Handle With Care

 

Dyland, Petty, Orbison, George, Lynne

One thing I remember about ending the 2019 edition of #Project365 (a whopping TWO PEOPLE say I should keep it going -- thanks, guys) was that I ended it with "End of the Line" by the Traveling Wilburys.

I hadn't decided how to end this year until just now, and the Wilburys revisited me.

It's too easy to say this was our worst year. Nineteen-hundred-eighty-nine was awful. So, really, does it matter?

You probably know how I feel about these things, and I don't have much time for being phony about that or anything else. Some won't respect that, and it's cool.

I tried -- I believed -- that 2020 was going to be special. That failed spectacularly, and I leaked that hurt earlier today (note to self: don't do that).

I was going to see Jon at his daughter's bat mitzvah in January.

I was going to call a lot of baseball (and lacrosse) between Local Live, Brunswick, and, of course, the Renegades.

I was going to see Kristy and Hector and their family in North Carolina.

I was going to Meaghan and Eric's wedding near Albany.

I was going to call a ton of games!

With Hunt Scanlon, I was going to London and San Francisco, as well as New York a few times, along with a lot of podcasts.

Things were going to happen. I was going to believe again.

Nope. COVID-19 wiped out a lot (but not all) of that. Save for Meaghan and Eric (and that got delayed until late August) none of it happened.

Don't get me wrong. Out of lots of sadness and isolation, new doors and new life opened. Chico died in August. Mom died on Sep 4. Then Rascal/Squeaky arrived on Sep 13 and, as if they were just waiting, Dan and Craig pushed me into the video depo job on Sep 21.

They recently thanked me for my efforts. I thanked them for a new lease on life.

So that's it. I let my guard down to indicate that I'm sad about being as alone as I've ever felt tonight. It was dumb and I shouldn't have done it. There's a much deeper, more profound, and sadder post within that statement but, by this time tomorrow, it will all not matter.

And, so, we're back to the Traveling Wilburys. I mean, Dylan, Petter, Jeff Lynne, Roy Orbison, and George...freaking...Harrison?!?!?!?! Not to mention the side people involved, like Ray Cooper, Jim Keltner, and Dave Stewart. How could that ever -- literally, ever, fail?

It couldn't. It didn't. At least, not until Orbison (aka, "Lefty Wilbury") died.

They tried a second album and it wasn't the same.

Their first single, "Handle With Care," was probably their best and the one they're most recognized for. And, for the broken souls, it says everything.

Been beat up and battered 'round
Been sent up, and I've been shot down
You're the best thing that I've ever found
Handle me with care

Reputations changeable
Situations tolerable
Baby, you're adorable
Handle me with care

I'm so tired of being lonely
I still have some love to give
Won't you show me that you really care?

That works.

Every time.

Despite how I feel about such things, it seems to be the social convention (Sheldon Cooper speaking) to wish a happy new year. And so, that's how I leave you tonight.

I leave you hopeful for a bright 2021.

Having mostly abandoned care and expectations, I'm simply looking to make tomorrow good. Then the next day.

But I wish that you find whatever it is that you want. Better days are ahead. At least I hope so.

With that, we carry on as the calendar turns.

Happy birthday, Dave

This is dedicated to Dave Parthemore, whom I don't know.

Apparently, he went to Mahopac High School and has mutual friends with me.

Apparently, he was somehow Facebook friends with my mother.

And, as the picture above indicates, she wished him a happy birthday.

*****

I was catching up with my sister last night and we were trying to remember something related to my mom.

"I have access to her Facebook page," I said. "Let me look."

I couldn't find what we were looking for as I moved through her activity log. But I stumbled onto her birthday wish to Dave Parthemore.

She sent the simple greeting: "Happy birthday Dave. Here's to many more."

The timestamp says she posted it at 4:19 a.m. on Sep 4, 2020.

It was the last thing she sent from her account.

She died sometime after.

I'll forever be haunted by the Sep 3-4, 2020. Always.

I last saw her on the evening of the 3rd after a day of going to doctors appointments. Then I saw her in her chair later that evening before she texted me about a bottle of apple juice that she got at one of the appointments. I told her it was in the refrigerator and that was the last time I heard from her.

Then came the events of the 4th. I got up and did my interview with Tony Savino. I had breakfast and got ready to take her to dialysis. Then it all happened.

Finding her in her chair. Calling 911. Doing what I could to save her life, knowing her life was already gone. Waiting for the paramedics. Making phone calls to loved ones. Talking to the police.

I've lived with all of this for almost four months. I see the pictures and can feel the ghosts every night.

I finally brought myself to visit her grave the day after Christmas, knowing we have to get her name engraved on it. The sadness that I should have felt there was wasted on the earth above her grave being almost ghoulishly sunken in as if it was clearly freshly dug just days earlier.

The famous tiles that my nieces placed on the grave after my father passed have dwindled from three to one with another disappearing since September. A small rabbit that my mother placed on his headstone was stuck in the frozen turf above where she's now entombed.

The ground was just soft enough that I was able to get that out.

I've been OK. Mostly. Still sad but unable to truly grieve and, at this point, I doubt I ever will. Yet the unexpected discovery of a birthday message at 4:19 a.m. on Sep 4 has rattled me. She liked a few other things on Facebook in those pre-dawn hours but the message to Dave was the last thing.

Did she know she was dying? Did she just fall asleep and have a heart attack? Was she concerned and didn't want to bother me? Was she in pain? Discomfort? She had often said she wouldn't go back to the emergency room after the last experience from January. Did she just accept her fate?

These questions will stay with me, though she awakened me several other times for various reasons, it just feels like, by the morning of Sep 4, she was done. She had achieved her goals: Sean's graduation. Meaghan and Eric's wedding.

She had just been told the day before that her heart was failing and the cardiologist didn't think there was much time left.

But not even 24 hours?

I'll admit something and this is not for attention (it's sad I even have to add this disclaimer). Following her funeral, as we each approached her casket, I leaned down and said something that I only told Susan later on.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

I tried. With my sister and niece, we guided her to dialysis appointments and hours of sitting in the nursing home and to the doctor. We dealt with every last piece of it.

It wasn't easy. There were moments where it was tense and snippy, though that's what I prefer to not remember.

But "Happy birthday Dave" brought it all back up.

Then, today, as I tried to use an old cell phone of hers to connect it to my radio equipment to take phone calls for "Doubleheader," I mistakenly opened the voice memo app. 

There were three voice memos. Each one was marked "Baskin-Robbins" with a number attached. Each one was dated Dec 19, 2018. Each one contained the same message in her voice.

"White bread. Rye bread. Milk. Coffee."

Check this out on Chirbit

I had no idea they existed.

For whatever it's worth (those who like these kinds of things will appreciate it). I woke up right around 4:19 this morning.

The guilt will live with me.

But, so will the memories or random birthday messages and grocery lists and whatever it had to do with Baskin-Robbins.

Happy birthday, Dave. 

Seven-hundred-thirty-one and...

 

A lot changed when he showed up, including my ability to work

I realize the true two-year mark of #Project365 is actually effective Thursday.

Except, it's really today. Hear me out.

I pondered doing a post-per-day several times over the years, even having a few false starts around 2011-12.

Then, at the end of every year, I'd tell myself to write more. So there were always a few posts around Dec 30-Jan 2.

And so it was two years ago on Dec 30 that I decided to write a post on "Classic Play-by-Play." I did it, I'm sure, because I was horrified that I had let the blog slip down to just 33 posts for 2018. I was very much at the point of ending it.

I had pondered just stopping.

I had considered a farewell with a "Gone Fishing" or "Sorry, We're Closed" sign.

I had considered a "Goodbye for Now" post, leaving the door open for a Sinatra-style retirement before gloriously returning at Madison Square Garden (introduced by Howard Cosell). Oh, wait, that was 1974.

Then there was option four: keep going and do the damn post-per-day.

John Nash (still the co-conspirator and podcast co-host) said he was starting a post-per-day and encouraged me to do the same.

