Songs in the Attic

 

I'm not good at having a quiet day.

To that end, I made a plan to finish a job years in the making. One that we started back in Mar 2021.

I emptied the attic.

I mean, empty, including the chest that's been sitting up there my entire life. Or at least that's the way I remember it. 

The truth is that this was a project that we wanted to do years ago. Mom and I used to talk about cleaning the attic since it was mostly stuff that belonged to my sister and me. My items were primarily in storage bins and that admittedly made it a bit easier to transport.

We could never seem to get organized to do the job. Then, of course, Mom died. It was no longer optional to clean the attic. It became mandatory.

My sister spent a weekend here in 2021 and she dug through years of memories. Garbage bags were filled while other items went into a pile for Goodwill.

Then it went mostly stagnant.

Finally, things got a jump start again in 2022. So much of what was left was thinned down. Eventually, I got back up there and began to assess my own things while reaching for items that were a little more out of the way or cumbersome.

Up there were goodies like my baby crib and a high chair from my youth. They went to a garbage pile at the end of the driveway. That was picked up earlier this week.

I made the commitment to finish the job today though I didn't think I'd bring the chest down.

Initially, my goal was to bring a few artificial Christmas trees down (both mine from a previous life). Neither has been put up in several years as the holidays haven't been the most pleasant of times. I've decided if I have a fresh start, I'll opt for a new, probably smaller, tree.

So I brought each bin and box downstairs. I eliminated some items -- it's cathartic, as I've said -- and combined some others. I'll continue that process as it moves along. 

I came across things related to graduating from high school. I found stuff from that other life I alluded to (and quickly threw them out unless I thought it was anything Sean would want).

I found two small baseball bats. One was a Mickey Mantle model from the era of collectible plates. Oh, and yes, I have the collectible plates. Those will either be given away or sold. But, the other bat was incredibly special.

The bat was bought for me by my father in Cooperstown upon my first trip, in 1974. In my five-year-old mind, I thought I'd get a Yankees mini-bat. No. Dad got me a Hall of Fame mini-bat with a Yankees pennant. Oh, well.

Anyway, Sean has since compiled a collection of mini-bats and I'm going to give him both of those. I can't think of a better person to be the guardian of something so precious as a bat bought for me by his grandfather. I try to do little things like that to keep my dad in Sean's mind.

I worked it all downstairs. Most of the bins went into my bedroom and will be further examined and prepared for moving to our (eventual) new life.

The baseball cards and the Yankees yearbooks and the other sports memorabilia. The collectibles.

The goodies.

The junk.

There was still the matter of the chest. In reality, it probably should have waited until I had a second person here.

But I'm stubborn. Working gingerly, I guided it downstairs, letting it rest on the ladder for assistance. It took two tries but it's sitting in the living room now where I've cleaned it up with some furniture polish. Where will it end up? I don't know yet.

There are still a lot of decisions to be made in this process.

After grabbing some things that belonged to my sister, I paused at the top of the ladder. The attic -- this magical wonderland of goodies that fascinated me as a kid -- was empty, probably for the first time since 1963.

It was also a place of bees and mice and other intrepid visitors. As time moves on I wouldn't be surprised if a ghost or two is hanging around.

But I just stood there and took it all in. There was a feeling of melancholy.

It was sad but I'm just not in the right place to mourn.

I closed the door, knowing that we'll likely check up there once more before everything is over but also realizing there's no longer a need to go back.

With the warmer days approaching, it was time to complete this job. It will soon be hot in the attic and those days can border on being insufferable. 

So, today was the day and I was glad to get it done.

The garbage pile begins again.

On to the next room.

The Booth is My Safe Space

 

I know I've said this before but I yearn for the booth.

See, the thing is that it gives me something to do.

Had I not offered to do the Brunswick/Trinity-Pawling lacrosse game tonight, I would have sat home.

It probably would have bummed me out a lot, given it was a Friday night and Sean left to go to his job. Thus the cat and I would have watched TV. Maybe.

It's a rather depressing, lonely scene.

But with the game, I have a voice and can hopefully guide viewers with my combination of details and stories. You know, what has been done since 1921*.

* And continues to get destroyed on a daily basis.

Having Brunswick play Trinity-Pawling is pleasant for me. Pawling, NY isn't too far away from Mahopac. The only thing about it is that there's no highway to get there. It's all two-lane roads (6N, 6, 52, 311, 22 or some other combination).

The drive takes maybe 40 minutes.

Still, I was there 90 minutes before the game and found myself basically alone. People would roll in eventually. Joe (my Local Live cameraman) and I were put on the roof for the call.

Ideal? Not always. A roof obviously leaves equipment (and people) open to the elements. In this case, that meant a lot of wind and I had to compensate for that. I had to adjust the number of notes I carried and how tightly I held them.

I'm not complaining. This is no primadonna behavior. In fact, just the opposite. I was grateful to have added the game to my schedule. I was happy to not be sitting at home.

I appreciate the challenge and accept it.

I was happy to report the details of the Bruins' 8-4 win over the Pride. 

I was pleased to see Joe's reaction when he realized that he'd be working with me.

This was exactly what I needed. 

Problems fade away when I call a game. If I can't stop thinking about something then I know it's really an issue.

But this was just joyous. Even the technical problems -- audio was apparently choppy at one point -- only made me shrug my shoulders.

In a couple of weeks, the Bruins will head to Salisbury -- at the top of Connecticut. I'd say that, unless there's an objection, I'll be there.

Oh, the loneliness returns after the game is over. That's when I had to hunt down dinner, opting for a chicken sandwich from Cameron's, a 24-hour deli near Carmel.

And now, hours after it would have been like this, I'm home watching the Yankees with The Cat.

People thank me for calling games.

No. 

I thank you for allowing me to call the game.

The Unanswered Question

 

"Why would she do that?"

Why?

It's a question we ask a lot.

In this case, the question is about Lauren Bernett, a catcher at James Madison University. Lauren was hitting .336 for the 2022 season with nine home runs and 33 runs batted in. Playing in a doubleheader at College of Charleston on April 16, Lauren drove in 10 runs -- including seven in the second game. 

She was the Colonial Athletic Association Player of the Week and, days later, died at the age of 20.

The questions begin there and the answer appears -- according to the Western Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Virginia -- to be suicide.

So, again, why?

The truth is we may never know.

See, there's always talk that it's selfishness. Maybe that's so. It's a moment of unimaginable darkness but there's always collateral damage in the aftermath. For the families. The loved ones. The teammates. The authorities.

The trickle-down is felt.

And thus the questions proliferate. 

Why would they do such a thing?

But the real talk is that there are myriad reasons. "Why" isn't always so easy. 

