'd like to take there with the hope that they can see it for what it is, as opposed to being hung up by one thing or another.

Some find it cheesy. Some find it politically incorrect and even offensive, not knowing the backstory. Some get it and find it fun and nostalgic. That's who I want to take there.

Things are quiet. Sean is asleep, not more than 15 feet away in his bedroom. Funny thing about his room. It was last used by my niece and has a border of sunflowers at the top of the yellow walls. He never elected to change anything. We put some pictures up -- baseball images, along with a few signs and other effects. But, in reality, he couldn't care less. His computer is there (it's a laptop but it never leaves his room). He has what he needs.

In the living room, the TV is currently off. I'll resume streaming The Haunting of Hill House after I finish writing. Susan got me into it. I know the book and its author, Shirley Jackson, mean so much to her. I bought her a T-shirt with the cover of the book on it when I was in Boston a few years back. Like me, she looks at interpretations of "sacred" works dimly, but she was overwhelmed by this one. She asked me to watch it and I admit I'm hooked. It's not my genre but the characters and storylines are just great.

The cat -- brat that he is -- is asleep on a mat five feet away. My mother had a thing for area rugs and bath mats that she could make into area rugs. This one used to sit near the microwave. He began tunneling under it so much that I just moved it out here.

My feet are up as I sit on the couch. It's not often that I have these kinds of moments. I just finished listening to a BBC documentary on the George Harrison album All Things Must Pass as it approaches its 50th birthday next week. It may shock you to know that I don't have it or many other Beatles' solo releases. I don't think I'll ever go all-in on that concept. I don't think I need John and Yoko's primal screaming.

It feels like the days of collecting music are over for me. If anything, I find myself pondering selling much of it or even giving it away, as I've put pretty much everything on my computer. I'd keep certain things of importance (The Beatles, Huey Lewis and Billy Joel are probably at the front of the line). Given the days of being in this house are likely dwindling, it's time to think about scaling down.

It's dark and fairly gloomy outside. Showers are expected today and it's pretty chilly. It's a good day for the aforementioned Netflix idea and perhaps downloading All Things Must Pass. I know I probably need a few more Lennon and McCartney releases. Perhaps there's a Ringo one that's worth it also.

And, oh yeah, it's my birthday. I guess that's why I'm struck by the peace of this moment and feeling so pensive. Sadly, this room would have been buzzing with my mother sitting in the chair a few feet away. She would have had the TV on, whose service will soon be turned off in favor of just using whatever streaming I can get access to. I'll keep the internet on and turn the phone number off that has been here since 1963.

There's no point anymore. The phone just gets marketing calls and the TV is mostly quiet since the end of baseball season.

It should be sad to see that empty chair, and it is, but there's also a certain resignation. My father died in that spot (different chair). My mother died there also. I'm not letting that diminish or depress. Just stating a fact. I miss them both. I think they delighted more in birthday celebrations than I did -- and do.

No, if anything, I'm pondering a brighter future. I've got a lot of living left to do. The aching back and knees and shoulder are a fine reminder that we're well into the latter innings but that doesn't mean I won't take each at-bat seriously.

This game still has a lot left in it.

About the only thing missing from this scene is warm weather and a deck to sit on. Oh I have one -- the chairs aren't that comfortable -- but it's only 40 degrees and it's covered. It gets literally no sunlight, even if the sun was out.

So that's minor, and here I sit.

My idea of a celebration is simplistic. Give me my loved ones. I don't need anything big. I need laughter and food. It's Sunday and we're in a pandemic. So, today, Sean and Rascal and I will keep it quiet. Being brutally honest, I'm not even sure if Sean knows that it's my birthday.

And so, to the next chapter. Quoting from George Harrison, in "Beware of Darkness":

Watch out now, take care
Beware of the thoughts that linger
Winding up inside your head
The hopelessness around you

No hopelessness today. Only gratitude and love for the world I've been a part of, the world that I've created, and those who have surrounded me to share it.

You win. So do you. And you. You all win!

 

It was 1985 and I was playing in the Mahopac Sports Association. We had advanced to the championship game of Babe Ruth baseball and we were due to play our archrivals.

For some reason they scheduled the game for a Sunday afternoon in early summer.

Then it rained.

Then the phone rang.

The game was canceled. Not postponed. Canceled.

The two teams were named co-champions. I got a trophy. Whoopity doo.

Thirty-five years later, I still feel the bitter taste of that in my gut. Keep in mind it was a town league. While it meant a lot to me (along with the outright titles we won in 1984 and 1986), it was still pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of the sports pantheon.

Earlier today, I called the championship in girls soccer between Mahopac and Somers. Upon arriving at Somers High School, athletic director Roman Catalino told me -- as if foreshadowing -- the rules of overtime, if needed.