The stars seemed to align to give it a go, so I did. Post number one was on Dec. 30, 2018 with the post about classic broadcasting, and post number two was to announce that I was taking a stab at #Proejct365. I even used the "Closed" sign to indicate how close I was to shutting down.

So began the journey of posting from a parking lot because I wouldn't be home before midnight and writing a post a day ahead because I wasn't sure when I'd be able to write (going to North Carolina) and finding time before falling asleep after being up for 24 hours to go to San Francisco.

And on. And on. And on. And on. I liked some of the posts. I didn't like plenty of others. I still wonder if I'm a better or worse writer. I think I'm less confident than I used to be, but that's my own damaged goods.

I cranked out words and thoughts and just enough personal stuff to get me in trouble. I bled a bit. Laughed some. Felt different emotions at other times. Often felt like I told too much, even if I didn't.

The locations haven't always been exotic (well, San Francisco was cool) but it was still fun to write from some places. But, especially in 2020, most of the posts happened at home. Most from the room I occupied until early September. The rest from upstairs in the house -- be it the couch, office, dining room or in bed.

Some stories were a joy. Some were a drag. Some were probably too gruff. Some might not have been gruff enough.

So, if you're keeping track, that was two posts in 2018, 365 in 2019, and 364 so far in 2020.

Thus this is post number 731 in a row, meaning two straight years, with an extra day for leap year, because (what else?) 2020.

Somehow, this blog -- this ridiculous, dogs*it blog -- was visited over 67,000 times in the past 12 months. Why? How? I can only tell you what the stats told my (still-shocked) eyes this morning. That doesn't mean 67,000 read the posts but it means they at least glanced at the site. That counts for something, I guess.

"The Bronx Bracket," about one of those silly "March Madness-style" votes, was the top post. Not surprisingly, the next two posts (#2: link...#3: link) and four of the top 10 overall (#7: link...#10: link), were about my mother's death and the aftermath.

Ridgefield's win in girls basketball (#4), Star Wars (#5), Little League Baseball (#6), Thom Brennaman (#8), and an editorial that didn't sit well with me (#9) was among the other top reads.

Out of sadness, grief, triumph, and COVID, there's still me, Sean, and now Rascal. We're survivors.

Obviously, I'm grateful to a lot of people for coming along for this ride. Too many to count, starting with Susan, who I will one day write a more complete post about (whether she likes it or not).

This, however, is not the last post of 2020. It's more to acknowledge 731 days of dogs*it. Or over 14 years since this started. Or 52 years, but you get the idea.

I was recently asked what I'll do come Friday when 2021 arrives. Will I take a day -- or days -- of? The answer is "no." I know me. It's a habit now. It's a challenge. It's a burden at times. But it's what I do.

One thing I am considering is retiring the Project 365 hashtag. I've thought about that for some time and I haven't made up my mind.

I know that I'm going to take on writing game recaps for the Renegades come baseball season, so we'll see what impact that has on "Exit 55." Will I finish a third year? You know what? I'm going to just worry about today. Then tomorrow.

That's how I live my life. Or how I should. I get overwhelmed when I look ahead.

"All I want from tomorrow is to get it better than today," Bruce Hornsby once wrote (and Huey Lewis took it to number one).

And so we'll go to number one. Post number one of year three.

Tomorrow.

The Joy of Pizza

 

Sal's in Mamaroneck is still my gold standard

Mahopac has roughly 8,500 people, according to census estimates.

It has thirteen pizza places, according to Google, in our 6.4 square miles.

They're dotted along US Route 6, all the way down to Peppino's, which is technically in the hamlet of Baldwin Place, Town of Somers in Westchester County, but it might as well be in the Pac for our purposes.

Most of these places have existed for years, while a few changed hands over time.

Other pizza places are on NY Route 6N from the "downtown" of Mahopac to Mahopac Falls. Two more sit on Secor Road, within a mile of each other.

I was jonesing for pizza over the weekend. Thankfully, Sean wasn't around because while he likes pizza, he doesn't have the same passion for it that I do.

I can (and do) eat pizza a lot.

Now, when you truly get right down to it, I'm a cheese pizza guy. The right ratio of sauce (no chunks or skins, thanks) and cheese with a nice chewy crust makes me happy. That doesn't mean I won't dabble. I appreciate and even love a good square (Sicilian) or meatball or buffalo chicken pie or some other combination but when asked what I want, I normally opt for classic cheese.

Without Sean around, I felt this was the perfect time to grab a pie and, dare I say, I'd go pick it up! I haven't done that since the early days of the pandemic when I recall standing in a pizza place with very limited social distancing to go along with very few masks. Say what you want, but we have improved since then.

I got to the pizza place before my pie was ready. To be fair, they do dinners and have sit-down dining, so it's not just pizza. So I stood and watched TV and waited patiently. I had nowhere to be.

This also meant I'd watch my pizza come out of the oven and get handed to me.

I was thrilled when the box was placed in my hand and I bounded out to the car. Back at home, I opened it to discover the pizza was so hot...so fresh...so fully packed...

That the cheese had shifted in transit.

This might anger or frustrate some. I was overjoyed.

It was beautiful. It was messy. I heaped cheese and sauce back onto my first slice and enjoyed every savory bite.

I won't say which pizza place I went to (again: 13 to choose from) but I will say that it's a good pie for that part of town.

Few things replace Sal's (Mamaroneck, NY) in my pizza-loving heart. There are some (hello, Staten Island) that will do quite nicely, and, yes, there are those New Haven places (they get very sensitive about this topic).

But this pie was quite sufficient. I had the right amount of flop on the slice and the taste was more than just fine.

Paired with whatever you damn-well please it's a perfect combination for any time. I opted for some football and a cold beverage.

And, while never the same, there are leftovers. I've since finished those off.

To me, it's an essential part of the "Americana experience" in quotes because it is hardly an American food but we seem to love it quite a bit. We New Yorkers are pretty proud of our pizza but, as mentioned, so are people around New Haven. Then there's the Chicago thing, as well as others who want a -- ahem -- slice of that pie like Old Forge, PA for instance.

There are other areas that haven't quite found their pizza groove. It can be difficult to find a good pie (let alone slices) in parts of the deep south. 

Normally, your options there are some of the mass-produced places. You know the ones.

For what it's worth, we also have a Domino's in Mahopac. With a dozen other options, we have a Domino's. Hysterical.

Now I want more pizza. Football is kicking off.

Seven Gone

 

(Photo: Getty Images)

Phil Niekro died overnight.

Niekro -- "Knucksie" -- was known for exactly that: a knuckleball.

He threw a ton of them, except for his 300th win in 1985 (with the Yankees against the Blue Jays), when he supposedly didn't rely on it as much.

He won 32 games with the Yankees in 1985 and 1986 before heading to Cleveland in 1987. He started 1988 with the Indians before heading to Toronto and finally back to the Braves, where it all began. 

He was initially with the Milwaukee Braves for cups of coffee in 1964-1965. He finally began to find himself as the Braves relocated to Atlanta after the '65 season. He went on to win 268 games for the Braves.

This has been an awful year for the deaths of Hall of Famers.

Indeed, the MLB Network was in the middle of running highlights of the 1968 World Series (Tigers/Cardinals) when the news of Knucksie's death broke. For what it's worth, Niekro went 14-12 with a 2.59 ERA in '68. Following that show, they started a program called "Icons Lost" about -- yes -- the death of six Hall of Famers.

They soon broke in to officially add Niekro's name to this sad roll of honor.

So now the number of Hall of Famers to die in 2020 is seven.

- Phil Niekro
- Tom Seaver
- Lou Brock
- Joe Morgan
- Al Kaline
- Bob Gibson
- Whitey Ford

What's more glaring for guys like me is that we're getting into my contemporaries. I'm old enough to vaguely remember Kaline and Gibson and very much remember Niekro, Seaver, Brock, and Morgan.

I didn't see Whitey Ford pitch.

For the most part, these aren't the guys of a prior lifetime. There's always that hint of mortality when this happens.

I remember Niekro's 300th. The same with Seaver. I remember Joe Morgan with the Big Red Machine. I watched Lou Brock with the Cardinals.

