The calm before

 

The numbers have been fluctuating. At "press time," we're looking at 20 inches of snow.

It's Sunday.

The Lord's day, they say.

I call bull, but your mileage may vary.

Tomorrow, we're getting smacked by a nifty storm that is being described as a noreaster, though it seems most storms of the past 20 years are noreasters. Once upon a time, that term wasn't used. I've heard the noreaster is still rare but the term gets used too much and incorrectly.

What do I know? I love the Weather Channel and hate naming storms. They still name them, and this thing might bring us 20 inches of snow.

Have I mentioned I hate snow? But, will this be enough to shut everyone up about not getting enough snow around New York?

(Answer: "No")

Sean is here and his car has been safely tucked away where it won't get plowed in. In other words, he's in the driveway. We have another place that we park during times when we don't have to play musical cars. But he's safe and sound (and so is the car, of course). True to form, his grandparents gave him things for his car for Christmas, so he has a cover across the windshield. Leave it to them.

It's also the calm before another Monday...that just got cleaned up.

I went from three -- count 'em, THREE -- Monday podcast sessions, plus Doubleheader to now just one podcast and Doubleheader.

At least I'm getting paid for one of the above items.

Mondays have become my non-depo day. I don't like it that way, but at least I can focus on other things.

There will be a breaking point sometime in the future. That is actually a promise.

I had another promise posted here. I took it down. Patience. Patience.

On the more positive side of things, I've packed what I think I'll need for Wednesday and Friday at Brunswick. However, our trip to Virginia appears to be a likely COVID casualty. You'd think club hockey games in Lynchburg, VA wouldn't be a problem to get space in a press box, right?

Wrong.

Or Raleigh, NC?

Part of the problem is both NC State (Raleigh) and Liberty University (Lynchburg) have their own broadcasts. So where does that leave a father-son duo from New York making good on a promise for friends from Connecticut?

Exactly.

So, if heading to the land of abundant Waffle House locations is out, then Sean and I have a Plan B in the works. We'll go somewhere -- socially distant -- that gets us our beloved food options and a night or two in a hotel. We were planning on running away before Mom died. Then we said we'd do something after she passed and still haven't honored that. So, we will. 

Somehow. Responsibly.

The site of Dunder Mifflin probably has the early lead but, to be fair, what more is there to do if places are still closed? We've gone there a few times and are big fans, but one can sit in a hotel for only so long. So that's what we're thinking about.

I seriously don't get "whomever" is in charge of this thing we call whatever this is. My brave, bold niece has battled cancer ferociously. She still has a ways to go and it's her story to tell. A little more publicly, Charlie Capalbo, who has been on "Doubleheader" with his dad and brother, is dealing with cancer for the third time. Yes, a third time. This family is tough but can endure only so much. They have a Greenwich background while calling Fairfield they're home.  A GoFundMe has been established. 

Charlie is 22. Like, really?

Someone will explain these things to me one day. At least I hope so. Because I don't get it.

Charlie and my niece are both tough. Tougher than I will ever be.

While there are too many down elements to this post, we try to remain positive. Please be safe in this storm and be good to each other.

Dr. Rick wouldn't be happy

 

I have fully embraced the Progressive Insurance commercials featuring "Parenta-Life" coach Dr. Rick.

In the spots, Dr, Rick works with a group of new homeowners -- either in the field, in a seminar, or in a workshop -- from becoming their parents.

You know the commercials. For instance, they're in a store when two guys bookend Dr. Rick as someone with blue hair walks by.

"We all see it," Dr. Rick says. "We all see it."

"He has blue hair," says the one on the right, exuding a "Captain Obvious" that he can't hold in.

"OK," says Dr. Rick.

"Bluuuuuuuuuuuuue," explodes the man on the left.

Truth: I'm guilty of (at the very least) groaning when I sit down. My legs, knees, gut, shoulders, and brain all seem to conspire to let out this large exhalation every time. So, yes, Dr. Rick would have a few words for me.

But, today, in the Stop and Shop in Somers, NY (site of the old Baldwin Place Mall for us longtimers), I lived a Dr. Rick experience.

Trying to be ahead of the noreaster that appears to target us, shoppers hit the grocery store looking for their bread, milk, and eggs.

Me? Orange juice. Whenever Sean is around it's always orange juice, storm or not.

I hit a store like a tornado. I get in and I get out.

So, allow me once again to wave this banner:

NOBODY PAYS ATTENTION TO THE ARROWS!

This has been a public service announcement, furnished by the FARE, the Foundation Against Rob Exploding.

If anything, they've created more problems because the few who abide by them (hi!) come in contact with those who don't. Plus frustration builds.

I mean, it could lead to a whole conversation about COVID in these stores, but we'll just soldier on here. I do as I'm told. I wear the mask and I follow the arrows and we'll just ignore the carts and products and door handles and checkouts that can all be caked in germs. We're cool.

I'm digressing again.

Anyway, I'm in the frozen food area (picking up the blasted orange juice) when I hear it. There's an unmistakable sound to my left. That of a middle-aged woman, sauntering along, aimlessly shopping, talking out loud...into her speakerphone. 

We can hear the entire conversation, but I'm mostly smart enough to ignore the content.

But Dr. Rick was speaking in my brain. I said, to no one in particular: "So, we're using a speakerphone in the store. Is that a good idea?"

I'm quite certain the clueless customer of cookies and cream didn't hear me say it and we all on about our day.

Now, the next question is, would she know how to pronounce "quinoa?"

A picture of a waffle

This is a picture of a waffle. It was taken sometime in the last 5-10 years, from an establishment called Waffle House. 

Waffle House is a chain that is located around the United States, with no locations in the northeast. The nearest ones to me are in Bethlehem, Allentown, Scranton, and Clarks Summit, Pennsylvania.

The picture could have been taken in any of those locations. It also could have been taken in several locations in North Carolina, Maryland, Virginia, South Carolina, Delaware, or Florida.

I think those are all of the states that I've been to Waffle House in. At least until I get to Ohio.

The waffle is placed on one of Waffle House's standard fine plates, using its traditional waffle mix and cooked on a nearby griddle. A member of the wait staff brings it and other plates over to the table.

While it can be ordered on its own, this waffle was part of a larger order, known more formally as an All-Star Special.

My All-Star Special order traditionally consists of hot coffee (with cream and sugar), the aforementioned waffle, a slice of ham that I cut up to add to my hash browns (covered, with cheese), white toast (remember: I'm lame) and scrambled eggs with cheese.

When my mother was still alive, I might have a taste of the grits she always got and some of the orange juice that she inevitably, "only wanted a sip of."

Pictures of food are harmless. They generally receive laughter, some scorn, and a certain level of praise.

"How could you eat that?"

"Looks delicious!"

"Why don't you take me there?"

"No thanks."

Otherwise, it's completely benign. It's not controversial or uncomfortable to talk about.

This is the way to go. Nobody gets hurt with pictures of kids and food and pets (cats, anyone?).

So, here. Have a picture of a waffle.

Let's keep talking

 

I didn't do it for the attention.

In fact, I'm not always one to look for attention. Especially not about this.

But almost two years ago -- Jan 30, 2019, to be exact -- I wrote about #BellLetsTalk. The goal is to raise money for mental health initiatives in Canada.

In truth, it's an opportunity to shine a light on mental health, which I think is actually more important now than it was even in 2019.

In that same post, I opened up about some of the struggles I've had. It wasn't easy and I wrestled with going public and I worried about the reaction to it.

