Historic voices

 

Sean Ford and me calling the Gades and the Oneonta Tigers,
Dutchess Stadium, Aug 17, 2008 (Nancy Adams photo)

It's taken a year but I've finally begun to do the things I wanted to do for the Renegades' broadcasts.

We still have to figure out other details but one thing I had thought about was connecting with each of the lead broadcasters in the history of the team.

I figured I had a unique perspective, given I've been going to Gades games since they arrived in 1994 and had broadcast the team off and on since 2001.

But...was I sure of who those voices were? I knew some even though I'd never met them. I knew enough from my own brain. My own memories.

And, of course, my own experiences.

I thought it would be nice to pull together an archive of audio samples. Perhaps I could blend them together as part of the opening of the broadcasts. I wasn't sure exactly where this could go.

Most of all, I wanted to unite all of us as a group of people who had this unique opportunity, beginning in 1994. I wanted to write the story.

First up was the original team broadcaster, Bill Rogan, whom I connected with via social media yesterday. He quickly accepted my request and we chatted a bit online. By the end of last night, I had two calls from Bill and maybe more to follow. Bill was with the team from 1994-1998.

Rick Schultz was with Bill before Rick took over the lead role in 1999 as the Gades marched to their first NY-Penn League championship. Rick, as we speak, is pulling that call together to send to me.

By 2000, Sean Ford was in the driver's seat. I know Sean very well and we remain good friends who don't talk to each other nearly enough. He'll be hearing from me soon. Sean was first with the team in 1999. By 2001 he met this strange guy who would officially get his turn as lead broadcaster 20 years later.

Even if Sean doesn't send me anything (and I know he will) I also know I have a few calls of his in my own collection.

Sean, Harold, and I marched up to Massachusetts for a weekend that included calling the Gades at Fenway Park and the following day in Lowell. 

Geoff Brault followed when Sean didn't come back after 2008. Geoff welcomed me into the booth several times during the 2009 season. We've remained in touch ever since. I'm certain I have some audio of him but I also suspect he'll send me a few highlights. Geoff remains an outstanding broadcaster working at Marist College.

Geoff and I had a fun-filled experience at Aberdeen, MD that included losing power thanks to a mammoth thunderstorm. The IronBrids brought in generators to light the booth and restrooms for the night.

My memories of 2010 are vague but I remember working two games with Nick Gagalis, while Gary Ayd ran the show back in the studio. If my memory is decent, Gary joined Nick at Dutchess Stadium while Nick traveled to the road games. I've remained in contact with each of them. I remember calling one game with Nick on Staten Island and the next day at Brooklyn where we had to pass a phone to each other to call the game.

I was going to join for a few games in 2011 with new broadcaster Jacob Wilkins but it just seemed like we couldn't get the timing right. It also felt like I was an old guy standing in the way. This is when it occurred to me that maybe my time was done. For his part, Jacob moved on to prominence, including as an update reporter on WFAN and Sirius XM, where I would frequently hear him. Now he's with the Binghamton Rumble Ponies. We connected on Twitter last night.

Ben Gellman-Chomsky was with the Gades in 2012. He was the first to message me about this and said he'd look for some audio. 

Gregg Caserta followed in 2013. He has stayed active with the Reading Fightin' Phils (one of my favorite ballparks) and we also connected on Twitter so I'm hopeful for some highlights from him.

The 2014 name -- one that I initially struggled to come with -- with Chris Marasco, but I found him on LinkedIn and he graciously accepted my request to connect. I'm also hopeful he'll find a few highlights.

I'm fortunate to know the 2015 broadcaster, JJ Duke, who was in the Greenwich High football booth with Sean Kilkelly for one of the years that I was at HAN. He's going to pull some audio together and send it to me.

And that leads me to the last lead broadcaster, Josh Caray. Josh called the Gades from 2016 until the end of the 2019 season. He's a text away and I should be able to get something, even if I look in my own files. When Josh needed a weekend off, I got a call asking me to step in for him.

That was where the door reopened for me. When Josh announced he was leaving to join the Rocket City Trash Pandas, I texted him to see if he'd be around for that whole season. As he was, I wished him well and said I hoped to see him at the ballpark. Then fate came my way, I auditioned live on the air, and we're now 41 days away from the home opener.

The important thing is to get each person's voice represented somehow. Each one of them deserves to be recognized. Teams remember their players and managers and executives. As a passionate sports broadcasting historian, I felt this was a small thing I could do to honor the legacy of the Renegades and the voices who reported on all of those games prior to 2020.

I will then begin to write the next chapter in the extraordinary story of the Hudson Valley Renegades.

Part I was the Texas Rangers era (1994-1995).

Part II was the Tampa Bay Devil Rays/Tampa Bay Rays era (1996-2000).

Part III is the New York Yankees era, which begins officially on May 4.

From Bill Rogan through me, these are the voices who have brought you the action. While I'm not new, I still look forward to putting my mark on this story.

I'm making more of it than I should

I'll always be proud of co-hosting the 2019 Greenwich Town Party with Sean

*I had hoped to be on the air today but the job I started at 6 a.m. didn't finish until well past 4:30 this afternoon, so no "Doubleheader" today.

It was a Sunday morning in 1997 and my radio future was sketchy.

I had dabbled -- that's the word -- in broadcasting since 1990, going from Majic 105 as weekend overnight DJ to a stretch where there would be nibbles but no bites to joining WREF in Ridgefield.

WREF came along at the perfect time as my corporate job at Kraft Foods was being moved to Chicago. The thing was, I could go to Chicago but Kraft wasn't going to pay for relocation for any of us. Obviously, that was a non-starter.

So getting to join WREF as a board-op and air talent was a blessing. At least, I thought so. I was a board-op for Ridgefield High School football and I was playing some music (mostly big bands and the like which I was quite comfortable with). I was given a Saturday morning shift. I even had a news anchor! Maybe I'd found a home.

Not so fast. The news anchor didn't show up a few weeks in. I eventually found out the station had been sold and we'd soon be out. WREF's studios would leave Ridgefield -- I turned out the lights as the host of the last air shift -- and it would be over.

I served as "Assistant General Manager" while the turnover took place. Meaning I answered phones and listened to the radio and tried to figure out if I wanted any of the equipment.

As for that last shift, it was a Sunday afternoon and I had some family in the studio when one of the guests told me today was my last day. Er...what? Sure enough, he went and bought a copy of The Ridgefield Press -- oh, the irony -- and there it was.

As I was speaking my farewell, the line cut out and it was over. All I could hear was static on the studio monitors.

But two friends at WREF -- Steve Goodwin and the late Luke Michaels -- told me it wasn't the end of the world. They would put in a good word at another station they work at. 

WGCH in Greenwich.

And so, as WREF was dismantling the studios on route 35, I was going to the building next to the Food Emporium grocery store on Dayton Ave.

It was Sunday, Mar 30, 1997. Twenty-four years ago today.

Steve trained me and I was to fill in for him the next Sunday.

I learned which reel-to-reel tapes went on the proper machines and the carts I was supposed to play and the intricacies of the board and the microphones and everything else. There would likely be no air time but I was in radio, at least for a few days.

I took that knowledge and did my best with it the following Sunday, having raced from New Jersey where I spent the night with my nephew Michael on a scout trip at Liberty Science Center. So, what I'm saying is, I was on little sleep as I flew -- yes, really -- on the Cross Bronx.

Eventually, I met the WGCH characters: Jim Thompson and Dima Joseph and Bob Small and others. Bob, no doubt, yelled at me for screwing something up. It was the first time but it wouldn't be the last and he found out eventually that I'll yell right back. That's why it works after all these years where we both know we want the best of what we do.

I'd meet more people as time went on. John Iannuzzi and Sean Kilkelly and Laura Smith along with salespeople (yes, we had them!) and ownership (the wonderful late John T. Becker) and management and sponsors and so on.

I thought maybe I'd be forgotten after the first shift and I sort of was Once again, I dabbled, as a last resort around WGCH when a board op was needed. Somehow I eventually got asked to run the controls for a football game (John Jay and Ossining) and I started hitting it off with the sports director, John Connelly. I did some more board op work and was allowed to do the halftime show. John liked what he heard and soon made me the pregame and postgame host. It was a role created for me in that I served as the person signing on and off of the broadcast, including all "throws" when we returned from commercial.