- Two 10-minute regular sessions.

- Two 5-minute sudden death sessions.

- If still tied, then the teams would be declared co-champions.

You can see where this is heading, right?

Oh, co-champs. I just don't get it.

Budding broadcasting superstar Brian Lanzaetta (boys soccer coach at Somers) joined me for a marvelous game. Both teams put everything out there. Mahopac played down a few players, including Mia Klammer, whose mom has connected with me on Twitter.

That allowed me to give her a shout out during the broadcast. Like everyone else this year, Mia deserves better, and she desperately wanted to be with her teammates.

The game featured multiple shots off crossbars and posts. It was physical. It got chippy. Fans (parents) said dumb things in the stands (there weren't that many and socially distancing was observed). Officials made good calls and a few not-so-good ones either.

There was confusion, such as when the officials refuted what we said in the booth: that the two five-minute overtimes were sudden death, also known as "golden goal."

They actually had to confer before informing us yes, indeed, we're right. Golden goal it is!

There was a twitter rumor that maybe the game would have to go to penalty kicks at the end to decide a champion. That, indeed, was a rumor. NYSPHSAA rules clearly state that there are not penalty kicks to determine a champion in this circumstance.

It had a lot.

What it didn't have -- after 110 minutes -- with a champion. No goals. Two scoreless halves. Two scoreless 10-minute overtimes. Two scoreless five-minute overtimes.

Final score? Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Zero-zero. 0-0.

Wave to the other team. Shake hands with your own. Here's your plaque. Congratulations. You all win. Or you all lose.

Everybody gets a trophy!

I've been down this road, of course. Famously, I was under the headset for the controversial 2015 girls state hockey championship game that wound up with co-champions. There was the speculation that the game was called due to a boys game that was scheduled to follow, though all of that was proven to be unfounded.

In the end, all parties ensured that wouldn't happen again.

In this case, they could have kept playing, but there are those that feel such a thing can't happen. If they're public health officials, I'm willing to bet most of us in the athletic community could stand to not hear so much from them. We could probably use a break.

And, no, penalty kicks aren't the most desirable way to end a championship, but it seems to work in the World Cup, doesn't it? Did I not once watch Brandi Chastain electrify the Rose Bowl with a PK in 1999?

So, why not? Who's being harmed if Mahopac and Somers lined up for a shootout? Why not get a winner?

Why not let two fabulous goalkeepers face their opponents?

Really, what's the logic?

Why not let these athletes have a conclusion fitting of this great match? They deserve it. They didn't show up to be tied.

People were into it. Twitter was on fire. Cell phones were smoking with text messages. The Local Live audience was great.

Mia Klammer wasn't sitting at home, watching on TV and listening to Brian and me, to see her friends be co-champs. She certainly didn't want to be a co-champion.

Is anyone satisfied?

Someone will offer me some rhetoric why this is the preferred outcome. Don't tell me. Tell it to Somers. Tell it to Mahopac.

Tell it to the girls in that hockey game from 2015.

It was the worst-case scenario. One that will gnaw at them forever.

Just like a meaningfully meaningless non-baseball game 35 years ago.

Adapt

 

I had another long night in the videography business.

I decided I could get just enough sleep and still be on WGCH with Tony Savino at 7:50, as I am most Friday mornings.

What makes that easier is that I can wake up, roll over, call in, and even go back to sleep if I want to.

So I stumbled through an 8-10 minute interview and stayed in bed. Rascal Squeaky the troublemaking cat bounced in and out.

I was all set for a mostly quiet day. I was going to rest and do stuff around the house.

Then my phone buzzed. It was Kevin Devaney, Jr. and he wanted to know if I could call the regional championship in girls soccer tomorrow at Somer High School. Mahopac would be the opposition for the Tuskers.

I'd have to work with an analyst I've never met but I'd be back calling a game and be at a site just 15 minutes away. 

I jumped at it. I love Local Live and the overall freedom they've given me in the booth.

Then Kevin came back with another question: could I do boys soccer in Carmel between the Rams and John Jay Cross River (formerly the Indians but now the Wolves).

Today.

Again, I jumped.

I can just hear the stuck in the-mud high and mighties of the play-by-play fraternity.

"But but but...prep time. I need to talk to coaches, next of kin, their third grade teacher."

All I needed was rosters and Google. To start.

The rosters came together. Of course they can never be easy, as they weren't numerical. So I retyped them. Big deal.

I messaged Harold, whose daughter Katie attends Carmel (and she's mortified that I mentioned her during the broadcast). He asked his Carmel friends for some info on the team.

I gathered just enough to survive and eventually made my way to Carmel High School. I was there a little over an hour before the game started.