Or necessary.

For anyone in that darkest of dark moments, there doesn't have to be a why. They just want to end the pain. The sadness. 

They want to stop being a burden.

The obvious answers are always about failures. Relationship, financial, career, life. The other answers involve pain.

But, sometimes, it's as simple as things just not being right.

That is to say, there is no answer.

So while we want to know "why" someone takes their own life so that it never happens again, the truth is it just isn't that simple.

We try to make sure people know they're loved. We try to be there for them.

But, again, we just can't always save them. 

We can give the number and website for the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-TALK(8255) or at suicidepreventionlifeline.org and hope it saves a life. 

Lots of lives.

But we still don't have answers and, honestly, would an answer bring any closure?

I wish I could understand why Lauren Bernett is gone. I wish I could understand why anyone would do such a thing.

I wish I could understand those dark moments.

I can't. 

I don't.

Do you?

Nothing

 

I've got nothing tonight.

I had nothing last night.

I sort of feel like I've had nothing since I've come home.

So I'm out for tonight.

See you tomorrow.

Pictures and Exhaustion

 

For the first time in a week (or more) I'm sort of at a loss for words.

Maybe I'm just tired but I think it's more than that. I did my first depo in several days today, thus keeping me anchored at my desk.

I had plenty of time to write and I chose not to. Nothing resonated.

Overall I find nothing compelling tonight.

Sure, there are tales of the UK but I tend to think there's a point in which one has to just stop before overplaying their hand.

Yes, I posted the trip pictures on Facebook today so you can have a look for yourself.

I watched part of "Get Back" tonight on Disney +. I specifically watched the rooftop concert because I had obviously just been there.

But I sense you've heard enough Beatles talk for the moment.

So, really, my sense is that it's enough to post a few pics and call it a night. I might repeat a few from previous posts, so forgive me.

At the top of the post is a picture of Big Ben. I like the composition of that image. Plus there's a British road sign in it. Win-win.

I'm simply overwhelmed by the detail in this picture from inside Westminster Abbey. Considering when it was built, just how? How did they do it?

This picture doesn't even do it justice. Park Place is a short road just a block or two from The Stafford hotel. I walked by it several times and the level of detail in the mix of architecture as well as the colors of the buildings caught my eye. There's a lot going on there.

Speaking of architecture, these buildings next to the Tate Modern really stood out to all of us. Whether they were apartments or offices, I liked the floor-to-ceiling windows. I'd like working in a space like that.

I nearly walked right by "Yankees and Beatles" by Burhan Dogançay in the Tate Modern and missed it. To the credit of Erik Boender (Mets fan) I went back and looked at it. While "modern art" (in this case, from 1964) was never my thing, I had to smile at the confluence of two of the most important things in my life.

Thanks for indulging me. I'm still waking up, I guess.

For Charlie

 

This picture should hang in a hockey rink

Too many times.

Too many times we've had to write posts like this.

Too many times we've had to come up with different ways to say we've lost someone far too young.

Teddy Balkind a few months ago, for instance. Lost to a play on a hockey rink that we'd rather never remember for a kid we'll never forget.

Today, it's Charlie Capalbo. More than a hashtag -- #CapalboStrong -- he fought against cancer too many times. More times than should ever be allowed.

Then again, once should never happen, especially not to someone so young.

Charlie died yesterday a month shy of his 24th birthday. A world of people are mourning today.

Charlie, his father, and his brother appeared on "Doubleheader" back in Dec 2019. They showed grit, courage, class, and joy. The conversation was phenomenal. I felt like I was an extended family member by the time it was over.

What charisma. What laughter.

Today? What pain.

Only 23.

Far too young.

It stings.

At the same time, what a gift he gave. Charlie tied a whole sport together. People talked about Charlie in Fairfield. In Greenwich. In Fairfield County. In Connecticut. In New York.

And beyond.

He fought. As he sat on "Doubleheader" in 2019, it felt like he'd won that fight.

Yet, here we are.

I don't see Charlie as having lost. How could anyone think otherwise? Oh, we use that platitude often -- they "lost the battle to cancer" -- but, in truth, a person like Charlie Capalbo doesn't lose a fight with cancer.

He knocked it around. Checked it into the boards.  He beat it.

It's just, well, sometimes a puck gets deflected. Charlie wasn't out of position. He was squared up perfectly. The puck just found the back of the net.

A person like Charlie just felt too big for the world. If you met him, you know what I'm saying. This isn't some false kindness. 

I am reminded of "Free Bird," the song I quoted in my father's eulogy, as I thought of Charlie Capalbo.

"For I must be traveling on now. There's too many places I've got to see."

Charlie has other hockey games to play.

Other places to see.

Yet as grateful as everyone feels for having met him -- even briefly, like me -- there's sadness for what's lost. A whole lot of people feel it.

His family. Fairfield hockey. The town of Fairfield. Medical professionals. Media types. Friends. Acquaintances. 

More.

All #CapalboStrong.

Today, all are Capalbo sad.

We say it often: it isn't fair.

It's not. 

No answers tonight.

Too many times.

And in The End

 

Travel astounds me.

Twelve hours ago -- as I begin typing -- I was in Europe.

I was at Heathrow Airport and we were just about to take off.

Before that, I was still at The Stafford, our swanky hotel for the week.

I was also getting coffee and a cinnamon bun (a very small one at that) at Gentlemen's Baristas at the corner of Piccadilly and St. James's Street.

Now I'm home soothing the blisters on my feet after having consumed pizza from Peppino's in Baldwin Place.

Last night, as the boys went out after dinner, I went for a three-mile walk from the hotel to Piccadilly Circus to Leicester Square to Trafalgar Square back into Piccadilly Circus up Regent Street into Carnaby Street in Soho before working down through Burlington Square and -- eventually -- back to the hotel.

That's in addition to all of the other walking that went on during this trip. My legs will look back fondly. Eventually. My heart will also.

But, for now, we're all in pain.

It appears there will be a 2023 trip to London.

Later this year will be the second trip to San Francisco (the other one was in 2019).

But, now, I'm stretched out at home. The four hours (!) that it took to get from the plane landing to walking into the house is in the past.

The pizza has been consumed.

The laundry has started.

The bags have been cleaned up. I'm not thrilled that a bag of Walker's (British brand) crisps (aka "potato chips") exploded inside my backpack but it will all get cleaned up.

Oh, and I tried to be different, having bought sushi at Boots, the CVS-like store that also sells sandwiches. But the sushi was terrible.

My friends laughed because they thought it would make me sick. Nah. No impact. It just wasn't good. The chicken ceasar wrap I bought was much better.

So were the crisps.

If they weren't all over the inside of my backpack.

