In Our Bruce Park Era

 

I'm generally not a nag.

You need to know if you don't, that I hate nagging. 

But the process of being able to move has been borderline ridiculous and I've had to remain aggressive on getting information.

At last check, word was that the current tenant (it's still their place until midnight) would be moving out and cleaning would take place.

As of this morning, I heard that we'd be allowed to start moving in tomorrow.

So I did a little detective work. Take it from me: the tenant(s) is/are gone and things look clean.

Admittedly, I passed that news along. You'd think -- at that point -- I'd get the "all clear" and I'm telling you I would have made several runs back and forth.

But, not so much. 

Instead, I went about shopping to get drinks for our movers (now, apparently, growing to be a few more people thanks to Sean's friends).

And I decided I'd come back home. You know, to our current home. 

I packed my car.

So it's ready and you better believe I'll start moving stuff first thing tomorrow morning. As tempting as it is to go over at midnight tonight, I won't go that far.

With that, I'm back in the Bruce Park place. 

I can never quite put into words what this apartment will mean to me and I'm sure I can speak for Sean here.

I've told the story before. We got the news that the buyers of my parents' house were ready to close and move in. Basically, we had about three weeks to move out and find a new place for me.

I had been looking for something with no success since just after Mom passed. 

Thankfully, I wrote a post here and my landlord -- a friend -- reached out to me. I drove by a few hours later and saw the outside. Then I came back a few days later and walked inside.

I wanted it. Immediately.

We began moving on May 23, 2022, and I started living here on May 25.

We were fortunate. So fortunate. It had room for me. It had a deck. A washer/dryer combo. It was small but just right. It had plenty of storage. It also had a room that Sean could use when he visited.

Yeah, about that. We've noted that, basically, he moved in. We've noted or at least hinted at the reasons. We're not here for that today. I'd never treat my son like that and he knows it.

So it became our sanctuary.

People didn't visit enough but that's our fault. I'm not one to set up a housewarming gathering and I always thought it would be a little tight to do that here.

But there were certain people in our world who never visited and that's a shame.

They can always visit our new place.

Mahopac is in our hearts but this became our home.

We also knew it was fleeting. We hoped to stay longer but it wasn't meant to be and we received that bad news back in April.

After assessing things, I began to turn the page. There's so much I'll miss. The deck. The washer/dryer in the apartment. The attic storage.

But there are also things I won't miss.

The parking and, most notably, Floyd. I'm sure Floyd is a nice, hard-working soul. But his van is on the street near where we wanted to park my car almost every day. And he has a nearby driveway that he could use but doesn't.

So many nights I'd come home -- especially after nearby Bruce Park Grill reopened -- that I'd scuffle to find parking.

Yes, I had a place in the driveway but Sean tended to get that. It was just easier to let him have it. A lot of times, I would just block him in if I couldn't find a place. It wasn't ideal but we made it work.

But, yeah, if you know Greenwich, you know parking is an issue.

I probably won't miss the roar of I-95 and the train tracks out back. I mean, this was hardly a dealbreaker and I often enjoyed watching traffic roll by. But that hum never stopped. Literally, it never stopped. 

I won't miss the horn honking. We live in such a horribly impatient world and whether it was delivery trucks of all sizes or people struggling at the four-way stop, the horns would sound out from roughly 7 a.m. to 12 midnight daily.

My bedroom tended to be the warmest room in the apartment. So many times I didn't need a blanket. I never complained since the apartment was always so comfortable and Sean said the temperature was fine.

Regardless of the season, my room was often very toasty. Bundling up to sleep -- which I like -- wasn't necessary.

Oh yeah, and I'm hoping the electric bill isn't as high as it was here. That wasn't fun as I paid double of what my parent's house was.

But I'll miss the vibe here. Despite the noise, I'll miss the convenience of being so close to 95 and the train station. 

While I didn't love patrons of the Grill making noise while I was trying to sleep, I'll miss looking out the window at it. People here in town have pined for it to reopen for four years and it was exciting to be one of their first customers a few months ago. That being said, we'll be a five-minute drive away.

I'll miss our landlord. Oh, we'll still be friends and colleagues but he was incredibly responsive to any concerns and we each knew we were here if the other needed. When there was water pouring through my ceiling one night, he had it quickly resolved. 

It was a joy to live here and I'll look back with great fondness for this time.

It was a time of transition, definitely for me. 

And this was the perfect place for us to be comfortable.

In all likelihood, I'll be writing from a new location tomorrow.

It's empty and it's waiting for us to occupy it.

Thank you forever, Bruce Park.

I'm hoping new opportunities will follow this move.

A new era dawns at midnight.

(I just nagged for more answers. This is insane.)

The Endless Pizza Debate

 

I saw an account pop up on the socials today.

He seems like a fairly nice guy, though I don't know him and I don't follow him.

But he is among the latest posting about the pizza thing.

"A simple question:

Does Connecticut have the best pizza in the country? Yes or no?"

And my answer was equally simple and I truly doubt it will ever change.

"No. Negative. It's good but it's not NY."

I mean, truthfully, how does one quantify such a thing?

I do so by saying my favorite pizza(s) are in New York. You've heard me give the answers.

Sal's.

Joe and Pat's.

Patsy's.

And so on.

Connecticut will tell you about Frank Pepe's and Modern and Sally's. I've had some of them and they're terrific, no question.

But I'll go out of my way for Sal's, for instance. I'll deal with traffic and parking in Mamaroneck. I'll deal with it when it's crowded.

And I've loved it for 30 years, back to my days at Kraft.

I get the defensive nature of Nutmeggers when it comes to pizza and other things but it just screams of a desperation for attention.

I've likened it a a certain sports fanbase who thinks they get no respect or regard. 

Or the broadcaster who keeps posting the same things because they think it will somehow help them get an MLB job.

But, like bagels, lobster rolls, music, and other things, this is all conjecture.

Frankly, it's silly.

What happens is we discover our go-to.

I mean, when Sean and I want breakfast, we're immediately going to say Waffle House but that doesn't mean there aren't other things we like. Effective Monday (I think), we're going to be living within walking distance of a diner. 

But there are those things that stay with you forever.

I mean, I guess if that's what people in Connecticut need to justify something, then so be it.

Look, there are things I love here in Greenwich. The Hotsy and the Nugget Wrap at Garden Catering and the ham, egg, and cheese at Plaza Restaurant. The Bruin at Corbo's Corner the chicken parm at Bella Nonna.

The pizza at Frank Pepe's is also excellent, to be clear.

But it will never top Sal's in Mamaroneck.

Fight that good fight, Connecticut.

You probably love Grimace also.