I worried for that very reason -- that someone would think I was seeking attention. I suppose it's fair to say I was, but really, I was seeking understanding and maybe even help.

But I did it so that others would understand that if I could say something then you could also.

I did it so people could understand me. We all have a face that we hid away forever, as Billy Joel once sang. We're not always as we appear, especially on social media.

So, thinking I could use my little platform, I spoke up.

The post, tagged with #BellLetsTalk, also gets a very small donation to this worthy cause. However, if you share it or post your own tweet with the hashtag, or do one of several options below, you will also contribute to mental health initiatives.

I realize this is for Canada but I still like the idea of helping in such a small way. Plus, I love Canada!

I further like the idea that we're talking today and hopefully every day. 

You don't need me to remind you that 2020 was perhaps the most damaging year in recent memory for mental health, and things haven't quite improved yet.

COVID damaged our spirit. Many couldn't handle the isolation of sheltering and quarantining. The students who lost so much -- proms and sports and concerts and graduations and social activities. The adults who lost so much as well.

Mentally, it was hard to keep "it" together.

And let's not even talk about politics, though I suppose we can. Regardless of what you think of former President Trump or current President Biden or anyone else, it felt like we were in a constant tornado of filth.

Simply the day of the insurrection was enough for me.

It was and can still be so hard to see the forest for the trees. We're going to get there, but it's tough to see the way out of the darkness.

As we watched Broadway go dark and the Boston Marathon get canceled and so many other traditions that were shut down, it was easy to sink into the depths of despair.

Job losses and businesses closing and death and hatred and other stress and on and on.

Depressing, for sure.

If you're a reader of this corner of the world, you don't need me to tell you about what has gone on around these parts, but my spirit remains firm on grasping at gratitude for what I have while struggling with what has been lost.

That's why this initiative from a Canadian company is something I hold near and dear. No, it's not an American thing -- MURICA! -- but it's a conversation-starter.

You know someone who is fighting the good fight.

I know someone who is also.

Unfortunately, it's like cancer. We all know someone struggling with mental health issues.

Be there for them. Tell them it's OK to take that leap and talk about it.

I did. It was scary. Very. But the reaction was worth the risk, and it will be for you also.

Silence makes me crazy. I often have people around me who struggle to talk or simply don't talk. Lack of communication drives me nuts.

Please. I've proven for basically my whole life that I'll listen. Just, sometimes, I respond.

But my phone line is open. The therapy is free.

Don't be the person that we're saying, "If I only knew" about.

Let us know. No problem is too small or too large. Everyone has their thing -- regardless. It's your thing and there are no questions asked.

You're not doing it for attention.

Neither did I.

Let's talk.

(And, please, remember the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 800-273-8255)

In the wee small hours

 

Image: abc.net.au

Why do only demons seem to come out at night?

I fell asleep around 10 last night and woke up around 2:15 this morning.

OK, there was plenty of time before the alarm went off for an early job. I could steady my brain.

And, yet? Not so much.

I tossed. I turned. I talked to the cat, who responded by jumping around the bedroom to cause enough chaos to completely wake me up completely.

The plow/sander/salt truck came by as well. That got me to take a stroll to the living room to glance out the window and see exactly what was going on with the weather.

I put my head back down, after glancing at my phone, of course. That's become the latter-day version of turning the TV on, though maybe I should go back to doing that.

Yet, I'm not sure the late-night TV offerings are to my liking anymore.

So I tried to sleep.

Think happy thoughts, right? OK, let's ponder traveling. Can't wait to do that again. Think about being in the Renegades booth.

Think about being in any booth.

Think about anything that makes me zone out.

Anything that makes me relax. I mean, that's the idea, right?

Then the demons creep back in.

Then the heart starts to race.

Then the mind begins to spin.

The happy thoughts normally get overrun by a lot of stuff. Money, stress, life.

So why do the demons win? Why can't the mind -- my mind -- go to counting sheep and, well, Pleasure Town?

Is it me?

I'm sure, to a large degree, it is me. Somehow I have to clear the mechanism, as the saying goes, and get rid of the negative elements.

I'm sure there's some zen that I'm missing or something along those lines.

But, as I sit here late in the afternoon, after another bad night and looking towards another attempt at sleeping, I ponder all of this.

The random song lyric

 

There's Billy Joel, the "big Mets fan."
"But the Yankees grab the headlines every time."
"And pick the Yankees up for free."

Song lyrics, much like movie quotes, can quickly enter our consciousness.

They can stick in our brains to the point that they become a cliche.

While talking about something else tonight, I uttered the words, "straddle the line," and couldn't help myself. I added, "in discord and rhyme."

"Hungry Like the Wolf" by Duran Duran, of course.

They just stay with us sometimes.

While doing research for the latest edition of The Owner's Box Horse Racing Podcast, I discovered our guest, track announcer Pete Aiello, is a big Don Henley fan. So I began quoting song titles. Trust me, I could have really gotten bad but I stopped before it got to that point because, as you know, I will not go quietly.

I kill myself.

The point is the song quote (or title) can easily roll its way into almost any conversation.

Even today, I somehow weaved "Baby Got Back" into a discussion I was having.

And I can not lie. You other brothers can't deny.

Let's not start on Huey Lewis, of course. I can't say, "If this is it," without, "Please let me know."

I can't say "Sooner or later" without at least thinking "Some of my lies are true."

You have to be a deep fan to know that one.

Of course, I've uttered, "New York, New York" and followed that up with, "Isn't everything they say and no place I'd rather be" too many times.

Naturally, The Beatles are where it's at.

"I read the news today," always leads to, "Oh boy."

My poor niece Eleanor has to deal with me asking her about all the lonely people.

God forbid I say that we can drive my car because "Yes, I'm gonna be a star" will inevitably follow. 

And, of course, one can't talk about anything that was twenty years ago today. 

Let's not even deal with "Help" or "Get Back."

Billy Joel can also lead that way.

Try -- TRY -- to help someone move. If you have any regard for Mr. Joel and his music, I dare you to not hum "I'm moving out, mmm hmmm. Oooh hoo. Uh huh."

Which, eventually, you'll be onto Anthony and the grocery store and Mama Leone and the heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.

I mean, you oughta know by now, right?

Or, of course, you go to the wine store. A bottle of red? A bottle of white?

It all depends upon your appetite!

"Pressure" always includes a synthesizer anytime I hear that word.

And, perhaps my best example? There are literally countless conversations where I've said, "You may be right..."

SING ALONG! "I may be crazy."

I realize this is all a little nonsensical but I guarantee you know what I'm talking about and you have your own examples.

Tell me, for instance, you can mention a "hater" without thinking of them as they "hate hate hate hate hate."

So, I suppose I'm being a little silly tonight, but I'm willing to bet we've barely scratched the surface of song lyrics that somehow pop up in any old conversation.

I'm open to others.

Sometimes it's nice to be wanted

That's my spot, right near the "U"

Part of me feels like Michael Jordan tonight. Oh, trust me, Jordan and I have literally nothing in common, except we were both at Yankee Stadium for Derek Jeter Day in 2014.

But Jordan once put out a press release on March 18, 1995 when he returned from his first retirement. It had one quote from his Airness: "I'm back."

Well tonight, I guess I'm sort of back.

I got a great Monday present courtesy of Jack Campisi, my friend and colleague at Local Live. He was writing to introduce me to Wayne McGillicuddy, the new football offensive coordinator at Brunswick as well as my new contact in the athletic department.

Included was an invitation to call three upcoming hockey games at the Hartong Rink. Was I interested?

Er...yeah. Sure. That would be cool. 