I come home poorer for money spent (traveling isn't cheap as you probably know). I come home richer for the experience.

I come home not with a lot of trinkets but with stories to tell. I come home to tell those stories to inspire others to go (or join me).

I come home hopeful that Mike, Erik, Walker, Anthony, Chris, and Scott enjoyed my company and what I bring to the Hunt Scanlon team.

And I come home to the cat, who was pretty thrilled to see me come up the stairs.

I know why I wanted to come back to the States. There's still a kid here and loved ones.

I'm always ready to go back but I can stand to go some time without traveling in that sardine can of a plane.

While on the plane I listened to "Abbey Road" and "Let It Be" and "Help" and "Rubber Soul" and "Revolver" and "Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." The perfect soundtrack for a magical msyery tour completed.

I've already begun to doze off. 

Ah, jet lag, you heartless beast.

You Never Give Me Your Money

 

The first time I went to London in 1998, I had one request: Abbey Road.

The iconic crosswalk.

The Beatles.

Oh yeah.

You might recall that I lost those pictures in the divorce though I was able to bring a few back to life digitally a year or two ago.

Today began quietly as everyone was asleep, except for me. I woke up at 4 a.m. and couldn't get back to sleep. I gave up and was out before 8 a.m. to look for breakfast.

It occurred to me that, while on my own, I should see how far I was from Saville Row, site of Apple Corps and the famous rooftop concert by the lads.

Somehow I had never been there and it's silly because it's a short stroll. I walked quietly along the sidestreets, taking in the London morning.

I soon came upon a sign: Saville Row.

The magic number crept into my brain: three.

I looked to my right. An Abercrombie and Fitch sign is on the outside (though they have apparently closed).

Nonetheless, I had found an important piece of music history. I stood quietly, just past eight, and soaked it in. I wanted to pretend I could hear John, Paul, George, Ringo, and Billy Preston and they rolled through "Get Back" (and passed the audition) or "Don't Let Me Down" or any of the other songs they performed on 30 January 1969.

It was a brief moment of sweetness and I was beyond grateful for the relative silence.

After connecting with Walker Manning and grabbing breakfast (the best breakfast I've had here yet), we were joined by Anthony Pisano and Erik Boender.

Thus the four of us got on the tube at Green Park for the relatively short trip to St. John's Wood.

We turned right out of the Underground. We walked along Grove End Rd. Ahead sat a statue at a fork in the road. A quick turn the right and I could see the white wall with #GIVEPEACEACHANCE on it,

We'd made it. 

The crossroad.

It's not impressive at first. It's easy to look at and say, "That's it?"

Then you realize there's more. The fun of crossing it, taking pictures, and seeing the outside of the famed studio. A shop has opened since I was last there also.

But our Fab Four (minus Mike Hawkins, playing the role of Stu Sutcliffe) gathered in a line, got a good Yank to take our picture, and tried to cross the road.

We tried. Traffic gets held up and the moment is fleeting.

Walker was John.

Erik was Ringo.

I was Paul.

Anthony was George.

Since posting the picture I've been asked about going barefoot. Admittedly, I passed, but if you notice, I'm holding something.

On the album cover, McCartney holds a cigarette.

I opted for my glasses.

I also signed the wall, scratching my name and "Walrus."

We were there for a half-hour.

Maybe.

I couldn't be more grateful.

Oh, and I wore an Abbey Road T-shirt.

Just because.

It took 24 years to "Get Back" to where I once belonged. I hope it isn't that long before I return.

*****

Quick side note: part of the scene is, sadly, the intense amount of homelessness in the world. I've witnessed it in too many cities and far too often. I've seen a ton of it here. How do we get on the right side of eradicating it? It's a serious question that I'm not asking flippantly. I know the reasons for homelessness are varied but it's still heartbreaking.

Shortening the Long Night

 

Pret a Manger on Piccidilly, London

Everyone travels differently.

Some want 24/7 action and adventure.

Me? I have to listen to my body and I often don't (such as Wednesday at St. Paul's Cathedral).

I listened last night.

Whilst (very English of me, I know) standing in the wonderful Plumber's Arms pub, I heard my body tell me to stop. Let the boys be the boys. 

This isn't some kind of commentary on my age (though it probably is) but more of knowing when to say "when."

So, I did. I was in bed just after midnight.

I like experiencing all kinds of hours when I travel. I like getting a sense of local things.

Thus, this morning, I get my backside out of bed, pulled myself together, and took a short walk. On the hunt for something for "brekky," I knew where a nearby Pret a Manger was. The thing to know about Pret is that it was where I had my first, er, meal in the UK back in 1998. They've since come to New York and elsewhere in the States (there's one in a rest area in New Jersey!).

I grabbed my bacon and egg "take away" sandwich with my Americano coffee and hoofed it back to the hotel, which is where I am now.

Committing to continuing this "Project 365" insanity means writing whenever I have a moment and, often, not quite coherently, though I've tried.

Knowing last night was celebratory following the conference, I took my pre-written post from yesterday morning and, while sitting in the hotel bar with my colleagues, uploaded it on my phone.

Sad, innit?

So here I am while my friends sleep and I prepare for the day ahead.

Oh, I should add that the reviews of the conference seemed to be superb. I gave you a glimpse behind the scenes yesterday and won't reveal too much more. As a team, we excelled, and I'm proud to be a part of that. I found the room to be wonderfully respectful and very reserved.

Again, British.

But, in talking with people following, I heard very kind comments that mean so much.

As is well-known, I'm not the most outgoing, despite my ability to moderate conferences and so on. Thus, when at the Plumber's Arms, my colleagues were surprised to see me talking to a table of locals enjoying their evening. What happened was that I noticed they were toasting their night and, I raised my glass from a few paces away with a smile.

They liked it, so I stepped over and clinked glasses with them, chatting with a couple -- the girl originally from Glasgow, Scotland -- who wanted to know who these strange guys were and why we were there.

Very kind and very brief.

And, assuming I don't have time to write more later, I will close for now, prepared for another day of walking and pain.

And knowing when to stop.

Behind the Scenes Before the Conference

 

Greetings from the (John) Nash Room of the IoD -- the Institute of Directors -- in London.

Quite a place. 

It's just past 7 a.m. here in jolly ol' England and, well, Sean Adams is sound asleep at 2 a.m. in New York.

But, for me, it's getting close to showtime for our conference.

This is the runup. It's time for setting up the badges, making sure the room looks good, and go through any last-minute concerns.

In truth, that's for Mike Hawkins, who is truly running this show. Obviously, Chris, Scott, Walker, Anthony, and even Erik (now I'm just busting on him) are all crucial pieces of this team.