Back to Packing

 

Sean is working with the Renegades this week, while I've elected to stay back and pack up.

This was the game plan, especially when we thought we'd have to move by July 1. We got a break when that changed to August 1. 

But, in the meantime, we obviously found a place and, as Babe Ruth is my witness, we'll be in it on July 1.

Our ace moving crew is ready. As we're (again) moving on a Monday, we're blessed to have Kris and Danny* available. 

Obviously, Sean and I will be here as well.

*Inviting Danny is a necessary evil (this part is a joke).

Kris and Danny both said they'd be here basically anytime on Monday morning so get ready because we'll dive right in.

There's one little thing that I'm hoping will be cleared up by then.

As you can imagine, this has been an enormously stressful time. Finding a place and finding the money for the place have both been a challenge.

(That's a hint for anyone reading this that it's time to get little ol' me some more work...preferably something permanent)

But with this process, there have been myriad concerns.

The stress has been both emotional and mental and, in some cases, both.

Late last night -- probably 3:30 or so in the morning -- as I did what a man in his mid-50s does (strolls to the restroom), I felt something move in my back. It wasn't the result of anything that I was doing in that moment.

Immediately, I took something for it and went back to bed.

The good news is I was still able to move and function all day. My back is a little sore but that's about it.

Hopefully, we've dodged a bullet and I'll be fine.

So, while I'm packing, I'm also cognizant of not adding to that.

I didn't carry much in the way of heavy stuff tonight and limited my movements.

I fired up the multiple Alexas around the apartment and listened to Yankees/Blue Jays for the evening. Nice to hear the Bombers remembered how to win. I dare not write any more about baseball because, based on the audience for Wednesday's Derek Jeter post, nobody wants to read it.

Otherwise, I played it safe. I did laundry and cleaned a bit, while trying to keep some lanes open so that we could still walk around.

It was productive, and that's a very good thing.

There will be more of the same tomorrow and Sunday, with Sean working each day. He's got his stuff under control so I'm focusing on everything else as we wrap things up.

Speaking of wrapping, I cleaned up the kitchen, wrapping glasses and mugs up as best as I could, hoping they'd survive the short trip to the new place.

Things were otherwise quiet everywhere else, which means the status quo remains in effect. Still no word on getting, you know, a key.

You can begin to understand why my back decided to freak out.

Packing will continue. 

It's therapeutic.

I need a massage.

Three Days to Go

 

Soon (even if we're not renting a truck)

I know, I know.

Everyone moves (generally) at some point in their lives.

So we've all packed up, cleaned out, handed off one set of keys, and taken another one.

The clock is ticking toward June 28 -- a few days to the end of the month -- and I still have no firm date on when Sean and I can drop anchor in our new port.

This much I am -- sort of -- sure of: we will spend July 1 in our new home.

Beyond that, the left doesn't seem to know what the right is doing.

I got a text earlier today from Gideon, our trusty realtor (and my boss at WGCH). He said the broker wanted me to call the existing tenant of thew soon-to-be home of Adams.

"Um, OK," I said. "Why? What am I calling about?"

Supposedly it was about utilities.

"Huh. OK. Well, I've already spoken with Eversouce and they know to switch our account to the new place on July 1."

Gideon was impressed that I was on top of things (readers of this very piece of real estate already knew this). Electric and internet/TV were both taken care of on Tuesday, with a follow-up call to Verizon on Wednesday to confirm things.

So, we're set, even if I'm not confident things will work when we arrive.

But, of course, the landlord wants to clean and paint before we start moving in.

Cool. Maybe.

We're still moving in on the July 1, right? I mean, I'd like to get cracking immediately that day and I want my moving crew (currently numbered at three others) to get here ASAP without us waiting for a key.

I mean, I was coerced into signing the lease, and paying all of the rent and security weeks ago without delay or risk losing the place. Like, serious nagging.

(Hint: nagging isn't wise with me)

So when do I get what I want, like the key?

Knowing the answer, since we're paid for July 1, I still inquired about being allowed to move in.

I got an affirmative.

So, OK, then. Exactly when will the key be handed to me?

And thus, I'm back to waiting again for an answer. Sunday -- June 30 --  seems acceptable and, yes, we're still waiting.

You see, I've been in a holding pattern on several things. I've alluded to this recently. And I'm really sort of sick of it. As in, end of my rope sick of it.

Several situations have just sort of not come back to me and I need one of them to do so.

So, again, in the meantime, I continue to pack a bit. I continue to get toward the bare necessities here.

We'll get into the final packing over the weekend.

It's not unlike me to go to the apartment at 12:01 a.m. on Monday and drop off a carload of stuff.

But it's more likely I'll wait until after 6 a.m.

Maybe. After all, do you really think I'll sleep much on Sunday night?

*****

I used to really dig presidential politics. 

No longer.

I'm not watching tonight.

*****

The kerfuffle caused by Michael Kay yesterday was honestly much ado about nothing.

No radio/TV outlet is going to turn down advertising money.

Nor are they going to say that the advertiser -- in this case, SNY -- has to redo the commercial to not call their broadcast team "the best in baseball." Of course, SNY thinks their team is the best. That's simple hype. Marketing nonsense. Things that high on their horse social media dopes write about.

Honestly, this is what we're upset about?

Michael didn't like it and decided to defend the Yankees booth. And, look, I get that too. I'd defend my teammates as well.

Personally, I like the Yankees booth (the right combination) and, while the Mets booth is great, I think it's vastly overrated. I think the San Francisco Giants have the best booth, led by the incomparable Jon Miller.

But it's all opinion and who cares? I'll take the Robcasting Radio booth if you want the truth. 

Then the SNY broadcasters had to make fun of Kay and it just all got especially silly. We won't even get into the social media side of it but you can guess where that would wind up.

Besides, Kay isn't even working tonight's broadcast and we're stuck with Ryan Ruocco. Oh, wait. You might be stuck with Ruocco. I'm sitting in a quiet apartment.

Like music, it's all subjective. The Yankees broadcasters can be my warm milk and cookies. They're comfort food. Of course, a fan is going to go to them first.

So what would I thought of it had it happened to me?

If Chris Erway were still around we'd both laugh at it and, likely, mock it.

I recall someone once tried to use the "A-Team" moniker. It didn't go well. We tended to defend our turf.

But laughing is our best approach.

Followed by outworking and outperforming. We liked that kind of challenge.

I don't doubt Kay gets sick of hearing the SNY booth is "so much better" than YES. It would bug me and, like I said, I would also defend my coworkers.

That's not to say his approach was a good one on his radio show. But, that being said, it brought him attention. Is that good? Depends on opinions.