Plus the pieces of Gibson and Kaline and many an Old Timer's Day with Whitey.

Great legends, all of them.

I see many posts on who does and who doesn't belong in the Hall of Fame. I generally feel like they're composed by people who don't really get it or are simply hung up on numbers. These seven shouldn't even be a question. Niekro pitched on a lot of bad teams while the others had certain levels of magic with the groups they played with.

Hall of Famers. No question

We can't take the plaque away. Debate them all you want but it's not coming down. You -- sitting behind your keyboard -- have no say. 

So let's just honor these seven individuals who pleased millions of fans for so many years.

Let's remember them. There's not a bad person in that bunch.

Rest in peace, legends.

Blue Christmas

 

[From Top L to Bottom R] Officer Brenna Hosey, Officer Richard Luellen,
Officer Michael Sipos, Officer Amanda Topping,
Officer James Wells, Sergeant Timothy Miller.
(Source: Metro Nashville Police Department)

This might be an unpopular opinion.

You see, it's all the rage to hate on the police on a large scale, isn't it?

It's "Trumpian" to say anything positive about police, amirite?

You know, having a blue line flag is akin to that, no? (For the record, I don't have one)

I'm not here for that.

Yesterday, there was a near-fatal tragedy in Nashville, TN.

Near. Fatal.

Christmas Day had started out quietly on Second Ave. North in Music city.

The Ryman Auditorium -- the famed home of the Grand Old Opry -- sat waiting for its opportunity to host the next country music concert.

All the restaurants and bars and clubs that might have been hosting tons of denim-clad, boots-wearing YEE HAH partying people were quiet.

Christmas morning. All was calm. All was bright.

Then, reportedly, shots rang out around 6 a.m. local time.

Soon, residents began hearing an announcement, seemingly coming from a strange RV parked on Second Ave. North. The announcement spoke of a bomb and maybe even a countdown, but Casey Kasem was nowhere to be found.

"This area must be evacuated now," a recorded female voice said. A countdown and some music were said to be part of the pre-blast program.

This is where our heroes come in.

Yes, heroes. They don't want to be known as heroes, but that's simply too bad.

Metro Nashville Officers Amanda Topping, Brenna Hosey, James Wells, Michael Sipos, Richard Luellen, and Sgt. Richard Miller investigated the gunshots and began going door-to-door.

Their message was simple: Run. Get out. Go away. Get lost. Scram. You can't stay here. Find somewhere else to go. 

Essentially, they -- police and residents -- had a half-hour. Less, probably. Whether or not they knew that wasn't relevant. They had to work fast, and they knew it.

Indeed, a bomb did explode, at 6:29 a.m. per video from TMZ, damaging multiple buildings and anything else in its path along Second Ave. North and in the blocks around it. A sickly plume of smoke could be seen rising from the site of impact and the rumble could felt for miles.

You've probably heard all of that. 

Maybe.

I heard about it -- where else? -- on social media a few hours later and raced to find -- what else? -- a radio station to listen to. I jumped to WWTN (marketed as "WTN" for simplicity) and listened as events unfolded.

While everyone was enjoying their figgy pudding (or french toast, in my case), there was perhaps a passing, "So did you hear about Nashville? Pass the fruit cake," in conversation.

And why?

Because, as of this time, there were only three injuries that were not life-threatening.

And no deaths.

Why?

Because of Metro Nashville Officers Amanda Topping, Brenna Hosey, James Wells, Michael Sipos, Richard Luellen, and Sgt. Richard Miller.

I know, I know. The cool kids in 2020 (and I suppose further back, at least back to Ferguson, etc) prefer to denounce the police and defund the police.

But maybe -- just maybe -- there are more like Officers Topping, Hosey, Wells, Sipos, Luellen, and Miller. Perhaps the bad ones -- the ones that need to be eradicated -- are the vast minority. Let's hope so, though I actually believe so.

A whole lot of people are safe tonight because of these six heroes.

Stepping into a dangerous situation that could have killed them.

Six heroes just doing their job.

The news cycle is much different today because of them.

Merry Christmas

 

"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring." -- Rogers Hornsby (please note that Mr. Hornsby wasn't a very nice man but he was a great ballplayer and I do love this quote).

The day started with garbage. Because of course, it did.

Last night's rain/wind event left the front yard with no snow and my recycling dumped everywhere.

Grumbling on the saturated turf, at one point wearing a robe, a rain jacket, and slippers and looking more like a flasher than I should, I walked around, picking up empty seltzer cans and pizza boxes.

I went back in and threw a pair of jeans on, sparing my neighbors from the further indignity of seeing the bum of the block stumbling around.

With a bad back, I might add.

Ah, but my sense of humor remained intact. With apologies for Susan, the finest poet I know, and Julie Andrews, and everyone associated with The Sound of Music, I composed a quick tweet.

Recycling scattered out on the front lawn.

Picking up bottles in the minutes before dawn.

Rain falling on me. I just want to scream.

This has to be a bad Christmas dream!

(Apologies to Julie Andrews and @SusNShultz) pic.twitter.com/zuU3t4Bthu

— Rob Adams (@double5) December 25, 2020

Susan is no doubt horrified, spitting out her coffee as she read that.

Such is life. Besides, we know it can always be worse.

Find peace today, laugh, and be nice to each other.

Better days are ahead.

And, remember: "No man (edit: or woman) is a failure who has friends." I'm glad I have all of you.

It's Christmas Eve and it's OK

 

Our "Christmas Tree" with the star at the top

It was Christmas Eve, babe(**)...

I should write something profound.

After all, we've made it, haven't we?

It's Christmas tomorrow, and there's another week left to this sorry state known as 2020. Though, as said before, that won't magically change when the calendar does. That's just not how it works.

Wait! This is Christmas Eve. No need to be a Grinch/Scrooge or whatever else Chris Erway insists on calling me*.

*I get called that in part because I don't fawn over Mariah Carey's annual caterwauling of that song. I was talking with a friend (let's call her "Newsan") who agrees with me that, just because you have a voice, doesn't mean you always have to move heaven and earth with each line that is performed. Mariah does this. Celine does this. Hell, even Aretha did it. Streisand -- Babs -- never needed to go to that other octave in every...single...song.

OK, a wild digression there, which will no doubt bring further wrath that I'm somehow sitting on a porch, telling people to get off my lawn. I'm not, nor do I feel that way.

So, in truth, I have nothing profound to say about Christmas Eve. The calendar says that it is, indeed, Dec 24. TBS or TNT or whatever will play A Christmas Story for 24 glorious hours beginning at 8 p.m. and I'm here for that, despite whatever slander a Mr. Michael Hirn of Ohio wishes to heap upon Ralphie, Randy, and the denizens of Cleveland Street.

You may prefer something else (I shall offer no hatred or judgment). I'll take the "...soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window," as well as, "My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master."

This will also be the Third Annual Adams Boys Christmas Eve Movie Spectacular (patent-pending, trademarked). While we've enjoyed Avengers: Infinity War, Caddyshack, and Psycho over the previous years, we have yet to commit to our 2020 film(s).

I'm leaning towards a good comedy because we need to do some serious laughing. We'll be deciding shortly.

We also have to decide on a meal. I was pondering doing The Feast of the Seven Chili Dogs. But, just maybe not seven. I failed in the goal of coming up with good appetizers (while they're passable, a good frozen mozzarella stick is NOT easy to find). 

But, again, we have an answer. An angel sent us a big package of goodies from a place called Omaha, having nothing to do with Peyton Manning. So now we might be cranking out a couple of big ol' steaks and fries.

The message on the box didn't give a name, but Newsan works in mysterious ways and doesn't like seeing anyone hungry.

Meat and potaters! The perfect night for a couple of grunts like us.

We know it's different, more than ever this year. The house is different. This is the first Christmas without my mother. But I also know there are many others who are suffering. There's a feeling that we're in this together. Well, at least those being slightly responsible.

I do have an invitation tomorrow and am planning to go to a small gathering at my nephew's house, knowing that they're smart and cautious about all of this. I want to believe the finish line is getting closer, so let's not eff this thing up at this point, right?