ARE YOU KIDDING?!? OF COURSE!

And so begins the juggling of schedules. "The Clubhouse" will also be a part of the craze. Eventually, the Renegades will come along. Plus I'm committed to Dan and Craig and 360 Service Partners, where I do the video depos. And there is "Talent Talks," the podcast I do for Hunt Scanlon. Plus, eventually, I'll get back to hosting their conferences.

I'll give each one of those things my all to my usual point of exhaustion. Like, now.

But I can now reassemble the game bag. I can decide which mixer I want to use. I can start researching this Brunswick squad.

I have to find the right cables and pack the car.

Finally, I can put the headset back on and go back to my sanctuary.

It's my place and, when I'm in control of it, there are few other places I'd rather be.

John Nash and I were interviewing a horse racing track announcer tonight (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT) which you'll soon hear on The Owners' Box Horse Racing Podcast and we were discussing that same thing. Your problems go away when you're calling an event and, if the problem is still in your mind, then it really is a problem.

The best times are when it doesn't feel like work. I can tell you there were days where it did and that wasn't fun. Of course, that will be part of my long-awaited (no, not really) book.

It's just three games (plus, potentially, the two college games in Virginia if they come to be) but it's hopefully a start.

I've called Brunswick athletics on and off nearly as long as I've called Greenwich High. It took a long time to be known around there, but I enjoyed it and I've worked hard at cultivating the relationships.

I know broadcasters are replaceable. While GHS fans were kind to me when I came back officially in 2016, I'm smart enough to recognize that times change. I sort of wonder if times have changed there to a point for me. I hope not, but such is the life of a freelancer also.

There was something that told me this is could be a new beginning. I'm hopeful for...wait for it...baseball, of course, and whatever else comes down King Street.

Of course, I'd get a kick out of doing lacrosse, because that's the last Brunswick sport I called. Now, I know it's considered "high risk" (ugh) but it would be fun to open the broadcast with the following: "So, as I was saying..."

And you know I would. "As I was saying" before COVID interrupted us, indeed.

One thing: as I said, times change. People and personnel change. To that end, I'll miss my friend Joe Early, who I still talk to occasionally. While there were days when he probably wanted to choke me (and sometimes deservedly so), I truly appreciated his support and guiding hand. I know he was a fan and always wanted the best for me, to the point of wanting me around Wick even more.

He allowed me to dream big, even if it didn't come to be.

We worked hard on all of it, from the leaky tent for baseball to running from the diamond to the Cosby Field for lacrosse. He got me a couple of road trips as well that I enjoyed a lot (one for hockey, one for football, and one for lacrosse). 

Tonight, I'm not being greedy (but I wouldn't say no to more).

As I'm sure you can appreciate, a kind word, a little communication, and a feeling of being wanted goes a very long way. I got that today.

It's just three games. I'm hoping it leads to more, of course. But I'm grateful for this to start.

I've whined a lot about how much I miss calling events. I have. I've admitted jealousy lovingly towards my friends while pleased for them.

But, on Feb 3 at approximately 3:55 p.m., I'll start talking about ice hockey. I can't predict what I'll say, but it might sound like this:

"From the Hartong Rink in Greenwich, CT, this is Brunswick Bruins ice hockey. Hi, everyone, I'm..."

Back.

Mind if I sit this one out?

 

It's been a long day of football around the house.

I've done some cleaning. The dining room literally had enough space for me to sit at the table and eat meals...until yesterday. I moved everything that had been sitting there since just after Mom died.

I didn't really throw stuff out. Just cleaned it up and organized it.

Then I spent some time today assessing my own stuff. Again, not much throwing out but actually figuring out what I have to do.

I was aggressively doing stuff around the house when she first passed, in part to take my mind off of everything. Eventually, I slowed down a little bit, though it has still been constantly on my mind.

I've moved stuff around and just tried to keep things going here.

But, after another night of so-so sleep, I found myself stretching out on the couch in the afternoon. A little Sunday snooze might be in the cards after making some lunch.

Rascal decided that the fleece blanket I put over me looked too comfortable, so he jumped up and planted himself on it.

And we stayed like that...

For five hours.

I didn't sleep for all five hours. But, for the most part, Rascal did.

I didn't order a pizza (I was thinking pizza for the football games sounded cool) because I didn't want to interrupt him.

I didn't move, despite my hips aching.

Mostly, it was nice. It was as if someone had been texting Rascal to tell him to stay on top of me and make me relax.

That's not something I do a lot of.

So I stayed on the couch, watched the first game, tweeted a little, encountered more nonsense, and dealt with it. 

OK, since some have asked, let me tell you what #Gsense is.

It's named for a Twitter user who has his own take on sports. You know the type: the 2020 baseball season wasn't real, etc.

The problem is when you post things publicly (or host a talk show) you open yourself to scrutiny. If you think you're a professional sports media person (writer, broadcaster, public figure) then you have to deal with the responses.

Certain takes will elicit a response.

Heck, in social media, if you post something, it can be open to a reply.

As I've said before, you can ignore it or respond. It's also why I pick my fights.

So #Gsense was created in his honor. It's a form of nonsense, though there's honestly a lot more to it.

He posts things and I've disputed them. So has Shawn Sailer and, apparently, others. If he doesn't like it, he hides what you've written.

Say what you want about Kato, but he debates and I do respect that.

It's all rather ludicrous.

There's no great retribution here on my end. I keep hoping it's all in good fun, but I fear that message isn't quite getting there. 

So, since you've asked, there it is. #Gsense equals nonsense (though there's more to the creation of the hashtag). I'm sure he's a nice guy, and I wish him well in the pursuit of his own social media Utopia.

Anyway, I thought I might just sit this one out tonight. Now, I'm going to bed. It's back to "podcastorama" tomorrow.

Starting to go out of my mind

 

At Brunswick, 1/29/20

It was Nov. 21 and I knew I was done.

Despite saying time after time, "I don't know when the next broadcast will be," I knew that Saturday afternoon at Somers High School would be my last game for some time. It's been 63 days.

I'm sitting at the computer, listening to Jake Zimmer call Providence hockey against U Mass. He's doing a great job (Oh, don't worry, I'll nitpick him) and I was sure to tell him how jealous I am.

Mike Hirn is doing basketball in Ohio.

Plenty of others are working. People are only too happy to remind us of that in the Facebook play-by-play group.

I know very little of my future. The Renegades, yes, but there are still questions to be answered there of course.

For instance, we still don't really know our league, definitive opponents, protocols for each stadium, travel restrictions, and so much more.

I'll expand on that slightly. For two months, I thought Bowling Green would be a part of the new league. Then, tonight, I discovered that Lake County, near Cleveland, appears to be in the league. So, yeah, I remain confused and wanting answers. On the plus side, I made a new connection tonight, so there's that.

I know Connecticut is coming back, and there are positive signs finally in New York also. But, well, does anyone want me?

Even if the answer is yes, then we're back to talking about logistics, etc.

I miss Greenwich High. I miss Brunswick. I miss the FCIAC. I miss the FAA. 

I miss Mahopac High and Carmel High and Section One. 

I miss Local Live and the Greenwich Athletic Foundation.

I miss the listeners, whose comments often keep me energized.

I miss my personal cheering section, reminding me that I'm doing this for a reason.

And I really miss WGCH stepping up and doing more games, but that ship seems to have sailed (inquire within why I say that, though, short answer: sales. We need sales.)

It stinks when you believe you have a skill that you can offer and you can't use it.

At this point, I'm ready to take an eight-hour drive to call two games that I will lose money to call.