But I thought Michael's dropping a bottle of Diet Coke in a garbage can years ago in reference to mocking Mike Francesa was a bit eye-rolling.

So, perhaps, is this.

Just work hard. You have the gig. The Yankees gig.

You win.

Happy 50, Jeets!

 

Derek Sanderson Jeter, perhaps the greatest human being ever, is celebrating his 50th birthday today.

My God. For the love of Babe Ruth, that's some lead right there.

In truth, I was never the biggest Jeter fan during his career. Oh, I loved watching him play. Of course, I did.

You had to watch him every day to appreciate him. Jeter wasn't about the flashy plays. Sure, he could play -- gulp -- defense and he could get big hits, but it was the little things.

Even as a leader, everything was done quietly. 

But he was a standard every October. He was on TV's everywhere. He was a way of life.

And that's where things could get flashier.

Remind me why I say "Black is not a Mets color"
Jeter homers on the first pitch of Game 4 in 2000

Look, I know he has iconic plays that he'll always be tied to. The Flip. The dive into the stands (once against Boston, once in the playoffs against Oakland). Mr. November. The jump throw from shortstop. The walk-off hit in his last at-bat at Yankee Stadium. The 3000th hit "with an exclamation point." The home run on the first pitch of Game 4 in the 2000 World Series.

But it was all done with a steady hand and a grin.

Best of all, it was done with a fist pump when it was over.

I got to be around him in the locker room after a September game against Toronto in 2003. That's probably the first time I really understood it all.

No, he said nothing of consequence as I stood there with my back almost into Thurman Munson's locker/shrine. That was the point. That was what impressed me.

He answered. He answered everything. He said nothing. 

But he was in control.

The end at Yankee Stadium

Eventually, all iconic careers come to an end. Jeter's ended in two parts in Sep 2014. First on that single to right off Evan Meek against the Orioles at Yankee Stadium, driving home Antoan Richardson. Royalty waited to hug him with Joe Torre, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada, Andy Pettitte, Mariano Rivera, and Tino Martinez, plus his good friend and former teammate Gerald Williams.

Then, three days later, it ended for good at Fenway Park, of all places.

Despite the lack of flash, he still knew how to walk away, dribbling a grounder to third. He beat it out for an infield single and even picked up an RBI as Ichiro scored.

He knew when to say when. Even Boston tipped their caps with a lengthy ovation.

Baseball fans get it. Even vicious rivals.

Since then he tried to be an owner in Miami and, well, not everything turns to gold. He stepped down.

He was part of the documentary The Captain in 2022.

He has since taken up broadcasting for FOX.

And he's returned to The Bronx a few times, much to the delight of his adoring fans.

There's still a foundation that bears his name. He -- and his family -- aren't just faces. They're actively involved.

He's happily married after the myriad jokes about his bachelor lifestyle, including once dating Mariah Carey. Some of his nightlife got him in the doghouse with George Steinbrenner, though they lampooned it in a commercial. Of course, there were the legends of gift baskets for his "visitors" as well.

Print the legend, of course. 

But he remains, by all appearances, the same loyal guy from Kalamazoo. Adored by his parents and sister, and now with children of his own. Still close to his fell "Core Four" mates. Still able to talk smack and take it.

I always appreciated him but all of the other stuff helped me appreciate him more.

And then came the "overrated" stuff. Yes, Ken, thank you. For you, my friend, created the #OverratedShortstop.

It's the most tiring nonsense. "Blah blah blah defensive metrics say blah blah blah."

Spare me. 

He made the plays, got the hits, and shined with the lights were the brightest. He won five rings. Not exactly Yogi Berra territory but in the modern era that's pretty great. He has -- and I say this repeatedly -- the sixth most hits ever.

People get jealous of such success. The looks, the image, the winning, and whatever other things that go into such hatred.

Plus, they hated him because he beat their team. They hated him because he personified the Yankees. You knew he'd fit in anytime.

They hate him because he said the right things while saying nothing, such as his speech to close the old stadium in 2008.

“There’s a lot of tradition, a lot of history, and a lot of memories. The great thing about memories is you’re able to pass them along from generation to generation.”

They hated when he won Gold Gloves and championships and waltzed into the Hall of Fame, missing being unanimous by one vote.

And, yeah, he wants accountability for that one vote because that's what a leader and competitor does.

So as I continued to read takes about him that just felt uneducated, it made me raise Derek Jeter to a more mythical status, even with tongue firmly planted in check because it's sports after all.

He was, as someone once said in a heavy New York accent, "duh Yankees best hittah."

Intangibles. Hate the word all you want. That was Jeter.

Happy birthday, Captain.

Bittersweet Birthday

 

A birthday cake for the band who put that song in Shrek!

I've mentioned our good friend Susan here before.

Today's her birthday and, honestly, when I wished her a happy one on the socials, all I could muster was "Happy birthday!"

Granted, it was just after midnight but I couldn't seem to find anything else to say without being an ass, frankly.

Maybe what I said seems OK, but I didn't include her name, any nicknames, or witty liners.

I've often said that other people's stories are theirs to tell and Susan is a fairly private soul.

But I know her heart is hurting after a rough stretch of losses, including her mother. I don't think I need to keep that private.

We've discussed that the first time for everything following a death can be difficult.

First holiday season.

First birthday (theirs and yours).

First Thanksgiving.

First anniversary of their passing.

And so on.

There are no rules for how to proceed. I remember trying to drag Mom along after my father died, hoping to shield her from the pain.

Yet, it can't be escaped, especially when sitting at the dinner table, say, on Christmas, and Dad isn't at the head of the table.

Mothers always have a way of making things special. Especially birthdays, I suppose. And so, it has to hurt. No, in fact, it does hurt, especially in the first year.

I feel for Susan today. There's literally nothing I can do to help, outside of trying to make her smile as we texted during the day.

I just hurt for my friend.

With each day, you try to move forward. That's what I remember from 1989 and, I guess, from 2020 as well.

In '89 I was an idiot in my early 20s. I went through various stages of handling that grief. In 2020, I was blindsided by what happened after Mom died, thus negating any grief. 

Still, it was an adjustment.

So I get where Susan is coming from. All I can do is listen and support.

She has a good soul, Susan does. A complicated one, but a good one. 

She's had my back more times than I can remember and has calmed me down more than once.

Tonight, I'm trying to help a little.

I'm hoping these words make up for my rather antiseptic birthday greeting this morning on Facebook. 

Happy birthday, my dear crazy friend. Jane's smiling. Maybe hanging with my parents. Likely hanging with your grandmother. 

She's proud of you. I'm confident of that.