But I also know there are people concerned that I'd be completely alone on Christmas after Sean leaves tomorrow morning. To be sure, the circumstances are so different than when I did the same thing in 2014. I truly understood.

So we're OK. It doesn't feel like Christmas Eve. It's a Thursday. Just like Thanksgiving was.

Still, to you and yours, Merry Christmas (a few hours early). Be good to each other, and know that you're loved and not alone.

(**) Don't click that link if easily offended. It leads to the marvelous "Fairytale of New York City" by The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl, however, I feel compelled to mention that BBC Radio 1 will play an edited version because of some slang that is used in the song. Just in case you need another reminder of 2020. Happy Christmas!

Immaculate

 

I wasn't going to write about it. We can do this in two years for the 50th anniversary, right?

I thought perhaps I'd write about holiday music, which I have this love-hate thing with. I generally don't like it (mostly because of how over-the-top it's become) but I cave when the spirit moves me closer to Christmas Day.

Part of "Doubleheader" today was dedicated to Christmas tunes, though I didn't feel it really generated much conversation. That's OK. I still enjoyed it.

Still, we can table that, because "The Immaculate Reception" did indeed happen on Dec 23, 1972, and I'm here to talk about it after all.

The Steelers, long the bottom-dwellers of the NFL, had won the AFC's Central Division with an 11-3 record. The Oakland Raiders finished 10-3-1 and traveled to Pittsburgh's Three Rivers Stadium for a 1:00 p.m. start on that Saturday.

Curt Gowdy and Al DeRogatis called the action on NBC. The NFL still had archaic blackout rules that meant that the game couldn't be shown within 75 miles of Three Rivers Stadium, even if sold out. As dumb as the sports TV rules are now, they were even more ridiculous then.

Over 50,000 jammed the two-year-old stadium. Pittsburgh -- still a tough, hard-working town -- loved football but had only seen success with the Pirates, who had just won a World Series over Baltimore in 1971. Any football success occurred with the University of Pittsburgh.

The Steelers, up until then, were a laughing stock. But things were changing under fourth-year head coach Chuck Noll, who drafted "Mean" Joe Greene from North Texas, followed by a country quarterback from Louisiana named Terry Bradshaw.

Pittsburgh picked 13th in the first round of the 1972 draft and snagged running back Franco Harris from Penn State. Franco ran for 2,002 yards in his time with the Nittany Lions, mostly as a blocking back.

He'd become the featured back for Noll, amassing 1,055 yards and 10 touchdowns to win Rookie of the Year honors. He became a bit of a sensation around Pittsburgh, with fans creating "Franco's Italian Army," who eventually drafted Frank Sinatra into their ranks.

Oakland, coached by John Madden, was a hard-nosed, hard-living team. A fierce rivalry was born between these two who played a more physical style.

Playing in 42-degree weather with a wind at six miles per hour, the two teams lived up to the style of play with a scoreless first half. Steelers' kicker Roy Gerela finally broke the deadlock with an 18-yard field goal in the third quarter and a 29-yarder in the fourth.

The Immaculate Reception is the play that this game is known for, but it was nearly Oakland quarterback Ken Stabler who stole the show. Stabler, who replaced starter Daryle Lamonica, peeled off a 30-yard touchdown run that shocked the crowd. Following George Blanda's extra point, the Raiders led 7-6 with 1:17 to play.

Stabler, instead, became the impetus for the legendary play and is somewhat of a footnote for the eventual Hall of Famer.

Bradshaw and the Pittsburgh offense were down to their last hope. It was fourth-and-10 at their own 40. Twenty-two seconds remained. Bradshaw called a play -- 66 circle option. They needed something. Time wasn't on their side and they'd have to go a long way to get in field goal range for Gerela.

The details are well-known. Bradshaw scrambled to avoid a sack and unleashed a wicked pass towards John "Frenchy" Fuqua, who collided with Oakland safety Jack Tatum. However it happened -- hitting Fuqua first (which was illegal under the rules of the day) or hitting Tatum first -- the ball ricocheted just high enough and long enough for Harris to swoop in and catch it before lumbering the rest of the way into the end zone.

Three Rivers Stadium erupted. There have been myriad theories over the years that officials checked a replay (unusual at the time) or asked for security to get them out of the stadium if they said the play was not a touchdown. Whatever the case, the stripes let the play stand, Gerela booted an extra point, and Pittsburgh won, 13-7.

Forty-eight years have come and gone and we're still talking about it. Eventual Steelers broadcaster Myron Cope (creator of the Terrible Towel) said he saw conclusive footage from a local TV station that showed it was indeed Tatum who touched the ball first, thus making the touchdown count. However, that footage no longer exists.

Others believe the ball hit the turf before Harris caught it.

As Jimmy Stewart said in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, "When the legend becomes fact, print the legend."

I think that's the magic of it all. We'll never have a conclusive answer. Peyton Manning, in his wonderful Peyton's Places show, brought many of the key players together to discuss it and try to recreate it. Manning seemed convinced by the end that the play was legit, for what it's worth.

Art McNally, who it's said that referee Fred Swearingen called after the play, causing the delay before the extra point, has said numerous times that the officials got it right.

The Raiders still think they were robbed. Madden still complains about it and was no fan of anything related to the Steelers. Ironically, the last broadcast of his career was Pittsburgh beating Arizona in Super Bowl XLIII.

The argument is part of the joy.

Fairy tails often die though. The next week, Miami came to Pittsburgh and won 21-17, continuing their march towards perfection, which they'd achieve against Washington in Super Bowl VII. The Steelers were on the right path but wouldn't win their first ring for beloved owner Art Rooney until Super Bowl IX, when Harris won MBP honors.

Myron Cope gets an assist in all of this, for it was he who received a call from a local woman who told him to call the play "The Immaculate Reception." Cope used it that night on his sports report and the legend grew.

A legend that is considered -- by many, if not most -- the greatest play in NFL history.

Print the legend. Especially because the legend appears to be true.

Unintentionally thoughtless

 

They sit, awaiting their next assignment

As you probably know, I took on the role of an admin for the play-by-play group on Facebook a few months ago.

I did it for the reasons that I teach: that I want to help facilitate when it comes to this industry.

Mike Hirn was the one who actually got me added as an admin, and when another person chose to depart, Mike and I both lobbied for Shawn Sailer to become one. 

I knew we had some things to clean up when I first jumped in and we went through some growing pains over the summer. There was drama -- both publicly and privately. The private drama has cleaned itself up (damn Sailer and his ego...I kid, I kid) and publicly, we're doing OK. Much better, in fact.

But not perfect. We occasionally have to deal with talk show posts (against the rules) and an occasional issue with crossing the line of good...er...behavior, shall we say.

One thing that struck me from before I became an admin was that there were people who would post about their upcoming broadcasts. I mean, fine, but I don't really think a single member cares about my broadcasts, and I'd think that if I was calling the Super Bowl.

More than that, that's all they posted. Their games. Podcasts. Talk shows. All things that I could also promote, but don't (including a blog that does, indeed, write about play-by-play).

If I want people to care about what I'm doing, it goes on my personal and Robcasting accounts. Or on WGCH or The Clubhouse or the other accounts I'm connected to. 

It's not like these self-promotional posts are lobbed up for critiques either. They're literally just there as if a member sitting in Walla Walla cares about a boys soccer game in Ashtabula.

Don't get me wrong. If Mike wants me to hear something, he posts it on his account or he messages me privately. 

But, as I've often said, I generally don't listen to many other broadcasts (other than Mike) because I'm too critical. I'm always going to have that teacher's edge in me, believing they can be better. I'm also always going to have that critical ear as to what a broadcast should look like and sound like.

As the pandemic hit, I found these posts to be somewhat self-indulgent. Sure, I'm glad you're working, but do you realize a sizable chunk of broadcasters aren't working?

Most of the northeast, especially for high school and prep school sports, remains dark. I did -- what? -- three events this fall? I'm not that confident that things will improve anytime soon, despite whatever "sources" tell you.