I promised former Greenwich goalie Nick Bozzuto that I'd call a college hockey game of his if we could ever make it happen.

If ever there's proof of my "Have headset, will travel" mantra, well this is it.

We were going to try to get me to Texas at one point, but that didn't happen. I actually thought our time had passed, especially with COVID.

Then he and his East Texas Baptist University Tigers scheduled games at NC State in Raleigh and Liberty in Lynchburg, VA in early February.

Now, you'd think that Raleigh would be the no-brainer and, at first, it was. Kristy and family are only 90 minutes away and I'm familiar with NC State, of course. Still, I feel irresponsible going from this hockey situation to my immune-deficient niece. I'll get to see them later in the year under the right conditions. I need them and they need me. 

Moreso, as I looked into the Raleigh rink, it seemed like a nice place but probably a difficult place to broadcast from, even if they'd actually let me in to call the game.

Liberty, on the other hand, has a press box in their arena. They're playing two games there, so it felt like there could be a weekend trip to Virginia.

Plus, I wouldn't have to miss any work time. I'd leave on Saturday morning and come home sometime Monday. I'd watch the Super Bowl in my hotel room.

So, now I'm waiting for the details. Am I welcome? Is Sean welcome? What are the protocols? And so on.

I've plotted this carefully. I'll (or we'll if Sean is with me) socially distance, wear a mask and so on. I'll also pick a hotel that seems to focus on cleanliness.

I've obsessed over it. Every day, I check the rates for hotels in Lynchburg as I await any kind of information.

I'm really close to booking a room...and yet...I haven't done it.

This is what I do. I run through the hotels, study where they're located in relation to the rink (and the nearest Waffle House for takeout) and keep repeating the process. 

Now I just want answers.

Of course, some play-by-play brethren will scowl and scorn.

"How dare you?" they'll say. There are those who wouldn't dare to do such a thing and that's their business. I have a different take.

It's simple. I'm building a brand. I could use a break from New York. Hopefully, boosters step in or a sponsor jumps out, or a meal gets bought.

At the very least, swag will be accepted.

Sometimes, it's just nice to do something for friends. That paying it forward approach sometimes brings nice results.

It's my business if I'm doing this. If Sean goes with me, it's a much-needed getaway for father and son. If I go alone, well then it's a much-needed getaway for me.

Because a caged play-by-play announcer can only go so long without a game.

The Hammer and the three calls

 

Hank Aaron died today at the age of 86. This loss is monstrous for more than baseball.

Henry was an ambassador for the sport and civil rights.

He was also the epitome of grace and class.

And Hank Aaron -- "Hammerin' Hank" -- was a great baseball player. Like, GREAT. A legitimate use of the word "great."

I saw him hit home run number 715, which surpassed Babe Ruth, on Apr 8, 1974. I watched in the living room on our big color TV (my parents had an old black and white Zenith in their bedroom).

The game was on Monday Night Baseball on NBC with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek on the call. Milo Hamilton called the game on Braves radio while Vin Scully (who else?) called it on Dodgers radio.

The Gowdy call is hard to find. I came across it on a documentary, "Play By Play: A History of Sports Television" which aired on HBO in 1991. I recorded most of the play-by-play calls from that two-part series. It was the first time I had heard some of Scully's older calls, like the Don Larsen perfect game of 1956.

So, Gowdy's was included in a montage at the end of the broadcast (which you can tell because of the music running underneath it). I eventually edited all three calls together as a way of demonstrating different play-by-play styles.

A Google search for the Gowdy call reveals it's still difficult to find.

Today, with Aaron's passing, there are many who are nosing around looking for the Scully call and the Hamilton call. Both are easy to find.

Incidentally, the video used on Scully's call of Aaron is the NBC broadcast, minus Curt Gowdy's voice. Vin's is laid on top.

But the Gowdy call? Take a look at the number of stories, blogs, etc who have linked to or embedded an unsourced sound file of "Hank Aaron - 715th Home Run - three different calls."

For instance, go to the bottom of this 2019 story that ran on AL.com. Now, compare it to this one. It's the same file, right?

The same one I created and edited probably 20 plus years ago.

It gets used a lot and always uncredited. Such is life.

It makes me smile.

But, today, I'm sad. Hank was 86 and wasn't getting around well, but still seeing his passing struck as a huge loss.

We lost an icon. A true hero, actually. We lost youth and innocence. We hoped he'd still be at Cooperstown again for the induction ceremony.

We're a sadder game today. A sadder world.

An all-star every year from 1955-1975. An MVP and a world champion. The 755 home runs. His total bases were a still-record 6,856 and he still holds the RBI record at 2,297. They're astounding numbers that only slightly begin to tell the story of Hank Aaron.

Truly beloved everywhere, except for the number of neanderthals who sent death threats to him as he closed in on Ruth's record. Most can't even imagine the awful racism and hatred Aaron dealt with.

Plus the disgusting behavior of Bowie Kuhn, the baseball commissioner who is a stain on the gallery of the Baseball Hall of Fame with his inclusion. Aaron wanted to tie and break the record in Atlanta, in front of the home fans.

He then insisted that Aaron play on the road, where The Hammer tied the record, in Cincinnati.

Then, when Aaron did break the record, Kuhn was not in Atlanta, something Tony Kubek ripped him for on the NBC broadcast.

Aaron stayed above all of it. He always did.

While that magical night was remembered by Scully in his broadcast as a "marvelous moment," allow me to paraphrase those emotions.

"What a sad moment for baseball. What a sad moment for Atlanta and the state of Georgia. What a sad moment for the country and the world."

Rest well, Hammer. Thanks for everything.

I hate when I get like that

I flipped my lid this afternoon.

And it happened on the air.

And I absolutely detest it. It embarrasses me.

Oh, I don't mind being passionate. But I can feel this inner blushing going on (it's still going on).

The minute I saw the latest coaching hire in the NFL, I knew what would happen.

Sadly, it happened during my show and I snapped.

Why do we lack the ability to be better?

Yes, Eric Bieniemy of the Chiefs should get a head coaching gig if he wants one. No question.

But we need to stop further dividing people with the same rhetoric.

I'm sure my outburst was a result of holding things in all week. I've tried to stay above it. I've tried to ignore and not respond to anything.

I just tried to work but even that wasn't easy since my job today fell through.

"Be ready at 9 a.m.," I was told.

So, I was up early (earlier than I needed to be) and was sitting at the computer at 9:00.

Then 9:15 went by.

Then 9:20.

Then 9:30...9:45...and, finally, 9:55 before I said something.

Nobody was in the Zoom meeting.

Nobody bothered to tell me the job had been canceled.

So, don't get me wrong, the balance of the day was great, but I was clearly pent up.

Or maybe I was mad at my horse for coming in fourth last night in West Virginia.

Nah, not really. Despite finding my inner Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady, saying, "Come on, Dover!" I really enjoyed watching Carter's Run. Yeah, he came in fourth and I joked about sending him to the glue factory, but I actually got a huge thrill watching the big chestnut run.

Go get 'em next time.

I suggested to someone that I shouldn't do a talk show anymore and that was quickly rebuffed.

So I'll go get 'em next time as well, feeling wounded like I just came in last in the race.

Which I probably did.

The long goodbye began

 

It's Jan 20.

And I'm not talking about this day for that.

No, I'm talking about last Jan 20.

But, I need to go back to Dec 11, 2017, first.

In short: I was at Greenwich to call Stamford/Greenwich basketball. The game is a blur but I remember clearly that my mother went to the hospital. She told me to call the game and meet her and my sister later.