After setting up, I went to the field and talked to the coaches. I got pronunciations. I got some background.

I was ready. I could take it from there.

Life isn't scripted. Game broadcasts aren't either.

Talk shows shouldn't be but that's a discussion for another time.

So I learned as much as I could by 4:30 today and got down to calling the game.

Those too stubborn to adapt to changes like that will not survive.

Mike Hirn was set to call a game closer to his home before COVID closed the stadium he would have worked in. He had to drive three hours to the site that it got moved it.

Adapt.

So, when given a last-minute gig, I jumped and made the best of it.

I got to see a 2-1 John Jay win in double overtime. I thought I was raw and a little off but was told by a fan that there were people watching who wanted to know who the broadcaster was because they seemed to like him.

I smiled. How could I not?

I can't stress enough how not fun it is to wear a mask while broadcasting, but again, I made the best of it.

Adapt.

And so, onto tomorrow. Despite all #preparation, who knows what awaits?

We'll adapt.

Relax

 

You might be aware that I was part of an interview with two significant people last night.

Jim Leyritz was great and, on any other night, I'd be talking more about that.

But interviewing Doc Emrick -- a true icon -- was beyond fantastic.

My post last night highlighted a few nitpicks. Standard fare.

However, Susan drilled down.

"This was amazing," she texted me.

She was right but, as usual, I lacked my ability to chill the bleep out and enjoy it.

I explained why. I have a long history of allowing myself a moment and soon getting walloped by an anvil. It's a pure cartoon character thing.

So, while I was happy, I was typically low-key and thinking about how it could have been better.

She reminded me to live in the moment.

"Viewers gave you credit and support," she said. "Focus on the positive. You talked to a hero today."

Dammit. I had nothing. No argument. No response, really. She was right.

Like I said, I have my reasons. I have too many examples. Yet, she was absolutely correct.

I was happy with last night but I didn't project that and Susan was totally correct. I do need to enjoy smaller moments and calm down.

Honestly, that's the message tonight.

Frankie said, "Relax," and I should listen.

Doc, The King, and The Clubhouse

 

Doc Emrick and Jim Leyritz -- "The King" -- were the guests on "The Clubhouse" tonight.

I realize I sort of implied in the post title. I decided to not bowl you over with originality.

I'll nitpick it ten ways to Sunday, of course, because I'm me, but it was certainly a thrill to talk to both of them. Doc, of course, is on my broadcasting Mount Rushmore, I suppose it's safe to say.

Vin, Doc, and then it gets tough after that. Mel Allen? Red Barber? Dick Enberg? Bob Costas? Can I cheat?

Anyway, it was such a thrill to hear his voice, though I'm concerned that I might have goofed. In asking Doc about minor league hockey I mentioned (or at least meant to mention) that I had done SOME Bridgeport Sound Tigers games in the past, but that's a distant past at this point. If I implied that I was nothing more than a (brief) fill-in and number two to Phil Giubileo, I apologize.

I gathered Doc also thought I was a kid. Well, you know I'm hardly that. My path has led me to where I am now for a lot of reasons and I'm OK with it.

Anyway, these are the kinds of things I nitpick.

It just wasn't enough time. An hour might have sufficed to cover a legendary career and all the things that we wanted to touch on.

I was able to ask him about the joy I hear in his voice when he called a game. You can feel it. Listen to his voice at the end of this segment.

The same can be said of Leyritz. I was able to ask him about the huge home run against Mark Wohlers in 1996 but that was only the beginning. I wanted to talk about the electricity of Game 6 of that World Series back in the Bronx, when there was a hunger that burned through the TV set that night. I've never seen a fan base more ravenous.

Or the '95 home run in extra innings of Game 2 against the Mariners.

Or what it was like to be on the Padres in '98 and come back to New York as the Yankees won that title. 

Yes, I know Leyritz's story includes some unfortunate stuff that he was acquitted of. I would have been interested to hear his story of turning his life around. He seemed in a good place on the show tonight.

Time just wasn't on our side. We have hard breaks to hit due to our format so that, in reality, our hours is a 53 previous minutes. Some nights it's just not enough -- like tonight.

So listen for yourself. It's a keeper.

The Process

My moment of zen: Fred Howard Park in Tarpon Springs, FL (visittampabay.com)

 

Trust the process, they say.

Does that include dogs*it blogs?

The "process" begins at some point every day.

What will I write about?

Something might strike me, or I'll carry an idea from a previous day.

Every once in a while, I'll get an idea and write the post a day ahead, though I admit that's rare.

Most days, I just try to react to what I see and hear. Some days I have an idea that is outside the scope of the day-to-day of life.

Then, as I've often highlighted, there are those days where I just have nothing.