The health departments in New York and Connecticut, in conjunction with the athletic associations and governors, seem fairly hellbent on no athletics until spring. They might tell you otherwise but read the room, folks. Now, that doesn't mean it won't change, but you can understand being realistic.

And yet, the posts continue in the group. "HEY! Come join me and Jim-Bob-Fred-George Ringo for Perpetual Brotherhood of the Lost Hiccup football as they host Gargantuan Academy! All of the action begins with the Piggly Wiggly Pregame Show on KBLA!"

(KBLA, I discovered, is a real station in Los Angeles. Its owned by the person who helmed WREF in Ridgefield when they ran that into the ground back in the mid-90s, for what its worth. I just wanted to use KBLA because it sounded like "Blah.")

Or the wobbly iPhone camera feed from "Krazy Karl's Konvenience Kourtside Booth! Krazy Karl's, where your korn is always popping! At one-five-two-two Pine Street in Hickory Grove!"

I digress.

So I had to politely remind my brethren that there are a lot of us (sadly, me included) who aren't working in the industry (non-"Doubleheader" category, of course). 

I'm not saying the promotional posts need to stop (we tried that approach). I'm saying to maybe think and not post every broadcast.

Will there be a winter game for me to call? I'm basically willing to beg for a hockey and/or basketball game at this point.

I need my fix.

My phone lights up with daily memories of Mahopac and Carmel and Greenwich and Brunswick and Darien and New Canaan and more winter games. But no prospects are on the horizon.

So, instead, I keep doing the shows and podcasts and providing voicers (liners) for other broadcasts and teaching when I can.

I talked about these posts privately with another member today, and his take was the right one. These people don't mean to be shoving it in the faces of others.

They're just not thinking.

Indeed it's true.

So, hey, I'm around if anyone, you know, wants a broadcast*.

*When available, of course.

A Beatles Christmas Gift

 

Peter Jackson

As we've said, Christmas 2020 will be like no previous holiday.

The reasons aren't worth revisiting.

But, this morning, a gift showed up in the form of a video from Peter Jackson, the director responsible for the Lord of the Rings films.

Jackson announced almost two years ago that he's working on a documentary for the recording sessions for The Beatles' Get Back album. 

The original documentary by director Michael Lindsay-Hogg from 1970 called Let It Be, gave a glimpse into a band falling apart in early 1969. 

Jackson says that he and his crew have 56 hours of footage that they've been reviewing and editing. The film was supposed to be released in 2020 but COVID delayed that. The film will now debut in Aug 2021.

As a Beatles fan (this will not come as a surprise), I had to pick my jaw up off the floor at the sneak peek that Jackson provided. The images show a different take on those recording sessions. Lindsay-Hogg's footage highlighted some terrible moments, such as George Harrison's dispute with Paul McCartney on the former's guitar playing.

"Okay, well, I don't mind," George said, responding to McCartney. "I'll play whatever you want me to play. Or I won't play at all if you don't want me to play. Whatever it is that will please you, I'll do it."

George would briefly leave the bad, leading to the idea that Eric Claption might replace him. While it was briefly discussed, the concept never came to be.

Jackson's footage provides different insights. I was struck by the lighter mood that I picked up on. George does seem to be smiling and even enjoying himself. John Lennon, who by all accounts was intending to be the first to quit the band (McCartney publicly beat him to it, but Lennon was basically gone already) smiles broadly throughout.

One thing is for sure: Yoko Ono is omnipresent. But Linda McCartney, Billy Preston and others show up in various roles.

Oh yes. August of next year can't get here soon enough.

I say all of this as I listen to McCartney III, the new album from Sir Paul that dropped a few days ago. I got an email saying that the album is $3.99 at Amazon as an MP3 download. I couldn't beat that price.

Read a review from Rolling Stone here. My take is there are some really good sounds here, and his vocals are good for a man who is 78-years old. You're not going to find the vocal acrobatics of "Maybe I'm Amazed" or "Helter Skelter," which is good because those already exist.

Oh, and if you don't already know, he plays every instrument on this, as he did on McCartney in 1970 and McCartney II in 1980.

So, to sum up: it's a good Beatles day.

It's a good thing I don't work in radio

 

I'm completely baffled how this thing works (Ridgefield, 2018)

A short time back, someone referred to a broadcaster as a "puker" in the Facebook play-by-play group. Put a pin in that. We'll return to it.

I record lots of things for people.

Need a liner? "You're listening to School of Hard Knocks Ping Pong on K-Babble!"

A commercial or a promo or something else?

How about an anwering maching message?

I've done them all.

"Thank you for calling Vandelay Industries. To reach George Costanza, press one."

I did that for a real company years ago -- 1997 or 98, I think. Years later, it was still being used.

The point is, I'm often recognized for my voice. People have stopped me on the street when they hear me speak. I've walked into a place and don't even need to say my name, because the person knew my voice.

I've heard myriad compliments about my voice. Let's just leave it at that.

Since getting into the video depo world, I've been told that "if you don't work in broadcasting, you should" several times.

Well...maybe not...

I recorded some stuff for someone recently, only to hear they were rejected because "...he doesn't have a radio voice."

I'm sorry. What now?

I laughed. Hard.

Now, don't get me wrong. I actually don't think my voice is that special but I've been flattered to hear differently.

Never have I been told that I don't have a radio voice but there's a first for everything, I guess.

In fact, I've heard that "you have a face for radio" stuff more times than I can count.

I mean, I'll live. I've done commercials that have run, frankly, around the world (especially via the internet, of course). This certainly isn't going to define me.

Trust me, this is more of a reflection on the genius radio "exec" than it is on me. Broadcasting executives are a special lot.

Oh, the stories, friends. 

I'm still laughing about it. I've always been proud of having a voice that has a lot of, let's call it, elasticity to it.

Now, this is where we return to "the puker."  It's a voice that Urban Dictionary defines as an announcer "who attempts to add excitement to his delivery by talking from the back of the throat, a common affectation in the 1960s and later 'Top 40' formats."

I can do that voice. Easily. But, man, did one high and mighty type get their headset in a bundle over it being mentioned in the PBP group. His rage was not aimed at me, to be clear.

Anyway, I can do that voice. That's the point. A radio voice. But, there are others I can do.

I'm often mimicking Ving Rhames' "Arby's" voice. "ARBY'S...we have the meats."

Fast read? Slow read? Super deep voice? High voice? Yes...yes...yes...yes...

But, hey, I don't have a radio voice. That's cool.

I'm not writing this with any rancor. I can't make it clear enough that I'm still laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

Wait...Chris Russo is still in radio, right?

I guess I'll survive then.

Back to the Hall

Some don't need to buy a ticket

The Hall of Fame chat of the other night got my brain churning.

Plus I continue to see incredibly shortsighted commentary, such as the one talking about Phil Rizzuto.

Look, I get it on The Scooter, but the poster on social media kept saying the same thing: "1500 hits, 38 home runs." OK, you also realize the shortstop position was not one of power until Ernie Banks and, later, Cal and A-Rod made it fashionable, right?

You also know Rizzuto lost three years to World Way II?

But Scooter was as much the heart and soul of the Yankees of the 40s and 50s. Mantle and Berra and DiMaggio were the superstars. But Rizzuto was no slouch. To ignore the (now lost) art of bunting along with his 1950 American League MVP is to show that you lack fundamental knowledge on the topic.

There's an often wrong notion of "if/then" in sports. It's flawed for sure but there are exceptions.

It goes like this: "IF Keith Hernandez is a Hall of Famer, THEN Don Mattingly has to be." That one works, for instance. I've often wondered about Mattingly versus Kirby Puckett (their numbers are identical) but one played center field and the other played first base. One has postseason success and won two rings and the other got one playoff series.

Well, Pee Wee Reese got into the Hall of Fame in 1984. Pee Wee and Phil Rizzuto were the shortstop royalty of New York. Now, I realize Reese earns social bonus points for his embracing of Jackie Robinson -- literally and figuratively. Character does matter in the Hall of Fame, but that alone does not a Hall of Famer make. Still, Pee Wee's case was not a "no-brainer."