As I drove home, I reached my sister to find out mom hadn't even been seen yet, so I raced to Putnam Hospital Center. 

"Well, Nancy," I said to her. "This is another fine mess you've gotten us into," echoing Laurel and Hardy of many years ago. It was humor that has always sustained us.

We spent a long night there until they finally admitted her. Laura and I each groggily went home.

She was home in time for Christmas when she began to feel off again. Despite my telling her to go to the hospital, she refused, only to wake me around 3:00 the next morning to tell me to take her back to the hospital.

This is all part of when we discovered her kidneys were done and she'd need to begin dialysis. By early 2018, she was going to the Davita Celia Dill Dialysis Center three days a week. She eventually regained the strength to drive herself, and we all carried on.

Until Jan 20, 2020.

Sean was here as he was off from high school for MLK Day. I recorded a podcast early that day for Hunt Scanlon and Mom decided she wasn't up to going to dialysis. Now, if you don't know, it's not ideal to skip a treatment, but adjustments can be made. She'd need to get in Tuesday, no matter what. She declined my offer to drive her to the center, just preferring to let whatever it was run its course.

It was getting close to 3:00 and I needed to leave for Greenwich, as I was supposed to call Millbrook and Brunswick in hockey. I said goodbye and left Sean with strict instructions to keep in touch with me.

But I knew better. I stepped to the living room and sat on a chair for a moment.

"Is your father still here?" I heard Mom say down the hall.

"She's asking for you," Sean said.

She decided she needed to go to the hospital. I prepared to drive her but we realized that she was too weak to go down any of the stairs in the house. She didn't like the idea of being carried down to the car.

I did something I've never done: I called an ambulance.

They soon arrived and got her out.

Poor Sean had never seen such a thing and, now, here was his grandmother (he's really blessed with great grandparents, only missing out on my dad, and is close to all of them) being carried out to an ambulance.

He and I followed a few minutes behind.

Laura soon joined us at Putnam Hospital Center, where I joked that Mom should be on a rewards program for her frequent visits.

There was just a bad feeling that this was the beginning of the end.

While I argued with myself about the hockey game (I've told you about how my parents raised me to honor commitments), Joe Early was quick to douse that flame. I worried about leaving them in a lurch at the last minute, but he was resolute.

"It doesn't need to be said, but I will," he texted me. "DO NOT BE AT BRUNSWICK TONIGHT."

Any pressure I felt was gone, even if Mom felt I could go and come back to the hospital. I glanced at my phone once to see that the broadcast carried on announcerless.

She would be admitted to Putnam once again. Then she'd go to Vassar in Poughkeepsie where she was supposed to have surgery. 

There was one Saturday night when I called basketball at Brunswick and drove to Vassar to see her. Laura and Stephanie were both there. We went to a Buffalo Wild Wings a few minutes down the road where the three of us had a quiet dinner as we were all exhausted.

"Take my picture," she told me.
Vassar Hosptial, 1/23/20

The surgery never happened and it was recommended that she go to a nursing home.

Between her heart surgery in 2013, the 2017-2018 kidney issues, and now the weakness that she had built up that needed to be addressed on Jan 20, 2020, she had seen more than her share of healthcare facilities and dealt with a ridiculous amount of non-answers.

Now, she was faced with going to a nursing home to rebuild her strength, as she couldn't walk.

She first tried a place called Putnam Ridge, near Brewster. Laura drove her there (Laura, my niece Stephanie, and I were the first three on chauffeur duty).

The next morning, I was awakened by a text that said, in short, if someone didn't come to pick her up, she would call a taxi.

I was closest, so I put myself together and went to Putnam Ridge. I made my way to her room.

Putnam Ridge, 1/30/20

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

"Good," I countered. "We're on the same page."

My exasperation was over her inability to not even make it 24 hours. I felt she hadn't given it a fair chance. Plus there were times where it was frustrating for all of us -- including her.

I got her out of there, painting on my best smile to make the best of it for all involved (the staff was kind but it was so awkward). We drove to a few places to pick up any needs and I got her home. Then I basically pushed her up the stairs.

She got around the house using a walker, and the stairs were extremely difficult to get her to dialysis, but we got it done.

I shopped and tried to make some food for her, but her dietary needs weren't going to be helped by me. By that Sunday, she admitted she was ready to try another nursing home. She said she was going, ostensibly, for the food, but she was going because she needed help.

She slept a lot on that day, which happened to be Super Bowl Sunday. We had been invited to a party at my cousin's house, but she wasn't up to going and, ultimately, I couldn't leave her. I didn't feel right doing so.

My sister worked the phones, along with one of her doctors, and she was ready to check in to Waterview in Purdy's, NY. I took her to dialysis that morning, picked her up when she was done, and checked her in.

More details of all of this can be written some other time, but I'll long remember how check-in just felt...weird, going to this back door and her quickly being whisked into a room in a place whose decor made us feel like the celluloid version of The Shining.

I mean, really. Where's the Big Wheel?

She'd be there for over a month and, honestly, we wondered if she'd ever come home again. I'd visit her as many times as possible, but some of those visits just consisted of watching Jeopardy and her looking tired and maybe even resigned. It was very concerning. She resisted doing the physical therapy she was there for and was overall miserable. 

"All work and no play makes Rob..."
This is pre-lockdowns, etc. Waterview had concerns about
the flu, so they asked me to wear a mask. Mom wasn't amused (2/4/20).

She left, happily, on March 10. As you can figure out from the timeline, it was good to get her out of there, as the world was rapidly changing. I couldn't help her pack or even visit her room because of something called a "coronavirus." As I waited for her to be wheeled out, the Connecticut media was announcing the halting of all high school sports.

Perhaps I'll get into a closer breakdown of my own events leading up to March 10 some other time.

Again, we made stops and got home. This was the first time she got to try out her newly-installed chair lift.

I went and did "The Clubhouse" the next night and called lacrosse from the Local Live studio the following day.

By then, the world knew of Rudy Gobert and COVID-19 had stopped us in our tracks. Basically, I was my mother's caregiver for the next six months. That's not to take anything away from anyone else, but I was the closest to her in terms of distance.

Those were the last six months of her life.

So, I find myself remembering where we were just one year ago today. 

I remember how things changed quickly.

I remember how the train of this roller coaster left the station and the events leading up to it.

I remember a lot -- from pizza in the parking lot for social distancing to getting her wherever I could with the concern that it was "the last time."

How Sean and I took her to Pennsylvania to go to Waffle House and just have a frivolous (but safe) day and how my gut told me to swing by Butler, NJ on the way home.

"Hey," I said to her. "Do you want to show your grandson where you lived as a kid?"

I've rarely made a smarter move. My gut told me it would be the last time.

It's for these reasons that, while not trying to alarm, I'd warn people to see her or keep in touch with her. Of course, COVID made seeing her very difficult. It's why I felt such gratitude for getting her to my niece's wedding in August. I kept stressing that everyone enjoy it. At the time, I felt like a jerk. Now, I realize my instinct was right.

And, yet, it felt like this stubborn bird would keep flying. I didn't think she'd land quite so soon.

But, we all know what happened. She used up every last ounce of what she had left from March until the morning of September 4, when her heart finally gave out.

It's hard to say when the end really began. Was it the dialysis of 2018?

Or was it one year ago today: Jan 20, 2020.

We'll never know and it doesn't really matter.

Trent and Allie

Trent and Allie (all pictures found online courtesy of their YouTube page)

From time to time, I've tried to find more positivity and relay that to you.