Or I lack the energy, meaning I'm not going to dive into the research for something more involved.

And then there are those bad nights. The nights where something has climbed into my craw and I just want to post a picture, video, whatever, and walk away.

But, somehow, here we are, keeping on doing what we do.

We're here through every...thing.

There was a time where I just wouldn't write. That's why the blog languished from 2014-2018. I was busy/didn't have the energy/wasn't inspired/whatever.

And there were readers who misinterpreted and reported to others. It caused me grief.

So here I sit, babbling through another post as I work another long night.

As for that moment of zen at the top of the post, I think about that often. I'm not the biggest beach goer. Not even close. I normally get bored easily, fear sunburn and the bright sun can hurt my eyes. Then I bought a beach tent and it made things more tolerable. At that point, I'd bring a device, throw headphones in to listen to music and either read or slept.

So the idea of being back on that beach for a couple of hours is pretty sweet.

Followed by a round of (crappy) golf.

I'd like to believe I'll see it again one day.

We've made it through another post. Now the process begins for tomorrow.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

From a Picture to The Voices of My Youth

I have an app called Timehop that I check every day. Literally everyday -- 1428 in a row, according to the app.

It shows me Facebook memories and Twitter miscues and Instagram pics. It's good and bad.

Today, it reminded me that I called division one college basketball at Stony Brook on Long Island against Mount Saint Mary College. That began a fun season of calling Mount basketball. I don't know who has called their games since then but, at that time, I was the first play-by-play "voice" in their history. At least that's what they told me.

It was a special time for me as well as for Sean, who came with me to games, including a road trip on the team bus where he felt like a big deal.

I tweeted the memory at the Mount athletic department. No response as of press time. Oh well.

Timehop also recently produced the picture at the top of the post. It was taken in Oct, 2009 (according to the caption) as we drove to Hunter Mountain for Oktoberfest. Sean took the picture.

I can see a lot of "stuff" in my face. There were times then when I felt lost, alone, defeated, and demoralized. I look tired in the picture.

I post it tonight as a reminder that, no matter what, we've been through crap. Some better, some worse. But we've survived, and that's the message I wanted to give. We know how take the lemons, mix them up, and drink it down.

Divorce, death, highs, lows. See the good wherever possible. I've tried so hard to do that throughout 2020. I've told stories, of course, and have battled my emotions, but I'm still here.

Better days are coming. Smiling pictures are on the way.

I've survived. So can you.

*****

I saw STAA (Sportscasters Talent Agency of America) tweeted a question as to who were the voices of your childhood.

For as much as the answers became Dick Enberg and Vin Scully and the other people who brought the sounds of sports alive to me, the true answer was the big three of Yankees baseball in the 1970s.

There was Phil Rizzuto, of course. Everyone loved the Scooter. He talked about anniversaries and birthdays, ran from thunderstorms and tried to beat traffic across the George Washington Bridge to get home to Cora in New Jersey. In between was a fascinating broadcaster who wasn't always these things (including a homer), trained begrudgingly by Mel Allen and Red Barber.

Rizzutos' frequent sidekick was Bill White. A former first baseman for the Giants, Phillies, and Cardinals, White turned to broadcasting in St. Louis and Philadelphia before joining the Yankees' booth in 1971. It never even occurred to me that he was breaking barriers as a Black man. He was, simply, a member of a great three-man broadcast team.

Then there was Frank Messer. Where Rizzuto and White were ballplayers-turned voices, the former Marine was a trained broadcaster. Frank was different to me. His descriptions enthralled me. He was the "pro" versus the ballplayers.

In those days, the three rotated positions so that they'd each do time on radio and TV. Thus was got to know all of them. It was Rizzuto, for instance, who had the local call of Chris Chambliss as he beat the Royals in the 1976 American League Championship. It was White, famously, who uttered, "Deep to left! Yastrzemski will not get it...it's a home run! A three-run home run for Bucky Dent and the Yankees now lead it by a score of three to two."

It was Messer who was at the mic for the chaos of the Pine Tar Game in 1983. Sitting next to him -- as if I wasn't already interested in sports broadcasting -- was a former outfielder named Bobby Murcer who had recently retired.

Scully and Enberg and Summerall and Emrick and Michaels and Jackson and so many others helped teach me how to close out any rooting interest. They called the game impartially as they were the network voices that helped shape me. Curt Gowdy was that guy in the 70s more than anybody.

But it was White, Messer, and Rizzuto that helped start molding me. And I can't say this clearly enough, I also give credit to Lindsay Nelson, Ralph Kiner and Bob Murphy of the Mets for adding to that foundation.