Reese's stats are better than Rizzuto's, sure, but both had their support to get them in via the veteran's committee. In Rizzuto's case, there was no less than Ted Williams, who vociferously made the point that Rizzuto was a huge reason why the Yankees were better than the Red Sox in those years.

Case. Closed. Rizzuto is a Hall of Famer, like it or not.

But given our man on social media wants the whole shooting gallery reopened with the inclusion of Negro League stats being merged into the Major Leagues (and still confusing people), let me remind you (again) that this was already done back in 2006. I know, I wrote that two posts ago.

But, if you have a subscription to The Athletic*, Joe Posnanski is doing all the week for you. He has created a series on those outside the Hall of Fame. Now, granted, this is purely for discussion purposes. Joe is a brilliant writer. Truly. He has his flaws (as do I). He has opinions that I very much disagree with. But that also makes a lot of his work appointment reading.

*Paul Silverfarb gave me a free subscription for a year and I have to say that, so long as I can afford it, I will be a paying customer. The writing -- the reporting -- is what Sports Illustrated and Sport and The Sporting News and Inside Sports and Baseball Digest and Yankees Magazine and Steelers Digest used to be for me.

He broke down over 100 players over a series of posts and is currently going through the top 25. Mattingly is in there, though I think he's a little hard on "Donnie Baseball" but Joe is also decidedly pro-analytics to the point of overusing them. I look at WAR as a nice thing to glance at but I still tend to be an "eye test" guy. Thus, Mike Trout: Hall of Famer. I don't need numbers but they're nice filler.

Larry Walker? Good player. Very good. Didn't really pass the eye test with me, but the voters put him in.

Like it or not, we found a breaking point with the Hall of Fame when Harold Baines got the nod, and I know there's a notion that we've gone over the falls in the barrel, so just let everyone in! No, I still think there should be standards.

Despite the obvious flaws of the system.

We'll still have to deal with other issues. There's the no-shot but still talked about topic of Shoeless Joe Jackson and Pete Rose (both pass the eye test but both fail the gambling thing). I've long said you can put them in, note their flaws on their plaque and, if Pete is still alive, don't let him give a speech. I suspect there will be a conversation about hanging his plaque as soon as he's dead, quite honestly.

Then we have the steroid users. I'll make this clear: some are already in, and you're not being honest if you don't believe that. The names are obvious. So let's stop being hypocrites, shall we? 

Most applauded Bonds and Clemens and A-Rod and McGwire and Sosa and Palmiero and on and on and on. Most knew what was going on. I knew it in '98 as McGwire was going after Roger Maris (we'll come back to him).

We all knew Bonds wasn't clean as he went after 755 home runs. It's no coincidence the Giants let him walk after he broke the record. Get the moment of glory, sell the merchandise, and get it over with. Ring those registers! Then? Nobody wanted him.

Obvious.

My point is, overall, we're all complicit. So let's stop "protecting the game."

Back to Maris. Roger had good years, including two MVP awards. He was renowned for being a terrific defensive player, baserunner, and hitter. I'm not going to build a case for him otherwise, but there are those players who have the cultural moments (again, Pee Wee Reese). Factor the impact and Roger's 61 in '61 makes him a HOFer just because of what he endured that year. Now, again, I'm not creating a plaque. However, don't tell me that Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers, and Frank Chance are in the Hall for true baseball excellence.

They're in the Hall because of a poem:

These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double –
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

Ozzie Smith is in, partially, due to his personality and backflips. Puckett is in because he smiled a lot and people loved him. You know these are all true. There are variables to this stuff; writers aren't robots.

Personality goes a long way.

We know Mariano Rivera shouldn't have been the first unanimous Hall of Famer due to those writers' flaws. Babe Ruth should have been, but he had only retired a year before the first voting cycle in 1936 and some used that against him.

What makes me bat-bleep crazy is the number of people who don't do the research and just blather on. In 2020, Google is your friend. That's why Ruth wasn't unanimous. Other unique issues created the scenario where Joe DiMaggio didn't get in on his first try.

And, no, being a Yankee doesn't get you in. Ask Ron Guidry, Roger Maris, Thurman Munson, Don Mattingly (need more proof?). Posnanski, in fact, pointed out how being with the Yankees or in a major market doesn't help as much as you think. I've been saying that for years. Go look at personal awards and get back to me. Justin Morneau? Bartolo Colon? Pat Hentgen? Anyone?

There's a whole history to this stuff. Read more than the headlines, people!

Anyway, I've babbled on here. Posnanski's work is brilliant (and, partially, wrong, but those are opinions for you!).

And I really need another trip to Cooperstown.

McCartney missteps

 

Ready for a shock?

I know this will surprise you.

I don't think I've ever told anyone. 

Here goes...

I revere Paul McCartney.

Shocked, right?

Like, I worship him. He and John (and George and Ringo, of course) are indeed the musical GOATs.

But, I sense I'm probably mostly a Paul guy. Oh sure, I love all four Fabs but Macca's more along the lines of my musical sensibilities. While John was trying to give peace a chance and George was off in India and Ringo was...Ringo, there was Sir JP McCartney, creating lots of brilliance and lots of hits.

Lots of earworms and underappreciated gems.

And...well, some utter and complete dreck.

There. I said it. Wow. That feels great to get off my chest. I realize he's 78 and he has McCartney III coming out, 50 years after McCartney and 40 years after McCartney II, and he's the best but even the best blows a tire here and there.

No, I'm not here to rain on the new music or the things that seemed offline like "Temporary Secretary" but I'm here to slam full bore into a couple of Macca Misfires.

For the love of Eleanor Rigby!

I think the winner of the absolute worst, to this day, is "Ebony and Ivory." I got a nifty CD player back in 90s. It was a great Sony that took five CDs at a time and would let you program songs that you did not want to hear.

The first -- in fact, the only -- song I ever did that with was "Ebony and Ivory." Look, I'm all for singing about racial equality! I love the notion of "people are the same wherever you go." But, jeez, Paul, why? He wrote this. I can't even blame Stevie Wonder, who would have his own flubs with "I Just Called to Say I Love You."

How did the great Sir George Martin not throw them both out of the studio, telling them it was absolute rubbish?

I'm not sure I've listened to "Ebony and Ivory" -- which was a major worldwide smash -- since it came out in 1982.

Hits don't always mean best songs, and here's some proof.

Literally, the only good thing that came out of this debacle was the Frank Sinatra/Stevie Wonder duet on Saturday Night Live.

Oh, but wait.

I mentioned this to someone else recently and they gave me one that is equally insidious. Sir Paul aligned himself with another global superstar in the 80s that produced a few hits. One was the slightly tolerable "Say Say Say."

The other, with Michael Jackson, was the utterly insipid "The Girl is Mine."

Paul McCartney. He of "Yesterday" and "Maybe I'm Amazed" and "Let It Be" and so...many...other...great...songs had produced a song with a talking breakdown that was basically rap for lame men.

Thankfully, this disaster is Jackson's fault for writing it and Quincy Jones suggested the rap idea.

I actually heard the damn thing the other day on my way to Lowe's and it's been stuck in my brain ever since.

What hurts me is that members of Toto -- who I love -- are also on this thing.

The rap breakdown is so bad that I remember friends of mine learning and reciting it -- mockingly -- in junior high school. This is douche chill-inducing:

Michael, we're not going to fight about this, okay

Paul, I think I told you, I'm a lover, not a fighter.

I've heard it all before, Michael, she told me that I'm her forever lover
You know, don't you remember?
Well, after loving me, she said she couldn't love another
Is that what she said?
Yes, she said it, you keep dreaming
I don't believe it

Blech. I can't believe I just put that in here. If I'm "the girl" I laugh and take a pass.

One can't help but wonder if John might have saved Paul from this if he was alive but of course we will never know. That being said, we also know John and Paul each did their own thing. 

After all, we don't have enough space for John's faux pas with Yoko.

I'm sure there's someone who will challenge these songs, most notably with "Silly Love Songs" and I will respond by saying that song resonates even more today than ever, plus it has one of Paul's best bass lines.