Me? I try to stay out of the way and help where I'm needed. Then I do what I do: I talk. I might mispronounce something and I'll receive appropriate grief for it.

But it's time to keep the conference moving and be a pro.

In these last minutes, I review the script and try to meet the A/V team for checking the mics and any technical concerns. But I'm also a huge believer in recognizing those behind the scenes.

My opening remarks are at 8:30 a.m. (3:30 a.m. in New York). 

This is my "just in case" post. As in just in case the day gets away from us and I don't have time to add more. I'm trying hard to keep this post-per-day madness alive!

We're Gonna Get Hi, Hi, Hi

 

I like heights. No, really, I do. I like a protected observation deck.

It's things like ladders and grated stairwells that I struggle with.

And then there's the top of St. Paul's Cathedral.

Oh, for you Yanks, it's the place where Chuck and Di were married 40 plus years ago.

*****

We got our London on today.

For day one (or night one) we did a two-mile walking tour that allowed us to see Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey and Big Ben and so on.

Today started with breakfast before heading to the IoD, where tomorrow's conference -- you know, the reason for the trip -- is taking place.

We got a tour of the facility and the rooms will be using.

Then we walked. I've heard we walked somewhere around six miles today.

First up was the Abbey.

You know, a place where construction began in 1245. No biggie.

Time was tight so we couldn't see everything but we certainly saw a lot.

We had to get over to Churchill's War Rooms for timed tickets that Chris had booked for us.

Again, in case I haven't mentioned everyone (and to make sure Erik Boender gets mentioned), Chris and Scott have led a party that includes me, Anthony (my roomie), Walker, Erik (getting mentioned twice), and Mike. Great crew and great friends.

But I'm the one who goofed with Churchill. His war rooms (formerly known as the Cabinet War Rooms) make up one of my favorite museums.

Ever.

Well, in the 22 years since I've been here, they've added a whole museum on Sir Winston Churchill himself. It was a bad rabbit hole and, suddenly, I discovered that basically everyone was gone. Oh, and since the war rooms are below ground cell service is less than desirable.

So I was the last one to make my way out.

From there, we took the tube to a pub where we all wanted steaks. But there was a problem: they had exactly two steaks left. I was offered one and felt the right thing to do was decline.

But.

If you know me, you know my picky food concerns. Still, I was game (when in Rome, er, London) to try the steak and kidneys.

Kidney beans (no thanks)?

Kidneys? Er...wait...kidneys?

Yes. Kidneys.

I'll simply leave at this: the less I say, the better.

We moved onto to St. Paul's Cathedral (construction began on this in 1675). While time wouldn't allow us to really tour it, including the fascinating crypt, it did allow us to climb to the top of the dome.

Five-hundred-twenty-six steps. No elevator.

Climb.

Climb.

Climb.

I cursed my colleagues out a few times for getting me to follow along.

We reached the top. But, no, that wasn't the top.

The top -- the Golden Gallery -- meant climbing higher, on narrow, grated stairs no less.

I took my time. I paused as needed.

I questioned my sanity.

I had the advantage of the woman in front of me who also needed to stop and catch her breath.

I was happy to take a photo of her and her son when we reached the top. 

But the top was narrow, window, and didn't quite feel as secure.

I took a few quick pictures and began the walk back downstairs. I considered kissing the ground when I reached the ground floor.

The rest of the day included stuffing badges with the guys and a fun dinner with perhaps the best fish and chips I've ever had.

Plus we laughed. I like to laugh.

Along the way, I texted pictures of the dome of St. Peter's to both Susan and Sean to let them know what I was able to accomplish. Of particular note was how proud Sean was of me as he's watched me trying to even get leaves out of the gutter back in Mahopac.

It's not pretty.

OK, game on tomorrow. I have to put my professional moderator hat on so sleep is needed.

Another long day awaits.

From the the Terminal to The Pub

 

So, here's your "If for some reason I can't post tonight" post. 

I started this post at JFK this morning. 

Update: We made it! It was a long trip and, while you're eating dinner in the U.S., we're staring midnight in the eye. 

So thanks to Chris and Scott for getting us here and taking us for dinner and off to a pub (that's the picture above).  Also thanks to Mike Hawkins for buying the pints at the pub!

The adventure is just beginning. 

The Night Before

 

On the day that we paid the taxman, I felt it was time to let it be.

I've packed. I think I have.

I just finished loading my backpack and said out loud, "She's so...

"Heavyyyyyyy."

But the thing is I've packed.

In fact, I think I packed yesterday.

Then I unpacked the suitcase. Then I repacked it.

It looked like a chopped-up butcher's market at one point (that one is a stretch but I'm no paperback writer).

But I had to stop torturing myself. 

I could still be packing when I'm 64 and it wouldn't do me any good.

I'm going to England, the home of Penny Lane and Strawberry Fields (forever!), not back in the U.S.S.R or across the universe.

And I'm going with a bunch of guys. Chris and Scott and Mike and Erik and Walker and Anthony. It's not like I need to impress Julia or Michelle or sexy Sadie or lovely Rita (she's the meter maid) or even Eleanor Rigby or Lady Madonna. Even dear Prudence won't be there. Polythene Pam told me that when she came in through the bathroom window.

At least that's what she said she said.

And we're flying (you know, BOAC) although first I have to drive the long and winding road. Admittedly, with the amount of rain we're supposed to get I'd think we could take a...

wait for it...

Yellow submarine.

Still, as I begin to drive my car in the dead of night I doubt I will see a blackbird and definitely not the Sun King.

Fortunately for no one, there isn't a birthday to celebrate in London Town (sorry, that's a Wings reference but let me roll it).

There is only a conference and I shall carry that weight until the end. I will tell the continuing story of Bungalow Bill and Rocky Racoon. After it is over (it won't be long), I'm hoping my voice will still be strong and my feet won't hurt.

I have no desire to visit Doctor Robert though he is a pro when it comes to getting better. He provides a lot of help.

I want to stride confidently and remind everyone that I am the walrus! Goo goo goo joob!

Oh if only the conference was being for the benefit of Mr. Kite but it's not. Hopefully, Mean Mr. Mustard won't show up either.

I almost forgot to mention our hotel. We're staying right around the corner from Her Majesty.

Anyway, I should go. I need some golden slumbers before the magical mystery tour commences. It will be time to get back here before I know it and come back to the squeaky cat. You know, two of us.

By the time you wake up and say, "Here comes the sun," I'll be at the airport or over the Atlantic.

But first, I'm only sleeping.

In my bed. Isn't it good? It's...you know it...Norwegian wood.

OK, OK. I've got a feeling I should stop because I'm so tired.

Good night.

It's been a hard day's night.