That meant I was on for hockey and basketball in the winter of 1988-99.

I became the go-to. Need a board-op? Sure! An engineer for a remote? Happy to do it! Come in on Christmas Eve for midnight mass? Why not?

I did a home improvement show and a golf show and other shows that I don't even remember. I hosted "The Trading Post," writing down the requests of listeners who wanted to sell whatever they had around the house.

On Jan 28, 1999, I did color on a hockey game between Trumbull and Greenwich. I had no business doing it but I had to fake it to make it. Then, on April 10, I called my first game: Port Chester and Greenwich baseball.

I'd found a home. 

That fall, I called Section 1 football on our then-sister station, WVIP in Mount Kisco. That's the very same station that I once won a contest on back in...gulp...1984. I knew who the first Monday Night Football game was between (Jets/Browns). I was listening in the car from White Plains all the way home and ran upstairs to call in. I won movie passes and I don't think I ever used them. I still have the audio of them talking about me.

John Connelly left WGCH in the summer of 2000 and I was soon tapped to take on the sports director role -- now part-time -- and call Greenwich football.

Things have changed a lot since then. Tony Savino joined the station a few years later. Other faces came and went and returned. We moved from Dayton Ave to Lewis St. Our old tower is gone. We're on FM now to go along with our AM signal.

I do a Friday morning sports chat with Tony Savino and "Doubleheader" and "The Clubhouse." I host occasional special events, such as the Greenwich Town Party. If it all works out, I'll be back on Greenwich football this fall for my 23rd season of being associated with them and 19th as...nope, not gonna call myself "The Voice"...lead broadcaster.

Oh, it's been a ride. I've slept on the floor of both Dayton Ave and Lewis St. I've literally been in both places at all hours. I've helped put it on the air and take it off. I've seen technical issues and wound up in crazy circumstances.

I've got stories I'll tell and others I might wait to tell. Statute of limitations and all.

I've covered election night and read the news and covered tragedies and breaking news and triumphs. I've interviewed many great people -- familiar and otherwise.

I've received countless kind words that are extremely humbling and have seen criticism that was hurtful and, sometimes, fair.

And so, perhaps I'll just copy this post and use it again next year when my 25th year comes to an end.
Shockingly, I try to do this without much fanfare. It's always been about the listeners and the extended community. I really don't like being the story.

I just try to keep WGCH and AM radio as relevant as I can.

There are no guarantees. I know that now more than ever. Things change and when the inevitable end comes for me I know I'll be grateful for a quarter of a century at WGCH.

Thank you, Greenwich, and beyond.

Onward, listeners!

To be clear...

(please note Rascal sleeping to the right)

OK, so we need to talk.

Things I wrote and/or tweeted didn't come across correctly, so let me try again.

Yesterday's post was meant to show understanding for the boys D1 FCIAC Hockey Championship at Dorothy Hamill Rink in Greenwich.

It was supposed to support Greenwich and New Canaan High Schools.

It was supposed to support the Greenwich Athletic Foundation and Birds Eye Sports and Local Live -- all of whom had a role in producing the broadcast.

It was supposed to be understanding of NCTV 78 and the broadcasters who wanted to be at Hamill Rink but couldn't.

It was supposed to be supportive of Hamill Rink itself, who has been hyper careful about crowds due to COVID protocols and who allowed New Canaan parents to attend the game.

That's where things went astray.

I was saying that I understood all of it.

Gus Lindine and Jay Egan -- the two ADs -- worked together on everything. The rink and Local Live, spearheaded by Kevin Devaney, Jr, came together on the broadcast.

Local Live has been great in working with broadcasting groups such as the Greenwich Athletic Foundation, DAF Media, and New Canaan. 

For what it's worth, guess who loses when that happens? Me because, most of the time, other broadcasters are used (save for the few times I've jumped on with DAF Media).

But I wasn't trying to portray any villains.

This is an unusual year and there simply wasn't room at Hamill for NCTV.

I was trying to let these young broadcasters know that I've been there. There have been games -- many games -- that I felt I should call, just as they're feeling.

I remember when Brewster High School represented Section 1 on a state championship run in 1999. I called a lot of Section 1 football that year...then couldn't do the final in Syracuse.

I remember when Mount Saint Mary College went into the playoffs in 2010. I was their broadcaster. Nope.

Greenwich played in a girls basketball state final. Nope.

HAN Network got boxed out of calling basketball at Mohegan Sun due to the NFHS Network in 2015. We were allowed to do hockey that year but weren't allowed back after that.

These are the ones off of the top of my head and there are others.

I chose my words carefully all night Saturday and the same goes for last night. I didn't even comment on the actual announcers for any of the games, including the basketball games.

But when the texts and emails and phone calls happen -- all very understanding, I must add -- I feel that I need to clarify.

Look, I love that I've called 51 FCIAC Championship Games.* I consider it a huge responsibility and an honor.

*I discovered my database had a mistake and I was off by one.

I've called probably more Greenwich athletic events than anyone since 1999, including 23 FCIAC Championships. I miss it. Can you blame me for wanting more?

But I should have stayed out of it or chose my words differently. Understood.

I tried to advocate, basically, for everyone. I was trying to sympathize.

Most of all, I'm always looking out for the athletes, coaches, and families.

Hopefully, that clears it up. Inquire within with questions and concerns.

Thirty-six days until the Gades open.

Paying it forward

 

Darien won the girls hockey FCIAC title back in 2016. I called it on HAN.

I finally got to watch the recent retrospective on Doc Emrick that NBC produced back in February.

Of course, it was great. It was about Doc.

One part that particularly stuck out to me was his relationship with Fort Wayne broadcasting legend Bob Chase. Doc did the same for broadcasters of all ages. He took the time to talk to them, listen to their audio, and critique.

Just as he counseled me for a few minutes on "The Clubhouse" late last year.

That leads me to a broadcaster named Austin Platt.

Austin wanted to be part of the call of yesterday's FCIAC D1 Championship Game between Greenwich and New Canaan, where he is a senior. New Canaan's TV 78 wasn't allowed to broadcast it as Greenwich was the home team.

Local Live distributed the game, produced by Birds Eye Sports. I believe the Greenwich Athletic Foundation was involved as well.

Local Live is the official broadcaster for the FCIAC semifinals and championship. In a "normal" year, I might have been under the headset for some of those games, at least in basketball. Maybe even girls hockey. I've been boxed out of the boys hockey final for a couple of years.

This, of course, is not a normal year.

So, as you've gathered, in full disclosure: I do work for Local Live. I've worked with Birds Eye as well. I've also worked with the Greenwich Athletic Foundation on football.

I bring this up because I know some -- not all, but some -- of the moving parts. However, I don't claim to have any inside knowledge on this.

Still, those in New Canaan were annoyed and all I can say is that I understand. It's an awful feeling to put your heart and soul into all of it and feel like you're out for one reason or another.

I'm pretty sure Jeff Alterman and the Trumbull Eagles Network (TEN) would have liked to call the Ridgefield/Trumbull FCIAC girls basketball title on Saturday night.

I've watched teams that I've covered -- Greenwich and other FCIAC teams as well as Brunswick and more -- have other outlets call the big game. I stewed when I tried to watch as they clearly didn't know the team like I did. Like it or not it was out of my control.

I've even offered to go call stuff on my dime. Smart? No, but it speaks to that desire to reach the finish line.

I wasn't thrilled to be sitting on the couch all weekend.

It's a hard lesson. A very hard lesson.

It's easy to feel that rage. You think -- you're certain -- you'll do a better job.

Austin Platt probably thought some of those things as well. But he didn't project that.

He tweeted a short thread: "It's a shame I couldn't call the FCIAC Championship today, but I really can't complain. For the last two years I have had the distinct pleasure and honor to call both @NCPuck and @NcGirlsPuck games, and find my niche in hockey. In just two years, the teams combined for 3 FCIAC Championships and countless moments I will always cherish, including the Shane Mettler 2OT winner last year and Grace Crowell's championship OT winner just a week ago I truly hope this is the start of something special for me, regardless of where I end up."

It's no fun to take that high road, but that is an incredibly wise attitude to have. It's also the right thing to do.

I stood right next to the NC crew last year as I called that OT winner by Shane Mettler on Local Live. As I was working with a raw voice, I saved everything for the call and kept to myself.