Have to be fair though. For all of Macca's greatness...there are a few "yikes" in there.

Engage or Ignore

 

Maybe the posts are hiding in there?

I almost titled this post "F U Snow" because, well, yeah. Fourteen inches? Sixteen? More? Less? My back isn't telling after we fought with the snowblower and shovels. But the driveway is done and it's passable.

The stairs? HA! Not happening. Please make all further food and other deliveries to the garage, thanks.

This is one of those posts I started hours ago. I keep tweaking it with things that I thought were funny but knew others wouldn't (like what I was thinking about while shoveling). Nature of the beast and all.

So, let's proceed.

*****

We know social media is a cesspool. Oh, it can be great, and I advocate for it in many regards, but my goodness it can be terrible.

I've been debated with and called names and so on. Some of it has been friendly fire. Others were worse.

There's a simple option when it comes to these things. Those options are:

- Engage

- Ignore

Honestly, it's that simple.

Perhaps, say, you were reacting to Major League Baseball's announcement that Negro Leaguers will be recognized as major leaguers and their stats will be accepted into those of MLB, 

Many, to be blunt, have overreacted to the news. I believe the recognition is great and long overdue. Awesome.

On the other hand...

It does not, however, mean Josh Gibson is now the home run king, as most of Mr. Gibson's home runs were hit in exhibitions and barnstorming efforts. Babe Ruth (you might have heard of him) also hit myriad barnstorming and exhibition home runs and they don't count.

As of today, Gibson sits at 238 home runs, per Seamheads.

The whole background of Negro League statistics is, at best, dicey and complicated, but MLB will do its best to get proper recognition. This is great news but too many are wildly overreacting. It has, of course, headed down political paths. Not here, mind you.

Back to where I'm going with this. So you decide to post a tweet that says the Hall of Fame should reopen consideration regarding the Nefro Leagues.

Two problems here: 1) this is what the Veteran's Committee is supposed to do and 2) the Hall of Fame did a full reevaluation of the Negro Leagues in 2006. A special committee on the Negro Leagues selected 17 people for induction, including the first woman, Effa Manley.

Shawn Sailer and I chose to respond to the tweet in question. I pointed out basically what I've just highlighted here and added that the committee screwed up by not including Buck O'Neil. I also mentioned that not everyone could be a Hall of Famer.

This morning, the user not only retweeted his own post but hid both responses. 

This is not the first time he's done this, by the way. Something happened on another platform.

See, here's the thing. You want to write stuff? Be prepared to be called out when they're ridiculous. It happens to me frequently. Then I'm left with the decision of ignoring or engaging. 

Really. It's that simple. Or you can mute or block that user.

Too many want to step into the arena.

Not enough are prepared for what that means so they get "people" (real or imagined) to attack, or they hide it.

You wanted to play in the big leagues. 

Be careful what you wish for.

No calm before the storm

 

Quite a day, yesterday was.

But I knew that going into it.

I committed to teaching at CSB, which meant being up and out early to make the drive to Stratford.

Of course, construction on I-84 in Connecticut was the order of the morning, causing me to be late, but I still beat a few of the students so I'll take it as a push.

I also committed to another overnight depo job, as well as "Doubleheader."

So it was get up, get ready, drive to Stratford, teach for 3.5 hours, find some food, and get home in time for the radio show.

Google was misbehaving so the way I normally connect to WGCH wasn't working.

Still, the show went off with minimal issues, despite someone trying to call me on my cell during it for literally no reason.

Finally, at 5:15 p.m., after converting and editing the show for WON 920 The Apple, I chilled out for a few minutes.

No complaints. I hadn't slept much at all the night before, and I know Paul wanted to grab coffee, but beyond that, it was a hectic day that I had kept up with. I worried I would collapse but I really hadn't.

I was ready for the overnight gig to begin at 6 p.m. It's a little bit of a high wire act but it's fine when running smoothly. Despite thinking we'd be at it until two in the morning, I was told we'd be done much earlier.

The estimate was 9 p.m. The reality was 10.

In the end, it wasn't a day from hell after all. I got ready for bed. Because I'm trying to manage the use of heating oil in the house, let's just say I keep things cool most of the time and either pile on blankets or sweatshirts.

A small space heater ran nearby, set to turn off at a particular temperature.

It turned off, supposedly on cue.

But so did my Bose Wave Radio (a product of the 90s that Mr. Imus convinced me to get) and a power strip with the TV, as well as my nearby Alexa.

A fuse had blown.

No panic, I thought, as I heard the battery backup on the work computer setup beeping, meaning it, too, had lost power.

I went to the basement. Fifteen amp, Type S fuse. Slot number eight on the panel, according to the notes my mother wrote up.

I love the fact that she noted one as being near "Daddy's chair," keeping in mind it hasn't been his chair since 1989. But, as I've always said, it really was his.

But I reached a very unfortunate conclusion: we were, shockingly, out of that type of fuse.

"Shockingly." See what I did there? This is the content you come here for.

Welp. There was no way I was going to Home Depot or Lowe's at that time. Nothing was open.

And the latest edition of Snowmageddon was on the way.

I plotted. I "MacGyver'd." I just wanted to get through the night.

Lowe's -- down the Taconic Parkway in Yorktown Heights -- had plenty of fuses in stock and they open at 6 a.m. We've got this.

So, let's grab an extension cord and run the work computer to a working outlet. That will keep it running overnight. 

A portion of the house will just have to stay dark, but it's a few lights. We'll be OK.

I slept. Not great, so I was ready when Alexa told me to get up. I threw some clothes on, wiped the sleep out of my eyes ("Daydream Believer"), and got on the dark and slightly busy southbound parkway.

Lowe's was a success. I got a couple of packages to have backups. I even stopped and grabbed breakfast, with a nice big cup of coffee.

I felt OK but still nervous.

And, with good reason. At first, the fuse wouldn't...er...light.

Now I worried. I could text Mick. Maybe I'd email him. I don't want to worry him. I also don't want him to worry me with a potentially hefty bill to fix this!*

*EDITOR'S NOTE, the cost would have been for materials, not Mick's labor. The author was not clear -- Ed.

I went back to the fuse box. I tightened the fuse again, hearing my father's voice about not overtightening.

Voila. The garage lit up. A pre-Christmas miracle! Or I'm just a 365-day-per year idiot who didn't tighten a ******* fuse!

Oh, did I mention that I had to have this all done by 10 a.m. so that I could work again?

The snowblower will hopefully work later. I brought the garbage cans inside. The car, thankfully, is also safe and dry, for once. The driveway awaits the SNOWPOCALYPSE!

Snow puns for the win, amiright, Susan?

Along with pictures of snow-covered patio furniture!

Also, I hate snow.

But I'm home safe and sound, so I guess, let it snow.

Holiday cheer from MLB

 

Like it or not, sports news doesn't stop.

So, when the word came out that owners in Major League Baseball are looking to delay the start of the 2021 season, it was hardly surprising.

The owners want vaccinations for players before spring training, but obviously, it doesn't take the sharpest cleats on the basepaths to figure out why.

Vaccinations get things that much closer to having fans in the stands, which means *ka-ching!* for the owners.

It's about the money, genius!

It's almost as if those not getting it have forgotten that baseball is, wait for it...grab a partner and do si do!...

A BUSINESS.

I mean, the number of tweets I see per day that seems to forget this little nugget just indicates that those in question literally have no clue. 

There's an element of Peter Pan to it, mixed with Pollyanna.

Baseball -- all sports -- has been a business since the 1800s.

Shocking, I tell you!

Unfortunately, business goes on. Regardless of the holidays.

Regardless of a pandemic.

It has to go on or go out of business.

The part that those who truly get it understand is that this shouldn't be played out in the media.

So, sometimes that means both the players and the owners will appear to seem clueless to the public eye as they battle over things that seem foolish.

The NHL players and owners, for what it's worth, are quietly having some disagreements, but you wouldn't know it as minimal information has leaked out.

But not baseball. It's being fought openly.