The Non-Sports Kid (and it's OK)

 

So much for "keeping your eye on the ball"

One of the worst-kept secrets is that I have a son and I adore him.

We're close. You know that.

We travel together. We talk. We laugh. We watch movies. We bond over things and we share in other things that maybe we don't have in common.

He's not a sports fan, despite where he works and the number of games he's been to.

He's very unlikely to just sit down and watch a game with me. Unlikely, as in next to never.

Sean tried baseball.

He loved going to practice and going to the games. He loved his uniform and his glove and his bat.

He loved everything on the field.

Away from the field, he had no interest. He also had no interest in going back to the field if it didn't involve the organization of a team event.

Still, we went to the field one time for a game in driving rain. The league didn't postpone. The coaches showed up and a small group of players arrived. So we played (it was T-ball). Sean was all-in. We had a blast.

But, the reality was that he struggled on the field and wasn't concerned about improving. After five years, faced with the reality of kids pitching to him as opposed to parents or a machine, Sean elected to stop.

It was his choice and I didn't fight it.

I was bummed. Sure, I was. But it was his call and I was proud of the five years that he played. He tried. He did all of this because he wanted to. He liked the time playing for me as his coach, and that was part of the deal.

But he was done and he never looked back.

I can't live through him. He can't become an athlete because of me. It's his story. It's his life.

I wasn't a great athlete either (now more than ever) and it's such a dark hole to push our kids to be what we weren't. But that doesn't fly.

That doesn't mean I didn't push my son.

I pushed Sean to be polite and respectful. To clean up after himself (a little). To be honorable and decent to everyone, with no exceptions. I pushed him to stand up for himself and defend things he believes in but still pick his battles.

I pushed Sean to be Sean and have him know that he'll always be accepted. 

Much like me, Sean couldn't be categorized. He couldn't be pigeon-holed. That can make one a target, especially if you show your hand. Like, oh, me.

Sean was bullied and, to be honest, I'm only now beginning to recognize how much. He came through it with the scars (I had my bullies also) but overall OK. Still, I see where it hardened him and that's sad.

While I wish I could have done more the reality also is that there is only so much that parents can do before becoming "that parent."

And "that parent" only makes it worse.

Bullies see things. Or parents of bullies see things.

They hear things.

They see the social media posts and they hear the chatter.

And the boulder grows in size as it rolls toward Indiana Jones.

I'm not saying my style is the answer. I often wish I had known more and done more -- calmly, without making it about me.

In fact, I was more active when Sean went to the Carmel schools but that's a whole different topic. Things were different and felt more out of my control when he went to the Wappingers school district.

I remain steadfastly proud of Sean. He's making his way in the world and, as a parent, I help where I can. He continues to learn from me and notes my crazy schedule and hard work (things I also want him to pick up).

Sometimes all we need to do is lead our kids by example as opposed to living it all on social media.

That's what has worked for us.

Why Can't I?

 

I was asked to jump in on a Fairfield University/Manhattan College baseball game today.

I was told to be there about 45 minutes before first pitch.

So, of course, I was there well over an hour before first pitch. There was an Easter egg hunt going on when I arrived. I made my way to the press box and was told to go to the TV booth.

I found a mixer and a couple of headsets inside. 

I got lineups. I asked for a few general directions about the broadcast. It was all basic.

"The stream goes live five minutes before the expected start of the game. Pot up the microphone and start talking.

"From there, call the game."

OK. I can do that.

I called a 5-2 win for Fairfield. I even got to call a home run by Colin Kelly, who I covered at Greenwich High School. There was some drama but, mostly, it was a standard baseball game and a solid win for the Stags.

Besides Kelly, both rosters were dotted with players that I recognized and schools that I know well.

And yet?

I felt...meh...when I left. In fact, if I'm being fair, I was down.

The game ended at Clover Stadium in Pomona, NY. I flew solo and did my thing. Yet, as "the new guy" it took a few innings before I got into the groove. It's sort of hard to explain but there's a learning curve. Still, as a viewer, you have every right to expect more.

Especially from me, given the standards I set for myself.

The game ended. I wrote out my scorecard and shut down my computer. By the time I walked out of the booth, anyone associated with the game was gone. 

A new crew would be coming in (St. Thomas Aquinas and Queens College followed). As always, I made sure to leave the booth as I found it.

The Manhattan College team and families dined on the main concourse as I walked downstairs. I didn't know anyone so, of course, I kept to myself.

I walked the entire stadium to look around.

I got in the car and just...drove.

I meandered home. I was grateful for the gig. I was happy to be the hired gun.

If there were mistakes -- I'm sure there were, especially in the early innings -- why can't I cut myself some slack? I don't know these teams. 

Why can't I walk out feeling good about the broadcast?

I loved it. I'd love to do it again. More, please!?

Now, yes, I often have Brunswick games and other commitments. Yes, I have a mega crazy calendar and I'd like to see that also get under control.

(I had more written. Then I walked away. Then I came back and deleted it.)

But maybe I've answered my own question. Why can't I enjoy it? Why can't I bask in it?

There's more to it but the simple version is quite succinct. 

I'm constantly grinding.

Thus I'm never satisfied.

Bossy, Seaver, and More

 

I woke up to the news that Mike Bossy has died.

While I'm a New York Rangers fan, I never had the energy to hate the New York Islanders. In fact, I was into the Islanders as they made their run to four Stanley Cups in the early 1980s.

The Rangers team that made a run to the Cup final in 1979 was the first one I took note of. Then, of course, came the 1980 Olympics.

A few months later, Bobby Nystrom scored the overtime game-winner to bring the Stanley Cup to Hempstead Turnpike.

Those Islanders teams were dominant in so many ways with Bryan Trottier and Clark Gillies and Dennis Potvin (I feel like I've heard that name at Madison Square Garden), and Billy Smith...

and Mike Bossy.

Suddenly, today's news had channel 9 on TV and Jiggs McDonald calling the action. Isles/Flyers? Isles/North Stars? Isles/Nordiques? Games of a lifetime ago for a boy still learning the game with Mike Bossy scoring the goals.

He became my favorite. Number 22 was a sharpshooter who joined an exclusive club when he scored his 50th goal in 50 games in Jan 1981.

His career was over due to injuries by 1988 when he was just 30. Obviously a Hall of Famer, the team retired his uniform number. He was Islanders -- and hockey -- royalty.

I'm truly saddened by his passing.

*****

A few miles from when the Islanders play now, another sports god was rightfully and finally honored correctly.

The Tom Seaver statue was unveiled today outside of Citi Field.

Someone asked me just how good Seaver was. The easiest way to explain it is that no player has ever approached Seaver for the greatest ever in Mets history.