I'm not here tonight to say anything bad about anyone. The game was covered. That matters. I know Ben Talbott, Mike Morales, and Birds Eye always do good work. I like the Local Live crew and the Greenwich Athletic Foundation.

I have no doubt that Dylan Pescatore, Austin, and the NC crew would have done a fine job as well, just as Damian Andrew does in Darien.

And you better believe I would have done my best to call it had I been offered.

That's not how it played out.

I get the anger. I get the hurt feelings. We all want the ball. That's how it should be.

Kudos to Austin Platt for swallowing his pride and showing class in handling this situation. It will serve him well and I messaged him privately last night to tell him that.

I suppose that's where I'm coming back to Doc Emrick. Like Doc, Bob Chase, and anyone else, I love talking about this business. I love critiquing calls and teaching the business. I love teaching play-by-play (and I'll be doing that at CSB in a few weeks).

I'm a tough judge. I'm a protector of the play-by-play business, which often makes me look bad, I suppose. I have such little patience for what I see and hear lately.

But I love talking about it. That's the exact reason I teach. That's the exact reason I like being an admin in the Facebook group.

I was so happy when Spencer Pierce -- he of Greenwich now attending Syracuse -- asked me for some help with a project. He interviewed me for a few minutes today and I'm happy to be in touch with him and so many other broadcasters.

I'm nobody. I know that. I'm not Doc Emrick. But I believe in taking the knowledge that I've picked up and passing it on wherever I can. The only thing I ever ask is that they don't take my job.

That's a whole different problem.

And for those who think I'm tough on them, let me say there's a method to my madness. I want you to be better. That's the short answer.

When I talk with broadcasters who want to listen, I talk about attitude. Stop being entitled. Stay humble. Be gracious. Be ready for anything. Learn how to tell stories and describe (like on the radio where nobody can see the action). Don't exaggerate. Don't be a circus clown.

Prepare for the criticism and listen to it but decide if there's anything to it and move on.

Report. Describe. Give the score...a lot.

Grind. Make friends. Network. Don't burn bridges. Be open-minded.

Be passionate and, honestly, a little crazy (such as driving to a college to call a doubleheader, knowing you might spend the night in your car due to snow).

Austin seems to have that. So does Spencer.

They'll both go a long way.

There's no jinx

 

Fox Sports, 2013. Ogando soon lost the no-no

This is my third attempt to write a post tonight.

The first one was too vague and I didn't want to do that.

The second attempt was less vague. Nope, that didn't work.

The third attempt erased everything and went with a whole different topic.

The real topic involves broadcasting and contracts and bias and a lack of quality and the likelihood that my head might explode.

*****

Have I mentioned that broadcaster jinxes are utterly stupid?

The question was asked today on the play-by-play page on Facebook: "What is everyone's opinion on the broadcaster jinx when it comes to a no-hitter or perfect game?"

As usual the high and mighty got high and mighty. To them, there's only the right way (that is to say their way).

To me, there's what I do. That's what is right for me.

When it comes to no-hitters (and perfect games), I follow the lead of my idol, Mr. Scully. I call it as I see it.

I believe in reporting what I see. If there's a no-hitter, it's my responsibility. Your mileage may vary.

This does not mean I'm right.

Now there's a certain nuance to this. I have to report it. That's my job. But I'd prefer to do it while out of earshot of the players I'm covering.

Still, this topic once led to a lengthy discussion between me, Jake Zimmer, Dan Gardella, and Shawn Sailer. We were in Trumbull, CT calling the 2017 Babe Ruth New England Regional Tournament. Jake, by his own admission, would have once avoided saying what was going on.

In fact, he said so today.

"I always believed in the jinx," he wrote. "Rob Adams, who’s mentored me for years, convinced me otherwise. It admittedly took a while."

Thanks for the kind words, Jake. I hate the whole jinx thing but many -- led by Vin Scully -- have taught me well. Of course, Vin called 23 no-nos and perfectos and always said those magic words.

But I've also listened to and watched countless others.

We have no impact. None. Zip. Zero.

But...the other side will tell you we do.

I can tell you about Rob Futia, an outstanding Greenwich Cardinal from years ago. Rob was a very good free show shooter and I noted that on the air.

I explained that he had hit 51 in a row (I think that was it).

And then?

He missed the next one.

His mother was not amused and walked straight across the floor after the game to me.

I laughed. Awkwardly. 

She did not.

When I talked to Rob Futia about it, his reaction was typical for him.

"You didn't jinx me," he said. "I should have made it."

And that's the thing. We don't have a say. If we did, wouldn't we make the team we work for win a lot more? That's good for our wallets.

Anyway, there's no jinx. At least in my opinion.

And that's probably all I want to say about broadcasting tonight.

There are 45 days until the Renegades' home opener.

I bought a bath mat

I wound up with a day with nothing to do.

Dan tried to get me a job but nothing came to be.

The FCIAC boys basketball championship was tonight. The girls is tomorrow. So is the boys hockey championship. It would have been nice to add to the previous 51 conference championships I've called.

None of it was meant to be.

So I considered having a "me day." A day trip would have been nice. Heck, even grabbing a room for a night and coming back tomorrow.

But no. That didn't happen. I had to be around for "Doubleheader" if only because of my stupid pride.

Instead, I decided to go look at TVs at Best Buy. Plus there's a Moe's and that will do quite nicely for lunch.

I first went to the Wal Mart in that shopping center. I needed to pick up a bath mat when something struck me.

I've never bought a bath mat before.

Now, you say, how is that possible? Well, someone else always bought it. Oh, I'm sure I might have stood there while it was picked out and I might have even paid for it. But actually, do the whole thing myself?

No, I'm fairly certain I've never done it.

I wish I could give you a more dramatic story than the one I'm about to tell. I considered a few options. There were some different choices. Some were more cushioned than others. Still, others had different designs.

Nowhere did I find whimsical adhesive ducks because that's what would have made Sheldon Cooper happy.

So I found one. It was rubber and gray and not very exciting.

Armed with that, a box of saltine crackers, and a box of Rice Krispies I made my way to the registers and paid.

So ends the excitement of the bath mat purchase, which might be symbolic of something.

As for the rest of the trip?

No TV. Best Buy wound up ticking me off. So I decided to go think things over at Moe's.

Which had gone out of business.

I worked my way home to do the show.

I put the new bath mat in the tub. As I removed the old one -- purchased by Mom -- I couldn't help but laugh.

It was the same exact bath mat.

It was rubber and gray and not very exciting.

A perfect summary for a forgettable day.

The image changes

 

Things have changed since this picture was taken in 2019.

It's time for us to do what we do.

We've been uttering it since, what? 2008?

Three words: "Keep moving forward."

Whether we like it or not, we have to.

The future will be difficult but we'll keep trying.

Those still with us in that picture above need to keep the ball rolling.

Two faces from that picture are now gone while we've added one.

Personally, I'm numb.

That's honestly the only way to describe what I'm feeling tonight.

Numb. Lost. In shock.

I've been this way since September.

That's literally all I have. We'll start again tomorrow and see if we can get through another day.

Then we'll try the day after that.

And repeat.

The excitement builds

 

Forty-eight days until the home opener.

Life, whether we like it or not, must roll on, so I've done some work and had two meetings with the Renegades this week.

I also did some teaching at CSB yesterday. Each of these things allowed me some time to not think about my family and Eric and everything that is going on.

We were supposed to gather today for Eric's funeral but the weather backed it up until tomorrow. So I took a job for Dan and Craig this morning, thinking I'd have a full day on my hands.

Nope. The depo was over in 20 minutes.

I have been emailing with the Gades' new Director of Digital Media and Video Production, Zach Neubauer, who invited me to the stadium for a meet and greet. We were trying to settle on a time when the case came to its quick conclusion. I asked if he was available and he quickly agreed to get together today.

This came less than 48 hours after I met with Steve Gliner and Joe Ausanio to go over the details -- those that are available anyway -- of the game broadcasts.

No, seriously, we're seven weeks away from the first home game and there's still a lot to do. But now I have some clarification that allows me to start things. My meeting with Steve and Joe also allowed me to connect with Zach, who is new to the Hudson Valley but is going to push a lot of things in the right direction.

We'll be working together a lot as I begin to fit into my role in the Gades family.

As I said -- just as in the meeting with Steve and Joe -- not everything is worked out but things are starting to come together.

I think you can look forward to my writing for the team (which I previously knew) and, of course, calling the games. There could be more and that's all to be determined.

