You're a Grand Old Flag

It's Independence Day.

Fourth of July.

It's also Lou Gehrig Appreciation Day, or the anniversary of his speech in 1939.

It's George Steinbrenner's birthday. 

It's John Sterling's birthday.

It's the 40th anniversary of Dave Righetti's no-hitter (we didn't have cable so I couldn't watch it. I learned it happened after it was over).

I remembered taking the photo that tops this post in April 2015 in Cooperstown. 

That scene struck me as I walked around Doubleday Field that Saturday morning.

I was there to scout and prepare for our HAN Radio/Network broadcast of Brien McMahon and Norwalk the next day. Once I was certain cell service was strong enough, I began to walk around the stadium to learn more for the broadcast (that's called "preparation" and doesn't involve charts and notes) and made my way to the outfield stands.

Stretching from the right field corner to nearly dead center field, I walked through every section, noting the outfield wall panels and the various angles along with the condition of the field. I wanted to check the view from the outfield.

Eventually, I noticed the flag pole.

I was taken by the scene immediately. The clouds. The blue sky peeking through the clouds. The bright light of the sun. 

And, of course, Old Glory, flapping in the breeze.

Take all of that and add in being in a place so sacred to me and it just screamed "MURICA!"

America, indeed.

I won't try to overwhelm you with jingoistic drivel that sounds like I've just walked out of some political rally.

At the same time, I will tell you I was raised by parents that taught me to honor the flag and our country.

When "The Star Spangled Banner" is played, I was taught to stand at attention as rigid as possible* until the last note is completed.

*With exceptions, of course, such as having to guide a broadcast.

It's how I was raised and I'm good with it.

So I'm proud to display that picture on July 4th.

With all of the patriotism and myriad baseball notes, I'm also reminded of countless picnics and gatherings every year, often ending with fireworks that would raise my father's blood pressure. My dad -- as most know -- was injured when a firecracker landed on his lips in the 1930s. He was afraid of fireworks for the rest of his life but never stopped us from doing anything with them.

He did, however, give us the usual "you be DAMN careful" speech if we were setting any off. We knew if we did get injured we'd never hear the end of it.

Please note I did have a small firecracker pop in my hand one night in the 80s. As opposed to flicking the thing aside as I lit it, I cranked my arm and paid the price for being too slow in my delivery.

It shocked me more than anything else. No fingers were lost in my stupidity.

Be safe tonight if that's your thing. 

We're taking it easy.

No hot dog eating contests. Please note I saw some genius compare Joey Chestnut to Aaron Judge.

Seriously.

And on that note, I wish you a happy Fourth.

Happy birthday to this wonderful, yet horribly conflicted country.