These were the voices that started me on the path of describing and storytelling. Oh, the game may have seemed secondary to Rizzuto at times but it really wasn't. It was just part of the show -- almost a latter-day Dizzy Dean, but with a New York accent.

That's where it started and that's what I try to explain to students. Learn how to craft. Learn how to describe. The rest of the skills might follow.

Holy cow!

Blowin' Away

(Picture found online via Google)

 I'm working from home tonight and we have intense wind in the area.

Losing power is -- to say the least -- not advantageous when there are people around the world .

There is a battery backup system on the computer I'm working with but time would still not entirely be on my side.

We're expected to go until around two tomorrow morning.

And the lights have already flashed, so buckle up.

The funny thing is we often go years sometimes without losing power, but of course, we were out during the big storm back in August.

So I'm throwing a post together as I sit here.

I'm doing it, in part, to take my mind off of the responsibility that I'm concerned about falling apart a foot to my left.

(UPDATE: The power flashed a few more times after I finished the post, with a crescendo that had us lose power just enough to take the internet down and bring it right back up. Unfortunately that impacted my job but not so bad that it ruined the night).

*****

This weekend was, sadly, a preview. A preview of what round two of quarantine life will be like.

Remember, I wasn't truly quarantined he first time around -- from March until roughly June. Because of responsibilities regarding my mother, I was out several days per week getting her to and from dialysis, appointments, and picking up food.

Now? Mom is gone, of course. So I won't be having dinner with her and watching Jeopardy. But I have to get food. I need to keep the cat fed.

There was a stretch where I didn't even see Sean and, while I understood (well, I actually didn't really understand it), it still pained me quite a bit. I suppose it's possible he would stay here this time but I can't predict anything.

The thing about Sean being here is, as soon as he leaves, I want him to come back. The house gets very quiet, save for Rascal and me, and in that case, I do the majority of the talking.

That probably comes as no surprise.

The conundrum of me is that I don't really mind being alone, but if there's someone I want to be with then that's a different story.

I didn't mind driving to Charleston, SC in 2012. In fact, I loved it. But if there's someone that is the right companion in the car, then I'd prefer that.

I love "Scullying" games and look forward to plenty of that in 2021. But the right partner -- Chris Erway and a few others -- makes me enjoy the game every bit as much, plus give me the safety valve of someone who can step in if I have to maneuver through a restroom break or fixing equipment.

Sadly, it feels like not a matter of "if" for the next shutdown in New York and Connecticut. Parties are already being limited to ten people. The likelihood of a turkey sandwich at home on Thanksgiving grows.

Obviously, I'm concerned about another quarantine from a few angles. I'm concerned mentally, sure, but I'm also concerned from the standpoint of surviving financially. I'm grateful for the new opportunity that I have in videography, but will that continue for sure in another shutdown?

The state of Connecticut -- bless their little hearts -- didn't see me as a gig worker (a freelance worker), which is a far-longer story than I wish to elaborate on. 

So you can see my concern, I suppose.

Anyway, just another night of babbling as I hear the wind rage outside.

Fingers crossed for survival.

*****

The Miami Dolphins should wear the uniforms they wore today -- flashing back to the late 60s-early 70s -- all the time. It should be law.

That's similar to what they wore today (those are the Fins in Super Bowl VII in 1973). Of course, their aqua unis are in the "GOAT" category.

Oh and the Steelers beat the Bengals today. Bad. You hate to see it.

Patiently Impatient

Red Barber kept an hourglass with him in the booth. When the sand ran out, he said the score. Then he turned it over.

That's why there's a picture of an hourglass. Be patient, I tell myself.

I often deride myself for lacking patience.

Which I do lack.

And, yet, I don't.

Wait for this. Wait for that. Just keep waiting. Good things come to those who wait, right?

So I bide my time and, yet, I want what I want. I'm not getting any younger, of course.

You're all aware of the news from the JJ Cooper, Executive Editor for Baseball America. You know, the news about the Renegades becoming an affiliate of the Yankees.

I know many of you are aware because you've texted me. You've called me. You've emailed me. You're excited for me.

There have also been critics and pessimists. I've seen and heard it all.

Even when I don't want to talk about it, I talk about it. After being pushed on the topic, I said it wasn't a big deal. I got told -- emphatically -- otherwise.

"**** yeah it's a big deal," I was told. "You're just afraid to get excited about it."

Correctamundo!

The Yankees acknowledged the report and put out a release last Saturday. The Gades also acknowledged it.

Beyond that, I still know only what I read.

Still, I've been contacted by a few other broadcasters in the Yankees chain wanting to welcome me to the family. Thanks to both Joe Vasile at Scranton/Wilkes-Barre and Marc Schwartz at Somerset for reaching out. Marc is moving with the Somerset Patriots from the Atlantic League to Double-A as a Yankees affiliate. I've also connected with Nick Flammia at Tampa.