This was a welcome respite from the real world. The booth -- any booth -- is my sanctuary. Being in this stadium that I can call "mine" brought me a good feeling. I can't forget about all the troubles and I do my best to smile and laugh but the pain and the thought of my hurting family was omnipresent.

Still, I was in a good place. I climbed the stairs and visited the two radio booths. To be honest, I'm not even 100% certain where I'll call the games from due to making sure I'm socially distant from fans.

There are still lots of things to work out. As it has been all along, flexibility and adaptability will be crucial. As of now, I see no way that anyone will be joining me for broadcasts. If that changes, Chris Erway and Jake Zimmer, and others will get the call.

But each meeting -- virtually with Steve and Joe on Monday and in-person with Zach today -- gave me that feeling of promise.

Monday's meeting gave me the official feeling of relief to know that it's not a dream.

I really am officially the play-by-play announcer for the Hudson Valley Renegades, the High A affiliate of the 27-time world champion New York Yankees.

I can finally say it: I'm a broadcaster in the New York Yankees family. No, it's not the Yankees. But it doesn't need to be either. No matter what, I'm now a part of a group of people that stretches from Arch McDonald and Mel Allen in 1939 through to Red Barber, Phil Rizzuto, Bobby Murcer, and on to Michael Kay and John Sterling. Those are the major league guys, of course, and I'm far below that.

I don't care. There's a line to them and it's beautiful.

There are 41 days left until first pitch in New Jersey, which I'll likely be watching from home. If that's really the case, it's a bummer but it's OK.

There are 48 days remaining until we gather at Dutchess Stadium.

As Casey Kasem would say, "The countdown rolls on."

Eric Allen

 

This is his preference. Keep the focus away.

Fly, Eagles Fly!

On the road to victory! (Fight! Fight! Fight!)
Fight, Eagles fight!
Score a touchdown 1, 2, 3! (1! 2! 3!)
Hit 'em low!
Hit 'em high!
And watch our Eagles fly!
Fly, Eagles Fly!
On the road to victory!
E-A-G-L-E-S!
Eagles!

- "The Eagles' Victory Song," written by Charles Borrelli and Roger Courtland

Eric Allen would want you to know he's an Eagles fan.

Well, scratch that. First, Eric would want you to know about Meaghan, his wife of barely seven months, and of Carson James, his son of only 14 months. These were the loves of his life.

Carson. Yes, as in Carson Wentz. Now-former Eagles quarterback.

He might talk about how he and Meaghan met, which was painstakingly reproduced for a video that was shown at their rehearsal dinner last August.

They met at a Cumby. A Cumberland Farms. Seriously. It's like fairy tale stuff.

But he wouldn't want the attention. He'd dodge it and change the subject.

Yet, since you asked, he'd happily talk about the Eagles.

He'd grumble -- with a smile, and always a smile -- about how awful the Eagles were.

He was a Philly boy despite being a Connecticut guy. 

He went to Fairfield Prep but went to college at Temple to be close to his Philly teams, including those Eagles.

Temple, who played their games at the Linc. Lincoln Financial Field. Home of the Philadelphia Eagles.

And, as I'm writing, Eric's Eagles have just signed Joe Flacco. I can hear the grumbling off in the distance.

Smiling, of course.

FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!

Short of marrying Meaghan and bringing Carson into the world, Eric was probably the happiest when those Eagles helped prove that a Sir Tom of New England was, indeed, no GOAT and that a guy named Nick Foles knew that a Philly Special could run past Sir Tom.

The likes of Eric are a rare breed. They're not here forever. So it was when Eric left us last Friday night.

Still a baby himself at just 34.

A family is distraught.

This was not some theoretical "good guy." This was a good guy. A great guy.

People who have never met him wish they had. 

But Eric wanted to meet all of you.

"How are they?" he'd ask. "I hope to meet them one day." 

He cared.

He texted me after his birthday party out of the blue a few years ago. I didn't know that he even concerned himself with me.

"...I know that drive is a pain and it was really awesome to have you and everyone there."

There were texts. Many texts. About football and my mother and Meaghan and becoming a father.

"And I won't hold it against you if you turn him into a Yankees fan!" he said, regarding Carson after the baby was born.

Perhaps most special to me was this one following Sean's graduation:

"...Got to hang out with Sean a little, he's a really good kid with his head on straight. He's gonna do good things."

What sucks, if I can use that term, is that everything was just getting started. At 34, things were there for Eric Allen. Wife. Kid. Life.

Loved. Beloved. The best was yet to come.

Now there's simply devastation and he'd hate all of this attention.

Hit 'em low! Hit 'em high!

And yet, there's a story of how he'll carry on, at least in my house. More than just the treasured memories of time that was so short but something tangible. 

It's probably no shock that all roads lead back to Sep 4, 2020, and the grandmother he adopted, who loved him right back.

His sadness at my mother's passing was palpable. We texted during the day before we each went about our business. At 7:16 that night, I decided to text him to see if there was a place where Shawn Sailer, Paul Silverfarb, and I could grab a socially-distant beverage.

Eric had other ideas. Instead of going to a place, he wanted me at his place. For Eric was all about wrapping his arms around his loved ones.

That's a thing I'll remember. The first hug I allowed in the pandemic -- of all people -- was Eric, when he saw me for Mother's Day as we all tried to keep our space. But he was having none of that. 

It was the first time Mom and I got to see Carson.

But on Sep 4, a cat named Binx rubbed up against me in their apartment. I petted him. He seemed friendly. He also seemed to want to eat my chicken parmigiana.

"Do you want him?" Eric asked.

I laughed.

"I'm serious."

We texted over the next few days. His support following the passing of my mother was so important if only to tell me how "those Pinstripe dudes look like s*it recently!"

I asked if he was really serious about the cat.

"Yes, he's available!"

My world seemed to think I needed this cat, whom I picked up on Sep 13, brought home, and eventually renamed Rascal.

And Squeaky.

And he's going to be called Eric from time to time also.

Fly, Eagles fly!

Sadly, as I went through my texts, I was reminded of times around that same stretch in the fall when he told me he wasn't feeling so great and that he had to get it addressed. I told him I'd come kick his ass if he didn't.

But we just didn't know what was going on.

And now?

Now?

He's gone.

It doesn't make sense. It never will.

Thirty-four.

We've asked those big questions before. We've expressed that anger before. 

Why? Seriously, Why? If I may, WTF?

There are no answers.

Now you know why I wrote about grief and the awful day that was Sunday.

Eric Allen has left us. We're better for knowing him. We're sadder for losing him.

He got to see his Eagles finally win the Super Bowl. Finally.

E-A-G-L-E-S!

Fly, Eric.

Fly.

Nissan

 

We interrupt the moments of deep thoughts that I've been producing since Friday to give off some slight rage.

I say "slight" because I know there are those who look away when this happens while others find it like an accident at the side of the road. They want to stop looking but can't. Then we have those who love the "Rob rants."

Not many go for the "don't care" category.

Anyway, and yes, I realize I have been fairly profound and I will explain more in due time.

I bought another Nissan -- my third since 2015 -- last June.

I will tell you that I really haven't been thrilled with any of those buying experiences and the cars have been...fine.

But the one I turned in back in June -- the definition of why I shouldn't do a lease -- set me up over mileage along with some slight damage due to something that kicked up on 95 and hit the quarter panel. Plus there was the time the tree fell on it.

Still, as the dealer explained to me, "talk with Nissan when you get the bill and tell them about your extenuating circumstances (transporting Mom, COVID, etc). That might (read: should) help.

I waited for a bill that didn't arrive.

Suddenly, by the end of July, I received a letter saying I'd been placed in collections and started receiving phone calls from a Georgia-based phone number.

One other thing to know: there was a previous financial issue in late 2017 with the car because a particular place I worked for had stopped paying me and, as such, I couldn't pay for the car.

That place still owes me money for unpaid invoices. Not a small amount either. I've tried to settle and they've ignored me. 

You can connect the dots as to which former employer it is.

But back to Nissan.

So, if you're keeping score, no letter appeared and I've been placed in collections, and they wouldn't work with me on future loans in the first place (note that I paid every last drop of the 2017 issue off within a month and was in good standing for the rest of the loan). Then phone calls start?

Then my mother dies.

Yeah. Eff Nissan by then.