The tears and sadness will continue to flow. That's how this works. Time won't dim it.

Yet, somehow, a day at a time, it will get better.

I'm proud to know you.

We all are.

2K

 

Last Thursday passed without much fuss.

As I recall, I ran some errands and it was fairly average.

That night, I wrote, as I've done every day since Dec 30, 2018.

But, in reality, while it was truly an average day in an average life, it's worth noting that it was the 2000th consecutive day with a post here.

I'm willing to note it because, well, I need a topic every night, right?

Beyond that, meh. I have my thoughts about what I've written and, as has been noted, not every post in meaningful.

However, I can't stress enough I'm not looking for a pick-me-up. I don't want attention, pity, or anything else.

I'm literally just noting that it's been 2000 days in a row. 

Except, now it's 2004 consecutive, so the moment has passed, right?

But this beats whining about other things, so there's that.

Plus it's a night with a game 7 and that's glorious.

Oh, I've seen some sinkers, no question about that. Speaking of which, none of us will ever get past Game 7, 2004. Beyond that, I shall not talk of it.

The good news there was that it was over early. That saves my blood pressure.

Or Game 7, 2001. That had a ton of drama and ended in heartbreak.

Then again, I loved every minute of Game 7 in the 1991 World Series. I was actually practicing calling play-by-play as I watched the 1-0 masterpiece between the Twins and Braves.

How about 1997 (Indians/Marlins)? 2016 (Cubs/Indians)? The 1992 NLCS, when Sid Bream got the piano off of his back on a mad dash? Oh, and the 2003 ALCS, when Aaron Boone got a new middle name in Boston?

There are so many great examples to mention but Game 7 -- or whatever is the ultimate game in a series -- is just the best. 

At least, generally speaking. It was just back in May, for instance, that the Pacers obliterated the Knicks in Game 7. At the Garden.

On the other hand, any hockey fan remembers Game 7 at the Garden in June 1994. The Rangers -- without a Stanley Cup since 1940 -- beat the Vancouver Canucks 3-2 to win. I clearly remember a nerve-wracking night watching that game.

Without a rooting interest, I remember a gutwrenching Game 7 in 2009 between Pittsburgh and Detroit. The series -- and the season -- came down to a brilliant save by Marc-Andre Fleury on Nicklas Lidstrom.

Doc Emrick's call on NBC was overwhelmed by the crowd in Detroit that night, but it's clear "What chaos!" would have been appropriate to say.

Tonight, Sean McDonough gets the honor on ABC/ESPN here in the US while Chris Cuthbert handles the call on CBC in Canada. 

Those are the voices who will be forever connected to this night and I wish them well.

Post number 2005 in a row commences tomorrow.

You Won't Like the Answers

 

We'd like to move in there. Soon.

My phone buzzed. I growled.

Pack a little. 

Then stop.

I learned that, as of now, we can't move until July 1st.

To say I wasn't happy would be a slight exaggeration. I was fairly annoyed. Disappointed. And, as I've said, frustrated.

It puts a bit of pressure on us but I don't plan to give up.

Oh, I get it. The current tenants are entitled to be there until June 30th. We just want to put some stuff in the basement. Our inquiry into that came back with "Is it a few items?"

I mean, no, it's not. It's the basement. It's our storage. Thus, it's moving the contents of our attic.

In short, it's a start. 

To satiate my need to move forward, I made an attempt to move our internet and TV to the new place. I'm not sure that worked (thanks, Verizon).

If you don't know, I loathe phone calls and, yet, I'll be making calls to both Eversource and Verizon to sort these things out.

In the case of Eversource, I've set up to turn off the power here on July 1 but I need to give them new address. You might know that I've previously mentioned that we don't know exactly which meter is ours.

I mean, really, you say? Yeah. Really.

But I acquired information that will hopefully move that ball along.

And with Verizon, it's more a question of confirming what I did today because I'm not convinced anything worked.

Otherwise, it was a day of "Meet the Beatles" and a grocery store run. Beyond that, my goal has been to organize and be prepared. I spent some time in the attic to get a few things in place but, in reality, it's just too hot up there right now. Sweat poured off of me and with how disgusting the air is, breathing isn't the easiest thing in the world.

To be clear, I'm not struggling to breathe. It's just very heavy air.

But we're forming the game plan here. Organize the change of services and what needs to be packed up. Have it all ready.

The minute I get the key, get the party started. As you know about me, that could be five or six in the morning on July 1. It really wouldn't bother me. 

Get the heavy stuff over to the new place ASAP because two of our movers will be bringing pickup trucks so their time is very important. Sean and I can keep loading our cars with things as well.

I reminded myself that our 2022 move from Mahopac took two days, mostly because of the distance between Mahopac and Greenwich. We have nothing like that here so I'm really hopeful that, with a strong effort, we can get this all done.

It's going to happen.

It's going to be OK.

Enjoy the process.

It will soon be over.

That being said, I'd really like to move some stuff this weekend. 

Please? Pretty please?

Saturday Driver

 

Posypanko Park, Oxford, CT

It was an up-and-out early start.

As I mentioned yesterday, I was going to look at the two fields where I will broadcast baseball in July.

The first stop was in Oxford, CT. Roughly an hour away, I know that drive won't be delightful in a few weeks.

The park is slightly off the beaten path in that it's not served by a major highway. But there are plenty of nice roads that get you to Posypanko Park. There's nothing flashy about the entrance. It just serves the purpose.

But they're gearing up to make things look great there next month. In fact, they were prepping the field when I showed up this morning. Once I explained who I was, I got a good tour of everything.

The reason to do this is to check cell service and see what the press box looks like. It's meant to check the space and circumstances I'm working with. It's also to check out the view of the field and any other things my eye picks up.

In this case, it quickly became apparent that the press box was, as usual, a press box in name only. Fitting three people in there will be a challenge. You have to have an announcer/music person, an official scorer, and a person to monitor pitch counts.

There is no need to force me in there so it looks like I'll be posted just outside of the box on the landing at the top of the stairs. I'm hopeful there will be room for one of my pods to keep the equipment out of the elements. I'll also have my hard-sided cases and those will come in handy.

I could relocate beyond the outfield fence but I don't think that will be necessary. 

That's where the first day is always an extra grind. It's necessary to get there as early as possible, to allow time for setting up and making sure it all works. Cell service seems to be sufficient but that's also part of getting accustomed to the setup.

There are other things, like having a concession stand since going offsite to grab food doesn't seem likely. Nor, in this case, does it seem necessary. There doesn't appear to be too many places to grab food in the immediate area and, if you don't know, there isn't often much time between games in a tournament. After stretching out, it's time to start writing lineups and preparing scorecards for the next game.