That's not an exaggeration. Yes, his nickname was "The Franchise" but it was so deserving. He was -- is -- everything to the Mets.

And, yet, go read the history of just how many times they dropped the ball with number 41. Start with the trade to the Reds where, one year later, he threw a no-hitter. But today isn't the time for that. The Mets -- specifically, the Wilpon family -- took far too long to get the statue erected.

Still, it's there today and I'm glad.

You couldn't possibly hate Seaver.

How good was he? There were times he was literally it. Oh, sure, the Mets had Jerry Koosman and Jon Matlack but Seaver was next-level.

He was dominant. He was devastating.

Rookie of the Year. Three Cy Young Awards. Seven more Cy Young Top 10 finishes. All of the accolades.

Just don't ask a Mets fan about Seaver and the 1973 World Series.

But Tom was Terrific.

I'm glad the Mets -- credit to owner Steve Cohen -- righted the wrong today.

*****

Opportunity knocks again. Just when the business begins to beat me down, I get something out of the blue.

Tomorrow, I'll call Manhattanville College baseball as they host Fairfield University at Clover Stadium in Pomona, NY. It's an easy trip across the Hudson River for me to do this one.

I'm grateful for the chance.

Game time was Noon but has been moved back to 11 a.m.

*****

I won't panic...yet...but take a quick glance at the weather for this coming Tuesday.

That's all I'm going to say.

No Show? No Trouble!

 

I thought I was going to do "Doubleheader" today but there was a miscommunication.

So I got a quiet hour before starting a video depo at 5 p.m.

The good news is I couldn't offend anyone or get in trouble.

I stayed quiet.

The risk of doing a talk show or having a social media "presence" is that people will get offended when taking certain stands.

Of course, one of my favorite things is tweaking a certain subsection of a certain fanbase. But, in that process, those two or three legitimate, true fans (I'M KIDDING) get upset.

All in the name of a joke. Keep in mind I'm also a fan of one of the most easily tweaked teams. I'd offer the Yankees and Steelers are two teams that are frequently mocked -- especially the Bombers, of course.

Getting that serious about it can often be embarrassing, especially when discussing it with people who aren't familiar with sports being life and death.

Sports isn't life or death. And, yet, well, careers and, as such, lives can sometimes be on the line.

The other topic of discussion recently was on Joey Zanaboni, play-by-play broadcaster for the Fredericksburg Nationals (aka "the FredNats").

Full disclosure: His style isn't mine. That's putting it mildly. Yet despite what he thinks, his style isn't exactly all that original either.

So with the season off and running, I saw a few highlights featuring his manufactured, social media-friendly calls.

I decided to play them on yesterday's "Doubleheader." Sometimes I just want to hear what people think and I didn't offer any judgment of my own. I also retweeted one last night.

The feedback was almost universally negative.

Our good friend Harold asked about Mike Lange. If you don't know, Lange has been the voice of the Pittsburgh Penguins for 46 years. He was known for excitable descriptions, punctuated on goals and other big moments in which he'd reach for some off-the-wall expression.

The one I remember was "Lord Stanley, Lord Stanley, get me the brandy" after the Penguins won the Stanley Cup.

I could also explain Dizzy Dean and Bob Prince and Rosey Rowswell and Phil Rizzuto and Harry Caray and others but I've made my point.

It's his schtick and it's worked to the point that FredNats sought him out for the gig. More power to him, I guess.

It wouldn't be something I'd ever teach my students.

But it tells me a lot about the state of the biz. Twentysomething and calls that will get social media clicks?

GOLD, JERRY! GOLD!

Just the mere fact that I'm writing about it here is nirvana. I get it.

Simply being a good game-caller isn't as important. Now, this is a broad brush I'm painting with. I think my style is still popular and appreciated by many.

But it's the clicks, as if fans will run to buy tickets.

I really did try to approach this topic delicately yesterday on the air and on social media delicately but, again, someone can always get offended.

Regardless, the whole exercise was enlightening.

Simply reporting isn't enough sometimes.

Quality, as we've said many times, doesn't matter.

I wish them all well.

Like a weathered grandmother in a Miley Cyrus t-shirt and a feather boa at an all-you-can-eat truck stop buffet.

(Ugh)

Behind "The Clubhouse"

 

Rob, Mark, Dave, Ed

Everything was set.

We were ready.

The speakers were plugged in and on their stands.

The computer was connected to the radio station.

The headsets were tested and each one worked.

The internet seemed fine (HA!).

I even got the name of the birthday boy at the party just across from where we were set up (Eric).

Then came 7:02 and the music came up.

I started talking.

Then, by 7:03, I had a text for Sean Kilkelly, holding down the fort back in the studio.

"You guys sound like you're off-mic."

Oh ****.

All i's had been dotted and t's had been crossed and still, things weren't right.

Welcome to another night in radio.

Sean's text hit me and, despite the sweat forming on my brow (it was hot in there), I calmly told Sean to stay on the air while I rebooted things. I knew what was wrong.

My computer was taking the feed from its own microphone as opposed to the equipment that Bob Small and I had spent the last hour painstakingly setting up.

Keep in mind we were at Grand Prix New York for the first time since the night of March 11, 2020. Sound familiar? That's right, the pandemic exploded that night.

Tonight's show was important to really reestablish us and, basically one minute in, it was ****** up. If you were to examine my stomach you would have seen knots. Yet, to Mark Jeffers, Dave Torromeo, our guest Ed Manetta, and even Bob Small, I was the picture of calm. I downplayed everything.

I got us through segment one. Then, in segment two, the internet dumped us. Again, calm as could be, I mentioned to Bob to keep us under control. Bob handles the mixer while I handle texts from the studio and the computer connection.

I was going to make sure our broadcast on Robcasting was perfect. Pristine even.

But, just as important, I wanted nobody else to panic. Mark, Dave, and Ed could just continue talking. Bob was sort of in on things by that point.

I wanted to make sure the show remained fluid. Bob will take my audio (the Robcasting audio), edit it as necessary, and send that off to a distributor called Sports Byline.

From there, our little show will run on Sirius XM. 

For whatever that's worth (which, to be clear, is A LOT).

But that's the gig as a producer and show host. I'm there to be "the professional" though I also think I provided some decent content and questions tonight. I also need a calm and steady hand in the studio. That's what Sean Kilkelly is.

So it works.

This chaos can happen. The key to it is to survive it without letting too much on to the audience. 

I thought we played it perfectly tonight.

We finished and I saved the audio. I emailed the Robcasting feed to Bob for him to edit.

Then I ate my dinner and called it a night.

It was great to be back at Graned Prix NY. We felt like we were back home.

Seriously, the last time we were there, Rudy Gobert was touching microphones in a press conference before the game he was to play in got completely shut down.