I let the calls go for months until finally, I wrote Nissan a letter. The collections agency -- while the messengers -- can go to a special place in purgatory but we can circle back to them.

I explained every portion of what had gone on during the ownership of that car and how 2020 had impacted me. I discussed transporting my mother to and from dialysis three and four times a week, thus adding more miles. I explained that I was, essentially, her caregiver, especially in 2020. I further called their business practices "inexcusable," especially so callously putting customers into collections in a pandemic.

From there, I mentioned how their dealers had been a nightmare (one, in particular, in Connecticut? Oh yeah.)

I made it clear -- I was done with them and I have no problem telling friends, family, readers, and listeners that. Will it have an impact? I'm doubtful but we miss 100% of the balls that we don't sing at right?

Sometimes we still miss when we swing the bat but that's not the point. 

I finished with this:

Should you or your agency try to phone me, please have the decency to leave a voicemail as I do not respond to phone numbers that I don’t know. I’m only aware of your agency calling me having done a reverse lookup and seeing the sheer disgusting volume of calls originating from the Atlanta, GA area.

Thank you for your time. I hope you have survived your own experience through this pandemic.

I mailed it on Feb 16 and received a new bill -- direct from Nissan -- last Friday. They had revised the dollar amount with no explanation. No acknowledgment of anything. Just a bill that appeared to be reduced by 25%.

Figuring it was time to stop the battle, I went straight to my computer and paid it electronically.

Then I promised myself I would answer the phone the next time the collections agency called.

Which was today at approximately 1 p.m.

Through gritted teeth, I answered the call. The first person -- a girl -- started with the presentation.

"I suggest you talk to Nissan as that bill was paid (on Friday)," I told her. She said I had to speak to a representative.

Were they just trying to make my head pop?

So the rep  -- a guy -- got on the call immediately. He, too, began with the "May I speak with" nonsense, reminding the call would be monitored, and he needed to confirm my address and date of birth ("Just the month and year').

"I suggest you talk to Nissan as that bill was paid (on Friday)," I told him. From there I had to explain how I paid.

Now, mind you, they KNEW Nissan had sent me a new bill because they called me with the revised dollar amount.

Niceties finished. Call completed. Transaction done.

I told them I would be pleased to provide proof of my payment -- I can easily get screenshots and the email that confirmed the details.

"We'll call if we need anything else," he said but was certain the transaction would be posted.

You do that. Call back. Try it.

I owned two Hondas from 1995-2014 and loved them both.

My mother was thrilled with three Toyotas in the last years of her life.

But it will take a lot to get me near a Nissan again.

Never say never but I know what I would prefer and I'll make sure to keep telling this story.

A lovely day

A beautiful shot of Westport, CT (Photo: Higgins Group)

It was beautiful out today.

It was what you'd want in March. The temperature was in the 60s while the "real feel" was closer to 70. In truth, I made the mistake of wearing jeans. It was a perfect day to break out shorts.

I popped on a polo shirt -- that gray one I wear a lot. A bargain, it was, only costing me something like $7.99 in Reading, PA years ago.

Despite all of those happy-sounding words, I'd be very much OK with forgetting today ever happened. In fact, the whole weekend could use a do-over.

Or a never-happened.

Time will tell these stories, I suppose because my brain doesn't forget certain things.

Nobodys will, actually.

Oh, sure, I'm happy to remember a time walking around a park and being in downtown Westport, CT. I love bookstores and I was in a Barnes and Noble that was quite nice. 

I'm a fan of bookstores. A big fan, in fact. I was all in with the Borders and Barnes and Nobles of the 90s and "early aughts" just as I was with the Waldenbooks and, closer to home, Book and Record of another time*.

* With locations in including Putnam Plaza in Carmel and the Baldwin Place Mall just south of Mahopac in, well, Baldwin Place.

I could spend a lot of time reading the books and perusing the music and glancing at the magazines and making plenty of purchases.

But the book store business has changed dramatically of course. It has to reinvent itself and I liked this approach at Barnes and Noble today in Westport, CT. It didn't need multiple floors and a cafe.

I can't hate on Amazon but it is sad how we can't just jump in the car and shop in entirely the same manner anymore. It takes orders over $25 for free shipping and even then it can be a several-day wait.

Where, at least in the electronics world, I could just go to Radio Shack "back in the day." But, we've created on our own beast.

This is not meant to be a Clint Eastwood meme, thanks all the same.

So it was nice to be in a bookstore. It was nice to hear sidewalk musicians playing and small but socially appropriate crowds watching.

I never really thought of the suite to close Side 2 of Abbey Road as an acoustic performance but sure, why not? It didn't sound bad at all as I strolled and pondered my need for a cup of Dunkin Donuts' coffee.

Sorry, I'm not calling it "Dunkin" any more than I'm calling the bridge across the Tappan Zee by the name of the father of the embattled state of New York.

Aesthetically I will take today for all that it was worth. The weather. The bookstore. The coffee. The (brief) walk in the park. Yes, please.

Emotionally? No, thanks. Let me forget about March 20 and 21st, 2021. Perhaps even some of March 19.

Why?

Let's go with my March Madness brackets. They're awful; a victim of upsets.

It's a reminder that the month of March can be a beast, I suppose.

Some days are great. Some are not. 

The perfect embodiment of its weather I guess.

Grief

I took a walk at one point today. The sun was shining and the sky was a deep azure blue.

I stopped walking and looked up. I shook my head and muttered a few words.

I kept walking.

And repeat.

I went back inside.

Grief manifests in each person differently.

Late at night on March 17, 1989, the first thing I did after hearing perhaps the worst news of my life was to get something to drink because my mouth went completely dry.

I grabbed orange juice and to paraphrase Ron Burgundy, I almost immediately regretted that decision.

Last September, I broadcast a Little League Baseball game hours after I watched a vehicle take my mother's body away.

Hours after police questioned me, just doing their job, as they had to.

As I've said, calling that game was something I wrestled with but felt it was the best place for me that night. To make sure I wasn't being heartless I consulted with a few loved ones who each said that I was making the right decision.

I still remember the stunned looks on the faces of people at the game in Bridgeport when they discovered what had happened. However, chances are I would have sat in the very house she had just died in -- either alone or with my son.

In fact, Sean elected to stay at his mother's house that day, joining me a day later. That's how he wanted -- even needed -- to process his grief.

I was sad but I respected it.

Broadcasting that game was how I dealt with my grief that day, and I'd do it again. In fact, if I could have, I would have called a game the following Thursday -- after my mother's funeral. The time didn't work and I was with my family. That's where I belonged.

I suppose what I'm saying is that unless it's really wrong (and who's to decide that?) everyone needs to grieve in their own way.

So what is that grieving about? Death, sure. But losses of all kinds, I suppose. 

We grieve over job losses and relationship failures and friendship issues and money problems and literally anything.

But there's no road map. There's no manual.

Then there are those who don't grieve and they often don't understand those who do. They think it's about "attention" or something else.

No. That answer doesn't work for me.

We take that phone call. We look that person in the eye. In that moment, we might say something dumb -- inevitably, "What?" is uttered in shock -- or laugh uncomfortably. 

If the last year has taught me anything, and I think it's taught me a lot, it's that we need to respect how everyone handles things.

And so, we process the pain, leading to staring at a bright blue sky before walking away and realizing that the sky has no answers.

Time, basically, is the only way.

And there's no right answer to how much time it takes either.

It's personal.

He kept us safe

Lori and Kris pose for pictures

My cousin Kris is retiring as a police officer today.

His time is up, as amazing as that sounds.

He would want no fuss. 

But he needs to know I'm proud of him.

He probably knows it, as I'm not really one to hold my emotions. 

He, on the other hand...

But we've walked too many roads together. Literally. I'm a few years older but we've also been close.

Yankees games and Renegades games and Rangers/Islanders games and Huey Lewis concerts and Great Adventure and I'm forgetting far more beyond that.

I got to shake Huey's hand because of him.

And laughs. We're all about laughs. A ton of laughs.

He defines first responder to me. He would have gotten to Lower Manhattan on Sep 11, 2001, if he could have. That's just how he is. Beyond that, he's experienced a lot and has the stories to tell.

He's done bike rides to honor fallen police officers. I've lost track of how many times he's pedaled from Boston to Washington, DC.

He hosted various charity events to raise money for those bike rides.

My mind is always fairly blown by what he does.