As I've said repeatedly, it's a grind. 

Water and restroom access are also huge for the discerning broadcaster.

This is all part of a drill I'm very used to. Thankfully, there are also people who are used to me doing that. I heard my name was mentioned among people involved with the tournament and they were happy that I'd be there. That helps a lot.

Again, that first day tends to feature a bit of "who are you and why are you here?" They don't quite get it.

They do. Eventually.

Honestly, my visit to Oxford was quick. I got a sense for everything and was back on the road, with my sites set on Trumbull. Word is that the tournament will be played on a new field, so I went to check it out.

Turf is set in place and it looks great. Arrangements for a broadcast will likely need to include the pod or a tent.

If we wind up at another location, that would be fine too because I'd likely be familiar with it.

The longest part of this journey was the simply delightful slow traffic on the Merritt Parkway from Fairfield to Norwalk.

In total, it was probably a three-hour tour.

Oh, and I detoured to drive by the new apartment. I admit I was hoping to see a moving truck or some sign of the current tenants heading out. 

But it was quiet. Nothing wrong with that.

Eventually, I packed some more.

And maybe I'll pack some more tomorrow.

Speaking of which, Sunday will start with "Meet the Beatles." Some weeks don't require much preparation, depending on what I feel like playing or what the theme is.

I did a little extra work to set up for this one.

Hope you join me tomorrow at 9 a.m.

The Waiting Remains the Hardest Part

 

I'm so wrapped up in moving (and frustrated*) that I haven't spoken much about games.

As I'm a little worried about a quiet summer -- something I can't afford -- I'm happy to say I'll be back under the headset soon.

* Yeah, I'm frustrated. I'm lacking some answers and it's bugging me. For instance, I reached out to Eversource (the always affordable electric company, haha) and, as I feared, they couldn't find my address. They need a meter number.

OK, cool. I reached out for an answer and I'm still waiting. On that same note, we're also still waiting for a date when we can get the key and start moving. We were told we could begin coming over before July 1 but ... we're holding out for an actual answer.

So, yes, patience is needed, which I'm out of. I'll need some answers on Monday.

Oh, to add to this tale of woe, I also need some ill-timed car work. 

Ah, yes, games. I've alluded to this before but a slate of tournament games is on the horizon, beginning in early July.

Once again, Trumbull will host us, this time with a Babe Ruth 13-Year-Old State Tournament. The winner of that will head to Westfield, MA for the New England Regional. The winner of that heads to the World Series in Glen Allen, VA, which I've heard does a great job. That also means staying just outside of Richmond.

Yes, I'd quite like that. I miss Richmond.

My understanding is the Trumbull tournament will be on a different field than I've worked at but that's all stuff I'm trying to confirm, along with game times and other items.

I've also been asked to call the Cal Ripken New England Regional at Oxford, CT. The teams there will include the Connecticut champion, who will emerge from the state tournament, which is ongoing now. Winning the regional will propel the champion to the World Series at Florence, AL.

The odds of me going to that probably aren't great but who's to say? When I first started calling tournament games in 2015, I was simply trying to survive. The grind was tough on my voice but, somehow, I've gotten much better at managing that. 

Since then, I've called a tournament nearly every year.

The people from the Oxford tournament got to me first and we had some good conversations to understand exactly what I can bring to them. There might be a few more things outside of the broadcasts themselves but overall it should be mostly business as usual.

But Trumbull? Mike Buswell? How can I say no? Even Mike knew I couldn't.

If I had any desire to be out, I was brought right back in.

I haven't called enough baseball in 2024. Frankly, I've felt deficient, so I've got this to look forward to.

But it also starts in the first week of July and we need to get going on the move.

Tomorrow, I'm going to go look at the two fields where I expect to be working. I want to get a sense of cell service, a booth (if available), and space (if I need to create my own booth).

And if I need to create a booth, I need to figure out if I want my pod or a tent, and other ways to keep me and the equipment out of the elements.

Barring any issues and/or conflicts, the games will all run on Robcasting.

However, tonight, I'm sitting in a living room full of crates and boxes (and some junk) and I'm tired of waiting. 

Hopefully, there will be more packing and more mess and, in due time, the move will begin.

Never Ignore History

 

I'm sadly willing to bet the ratings will be low. I hope I'm wrong.

That's a harsh reality of baseball in 2024.

But, again, nobody gets history like baseball does.

Oh, how we -- they -- have tried to ruin this great game. You name it, they've done it.

Take your pick. Ghost runner on second base, pitch clock, permanent designated hitters, etc. Beyond that, there are ugly uniforms, obscene ticket prices, labor issues, egotistical umpires, and so on.

Some people don't have complaints and some people have completely walked away from baseball.

I say it all the time. The game needs players and fans and people to spread the word. The biggest gripe is that it's "boring." It's only boring if you don't understand it.

I understand it. Intensely.

Tonight, in Birmingham, AL baseball is being played at a site that first opened in 1910.

Tonight, it's the San Francisco Giants and the St. Louis Cardinals. They're two teams who are, of course, thankfully integrated.

Once upon a time, Rickwood Field was home to segregated baseball. Blacks and whites couldn't play together in Birmingham until 1963.

Thus, Rickwood Field hosted many Negro League games.

As a result, tonight is a richly deserved celebration of the Negro Leagues.

It's also, of course, a celebration of the life of Willie Mays. Born in Westfield, outside of Birmingham, Mays first played professionally at Rickwood for the Birmingham Black Barons.

Baseball has embraced more of these types of events. Back in 2021, the Yankees and White Sox played at the Field of Dreams site in Dyersville, IA. MLB has also played at Williamsport, PA in conjunction with the Little League World Series.

Baseball has further stepped outside of the box by playing games in London as well as the Fort Bragg Game in North Carolina in 2016. I got to see that site when I visited there a month after the game took place.

It's important to honor the past, probably more in baseball than any other sport. The danger, of course, is living in the past.

But it wasn't that long ago the players talked of now knowing who Jackie Robinson was. Obviously, education has gone a long way toward explaining Robinson's impact on the history of the United States. In his case, knowing the details of what kind of player Jackie was isn't as important as knowing the quality of the man he was and what he meant for society.

What strikes me about tonight's game and broadcast is the eloquence of those who have spoken. Some of what I've heard has been incredibly compelling, led by Reggie Jackson, who told stories of the racism he faced, including using "the N-word" that took my breath away.

It's a shameful part of our past and, sadly, in some places, still a reality.

To that end, there aren't enough people of color in the dugouts tonight, a fact that baseball is dealing with on a continuous basis.