Connecticut had canceled all winter postseason games.

Tom Hanks and his wife, Rita Wilson, announced they too were sick with the "coronavirus."

Tonight, that was all in the past.

Considering I could have been other places -- New Jersey with Brunswick lacrosse and even up near Hartford where a softball broadcaster was needed -- this is where I belonged.

My job is to drive the bus and minimize the chaos.

I did that tonight.

A Day Down Below

 

Suitcase? Cool!

I'm sitting on the bed that I slept in for probably 25 years.

I'm in the room that was mine for roughly a decade.

After Mom passed, I gravitated upstairs, thinking that we'd begin to pack up and get ready to move.

That, of course, was back in Sep 2020. Over a year and a half later we're still here.

So I spent most of the day down here packing and sifting and throwing things out.

The hundreds of CDs that I cultivated for years got whittled way down. They, along with books and a lot more (maybe even an audio mixer or two) will be among the items to be sold in the AMAZING MEGA REMARKABLE TAG SALE OF 2022!

That's a working title. It will be adjusted.

I also went through my collection of maps and pamphlets that I've collected from my travels. I have maps from places I've been and never been. Sean always makes fun of me because he knows that I've never met a welcome center that I didn't like.

Walking The Big E with me was always fun because I'd wear a backpack that I'd overload with maps and other items.

My collection, which began back in the 70s, grew first into a file cabinet. Yes, I asked for a file cabinet for Christmas. 

The collection would move into three plastic jumbo bins.

Today, that collection was hacked down to one bin. Yay, me. The other two bins will likely be filled up by broadcasting notes from 25 years or so.

At the same time, I was working on moving a small dresser that occupied the laundry room throughout my entire life.

I also did some yard work and other stuff. So, yeah, I had a day.

While I would have preferred a game to broadcast, we decided to pass on me going to Greens Farms Academy today for the Brunswick baseball game against the Dragons.

So I was home and I guess that was sort of a good thing. The cleaning is something that I'll have to do eventually. It's something I've wanted to do for, oh, a year and a half (or more);.

With each day I get a better feeling for the approach of attacking what has been compiled in the house over the years. Specifically, it's time for me to really dig into cleaning my stuff. My next place likely won't have the kind of room to store all of my things. Plus I just think it will be a good thing to begin to thin done.

Frankly, the word I use is "cathartic."

It felt good to throw all of those old pamphlets out.

It felt good to roll through the CDs*.

*Just to be clear, the CDs have all been digitized. I have the music. I'm only going to keep CDs that are meaningful. 

I started looking at my books as well. While I feel a certain level of guilt in cleaning all of this, I also feel it's mostly just "stuff."

For instance, given we have Baseball Reference as a website, why do I need a copy of the Baseball Encyclopedia? Granted instead of saying "I'd swear on a stack of Bibles," my answer was always "I'd swear on the Baseball Encyclopedia." Still, my copy is woefully outdated anyway. So, yeah, it's time.

It's a process I'm mostly enjoying because it allows me to put music on or keep listening to the podcasts that I'm trying to catch up on. It's also enjoyable when I get heartless. By that, I mean, I do a better job of purging and making definitive decisions. 

But I'll also add that my back hurts from bending, cleaning, and carrying. I was down there, overall, for about 12 hours. I'm back upstairs now listening to the Yankees game and winding down to get some sleep.

Back on the air tomorrow. Maybe with "Doubleheader" and definitely with "The Clubhouse." I'll be away from Brunswick for about two weeks.

Oh yeah, and I took a stab at starting to pack today.

Then The Cat decided he wanted to participate.

That's enough for tonight.

Write Something

 

The game ended and I packed up.

It was cold at Brunswick after a beautiful day.

The drive was the usual.

I listened to the "Office Ladies" podcast and came home.

I talked to Sean before he went into his room.

I sat down in the recliner and closed my eyes.

Zzzzzzzz.

So after a dinner that I was too tired to make (think pretzels instead), I'm sitting here conjuring up things to write about because we're almost 1200 days into a post-per-day odyssey.

Trust me, I'm wondering just how easy it will be to keep pulling this off come next week.

Maybe I can write a post or two before I get on the plane and schedule them to go out. Maybe I write on the plane.

I don't hate to fly but I don't love it either. The thing about is that I feel sardined. Oh, sure, I could feel that way in first class. It doesn't matter. But, of course, it's more claustrophobic in my usual seat where a peasant like me always flies.

In fact, if you don't know, I once had a borderline panic attack at roughly 35,000 feet over, say, Kansas or wherever we were. It was on a red-eye from Los Angeles to JFK. I was in a window seat and my plan was to sleep. I'm sure I did sleep some but roughly halfway through the flight, I felt completely penned in from every angle. 

It was terrible.

Eventually, I went to the restroom where I took a deep breath before convincing myself that I had to go back to my seat.

Whatever I did, it worked and I was able to get through the rest of the flight.

So, yeah, I'm not a huge fan of flying but I'll deal with it next week. My MacBook is small enough that I might be able to write a bit.

I'll also be using my noise-canceling headphones for podcasts and some relaxing music and whatever else the in-flight service allows.

Oh, for those wondering if I'm one of those who unbuckled and is standing as soon as we get to the gate, the answer is no. I don't get that. I want off -- oh, believe me, I can't wait to get off the plane at that point -- but nothing is going to accelerate that.

See, Despite not knowing where to talk about a few minutes ago, I've cranked out some words for your (hopeful) entertainment.

I could moan about the Yankees (four games in, mind you) but I've noticed that my baseball posts are some of the lowest-read. I mean, I sort of figured that's why you come here but it's your dime.

Still, it doesn't motivate me to write more about the sport.

I could write more about what I'm calling the "treasures" project, meaning the cleaning of my parent's house. And I will for sure. My sister was here last weekend and she texted me some pictures that she found.

She also gave me a copy of a letter that my father wrote to his mother in 1952.

So, yeah, there are some goodies to be found.

But tonight was simply about putting some words on the page. 

The other day, our friend and "co-conspirator" John Nash returned to the blogging world by doing a similar post. He had been missing for a few months and it was great to see him back. I hope the writing block is gone and we see more from him as soon as possible.

As for me? This is my post for tonight.

You'll hear from me again tomorrow.

Runs, Hits, Errors. LOTS of Errors

 

It's almost like "Where's Waldo?"

Spot the mistakes in the "Exit 55" post.

I can edit. I actually thought I'd once make a good editor but was told that to do so I'd have to drive to an office further away for money that wouldn't make up the difference of the gas and wear.

It was good logic and I was grateful.

Of course, I wound up being forced to drive to that same office eventually. I suppose that's a story for another time as I'm digressing wildly.