We've had many talks about law enforcement and he's always my go-to on such topics. I know the pain he felt -- without saying a word -- when he lost a colleague who was killed in the line of duty. I know the rage and sadness of any loss of a police officer.

I know his anger over the "bad cops" who give police work a bad name.

He knows everything from me because that's our fundamental difference but it's a good ying and yang.

I was at his "walk-off" ceremony today when he left the station following his last shift. He didn't know that his loving wife Lori had invited me as a surprise.

I predicted that he'd hate the whole ceremony. He's not one for the attention but he smiled and hugged everyone after it was over. 

He went out with the cops after and I went with Lori and family back to their house for some pizza. Then he's going to getaway.

"I'll see you when I get back," he said. "When do the Renegades start?"

"May 4," I said, forgetting to tell him that game is in New Jersey.

"Then I'll see you May 4th."

Ever the "Star Wars" fan, he made sure to add the obvious:

"May the fourth be with you."

Laughs. Always. Just as we like it.

He'll grudgingly thank me for this post somehow.

But he'll hate the attention.

So I did it this way. No schmaltz. 

Just pure admiration.

He's impacted a lot of lives and now has a lot of living to do. He'll work again -- that's who he is -- but he'll also be a tireless grandfather, father, husband, son, brother, and (second) cousin.

He's done a lot of good. On the job and off. He's the embodiment of "a phone call away."

I'm proud of him.

I thanked him for his service.

A reminder of a good cop.

They do exist and they are plentiful.

That's what he'd want you to know.

* Posting the picture up top reminded me of a quick side note about Kris and attention. We took a selfie in Baltimore once in gaudy Orioles' Hawaiian shirts (they're sort of so ugly they're cool) to send to my mother. I posted it quietly online with a hashtag. Er...that hashtag wound up getting the picture up on the giant scoreboard in center field at Orioles Park. He either called me "a jerk" or "an ass" (I don't remember now) in part because he hates attention but also in part due to his job. It's about as "mad" as he ever gets at me. I felt so guilty as I tried to laugh it off. And I still feel that way, a few years later. 

The whole picture

 

In honor of my parents, I used the picture at the top of this post as my profile picture yesterday.

I wrestle with how to handle the anniversary of my father's passing (yesterday, St. Patrick's Day) in which I argue that I make too much of it while alternately arguing that, "How I mourn -- even after these years -- is my own business." 

So I used that picture on Facebook but I also felt guilty because it cut my siblings out of it.

Yes. I have some deep-rooted issues.

*****

It was Aug 30, 1987. A Sunday.

I had tickets to see Huey Lewis and News that night at the Orange County Fairgrounds in Middletown, NY. I felt like a big shot because I had just seen HLN at Madison Square Garden back in May of '87 in a transformative concert for me. So to see them twice in the span of five months was incredible.

However, my parents were having old friends over for a BBQ. In truth, the husband in the couple was dying and he was coming to say goodbye. There was an air of sadness hanging in the air but it wasn't allowed to be a sad day.

My brother and his family were there. My sister was there also (pre-kids for her).

While my parents were glad that I stayed around for the gathering, in part to help keep things light, it was time for me to go as the afternoon began to turn towards evening. I had to go pick someone up and meet my cousin before we headed out to the concert.

Our guests asked us to pose for a family picture. No grandkids. Nobody else. Just the fab five -- my parents and their three kids.

I stood there in my black Levis jacket to go along with my button-down shirt and black Levis jeans. A truly Huey Lewis-inspired look.

My hair -- parted right down the middle -- was blown dry and appropriately sprayed.

I rocked the white belt with the jeans and I might have been wearing sneakers since we'd be doing some walking and standing.

In my left hand were my newly-purchased jacket (bought with money from my high school graduation earlier that summer) and the keys to my 1980 green Oldsmobile Omega. My key ring featured a small replica of a 1960 Mickey Mantle baseball card.

On our picnic table were cups and other accouterments of a picnic, including a prominently-placed bottle of Hires root beer. Slightly behind it and off to the side, sadly, sat a full ashtray as my father beamed through the sadness he felt that day.

Selfishly I was glad to make my early exit because I knew the goodbyes would be tough.

The picture turned out great and we were all given copies of it. My mother and I both had it nearby over the years, including that one that hung in her living room on the day she died.

It is still there as I'm typing.

The concert was great. It was basically the same show that they did at the Garden with a few small changes. I remember they didn't do "If This is It" at MSG but did at Middletown. While predictable, I was still enthralled with it.

I remember going to a Denny's in Fishkill (long gone) later the night for a late snack. I was right on the fringe of starting college.

Our family friend did indeed die not long after their visit.

Of course, Dad passed a little over a year-and-a-half later.

And that picture -- that moment in time, an image of different hairstyles and waistlines and fashion and behavior -- was the last picture of the five of us.

Regardless of anything, I still treasure it and wanted to be seen while explaining its backstory.

Norwegian playwright and theatre director Henrik Ibsen once said, "A thousand words leave not the same deep impression as does a single deed." It's possible that was the basis for the adage, "A picture is worth a thousand words."

In this case, I'm not sure I need a thousand, because the picture itself says a lot.

3/17

Luck of the Irish.

Green beer and green clothes and wear this and do that.

And get o'hammered.

Far be it for me to bring down your annual excuse for imbibing because, hey, there's nothing stereotypical about that and, somehow, that's still cool.

Anyway, I'm digressing.

St. Patrick's Day -- every day -- is what you make of it.

For years I did good things. I was driving to Shakespeare's Stratford-upon-Avon on St. Patrick's Day in 1998.

Driving. In England. Oh yeah Stratford-upon-Avon and Oxford were both pretty cool but I was driving in England. I overpaid for a standard transmission Ford because there was no way in hell I was going to maneuver a stick shift and drive on the "wrong side of the road."

So, yeah, Shakespeare and all. But I drove in England and, once I got the hang of it, I wasn't bad at it. OK, there was that spot that I pulled out of a parking lot and started driving on the right side of the road, but hey, no harm!

I find being active and doing something good is the best thing for me on March 17. Just being happy helps a lot.

Lately, ol' Shamrock O'Adams hasn't quite found the pot of gold at the end of the Lucky Charms.

Like virtually everyone, I sat home last year and watched "The Quiet Man" for the first time in probably 30 years. I'll leave the movie content for those who feel the need to cancel literally everything. For me, it's a place in time with rich green scenery and a lengthy (but funny) fistfight scene. 

And John Wayne. My father adored John Wayne.

Oh, yeah, my father. He plays the starring role in this. He came home from work 32 years ago tonight and was dead by the time I got home later. I arrived at an empty house with an ashtray on the floor and confusion in the air.

I'd love to see today as fun or special. I wish I could and, in the right situation, I would.

I try. I do. Like I said, I had years of doing "stuff." 

Years of travel, games, whatever. 

But I'm not working today so my mind isn't occupied, at least not until "Doubleheader" later and "The Clubhouse" even later on. 

I'm probably not leaving the house and, if you must know, I'm writing from the very very spot that both of my parents died.

So, yeah.

And so it is what it is, I guess.

Sorry to lament. Just talking out loud.

Enjoy celebrating however you choose.

Be safe.

Happier thoughts:

Brunswick baseball starts in two weeks.

Forty-eight days until first pitch of the Renegades. I tweeted at Jersey Shore yesterday, hoping they'd play along about the first game of the season.

Social media is a crapshoot, isn't it?

I'm babbling. Rambling.

I'm fine. So are you. We all are.

Sláinte.

Timur Faizutdinov

 

It was a dump in. 

Timur Faizutdinov, a defenseman for Dynamo St. Petersburg's junior team, went back to his own blue line as the puck was lifted in the neutral zone by a player from Loko Yaroslavl.

A dump in.

This happens thousands of times a day in hockey games around the world. It's not rocketed or blasted or ladled with authority or whatever.

It is the hockey equivalent of a lob.

It happens in Greenwich and Madison Square Garden and Yaroslavl, Russia.

That's where Timur Faizutdinov was playing, skating on the backcheck into his own zone.

The head -- the human body -- is a curious thing. The puck, dumped across the blue line, struck Timur Faizutdinov just right.

Immediately, Faizutdinov put both hands on his helmet, crouched down, then dropped to the ice, first landing on his knees, then bringing his elbows and forearms down before going face down.