That doesn't take away from what feels like a good night in Alabama.

And baseball needs more nights like this.

Groggy

 

The face the Yankees need?

If you missed yesterday's post (and the brief note added later), I worked an overnight deposition.

Most of them in the past had been over by roughly 4:30 a.m. 

This one ended just after 6:00 a.m.

I quickly finished my paperwork, uploaded the files, and was in bed by 6:15. I was able to get maybe three hours of sleep. 

I also grabbed a nap later on before heading to Mount Kisco for The Clubhouse.

It's now just after 10 p.m. and I'm done with everything. Therefore, I can sleep.

With no disrespect intended, I struggled to find energy for the show tonight but I admit tonight's show was exactly what I needed.

It wasn't stuffed with guests, though we did have our friend Rob Labritz on. Rob is an outstanding human being and a wonderful golfer on the Champions Tour. The golf world has really taken to him and he joined us from Endicott, NY where he's getting ready to play in the Dick's Sporting Goods Open.

But, otherwise, it was an easy show of conversation and laughs. Willie Mays obviously was a big part of the conversation.

Willie is obviously an all-time great, and I withheld most of my opinions as the tributes poured today. But you won't change my mind that Babe Ruth is the greatest player of them all.

When we get together to do the show, nostalgia is a fun part of the evening, especially at the post-show dinner, in which TV theme songs stand out. Tonight, we got into trying to remember TV lineups on a network for a particular year.

Dave Torromeo and Mark Jeffers both did a solid job of remembering the 1972 Friday night schedule on ABC, for instance.

In case you wonder where I come up with the worthless information in my brain, it's reading things like that. The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family were part of that Friday night lineup, in case you're wondering.

And so I am back home, listening to the Yankees who are on the verge of losing to the Orioles at the Stadium.

More to the point, I'm ready to shut down and go to bed.

Oh, I'm exhausted, no question. I could barely speak while doing the show earlier. But I'm glad to have survived the day without issues with driving, for instance. 

And the Yankees lost, so I guess my plan to adopt the Hamburglar is over.

Time for bed.

On the Record Tonight

 

A stock photo of a video deposition.
It doesn't look like that for me.

I'm back on a deposition this evening.

As usual, I can't provide any details, except to say it's a job that began when I logged on before 6:45.

For the record, that's 6:45 p.m.

There are pluses and minuses to this situation but it's worth noting that we officially started the depo right around 8 p.m.

If you know anything about depositions, it can take hours.

So, if you're following along, we'll be here for a while.

I've been told to prepare to keep going until 4 a.m.

I first started doing this position in Sep 2020. It was literally just after Mom died and, of course, I was a bit lost. But through two friends (Craig, who I knew, and Dan), I picked up something of value. It was something that I found that I could and, with my ability to multitask, I was able to make it all work.

I went to the office for an interview one day and came back the next day for training. Three days after that, I was on a case while being monitored. Just after that, I was on my own.

Though, in truth, you're never on your own. Dan, in particular, will always wake up or even check on you if you're doing an overnighter.

One day, while doing a case in the office, Dan mentioned to me that an overnight case had come in. The witness would be in a far-off place via Zoom but the job remained the same.

Feeling confident or wanting to be helpful, I suggested that I'd be willing to give it a shot. Honestly, I expected to be turned down.

And so, I logged in at 7 p.m. and, according to my notes, I finished at 3:10 a.m. I think I got to Mahopac around four in the morning.

This continued several times over the next few weeks, with the latest end time being 3:40 a.m. I stumbled home around 4:30, basking in empty roads before collapsing in bed.

I also remember I was supposed to go in one night and fell asleep that afternoon. Now, I'm one to sleep for a few minutes, recognize I need to go and get right back up. My internal clock is good like that. Except, not in this case. In the process, I caused concern for Dan and Craig, both of whom were so supportive of me, especially then. They kept calling me and I kept sleeping right through it.

Eventually, they got me, I confirmed I was fine, and that I'd be in ASAP. I think Dan started the meeting but I made it in time for the case to begin. Dan probably bought me dinner as well.

In November, the guys decided that I should have a setup at home, especially with winter on the way. Thus, I built a setup with their help that created a workstation in Mahopac.

Oh, we had adventures there also. One night, we lost power long enough for the Zoom connection to drop. Frantically, I worked with the people on the case that night to restore everything and we carried on. Everyone was gracious and we were all quite close for that stretch. It was the same people every night, from the concierge and court reporter to the lawyers as well.

I remember another time when I blew a fuse in the house. I went to fix it and discovered we were out of fuses. I had another case coming up the following morning but we also had a snowstorm coming in. So I flew to a Lowe's in Yorktown first thing in the morning, got fuses, and installed it in time for the case.

Thanks to my normally insane schedule, I've been a bit busy and that makes it difficult to do more depositions. I commit to other things before them.

I have a chart of all of these crazy hours that I've done. One job I recall was not long after we moved to Greenwich. I went to the office for that one, returning home at 4:30 a.m. after a very short drive. Once the home office was sufficiently set up, I took on more cases from here again, including one that had me waking up at 3 a.m. So, if you're keeping track, I had to wake up even earlier than that.

There will soon be a new location for this setup and we'll carry on. Perhaps Sean will be able to do some home cases as well. He's becoming a pro at them also.

And so, here we are. It's almost 10 p.m. and we're a few hours in. I should add that I learned of the passing of Willie Mays tonight and I'm quite certain we will address that on the radio a few times over the next few days. I'll be bleary-eyed for "The Clubhouse" tomorrow night.

While I'm laser-focused on the case, my multitasking ability allows me to keep an eye on the Yankees as well as Game 5 of the Stanley Cup Finals. I remember keeping my iPad handy to watch the World Series during other night jobs.

But I'm normally wearing a headset and can still do other things as needed.

It's when those things are over that it gets a little tougher to stay awake. The dead of the night is real. That's when I try to stretch and walk around -- even if it's just to the kitchen.

I can use all good juju, mojo, and whatever other thoughts you'd like to pass along for me to survive and, eventually, get to bed.

But this is work. And it's good work.

Sleep is overrated.

(Update: It is 6:11 am and we just finished)

Ready to Bust a Move

 

I'm a bit impatient right now.

Call me Veruca Salt, minus the spoiled petulance. Oh, and I'm nowhere near as greedy, selfish, and demanding.

So, maybe not. Maybe I'm more like SpongeBob.

But we're now inside of two weeks until the great 10-minute move of 2024 and I want to start moving!

It might be a five-minute drive. It all depends on traffic.

We've pretty much set our game plan, and we'll accept help.