There have been others whom I've never met who are connecting with me because of this news.

And yet? I'm still being cautious.

That's what my life has taught me. Don't jump the gun. No cart before the horse. 

There's also a quote from Pulp Fiction that I love but this is a family blog.

Remember, I did my first game with the Gades in 2001. That's before my son was born. 

So, when I tell you I don't know much, I'm telling you the truth. Anything that I've picked up has mostly come from things I've seen online. From what I know, the team name is not changing (and why should it?). The staff isn't supposed to be changing as well.

So...wait, Rob...doesn't that mean you.

Hold on. Those are full-timers. The team knows I'm sitting here in a like a caged animal waiting to do something for them. Anything can happen between now and first pitch and I have nothing completely official. I know what's desired. I don't have confirmation.

So while it's exciting to think about the Yankees broadcasting lineage that starts with Arch McDonald in 1939 to Mel Allen, Red Barber, Phil Rizzuto, Frank Messer, Bill White, to Bobby---freaking---Murcer to John Sterling, Suzyn Waldman, and Michael Kay (and was nearly Vin Scully in 1965), I just can't really break out the bubbly yet.

Sure, I'm patient. I'm also impatient. A year ago, I yearned for any news. What's the schedule? What road games can I do? Who's the manager? Can I set up my booth? Can I select who calls any games with me*? Can I establish a format and music for the broadcasts? 

Remember, just a few days before we all went indoors, I visited Dutchess Stadium quietly so I could gaze into the booth. Then I visited a few times, including calling a tournament where I had a young broadcaster join me whom I'd never met.

*Don't worry, Chris Erway and others are still waiting to come join me in 2021.

These, basically, are the things that you've all come to know and...love?...about me.

Now all of that includes things like who the opponents will be* and what's my role and lots of other stuff that will sort themselves out.

* Like all of the other rumors, I've heard perhaps Lowell and maybe Aberdeen will join us. Can I say us? Anyway, I know Brooklyn is in the league because the Mets announced that.

It will take time.

They have a lot going on at Dutchess Stadium. They have a lot to figure out. They don't need an impatient play-by-play announcer (who can do a lot of other stuff) nagging them.

JJ Cooper also reported that they've told the other MLB teams to stop leaking minor league news so I'm not sure how much more will come out.

I allowed myself a toast during the week with a friend who felt I should at least acknowledge the news.

"To being a Yankees broadcaster. Just allow yourself to enjoy it for a moment."

Or, more precisely, to being a broadcaster in the Yankees system. (This, by the way, does not set one on a path to The Bronx. It doesn't really work like that.)

Beyond that? Patience, young Scully.

This whole process will be interesting, and I feel for the teams that are going through such upheaval. I feel for the former Staten Island Yankees and Trenton Thunder. I hope bright days are ahead for them and I know they've lashed out at how things transpired. I can't control any of that. There will be a lot more.

Things are changing. Only in time will we know if it's for the better overall. Right now, it's not so bad for me.

But I'll continue wait for that news and when I have a go-ahead to tell you something, I will.

I wait to see my name on the team website and to see Broadcaster411 updated (I'm still listed as being the Tampa Bay Rays' affiliates).

And I'll continue to hope to call games in stadiums near and far as the "voice" of the Hudson Valley Renegades.

High A affiliate of the New York Yankees.

A half-hour from my house.

A boyhood dream achieved.

Maybe.

(So get on the list for tickets, won't you?)

The Great Defender

 

The Sharks and Jets each defend their turf
(West Side Story, of course)

One thing I can't handle -- like, it's a problem -- is when I see someone -- especially someone I care about -- get bullied, harassed, or anything that I think is untoward.

I see it a lot and it's basically the toughest thing I do.

As in discretion being the better part of valor. 

Biting my tongue or the fingers that would attack a keyboard.

Sometimes, I go on the attack.

Most of the time, it's me finding another way to let the venom out.

And look, I value those who will do the same for me. Chris Erway and Shawn Sailer are often quick to jump if they see something going on and there are obviously others.

I also value the honesty of those who tell me I'm getting what I deserve and vice versa.

But telling myself to back down or even walk away and stop caring is about the toughest thing for me.

"It's not worth it," I'll say to myself.

There was a situation not too long ago. Tim Parry reached out to me a few days back to ask what happened.

Trust me, he's another one who will jump ugly.

That loyalty means a lot. Everyone has their own definition of loyalty, and there are often different levels. I'd like to think I'm honestly loyal.

Anway, I'm babbling.

Just know that I'm often (now probably more than ever) climbing a wall when I see someone get attacked.