Help got to him immediately. His teammates were first but an emergency crew quickly followed. With the help of his teammates, Faizutdinov was loaded on a backboard and then a gurney and whisked to a hospital in Yaroslavl.

According to the Associated Press, "The Junior Hockey League said, 'doctors fought for Timur's life over the course of three days.'"

Faizutdinov's death was announced this morning.

He was 19.

Two things: 1) I've seen the name of the player who dumped the puck. Given he's being threatened and no doubt feels awful, I've decided there's no need to name him here. You can find the name for yourself.

2) There was game video of the moment Faizutdinov was struck online that, as of last check, has been taken down. This tweet includes a GIF of the pass. Watch at your own peril, given the circumstances. 

There's no way to make sense of it other than sports has freak accidents.

This has nothing to do with hockey being a "vicious sport" or anything like that. 

This wasn't a result of negligence. 

It was a harmless pass.

And yet, sports can be so cruel.

Travis Roy was paralyzed in a freak hockey accident.

Matt Brown was paralyzed after an average hockey play.

This isn't Ray Chapman, a Cleveland Indians infielder who was hit in the head by a pitch (pre-batting helmets) who died hours later.

This wasn't that at all.

Timur Faizutdinov died after a dump in hit him in the head.

Pucks can hurt. No question. It's one inch thick and three inches in diameter. It's hard rubber. Players get hit a lot. Astoundingly, players didn't wear helmets and -- worse -- face masks at one time.

Timur Faizutdinov was wearing a helmet. 

He had a life ahead of him. He had already been named a captain of Dynamo St. Petersburg.

He had a future. Maybe a wife and kids and house and the trappings of a life with or without hockey.

Maybe he'd sing "Back in the USSR" in a Beatles cover band.

Maybe he'd relocate to the States.

What goals did he have? 

We'll never know.

It makes no sense.

It's beyond sad.

He was 19 and he's gone.

On a dump in.

Fifty to go

Among the various questions: Will there be time for "Doubleheader?"

I loaded every Renegades game into my calendar today as the countdown to first pitch reached 50 days.

From May 4, 7:30 p.m. at Jersey Shore to Sept 19 at Dutchess Stadium against Greensboro at 4:35 p.m., they're all there.

This doesn't mean I'm going to every game. It means I'm ready for every game.

Regardless of where I am, part of my job will be to write up a summary at the end of every game to go on the website. That is why it's quite possible the blog may change to a lot of quick posts and links to game stories with tales of the booth (not unlike my podcast, I suppose).

Or -- gasp! -- I'll finally take a day off from the blog, something I last did on Dec. 29, 2018.

Now, don't get me wrong, the schedule has been on my mind ever since it first came out without times and then even more after the times were entered. Loading them into my calendar, as well as a broadcast spreadsheet that I have, allows me to see where there are conflicts.

I'd say "if there are conflicts" but it's me so who are we kidding?

There are conflicts with "The Clubhouse" and maybe down the road with Greenwich football and maybe a Brunswick lacrosse game and other items I've been asked to call (Babe Ruth and Little League baseball among them) along with video depo jobs and I really don't know what else and I'm not concerned about it yet. These are bridges I'm simply preparing for. I suppose I'm loading my EZ Pass to reach the toll and will worry later.

Road analogies? Yes, please!?

But loading the schedule into my calendar also allows me to see if there are any places to maybe hit the road, which I can't stress enough that I'd like to do, assuming I'm only calling home games. For instance, I saw a 6 p.m. Saturday night game in Aberdeen, MD. So wouldn't it be nice to drive down, check into a hotel, call the Saturday tilt, get some sleep, and go back Sunday to finish it up?

After a Waffle House* breakfast, of course.

Assuming it's a reasonable game, I'd be back home at a decent hour late Sunday night.

*Waffle House visits are possible in the league with Wilmington, Aberdeen, Greensboro, and Winston-Salem. I've got this all worked out.

It would be an adventure! Maybe someone would want to tag along to help with expenses or keep my sanity? 

I have some names in mind, especially if it's a day trip (such as Brooklyn).

I personally love the idea of "Rob's Renegades Road Trips."

With 50 days to go until Jersey Shore, my head spins a little more every day about these items:

Theme music.

Who is allowed in the booth?

If someone is allowed, who are my carefully-cultivated guest analysts going to be in the booth (you can guess some of them)?

Should we do a podcast, maybe picking it up under my "Tales From the Booth" umbrella?

Should I get a subscription to Baseball America?

Should I get a subscription to watch the road games on MILB.TV?

Juggling of...everything

I get asked so often about the team and plans and all I say is I don't have answers.

Remember: the team is coming off a year in which "we" didn't have a season. "We" also didn't have answers about what "our" future was.

I'm always careful about "we" when it comes to sports teams. I might be a member of the organization but I don't play for the organization. So it's a balance.

So, since late October, there has been the news of joining the Yankees (did you know that? Not sure if I've mentioned it), becoming a full-season team, working out the logistics of becoming a full-season team, preparing to reopen under the climate of COVID-19, rebranding the logo, and so on.

I keep figuring the last thing on their mind is the dopey broadcaster which, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was a compliment. It's nice to be thought of as reliable and not really a concern. Those conversations will happen soon enough.

Tomorrow, we hit 49 days until first pitch in New Jersey.

I'd still like to book a hotel room!

But, there's still a ways to go here, so forgive me for just thinking out loud. Some nights, this occupies my mind. It's like counting sheep.

Or World Series rings.

Quick thoughts

I pushed the trusty circa 1998 Bose Wave Radio ahead last night

I've basically been on the run since early this morning. That, of course, goes along with flipping the clocks forward.

I loved seeing that extra daylight and I'm grateful for it.

I'm also grateful for the work that I picked up today that had me back on the video depo front at 7:30 this morning.

So what I'm saying is that I just finally sat down in front of the computer just before 10 p.m. to write and, while I have things to say, the energy isn't quite there to go in-depth.

Sometimes silence is a good thing.

I'll add this. I greatly pondered a shutdown from social media and planned to do it this weekend. It's hard to talk about why without getting the, "Is it me you're talking about?" questions so I left it on the back burner.

And I don't want to have a conflict or impact anyone. So I decided it was me who needed to step away.

However, with the play-by-play idiocy out of Oklahoma, I needed to be vigilant in monitoring the Facebook group that I'm an admin for. That's not to say Shawn Sailer or Mike Hirn couldn't handle it but Mike had -- what, 30 games this weekend? 

Therefore I felt best reading all of the comments in the four threads that have been created (a bit of overkill) myself.

While it teetered on the edge of us having to get involved, none of us ever did. I had to laugh when another broadcaster felt the need to post their own writing on the topic in the group. As you probably know, we addressed it here the other night but I did not post it in the play-by-play Facebook group.

If people want to find it, they will.

I understand social media for what it is but I had hit a wall recently where I found myself saying, "Why does that bother me?" As such, I thought I'd take the weekend away. I figured I'd still write the blog but not post it on the social sites. Sure, I wouldn't have the usual audience but I could live with that.

I considered how I would handle "Doubleheader" if I took more time away, deciding that I'd probably post it on the Robcasting Facebook page (so, if you don't follow that...just saying).

However, this being the blog, I figured I could take you inside my brain. It's something I'm still pondering.

I wasn't planning any great announcement as I tend to not like those cries for attention (and I don't intend this to be that). This isn't to get anyone to beg me to stay. It's basically to just write...since that what I've been doing for years. Sort of talking out loud.

It's not because it's such a cesspool (it is) but because there's some serious obsessing going on and I needed to step away to think about why it bothered me.

Yet, for now, we're still here.

And now I'm even wondering why I said anything in the first place.

Anyway.

Are the Grammy's tonight? I've joined The Weeknds cause of not watching because he wasn't nominated.

Or I wasn't nominated.

Or somebody wasn't nominated.

Or I just don't care.

Probably the latter.

Quality and the test of time

 

Stevie, take us to some higher ground. Please.

For the second day in a row, I was doing things around the house when my phone buzzed.

For the second day in a row, a friend texted me about a game broadcast they were watching and the broadcasters calling the action.

Same game. Two different people. Neither one knows the other.

Each one had the same conclusion: dreadful. Awful. Terrible. Sophomoric. 

"Unbearable."

After doing a little research last night, I found a link and decided to listen.

Wow.