All we're waiting for is the "okey dokie" to start bringing things over. I'm content to bring boxes for the basement for now. I just want to feel like we're making progress.

If (and when) the apartment is ready, I'll start diving into the nitty gritty. Basically, by Sunday night, June 30, I want us to be down to the bare minimum here. I want there to be some food, soap, a couple of towels, fresh clothes, and a place to sleep. Heck, if the beds get moved before July 1 I'll happily sleep on an air mattress.

Beyond that, I'm content to be left with the "big stuff," meaning dressers and the love seat and other things that will get loaded either onto a trailer or a pickup truck.

Unlike moving out of Mahopac two years ago, this will mean several trips to and from our new place.

Additionally, a difference between the 2022 move here and this is that The Cat won't stay in the new place before we do.

That whole process still sits in my brain. I was just as anxious about that move, if not more. We didn't have much advance time to move in. We thought we might have some but the timing just didn't work out, so we started moving on Mon, 5/23/22. We did one full truckload, along with a pickup truck and a carload.

Then we unloaded here. That was it for the day. We reloaded the next day with a trailer load, a pickup truck, and a car.

We had to be out by the of Tuesday night. We got it done.

After unloading, I went back for the last car load, including The Cat.

He stayed in the apartment, despite my booking a pet-friendly hotel. I stayed in the hotel and tried to not think.

I finally stayed here officially on Wed, May 25, 2022.

Being able to bring things over -- next week is what I'm being told -- should allow us to get a lot over there and ensure that we'll be done by the night of July 1.

There are plenty of things for me to worry about, including the weather. The predicted temperatures for this week are brutal, with the mercury skying into the high 90s. 

A quick glance -- two weeks away -- shows high 70s and rain for July 1.

So what would you prefer? Rain but a cooler temperature of clear and sticky?

And then it's the plotting of where the furniture will go and what goes in storage and so on.

It will get here soon enough and I know that. But that doesn't stop me from wanting to move forward. I've waited long enough for so many things. In fact, I feel like I'm in a constant state of being patient.

So I don't want to wait any longer.

There are things to pack and move to a new home.

With apologies to Veruca (and lyricists Leslie Bricusse and Anthony Newley)

I want the boxes
I want to move stuff
Electronics and food and clothes aren't enough
But right not it's tough
And now
Don't care how
I want to move now!

A Good Father

 

In Pittsburgh last November

As today was Father's Day, I pondered fatherhood.

I spent the day at the stadium. Sean worked and I didn't. Thus, I could think.

I always thought I'd be a father. It was something I always hoped I'd be good at.

But what makes a good father?

Being fair and respectful? Absolutely. But there are also lessons to be learned in being tough.

Sean is Sean. That doesn't mean he was any other child. I was blessed to have a son who was pretty easy to raise overall. That doesn't mean he was perfect.

Even now, the lessons don't stop and I think he would agree. Even now, when I think he's getting too grumpy or just needs a little reminder of life, I'm content to do so.

But I know people marvel at our relationship and I'm honored by that. I don't think I deserve credit as he's a pretty wonderful person. 

Honestly, what did I do in the long run?

Obviously, there's not one true answer to what makes a good dad. I definitely took the lessons taught to me by my parents and tried to apply them as appropriate. Where many say they don't want to be like their parents, I was content to be like mine.

I Googled "What makes a good father" and came up with a bunch of ideas. An article on Modern Father intrigued me. In short, these were their headlines (you can read more here).

- A good dad is a role model for his children

- A good dad is a firm but fair disciplinarian

- A good dad is consistent

- A good dad is a true gentleman

- A good dad works on himself

- A good dad loves

These are all fair, especially if you read the rest of the article.

By being a role model, I wanted Sean to see that I worked. And worked. And worked some more. That I had a work ethic. That I was willing to grind, sometimes at all hours and driving wherever necessary. When things got me down or derailed me, I survived and got right back up. But, beyond that, I wanted him to see that I was respectful and honest. And I stood up for what I believed in.

As for discipline, I apparently mastered "The Look." I didn't think I needed it but he has mentioned it to me several times. He knew he had reached his limit when I shot daggers out of my eyes at him. That's been passed down for generations as my father could scare the life out of me with a glance. But it was also fair. I got what I deserved and I think the same could be said for Sean.

Consistency meant that Sean knew I'd be home at night. He knew I'd be at his band concerts and anything else. When we were involved with baseball, there was the expectation of practices and games. We made all of it and never missed a thing. A commitment was a commitment. Being predictable can sometimes be a good thing.

With regard to being a true gentleman, that's something I'm a huge believer in. I hold doors and say thank you. When my mother needed me -- and, by extension, Sean -- we were there. Thus we were her partners in crime. Even in regard to his mother, I think I'm fair and, well, let's leave that right there. 

Sean has watched me "work on myself" forever. I'm not afraid to confide in him for brainstorming if it helps things and I'm willing to deal with my own flaws. I'm always trying to get better and he knows things gnaw at me.

Do I love? I think I do. We're sadly past it but I'm just as willing to hug him as ever. But more than that, he knows I'm still nearby for any nurturing, talking, laughing, and providing. And I give him his space.

Is there more? I'd say so. Fathers often come up short. Sometimes, there's a level of disrespect for us.

We're not moms. I have full respect for mothers. Sometimes we play double duty also.

But this is what I wanted our relationship to be. It was always going to be strong.

In hindsight, being Sean's dad is probably my truest role. I didn't run off to some place to pursue a larger sports broadcasting career because I wanted to be a daily and nightly part of my son's life. 

None of this makes me a perfect father. It just makes me the father that I am.

Does that make me good?

To each their own, I suppose.

Happy Father's Day to the dads who do all of this and more. Being a father has evolved. It's not just the traditional family. There can be dads of all types. There can be two fathers, stepfathers, adopted fathers, and any other definition. They can be pet fathers (as my cat sleeps near me while I type). 

I celebrate all of the dads. Especially the good ones.

To the ones not here, we miss you and love you.

I've loved being Sean's dad. 

That's pretty obvious.

A Bunch of Brats Revisited

 

I'm watching the documentary Brats, looking back to the era of "The Brat Pack."

Directed by Andrew McCarthy, himself a member of "The Brat Pack" (like it or not), it examines the term and the impact it had on the actors who were lumped in that group.

I'm watching it as I write, and there seems to be a feeling of resentment for the label, especially by McCarthy himself.

For me, and likely countless others, it's a walk back in time.

I liked probably most of the movies that fell under that banner but I remember -- in my usual style -- rolling my eyes at the phenomenon. They were a group of actors and I tend to eschew the obsession with such base things. The bottom line was that I just wanted to be entertained or it was where I went on a social gathering.