And so, there will be no vagueness to what's got me fired up. I'll just say nothing.

*****

I'd really like to address the hiring of Kim Ng by the Miami Marlins as their new general managers. Ms. Ng is the first woman in the history of male professional sports in the United States to become a GM.

She's also the first Asian American.

A lot of spaces on the bingo card got filled in.

But here's the best thing: the best person got the job. I've followed her career from when she worked with the Yankees and, if I recall correctly, we were on the same flight to New Orleans in 2003 for the Winter Meetings.

A flight that was -- I kid you not -- the first for my mother, who went to NOLA to visit my niece who lived down there. My mom was 65. It was her first flight. She would fly again to New Orleans a few years later and to Arizona a few times. That was basically it.

But, again, I'm babbling. Kim Ng worked for the Yankees and, eventually, the Dodgers. Today, she begins making the decisions in Miami.

It's significant that the glass ceiling was shattered. It's significant that it's a small sign of progress. It's an even better sign that a wonderful candidate who was incredibly qualified got this richly-deserved opportunity.

It's no PR move. Keep an eye on what Derek Jeter, Don Mattingly, and Kim Ng are building in South Florida. 

I always thought the Marlins would improve. Now the work begins.

It's a fantastic day for baseball. 

Last note: I once again saw the "blah blah blah...60 games...awards don't matter..." nonsense.

Again, I bite the fingers that strike the keyboard.

That is all.

We're Good for Now

 

Writing the blog on the now-working computer

The computer works again.

For tonight.

Dan Macom removed the back, took the battery out, told me he thought I needed a new one, put it back in the computer, closed it up, and turned it on.

Bingo.

So, for now, we're good.

It could still use a tune-up, along with a new battery but we're fine for tonight.

And honestly, there's not much else to talk about tonight.

So, we're onto tomorrow.

Noooooooooooooo!

Some of the carnage of the new setup.
The MacBook on life support has the Robcasting logo on the screen.

 

My day was proceeding like most days in recent times.

I keep trying to get my new (but probably temporary) home office into an optimum environment.

I've tried to merge my audio life to my videography life. I'm enjoying that work a great deal, handling items via Zoom. It works with my meticulous nature of organization, I guess. It also helps my desire to multitask.

So, each day since I brought a new setup home on Saturday, I've hauled in tables and removed tables. I've put things up and broken them down.

It is -- and will remain -- a work in progress. A different mixer here, a different microphone there.

And cables everywhere.

It was around 11 a.m. when I looked at my MacBook, which I've probably had for about four years, but it's older than that.

In what can only awkwardly be described as being like a death, it seemed to heave a release of air before turning off.

I've been unable to revive it ever since.

A little research indicated it might be the battery but I've also thought the hard drive might not be so good either.

I'd like to see it revived but I'd also like to invest in an upgrade for the good of my work, as well as Robcasting.

Certainly, if there were any games to do, I'd be panicking a bit more. But, if I may be shameless, I have to give a nod to Mixlr, my broadcasting provider since late 2013. A big advantage to them is that I can connect to my cell phone or iPad and broadcast that way. So I would panic but I could probable survive. That is a nod to my preparation with backup plans!

There is plenty that sits on the hard drive in that trusty machine, which has stickers form South of the Border and "The Office" on it. Fortunately, in this era of clouds, a lot isn't on the hard drive either.

Still, it just felt like another brick in the wall ("we don't need no education...").

I have other devices that are helping my survive, like the ancient machine that I'm tapping away on right now to keep the blog streak alive.

I have to. John Nash's last words to me today when I talked to him were, "Keep writing."

Essentially, Susan and Shawn and others say the same. So, here we are, on a computer that likely is as old as Jack Benny*.

Mr. Benny -- one of the great radio characters ever -- always said he was 39, even when he moved over to TV.

So I feel somewhat lost but I'm trying to stay calm. At least until the next item I realize that I need is on that MacBook.

I chatted with a helpful Apple rep named Jackson who ran through a few tests with me. Frankly, it felt like we used the paddles, but to no avail.

"We'll need to investigate service options," he said.

And so, it's time to find a store or a friend who can help, as I still have the outstanding issue of the other hard drive.

When it rains, it pours, no?

This is not the end of the world, of course, but it can feel like it, I suppose.

And so, we live to fight another day.

Another Lull

 

Red Smith

"Writing is easy. All you have to do is sit at a typewriter and open a vein." -- Red Smith

I reach these points where I feel tapped out.

There are no new ideas and, frankly, the visits to the site are minimal. That tells me something.

I told Susan last night that I felt like yesterday -- the 681st day in a row -- felt like it was time to sit one out.

I get it. Not every post is great, or even good. The great ones are few.