So, allow me to introduce you to two friends.

Well, wait. No. I've never met them. I literally didn't know they existed until a few days ago. But, now, after watching several of their videos on YouTube, I can't help but feel a hint of friendship.

It started because of something I was reading in one of my road groups. A post there said to look up Trent and Allie about their adventures on the Pan American Highway. Soon, I was watching their videos and getting to know this newlywed couple.

Trent and Allie are a couple of 30(ish)-somethings who abandoned their corporate life to embrace LIFE! They tricked out two different vans and began traveling.

Showing some entrepreneurial moxie, the duo found sponsors for their videos, sell merchandise, and built a steady following that numbers at 365,000 when I joined them on Sunday.

Their travel adventures intrigued me. Go to the very bottom of South America? Bounce around Italy, including a case of pink eye for Allie? Build their own house in Utah?

Get engaged on camera at Mayan ruins in Guatemala? Bike riding in Jackson, WY?

Abandon their van in South America due to the pandemic?

Get it back and find it ransacked?

Yes to all!

Go visit Boston and not realize they have tall buildings (well, Trent didn't realize it)?

Go to...wait for it...the Hudson Valley (Beacon, just down the road from Dutchess Stadium), and have a crazy blogger/broadcaster/whatever the heck I am, recognize where they were?

Of course!

No, seriously, they needed propane for the van while they were staying in Beacon, NY. They called around looking for what they needed on a Sunday, only to be told that one place could help them out. They said it was a half-hour away. So, as I watched the video, I saw them on Interstate 84 in Fishkill with the Gap warehouse in the background.

Climbing I-84 with the Gap in the background in Fishkill

(You might not recognize it. But, remember, I'm nuts. Oh, and I live a half-hour away in a different direction.)

Anyway, they filmed as they turned off a very New York-looking road into a parking lot with an Acme grocery store and a True Value hardware store. My brain began to twist...Pawling? No. Brewster? No. It's definitely not the Acme in Mahopac. How about Fishkill?...close...East Fishkill...HOPEWELL JCT ON NY ROUTE 82?!?!

NY Route 82 in Hopewell Jct, NY

BINGO! It was the William Tell True Value Hardware store that Sean and I have driven by many times. I've also shopped in that Acme when it was an A&P.

Sean's other home isn't too far from there. Oh, and the bank-looking building in that screenshot? That's Tompkins...MAHOPAC Bank. Yep. 

They also hiked to the top of Mount Beacon and visited the fire tower that I chickened out of going to the top of. They also did a good video walking around New York City.

OK, I'm babbling. So, what attracted me to these two, given that my days of mountain biking and hiking are long over, and I've never really been interested in going to South America?

It's them. They dealt with the pandemic (yes, we all have). They dealt with all kinds of issues in all kinds of situations. And, while there might be bad stuff that happens off-camera, they have such a great attitude. They clearly adore each other (Hi. I'm Rob and I'm a hopeless romantic.)

Dammit. In such a brutal time, Trent and Allie are just upbeat, positive people. Maybe it's nifty editing that keeps the real story from coming out. Maybe I'm just not going to question it.

I love -- love, love, love -- what they're doing. I don't think it's for me (well, I think some of it is) but it's entertaining. Even now, as they're building their house, I can't help wondering what's next?

Yes, they have to put sponsor mentions into the videos (if I haven't mentioned it before, #ItsABusiness) and there are a lot of ads pop up on YouTube, but I find the payoff worth it. I've bounced around and have picked different things to watch to learn about them.

They're funny and charming and seemingly decent people.

Maybe I'm being naive, but it's quite charming.

Oh, and I haven't even mentioned Frank, their trusty travel companion dog.

I admire people who can stay fairly calm despite everything. I admire a couple who clearly works together.

I like what they're doing and while I might not watch every minute of what they've already produced, they've intrigued me to keep checking them out.

If you love to travel and love adventures and laughs and everything that goes into it, then give Trent and Allie a try and support what they're doing. I really think you'll enjoy it. 

Who knows? Maybe one of these days I'll interview them for a radio/podcast spot.

They also have a website and they're on Instagram. If you wish to support them via Patreon, you can do that here.

In a week -- an era -- that has produced so much bad, I'm trying to throw some good your way.

Frivolous cat pictures

 

Like you, I'm ready to move forward.

Given my life doesn't really allow me to avoid social media (with the whole "having to keep up with the world" thing), I can try to lay low this week.

But, I know the truth.

I just want to get through the inauguration. Be done with whatever this was.

I don't care at this point, so long as we begin to unite again.

The point of this post is literally a couple of cat pictures. While it might seem lazy, I'm doing it because I just finished a day of podcasts and other audio projects (such as "Doubleheader"). I have to be up to start work at 6 a.m. tomorrow.

More than that, I want this post to be something positive in a time that isn't quite so happy-go-lucky.

I'm truly pleased that Rascal has become somewhat attached to me. I know that was the goal of those who pushed me to take him after Mom died last September. He has kept me company during the weeks when Sean isn't here.

He runs after me in the hallway when he thinks I might be going to bed. Generally, he spends most of the night curled up nearby.

He tends to sit in the office with me while I work.

He's started doing this thing where he cries to me before he tries to climb into the very office chair that I'm sitting in right now. Then there's a solid chance he will fall asleep or climb off to stand on a nearby table to seek more attention.

Sound asleep as I was trying to prepare for "Doubleheader" today

He made an appearance on the Facebook feed of "Doubleheader" today. He also decided that he needed to be a part of the most recent recording session for "The Owners' Box Horse Racing Podcast."

He was trying to reach for the audio wave as it went by on the screen.

Oh, we interviewed a jockey/MMA fighter named Chel-C Bailey for this week's show. It will hit probably tomorrow with an official release on Wednesday. Her answer on how she has been treated as a female jockey should be mandatory listening, and I admitted to her that I absolutely loved it. You'll have to listen to understand (found where fine podcasts are heard).

Anyway, quick aside...er...aside, this next picture cracked me up about Rascal, so named because 1) that's the mascot name for the Renegades and, sure, 2) he's a rascal. Now, the Renegades play baseball, correct?

That's his baseball. Really. He stole it from me one day when I was in the office. I'm guilty of often keeping a baseball nearby because it serves as a stress/thinking ball. 

So this baseball -- found at Brunswick, if I recall, just prior to the pandemic -- is now his. You'll occasionally hear him rolling it around.

What could be better suited for this house?

So as we hit this week, I hope a few pictures of a goofy cat named Rascal brings a smile to your face. 

If that doesn't work for you, then how about a mashup of Huey Lewis and the News and Metallica (and, by extension, Mariano Rivera)?

The art and the artist

 

Phil Spector and John Lennon

Phil Spector died today. He was 81. TMZ.com is reporting he died of COVID-19.

Phil Spector was a murderer. He murdered an actress named Lana Clarkson in 2003.

Phil Spector was a lousy husband. He was abusive. His ex-wife, the great Ronnie Spector, wrote on Facebook: "He was a brilliant producer, but a lousy husband. 

"Phil was not able to live and function outside of the recording studio. Darkness set in, many lives were damaged."

Phil Spector was a brilliant artist, serving as a writer and producer for a whole lot of great music, beginning with the Teddy Bears and their number-one hit "To Know Him Is to Love Him" in 1958.

Then came The Crystals.

Then came Darlene Love.

Then came The Ronnettes.

Then came The Righteous Brothers.

Then came Ike and Tina Turner.