So when I got the text today, I asked about the crew. Was it the same? Initially, I didn't get the impression that it was. Then I went and watched for myself.

Same. Wow again.

Obviously, I'm being discreet in discussing this but it again highlights the question of how and why some get where they get.

We know there's a low threshold for quality these days, again, it's been noted numerous times that almost anyone (especially with money) can try their hand at broadcasting.

It's heartbreaking, of course.

It's also why I really don't watch or listen to many other broadcasts. I see clips here and there. Friends also send me stuff, whether because they want my blood pressure to spike or to get an opinion.

Either way, mission accomplished.

It happens quite a bit though. "Go watch (team) vs. (team)," they'll say, "and let me know what you think."

Sometimes my reaction is that it's good. Sometimes I add criticism and ways for improvement. 

And then there's dreck like I watched today.

So, maybe Greenwich High School does have the right idea when they had nobody at the mic for their boys basketball playoff game today at GHS. 

There's more. As always, I've said enough.

*****

Thankfully, the interwebs saved me, because I read a tweet that intrigued me. It didn't offend me, to be clear.

Price of Reason

@priceoreason

MUSIC: Billboard Magazine's Paul Grein says that Taylor Swift deserves to win Album of the Year at the Grammy Awards because she's on the level of Stevie Wonder, Paul Simon and Frank Sinatra. I'm not kidding. He really said that!

OK, where to begin? Look, the obvious piece is that the Swifties are weighing in, while others are dumping on Sinatra and Simon. Not shockingly, Stevie Wonder is being left alone. There are a bunch of bad takes in the thread. Let's narrow it down to...

- Swift writes her own songs and Sinatra didn't. This is partially true because Swift also did a bunch of collaborations with pop crafters while Francis Albert worked with skilled conductors and arrangers but was also regarded as perhaps the finest interpreter of music ever in that he was basically an extra arranger.

- Swift has more Grammy's. Er..and? This is a completely ludicrous point, along the lines of "Derek Jeter never won an MVP."

- Simon had "Graceland" and a handful of hits. Which, of course, is laughable and not worth expanding on.

- Then came the gender topic and I'm not sticking around for that. We can add plenty of women here (Aretha and Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday and Joni Mitchell and Carole King and Stevie Nicks and do I need to continue?).

Let's get to it. Swift is talented. Very. A terrific songwriter and performer. Also a savvy marketer of her image. And she manipulates the market with countless "extra special" versions of her albums, making it very difficult for people to collect her music.

(Thankfully The Beatles weren't a part of this discussion and maybe Sinatra shouldn't be either because Sinatra and the lads are, frankly, on another level. Yes. I said it.)

Stevie Wonder is brilliant, no question, but if we're being perfectly honest, didn't we get to "I Just Called to Say I Love You" and realize it was basically over? That song hardly stood with literally everything he did before that and I pretty much revere Stevie.

So, for whatever you might think, I'm not on the front porch tearing trying to get poor little Taylor off my lawn. I'm more than giving her whatever due is deserved.

The one point that I do think is salient is I wonder if she has that timeless appeal.

Now, don't get me wrong, we'll hear about her again and again as these things are cyclical, and again she's a marketing machine, but will the music truly stand up? I'm not comparing here but every now and again there will be some nostalgic buzz about one performer or another (pick them -- they all count) and then the hangover passes and it goes right back onto the discount shelf.

Swift won't be on the discount shelf but will we still be talking about her like that? Honestly, are we talking about Madonna that way? Does that music still hold up?

Again, and I can't make this any clearer, I'm actually not tearing anyone or anything down here. This isn't in my wheelhouse of things to destroy as I've actually become more kinder and gentler (and quieter) as I've gotten older.

OK, except for JC Mellenwhatever. 

And UB40.

And Maroon 5 (that's for John Nash).

And while Journey is like a ham sandwich -- completely benign and mostly worth ignoring -- why are they so renowned? Simple: much like a particular New Jersey-based outfit or two, they write singalongs that hit a particular zeitgeist and create a cult-like following. Mostly harmless.

Eventually, you learn to leave the cult or drink the Flavor Aid (it wasn't Kool-Aid).

One could put Dave Matthews there, and I like Dave Matthews (maybe not as much as I used to, but still).

Is Tay Tay like that also?

That's the thing. It's all subjective. 

Only time will tell. (Oh, sorry. That's Asia.)

Speaking of Time (Alan Parson Project? Pink Floyd?) don't forget to spring ahead tonight.

Pure filth

 

It has not been a good day for play-by-play or journalism.

The play-by-play in question comes from an Oklahoma girls basketball game between Norman and Midwest City.

Doing a live stream broadcast, the two voices in the booth prepared for the national anthem. They thought they had gone to commercial. What was forgotten was someone needed to turn off their microphones.

One announcer clearly disapproved of players from Norman High School kneeling. Instead of shutting up he -- outraged at the kneeling -- launched into a tirade about the act.

That, in and of itself, is remarkably hypocritical, given that one should remain quiet during the anthem.

But we're just warming up.

Mr. Charming didn't just disapprove. Oh, no. He didn't just come right out and say that he hoped Norman lost the game. He didn't just curse, saying, "I hope Norman get their ass kicked. F*** them. I hope they lose."

Now, if he had stopped there, the story wouldn't go to another level. He would have been another dope with an open microphone.

Again, reviewing hypocrisy, I will not play that card here as I have been busted with an open microphone and I live with that.

But...

This is where this story hits a whole new level.

He went full-blown racism. Not garden variety stuff. Nothing vague. Nope.

He said the "N" word. 

This is where journalism comes in. Cameron Jourdan, a reporter for The Oklahoman, stayed on top of the story, including contributing to the story that I first saw, with the offending video embedded via Twitter.

Then speculation started to buzz. Who was the broadcaster? Surely it couldn't be that hard to find out. My name is all over my broadcasts, for instance.

Eventually, word spread that it was a former high school coach named Scott Sapulpa and, well, let's let Jeff Pearlman explain it all.

So, if you're keeping score at home, Jourdan announced that it was the wrong guy in a now-deleted tweet, and the real offender, Matt Rowan, is trying to say that his type 1 diabetes was at least a plausible explanation for using a horrible word and being a straight-up racist.

And the social media world, justifiably, has exploded.

The fallout will (and should) be swift.

Now, Scott Sapulpa, whose name has been cleared, is being called out because he didn't condemn the comments immediately. 

So, at this point, he too is being condemned for not condemning the condemned Mr. Rowan. The usual leap of faith is in play that now Mr. Sapulpa is racist as well. 

I find myself reaching for a line uttered by Henry Jones in Alfred Hitchcock's 1958 thriller, "Vertigo," when speaking about Jimmy Stewart's character, Scottie Ferguson. Scottie, you see, saw Kim Novak jump to her death and didn't stop her.

At least that's sort of the premise, though I'll leave it to you to watch the brilliant film.

At an inquest, Jones's character addresses those attending with his thoughts.

"But we are not here to pass judgment on Mr. Ferguson's lack of initiative," he says. "He did nothing. The law has little to say on the subject of things left undone."

And thus I say the same regarding Mr. Sapulpa, who has since been the target of plenty of harassment, first for supposedly being the racist broadcaster and now for not doing enough (or anything) about the racist broadcaster.

Let us return however to Mr. Rowan, who is most assuredly the true villain here. You correctly stated in your release that there really is no excuse for what you said. Oh, that is for sure.

You are being correctly ostracized and the punishment will likely be profound. NFHS, who you have partnered with as a broadcaster, will most certainly be done with you and I can't even imagine what else you will face in the aftermath of this.

As one friend said to me today, "You don't come back from this."

No. No you do not.

I was on the air for part of the day as the snowball grew. Realizing it was not the forum (though Monday at 4 p.m. certainly seems like a good time) I withheld any thoughts on the topic as my blood boiled.

Mr. Rowan hit us with the usual "I'm a man of Christ" crap. But beyond that, he's a stain on the play-by-play industry; one which frequently has to deal with its fair share of criticism.

I've said many times -- including last night while teaching -- that we're in an era when virtually anyone can get on some kind of "air." 

Every dad who wants to try play-by-play can basically do so and seems to be doing so, especially with the right amount of money.

Every person that wants a forum can try a podcast.

And the stink flows.

Take those words of whatever your good book is and heed them, sir.

Do far better. 

Much much much better.

I'm embarrassed for my industry tonight.