Recognition goes a long way. But, I keep persevering. 

Most nights, I write for me, with a hope that you'll enjoy it.

Some nights I try to find the sweet spot for you. Writing about masks, with a picture of ol' Andy Cuomo, was a topic that nobody felt like embracing.

But I still write, trying to find the voice that the writers of my youth inspired me to, even if I never realized it.

Your writers were probably Shakespeare and Hemingway and Stephen King. Maybe you found interest in writers like Dorothy Parker or poets such as Emily Dickinson. Those are some of Susan's heroes.

Some of my writers are Red Smith and Grantland Rice and Bill Madden and Joe Posnanski and Mike Vaccaro and ... yes ... Mike Lupica.

Sportswriters, all.

And others, of course. Sure, I loved Travels with Charley by John Steinbeck but I'm no officanado.

Back to Lupica. Yeah, he can be ... well ... he is what he is, I suppose. He often crapped on the Yankees at every turn but I still read him and gritted my teeth.

Still, he knew how to turn a phrase and tell a story. He made me recognize that if I ever dabbled in writing, my forte would be that of a columnist. I can write a game story. Sure.

But I can tell a story. I can offer my piddly two cents.

His "Shooting From the Lip" column every Sunday in the New York Daily News became my go-to in the 1980s.

It also became the blueprint for my occasional "Off the Bench" pieces, which serve as a collection of one- or a couple-liners.

I suppose he helped me to recognize that I didn't have to agree with a writer or broadcaster to find them compelling. Fawning over Doc or Darryl or Mookie gave me hope that he'd also write about Donnie and Winfield and Rags.

I even got to meet him, when he visited his friend Mr. Imus at the I-Man's book signing in New Canaan, CT. I admit I didn't really talk to him.

He's not easy to like, at least from a public perspective, I suppose.

But damn, he made me care a little bit about writing, which is a skill I never remotely thought I had and am still not convinced.

Hence, my my conundrum at 682 posts and counting.

Which appears to be heading towards 683.

What Am I Missing?

New York State governor Andrew Cuomo

 The messages remain mixed.

We, of course, remain divided.

I get that.

Protests? Rallies? Spontaneous celebrations for ousted orange men?

Cool! Go for it!

Sports? Er...maybe not!

How dare those Notre Dame fans storm the field the other night after beating Clemson?! How dare Justin Turner be on the field, hugging his teammates after winning the World Series? Why are there any fans in the stands?!

I get it. It's all crazy.

And yet, here we are, staring down potential and real shutdowns of life again. Many are trying to figure out the holidays, including me.

So why not just wear the damn mask so we can (hopefully) move on? 

Look, you think your liberties are being taken away. Cool. Got it.

Except, I don't. I don't see the big deal. I don't see where that's the first step towards martial law. 

Wear the mask and the virus is supposed to get contained. Follow the damn arrows in the stores. Stay six feet apart.

Generally speaking, you don't need to do any of that if you social distance outdoors.

There's a way to live your life, wear the mask and resolve this. It's a compromise.

So, again, why not just follow the rules? 

As with voting, let's say you didn't vote for the Biden/Harris ticket. So if it is a disaster, guess what? You have a right to say, "I informed you thusly!"

Which is how Sheldon Cooper says, "I told you so."

Well the same idea works here. If we all -- yes, all -- wear the flipping mask and the numbers don't go down, then?

I TOLD YOU SO. 

You win. Fly a banner.

I hate it. I hate the implied pressure if I even so much as take it off to take a sip of coffee.

I hate the mask shamers.

And, yes, I get how mixed the messages are. I've followed along.

I have a copy of the home game (RIP, Alex Trebek).

But loved ones aren't seeing their families out of concern over COVID. I'm not going to North Carolina, for instance, because of concerns for whatever I might bring from New York, combined with weakened immune systems.

Friends who try to get back to their beloved place where they grew up haven't been there in close to a year and it's not going to change anytime soon.

As always, I'm not looking for a debate or trying to make this about politics.

I get every last ounce of the mixed messages and hypocrisy.

I see where Pfizer has a vaccine and Gov. Andrew Cuomo of New York told ABC's Good Morning America, "The bad news is that it’s about two months before Joe Biden takes over, and this means [the Trump] administration is going to be implementing a vaccine plan."

Well then. 

Regardless of what he says, can we just get this thing over with?

I'd like that. You probably would also.

So, again, I ask: what am I missing?

*****

I'd love to promote Susan's Facebook post about selling the delicious rice balls that she makes. Seriously, they're amazing. However, she has already sold out for her initial run. So, instead, I'll use this space to praise her and will advertise her cooking again in the future if she allows me. The cost of my advertising? Rice balls, of course.