And then he retired, walking away after the mindblowing "River Deep -- Mountain High" by Ike and Tina in 1966.

He was just 27.

Then he was back.

Then he was brought to England by Allen Klein, then managing (or destroying -- my own $.02) The Beatles.

Spector won a few and lost some others. He produced "Instant Karma!" for John Lennon but hacked Let It Be -- the album originally called Get Back that The Beatles had abandoned. Paul McCartney thought it was so bad that he revived it over 30 years later as Let It Be... Naked, scraping out what some thought was overwrought strings and production elements that Spector added.

For what it's worth, the power of The Beatles' music means both products stand up just fine, including "The Long and Winding Road" which McCartney was so furious about in its 1970 release.

Spector was also the producer for efforts by George Harrison and John Lennon throughout the 1970s. Needless to say, McCartney never worked with Spector (Macca had no knowledge of what Spector did to Let It Be until the album was finished).

Lana Clarkson

But, it bears repeating: Phil Spector murdered Lana Clarkson in 2003.

And there's the problem. The art and the artist can sometimes be two different things. History is loaded with these sometimes awful human beings who make remarkable creations. I remember as the #MeToo movement began to build, I found myself wondering if I could ever watch things like Pulp Fiction again, given things that were being said about Quentin Tarantino? What about anything with Kevin Spacey?

So, today, as news of Phil Spector's death broke, I wondered if it was OK to listen to "Then He Kissed Me" or "Da Doo Ron Ron" or "Be My Baby" (whoa oh oh oh) or "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'?"

Obviously, I'm not going to burn any of my Beatles items (including the solo releases) just because Spector was involved. I'm still going to enjoy "What is Life" and "Bangla Desh" and "Imagine."

Even The Ramones doing "Rock 'n' Roll High School" and "Baby I Love You."

There's a whole lot of brilliance in there, in which the producer -- Sam Phillips, Sir George Martin, Spector, Rick Rubin, Barry Gordy, Niles Rodgers, Trevor Horn -- are an extension of the music. In some cases, it's hard to separate the people making the music without thinking of the producer, and Spector's "Wall of Sound" is a primary example.

I'm not grieving Phil Spector's death.

I'm not sad.

He was a monster.

Anyone praising Phil Spector's work today isn't wrong. A legacy can be complicated.

But, it bears repeating: Phil Spector murdered Lana Clarkson in 2003.

His life ended in prison for that crime.

That is the final piece of that legacy.

That is the conundrum that is faced.

Allow me to introduce myself. Or not

 

The play-by-play group on Facebook has a rule about self-promotion.

Unfortunately, it's not entirely clear what it means and is a constant source of irritation for the admins (including me).

The point is that if you promote something, try to contribute something more to the group. At least, that's how it's written. I've tried to tweak it some but, honestly, nobody pays attention. 

So it continues to be a point of debate.

We've had a ton of talk show hosts and podcast hosts who think a play-by-play group is the place to put their shows.

Bzzzzzzt. No.

I could promote "Doubleheader" and "The Clubhouse" and podcasts and this here ol' blog along with a lot of games. I promote none of it.

I see no point. This isn't the market.

Look, I do my share of self-promotion but that's why I have personal accounts on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and even Snapchat. I have a Tik Tok account but I never use it (and, truthfully, I almost never use Snapchat). I also have Robcasting and WGCH accounts on Facebook and Twitter.

These are the places to promote away. I can also promote some on my talks shows and, of course, right here.

To be honest, I'm not really comfortable promoting but I know I have to sometimes. Still, I do it in what I think are the proper avenues.

What member of a play-by-play group cares about what I'm doing? OK, those who are my friends in that group care but, guess what, they're probably my social media friends already!

I have virtually no interest in listening/watching to Random Lake play Oostburg (yes, those are apparently real places in Wisconsin). However, I've also said I don't listen to many other broadcasts because I consume it differently than the average fan. I turn into a broadcast critic.

So I listen to Mike Hirn and other friends occasionally. Or I'll listen to something that gets sent my way. Mike sent me a basketball game that he wanted me to listen to earlier tonight.

The goal of cleaning up self-promotion is to keep the page clean. I'd rather see discussions about Joe Buck (with honest and fair criticism) or other broadcasting styles that are -- hmmm -- "zany."

There are far more effective ways that we can have conversations on there.

A member presented an idea that posting broadcasts allows the broadcaster to be heard by potential "talent scouts." I'll only say I politely disagree with that take.

If I want "scouts" to hear my work, I think they should hear sample reels. It's a lovely fantasy to believe in being "discovered" but what if that "scout" (I'm laughing every time I type that word) catches you on a bad night?

We literally have members who do a promotional post to every game they broadcast. We're not talking Dodgers/Giants here. Again, I don't get it.

That's the other thing: we have professional broadcasters. Like, major league types are in the group. How about they post a link to all 162 baseball games they call?

We're trying. Mike, Shawn, me. We deal with the talk show hosts and the malcontents (most of that has calmed down*) and a barrage of pictures of their broadcast booths (can that be called #boothporn?) We deal with the egos and some days it...is...all...exhausting.

We remind ourselves that we can't try to win every battle. We also try to stay above the fray.

*Oh, one malcontent actually tried to give me a tongue-lashing to explain Vin Scully. Yes. Really. I stood in the Tops grocery store in Carmel, NY after dropping Mom off at dialysis last summer and was actually stunned as I read the comment. Eventually, he said something stupid enough to leave the group or get thrown out. I don't recall now.

The sleepy Friday

The alarm went off at 4:30 a.m. This, of course, after another so-so night of sleep.

After breakfast, a shower, and dressing enough to look good for my brief foray on camera, I made my way into the home office by 5:30 to start work.

Business on the top.

Comfort on the bottom.

Part one of the workday was done by 2 p.m., giving me a break to get ready for "Doubleheader." I promised to be calmer and I was, mocking myself by playing "zen" style music during the show.

Yes, I'm the butt of my own joke.

Sean showed up shortly after 5 p.m. to the delight of both father and cat. Dinner arrived shortly after.

Throughout the day, I plotted some five podcasting recording sessions (might have been more but it definitely wasn't less).

Over the past few days, I've cleaned out old paperwork, paid bills, and tried to keep matriculating the ball down the field.

Such things are cathartic.

But, now, I've hit the wall. Until just a few minutes ago, I had not the first idea what to write about.

I put the TV on. I stuck with the trusty Weather Channel for a while, then went to the Ken Jennings-hosted "Jeopardy"* before wandering through a little bit of a TV wasteland.

*I know there will be other guest hosts, but I've liked Jennings. He has the right personality to host it permanently. For what it's worth, my mother's maiden name? Jennings.

These two. Messrs. Gehrig and Ruth

But, just after 8 p.m., as I was feeling like I might fall asleep and leave our little "Project Infinity" to come to a close, I saw that an episode of Ken Burns's Baseball was on.

It's actually quite flawed. Oh, sure, mistakes get made. It happens. But, by some counts, Burns' nine and, eventually, ten-part docuseries is packed with errors.

And I'm still sitting here loving it. It's the comfort food equivalent at the concession stand of television.

If there was a course I could teach -- besides play-by-play application and history, of course -- it would probably be something on baseball history.

The episode that is on tonight is the one on the 1920s.

You can probably guess that this one is a favorite.

Babe Ruth is the big star of this one.

Maybe I've said it and maybe I haven't but, in truth, I would have loved Ruth but he wouldn't have been my favorite had I been alive at the time. There's very little doubt -- virtually none -- that I would have been a Lou Gehrig guy.