And here we go again. The players want spring training in February. The owners don't want it without vaccinations.

The players want first pitch in April. The owners are suggesting May.

We've been here. 

We're here again.

You and I both want the myth of the birds chirping and bees buzzing. We both want to hear the crack of the bat and pop of a glove. We both want the smell of hot dogs and popcorn. We want to hear kids laughing and friends batting over trivia and trivial matters.

I want to sit in a booth -- or any place -- and call all of this. It doesn't matter where or what the view is. I'll leave it at that.

But I can't say it any clearer -- regardless of who you are.

It.

Is.

A.

Business.

Buckle up.

We try and we fail

If you're around New York and Connecticut, you probably know what today is.

The shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School happened on this day in 2012.

Everyone is posting pictures of those 26 faces; Twenty children and six adults. All gone.

As I sit here tonight, I find myself feeling no better than I did eight years ago.

Eight years ago when 26 truly innocent people didn't leave school.

When their families lives were shattered, many of them standing in a nearby fire station awaiting and eventually hearing the worst.

My God, it was all just so unnecessary.

And, to this day, there are still people who deny that it happened. They think it's a hoax.

I literally have nothing more than "shame on them."

My son was 10 that day. I wanted to hug him. I couldn't.

So I get everything that people are posting today. We're all dealing with it in our own style.

I further deal with it by feeling like we continue to fail those 26 faces. We've failed them by not being better. Sure, there have been a few cursory changes to gun laws. Still, have we done enough?

Last year, we had the unbridled joy of watching Newtown High School celebrate a state football championship on the anniversary. They won on a last-second play. It was great and, yet, seems so distant ago.

Just like the Newtown hockey championship that I called in 2014. A lifetime ago.

As you sit here in Dec, 2020, do you really feel schools are safer? Do you think those faces would be satisfied?

I just don't know if there's been progress. Some, maybe. But, how much?

Eight years. 

I've got nothing but sadness.

Holiday Lights

 

It's probably fair to say most people like holiday lights. 

How about over 670,000 lights on one property?

The Gay family in Lagrangeville, NY owns the title of most holiday lights on a residential property, according to the Guinness Book of World Records.

It started in 1995 with 600 lights and continued to explode from there.

The display is within an hour from me and, tonight, we went to see them for the first time in a few years.

It was my niece Stephanie's wish to go, along with dinner with her mother, sister and nieces and her goofy Uncle.

(Capitalized for a purpose because that's me: "Uncle.")

Kendall and Emma consult their phones at dinner

I can't remember the first time I saw those lights but I'd say it's within the last 15 years. But left got busy and I probably haven't been back in six years.

Things have changed over time. Crowds used to show up, no question, but at least at first it was possible to go through the circular driveway and then park on the side of the road for a few minutes to take it all in.

Even after that, you could come out of the driveway, go a block or two, and turn around to go see it all again.

You'd say, "Why see it again?" Well, it's not just the lights. It's the hundreds of songs that the lights are synchronized with. The music is played over a very low-power FM radio signal (95.3 FM) that you quickly lose after leaving.

As you work your way off either New York Route 55 or 82 to find the house (the location is actually listed on Google Maps), you eventually realize virtually all the cars you're following are heading there also.

In the past, there might be the occasional short delay of traffic.

Tonight was different.

A long line of brake lights stretched, leading to a lengthy, though not remotely annoying delay.

Stephanie and I rode together, chatting up a storm as we caught a glimpse of the lights.

Soon, the music began to come through my car stereo and, I must warn you, if you're bothered by Coldplay or U2, for instance, then don't go because you'll get a healthy dose of both.

But the stars are the lights so the music is just providing the beat.

I can't explain what you'll see so you'll have to take my word for it, along with the pictures and this report from CBS This Morning.

There would be no second time through the lights without driving for 10 minutes just to get back on the long line. A police car sat near the driveway, blocking part of the road.

We worked out way back to NY 55 so that I could take Stephanie back to her car.

The Gay family says it only costs $350 per season to run the electricity, though the website says the true cost of the whole display is never truly known to anyone except the family dad, Tim.

Beyond that is what is raised, with a current total of over $415,000 going to local charities since the display again. Tonight, we added to the bucket of the Union Vale fire department.

Even I could find a little hint of wonder and spirit.

If you're up for a trip into Dutchess County, maybe 10 minutes off the Taconic Parkway, consider this for a fun night trip, especially as many things begin to close back up due to COVID-19.

The Grinch doesn't live here. Honest

Sean basks in the holiday afterglow

I won't tell you this is the happiest place on Earth.

No, chestnuts aren't roasting on an open fire.

But it's really not a blue Christmas either.

It's just, well, it's just December.

I stayed more loyal to the trappings of Christmas at one time, especially as Sean was going through his formative years. In truth, my mom wasn't quite as big on it but always felt it was right to at least try due to not only Sean but all of her grandchildren.

Christmas -- something my father loved -- wasn't quite her favorite time of year after 1989.

She'd grumble about space to put a tree up, eventually opting for a smaller tree that wasn't entirely to my liking.

Finally, she was just content to have nothing in the house, especially once Sean began to not care as much either.

"It's not like people come over," she'd say, though that wasn't always true.

I feel like a crappy writer (what else is new?) in that I've basically buried the lead.

In short, it's Dec 12 and I haven't put any decorations up. I considered climbing into the attic earlier, primarily out of a guilt, to dig out a few things. I'm sure I could have found some space to make it look good.

Sure, I've got a fake tree (two, as I recall), but she was right in that there really isn't great space for it. But there are other things that I could scatter around.

The holidays are hard enough without additional pressure to make things look pretty.

I haven't avoided it necessarily. I've just not acknowledged it, I suppose.

I haven't watched any of the movies though I'll be quite certain to get in one viewing (at least) of A Christmas Story.

I have music but haven't gone out of my way to play any and, while I don't actually play Whamageddon, I do acknowledge its presence. Yet, in truth, playing Christmas music has lost some magic given all you have to do is ask Alexa or Sirius (or both) to play you one of the myriad channels.

Then you can simply have a Wonderful Christmastime. I shall not hear any McCartney slander, unless it involves "The Girl is Mine" or "Ebony and Ivory."

Gifts? I suspect I won't receive so I haven't bought. 

It's just the way it is in 2020 and, at least so far, I not only understand it but I'm also not bothered by it.

The gift of all of you is more than enough for me. It's the gift of love and friendship and loyalty and respect. Sounds corny but I don't really care.

That's the thing: as I pondered writing this, I didn't want this to be a post in which my mental health was a concern. No, this isn't a note about depression. It's simply factual. The house has all kinds of my mothers goodies in the dining room and it just doesn't seem like a year to decorate for the holidays even if I wanted to.

It goes without saying that it's sad to not have Mom around this year and I know we're all feeling it.

A lot of people struggle at this time of year, and I've highlighted that many times. For some it's just incredibly sad and lonely.

Obviously, for many it's pure joy, and I remember how I felt watching Sean. I could see the excitement. It was the same excitement I felt, like those nights that I couldn't sleep and it would kill me to be stuck in my room.

Then I'd go to the bathroom and try to not look out towards the darkened living room with just enough light catch a glimpse of anything.

But Sean has grown up. Ask him what he wants and he doesn't really know. A gift card will suffice, I guess, or you have to get original.

We're fine, but the house just has a different energy now.

So, please don't be too harsh if I don't go dig out the Christmas themed houses and whatnot in the attic.

I'll respect you for being into it as well.

I'm trying to get through today and on to tomorrow and doing the best I can.

Oh, I can't resist this last note. I saw I had a voicemail on the house phone and, as we all know, it's anything goes these days with marketing calls and other nonsense.

Rarely is it an actual call.

Today, it was from someone calling themselves a neighbor. They said they were from a particular religious group. I'm not here to mock (really) so we'll leave that out.

Within a few words, the reference was made to the Bible before I hit delete.

Then I started laughing.

Did their phone not sizzle when they reached that number? I guarantee not a single person that used that phone number from 1963 until today would have been swayed by that call.

The thought amused me.

The irony, I guess.