So, yes, I think I can edit though I'm probably wrong.

And, yes, I think I can edit my own work. Still, for one reason or another, things get missed. I do read each post but admittedly I don't roll through them with the finest of fine-tooth combs.

Thus there are spelling mistakes and poor word choices and grammatical errors and punctuation boo-boos.

Most damming (my opinion) are factual errors. I'm hopeful that those are minimal to non-existent here. Sure, I offer opinions, and those, frankly, aren't wrong. They're just opinions. But things that I present as facts? No, that's a big deal to me if it's wrong.

Of course, you might be surprised to learn that my confidence as a writer was basically destroyed just about a decade ago. 

Still, every time I get annoyed at myself -- most recently 10 minutes ago, thus the impetus for this post -- I read some "big time" publication.

You know, respectable websites that you expect to be perfect.

And then I see the same mistakes at places that you'd think would be edited much more competently than some dope who wakes up in a recliner to write a thousand words on a baseball doubleheader before going to bed.

It actually makes me feel a little better when I spot these errors. Not that I wish on anyone but it's a good reminder that we're all flawed.

Given my constant pursuit of trying -- and failing -- to be "perfect," I appreciate the reminder.

I have a couple of people who read every post. No, really, every post. Those poor people.

Still, they are de facto editors who read for content but not necessarily the nuts and bolts.

I get alerted to any big issues.

Still, it's me who goes back and reads -- sometimes days or even years later -- and discovers the errors. Then I'm horrified. Probably mortified also.

But it will have to do.

The old saying about "wanting something done you have to do it yourself" is a good rule of thumb. We're responsible for ourselves. So I have to be mindful of the posts just as I have to keep an eye and ear on broadcasts.

It's not uncommon for me to be found with my phone to my ear confirming that Local Live looks and sounds OK or that Robcasting or WGCH are clear.

I basically do it with any outlet that I work on.

Call it my own quality control.

Yet, there simply isn't perfection.

So happy mistake hunting! Keep an eye out for the guy with the glasses and the red and white stripes!

The Deluge Before the Doubleheader

 

Before the magic. They will play!

There was a doubleheader today.

Two games. Fourteen innings expected.

Brunswick and Fieldston.

Before heading to the field, the process is always the same. 

Try to get rosters (fail). Don't panic. Hope the team has...something.

Do some player research (marginal success).

On a Saturday, with a doubleheader in play, I grab a bottle of water, stop somewhere for a sandwich, and drive to the field.

In this case, I stopped at Stop and Shop and picked up a chicken caesar wrap.

Keep in mind, there is no concession stand. There's no food truck. Heck, there's only a porta potty for a restroom. That, mind you, is better than nothing.

But today had its own wrinkle.

Rain.

Now, rain was expected but I didn't think it would impact the game. I suspected we'd either get rained out ahead of time or it would rain after the game(s) were played.

So NY 118 turned to US 202 to NY 139 to NY 100 to NY 35 to Interstate 684. This is all standard issue.

Pass the rest area at Bedford. Watch for the cops between the rest area and Exit 4. 

Then hit the monsoon near Exit 3. Even then, I figured Brunswick would make every effort to play. I can't think of a time that I got to Wick to be told the game was off.

That's when the phone rang. It was Wayne MacGillicuddy.

"Why did I know this call was coming?" I said.

He told me to not rush, except...

"Ha! I'm five minutes away."

What he didn't tell me was that the doubleheader was canceled or postponed. So, again, I knew there was a chance of playing.

So, I got to the field and decided I'd wait on bringing the equipment over.

The Brunswick Varsity Baseball Field is a fine facility. Wooden "dugouts" (in name only) occupy each baseline. You could eat off the field. It's clean and well-maintained.

Like virtually all prep school baseball fields, it has no press box. I consider it good fortune that there's even power there -- behind home plate and on the scoreboard in right field. Trust me when I say that can be a luxury.

For now, I'm occupying space near the first base (visitors) dugout. Obviously, I'm there at the request and permission of Brunswick.

The area -- as was every area that wasn't on the actual baseball field -- was soaked.

Yet despite pouring rain, the belief was that maybe there would be baseball today.

I read a tweet earlier that posed the question of what to do about spring baseball while pandering to teams about missed games.

What to do? It's spring in the Northeast. In the case of Brunswick, it's spring in New England, even if only by 500 feet or so.

You play ball when you can, where you can, and how you can. You can't "start later." You can't "go past the end of the school year." You play.

In the case of Wick, there was a window to get baseball in today, even after a couple of cracks of thunder sent players indoors and me back to my car.

My chicken caesar wrap awaited. 

I'll spare you any drama. The water was eradicated with leaf blowers before bags of drying agent were applied. Then the field was raked, dragged, and lined.

The first game was supposed to start at 1 p.m. There was talk that the doubleheader would be shortened to one nine-inning affair.

First pitch was thrown at 1:37. The first game went 4.5 innings before Brunswick won in a score-controlled 11-1 affair. The second game went the full seven innings. Wick won that also.

As for the broadcaster (I don't matter, nor should I), I was cold, damp, and muddy. My back hurt. I was out of words.

I did get the roster in question, thanks to Fieldston's team manager who handed me the lineup card before game one and went through each name with me. One player got into game two that wasn't on the roster but we still made it work.

But the whole thing happened as if there had been no rain. Or thunder. Or even hail (briefly).

And yet, rain returned in the seventh inning, not long after I had noted the dark sky on the northwest horizon. Having not used my sports pods after all (I really thought the games would get over), I closed my equipment up in hard plastic cases that kept everything dry.

Then I packed -- quickly -- and was back in the car. Within minutes, the rain cleared out, the sun reemerged, and the most glorious rainbow appeared.  

I wonder what Veronica Corningstone would say about that

I drove home quietly, once again questioning my sanity but realizing I also had my own skill. I have the ability to stand with scouts pressed against me and parents asking "Where can I watch this" while still calling the game. It isn't rocket science but it's something.

My cadence changes when calling a game in this location because of the number of people surrounding me, including the actual participants.

I drove home, not even listening to the Yankees/Red Sox game. I turned that on when I got home, in time to see the Bombers win again.

I made dinner: reheated pizza slices and "Crazy Lady: meatballs (apparently made with extra crazy).

Eventually, I put the Rangers game on as they clinched a playoff spot. With that comfortably in hand, I passed out, in my mother's trusty recliner from Bob's Discount Furniture.

The one that Sean and I took her to buy.

I woke up to spit out 500 or so words.

Now, this is done also.

Tomorrow is more radio. Maybe even some time spent on cleaning out the house.

And back to baseball on Monday.

Weather permitting, of course.