Don't get me wrong. I loved Jeter and Bernie and the stars of the 90s but I was a Paul O'Neill guy. He was the grunt. He was the heart and soul.

Gehrig played hard, avoided the spotlight, and was an all-time great.

I can wax poetic about George Herman, of course. The Babe of Baltimore outhomered full teams, changed the game, was the best left-handed pitcher of the 1910s, and so on. He was truly the GOAT and nobody will ever change my mind about that.

It's a debate not worth having with me. I'll hear your Willie Mays, Barry Bonds, Mike Trout, Ty Cobb thoughts. I'll hear your "Ruth didn't face this one or that one" argument.

And then I'll respond. I'll tell you that greatness overcomes all. Ruth would have been Ruth regardless. It's an opinion. It's all conjecture.

You won't agree with it or like it.

So we can agree to disagree.

Oh, and he had a little ol' ballpark built for him.

Literally.

The New York Giants wouldn't have thrown the Yankees out of the Polo Grounds had it not been for Ruth, who was now causing the lesser thought-of American League squad to outdraw the true home team of the established National League.

Anyway, I can drone on about Ruth, and I can feel the readers getting more bored with each word.

Some call the Burns effort "pretentious." I get it, but I love the sepia-toned feel with interviews from all over the baseball landscape of the time.

I watched every minute of it when it debuted on PBS in 1994. I bought it on VHS when it came out (I still have it).

It hits me in the right place.

Factual errors and all.

The maddening inconsistency of it all

Yeah...about that...

 I went off today.

Like, head-spinning theatrics.

And, like a tornado, everyone and everything was in my path.

I'm really happy for Connecticut that high school sports (specifically, CIAC member schools) can get going again. Selfishly, I hope I get to call basketball and ice hockey and whatever else.

But it won't include wrestling, because that's still high risk.

Competitive dancing and competitive cheerleading are also out.

The promised "alternative season" that we all knew wasn't going to happen also got yanked, meaning no football, once and for all.

And, well, that's where I snapped.

I still don't understand what makes either hockey or basketball -- sports that I love and can't wait to call (in case I didn't make that clear) -- any less of a risk than football, which is played outside, for what it's worth.

I just want everyone to play.

And none of this stuff makes sense to me.

And now I sit here feeling like I just waste my breath. 

I don't play "the game." For whatever it's worth, I never have. I don't need to be the popular kid in the room.

But you sure as hell better believe I'll be the honest one in the room with my integrity keeping me company, even if we're alone.

So, while picking my battles, I chose this one today. In my defense of Tony Morello and James Rinello and Greenwich and Darien and Stamford and Ludlowe and Ridgefield and Warde and New Canaan and on and on and one, I snapped.

This one was for Amistad, whose athletes won't be playing any sports -- regardless of sport. Same with any other school that does the same.

This one was for the athletes who felt betrayed in March...and then in August...and now again in January.

This one was for all of the supporters, from the coach opening the weight room before dawn to the players who have been waiting...and waiting...and waiting for the rink to open.

Was it my finest hour? Definitely not. I pissed people off (no doubt, and nothing new there) and probably looked like a raving maniac in the process.

But it was bubbling under the skin all afternoon, as I listened to the press conference. And I was on-board until I heard the alternate season piece.

Then? Well, that's what this post is about.

I couldn't listen to the fawning on the call anymore.

The gag reflex began to trouble me.

My blood pressure began to rise.

And I had roughly 3.5 hours to burn my way back to the home studio.

And then?

Boom.

So, as I said at the end of the show, I'm here for anyone to talk to. I'm approachable.

I'm passionate. That's for sure. But I'm also fairly reasonable.

But I feel terrible for the athletes of Connecticut, many of whom got a raw deal.

Don't even get me started on New York.

It's too crowded, except when it's not

Photo: Sports Illustrated

 

If I was being honest, I don't love crowds.

So, in truth, games with no fans haven't really been the big trauma that others make it out to be.

Oh, it's been weird and bad for business and on and on. No question.

And, to be quite clear, we need fans in the stands to operate (again: it's a business).

But I don't miss standing on line for a restroom/hot dog/to get in/to get out. I don't miss being shoulder-to-shoulder trying to decide if I really need that stuffed Aaron Judge chew toy for Rascal to whack around the house.

I don't miss some idiot screaming about how "duh Yankees wuz a better team back in duh olden dayz when dey had duh Mick."

I don't miss the fan who tells me how McCartney was at his best with "Drive My Car." From, you know, Revolver. As opposed to Rubber Soul.

And I sure don't miss the concert bosses who tell you this is how you must behave at THEIR show.

But, if there's one thing I truly, truly, truly miss it's the roar of the crowd.

Call it "The Vin Scully Factor." Young Vinny, growing up in Washington Heights in Manhattan, loved the sound of crowd noise cascading out of the large radio in his home.

Well, that's exactly what I miss.

You probably know James Harden became a member of the Brooklyn Nets tonight. The Nets have tried to have these moments of relevance, going back to Dr. J (when they were still in the ABA) or Jason Kidd or Paul Pierce. They've been to the NBA Finals and even then it didn't quite feel like a big deal. It seemed sort of ... nice.

So I think, when Harden first steps on the floor at the Barclay's Center, we will be missing out. It could have been a New York Moment (capitalized for emphasis).

Not an event but an EVENT. A New York -- A Brooklyn -- thing.

I can picture celebrity row with Jay-Z and Beyonce holding court, of course, as the first family of Nets basketball.

I can hear the PA (wishing it was my friend, former Nets PA man Rick Zolzer), "At guard...

But he's already been overtaken by a wave of noise. A tsunami, even.

"From Arizona State, number 13, Jaaaaaaaaaaammmeeees HAAARRRRRRRRRRRR-DEnnnnnnnnnn!"

Then Harden would shoot...

And shoot...

And shoot...

And Kevin Durant would hope for a few touches as well (oh that ego struggle will be fun to watch)...

And Harden would keep shooting...

And Brooklyn would love it. The place would go nuts

The YES Network would love it (Ian Eagle on the call, please, with the outstanding Sarah Kustok).

The city would love it.

The billboards would start going up around town.

Soon, Harden would be throwing out the first pitch at Yankee Stadium and/or Citi Field.

He'd be spotted at the Garden watching the Rangers.

And it would be a thing. Heck, a thang!

Much of this can still happen, of course, but this is where it feels different.

For a moment, hearing the crowd would be glorious, because that's when it's at it's best.

It's not when the preening "Super Fan" (Mick: Think "Marlboro Man") or Fireman Ed or any other Annie Wilkes ("I'm your number one fan!") type.

That's when you forget about all of the nuisances of the big crowd. Because, in that moment, you actually become a community -- high-fiving complete strangers because Harden or Patrick Ewing or Tino Martinez or Mark Messier has brought you out of your seat (assuming you were sitting) in a cathartic moment.

Martinez' Game 1 grand slam. Scott Brosius homering to tie Game 5. Moments like that.

That's when it's actually not so annoying, as you're singing "(Theme From) New York, New York" as you're walking to the subway or your car with 55,000 of your new closest friends, and that one fan of the other team who wishes to remain invisible.

I like the crowd when I can watch it. Better yet, when I can listen to it.

That's exactly what I'm looking forward to when I'm settled in my booth at Dutchess Stadium.

Give me that. All of that. Give me then on the edge of their seats when "The 'K Man'" from the other team is at the plate, and free pizza is on the line.

And that's why my TV would have been locked in on James Harden and the Nets when he made his Brooklyn debut.

Instead, it's anti-climatic.