Let's face it, I didn't see Ferris Bueller's Day Off in the theater. Read that again, considering how much that movie has been a part of my life.

I had nothing against the actors in general but I tend to roll my eyes at "idols." 

I saw Pretty in Pink in a theater because I was on a date. It was an entertaining film.

I love The Breakfast Club but I saw it later at home. Same with Sixteen Candles.

But the memories of all of this are strong. Of course, years later, we can't deal with these movies without wringing our hands over Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles or the makeover of Allison in The Breakfast Club.

Some of the movies just never did it for me. The characters of St. Elmo's Fire were likely people I wouldn't be hanging out with (and I couldn't stand the overplayed theme song).

I suppose that was some of it for me. These people weren't often relatable. I wasn't a kid that you could put in a bucket. Oh, you could try to make me be Anthony Michael Hall's characters from Sixteen Candles or The Breakfast Club but you'd quickly realize it doesn't work. I'm not that much of a nerd/geek. 

But I did know plenty who fit so I guess there's that.

I liked that I couldn't be categorized. I floated among basically any group to a degree but, mostly, I was just me.

Let's face it. I still am. The same bands that I was obsessed with are the ones I still listen to now. 

Pick a day in 1985. Any day. I'm likely listening to Sports by Huey Lewis and the News. I'm excited for Rickey Henderson joining the Yankees and, paired with Don Mattingly and Dave Winfield, I know the Bombers will score. But can they pitch? I'll be trying to convince myself that Mark Malone is the right quarterback for the Steelers.

And I'm sure there's a girl in this scene. Somewhere.

So would it surprise anyone that I now broadcast sports and host a radio show about The Beatles?

It wouldn't surprise me overall. 

But this documentary, while sometimes glum, still evokes the sweetness of 1985 at Mahopac High School.

The past hangs on us in such deep ways. At times, we desperately want the past. We try not to live in it and fail. Thus we get branded as the old man yelling at a cloud.

On the other hand, we're kind of OK here in the present. Oh, I wouldn't go back, we tell ourselves. And yet, are we better people now? I think we are. But, truly, are we?

And the future? Let's just not go there.

When I graduated from Mahopac in 1987, I knew I was content. I knew I'd never want to go back but I'd see it for what it was. That remains entirely true.

I'm happy to see the friends that I still see and it's never worked out for me to attend a reunion. I don't know if I'd enjoy going to one but I'm not against it.

I treasure the memories of the bowling team and the friends and the experiences and the laughs. Unlike Brian in The Breakfast Club, I only cared about grades enough to get out of high school.

Or college, for that matter.

I generally sat in class knowing that I didn't remotely care about trigonometry. 

The teachers who connected with me were the people. The ones who kept me engaged. The ones who saw us as people. Oh, they exist and I hope I'm one as an instructor.

But, memories aside, The Brat Pack itself was, ultimately, a vague term. Can you truly define which movies fall under the header? Can you say without a doubt who were the members of the group?

The Rat Pack, on the other hand, is pretty definitive. Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, and Joey Bishop with a collection of others around. 

The Rat Pack was cool. Defined cool. The Brat Pack were ... brats. And that's the rub.

But is James Spader in The Brat Pack? Jon Cryer? Matthew Broderick? Michael J. Fox?

Lea Thompson calls herself "Brack Pack adjacent." I suppose that works.

Obviously, in the end, none of it matters.

I find myself just wanting to watch the movies and remember the time.

It doesn't have to be that difficult.

Into the Weekend

 

Probably my favorite picture of me and my dad

With Father's Day on the horizon, I can tell you it won't be a weekend of rest and relaxation.

The Renegades are playing tomorrow night and are giving away a replica 1994 jersey. You know what? I want one so I bought myself (and, yes, Sean) really inexpensive tickets because I thought that was how it worked. I mean, we don't get such things just because we work for the team.

Oh, and I'm not working tomorrow. Sean is but I'm not.

Anyway, I got (politely) chided for buying the tickets. No, I wasn't going to get any special favors but there could have been a way around my spending the money.

Well, I'll tell you what. Buy me dinner or a beverage and we'll call it even (I'm kidding).

It will be different to be a fan but I'll likely hang out and have fun with everyone. 

Oh, and I'm going back on Sunday because Sean is working and we have plans after the game for Father's Day.

So, yeah. 

Beyond that, I'm trying to slot in time to drive up to Oxford, CT to see the field and press box where I will be calling baseball again in a few weeks. I just want to get a sense of it, check the cell service, and see what the view will be like.

I'd like to see where I'll be working in Trumbull as well. I'll get some baseball calls back in my life in July and that will feel fine.

Oh, and Chris Erway and family are having a tag sale tomorrow. I mean, I have to stop by if I can! You might have heard I have an apartment to move into soon.

Then there's "Meet the Beatles" on Sunday to start Father's Day.

So, again, we'll be buzzing.

I'm not quite sure why it was hitting me today but I found myself talking about my dad and, obviously, missing him. Sure, it's Father's Day weekend so I guess that's it.

I even -- for the first time in a while -- was convinced to play the live version of "Free Bird," which he loved.

I remember him telling me back in the 80s that it was a song he'd want played at his funeral. I mean, he didn't know he was going to die in 1989 so it was sort of a dark thing to think about.

Anyway, after he died, I remembered it, wondering just how I could ever thread that into his funeral. If it was played at the gathering after the burial, I don't recall it. It strikes me that it would be the kind of thing I would have played after everyone had left, when finally alone in my room.

Honestly, those memories aren't clear.

But I do remember that I delivered one of the eulogies that day. While considering a quote to use, I came up with the opening lines of "Free Bird."

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on now
'Cause there's too many places I've got to see

I vaguely recall a few curious looks but I explained how he loved the song.

Thus, it was referenced at his funeral.

I haven't gone back to the song too many times since then. I've never shied away from it when it's been played but, at the same time, I haven't reached for it either.

However, I didn't stay for Lynyrd Skynyrd when they played the Greenwich Town Party a few years ago. I was tired and, well, it was also a far cry from the band that recorded the song in 1973. Of course, members of the band -- including lead singer Ronnie Van Zant -- died in a plane crash in Oct 1977.

Of course, "Free Bird" has also become a bit of a parody over the years, thanks to the live version, in which the crowd implores the band to "DO 'FREE BIRD.'" I'm as guilty as anyone, having said the words many times and many events.

But, after some thought, I brought myself to PLAY "FREE BIRD" today and I'm glad I did. I'm always glad to talk about Robert Sr., especially explaining him to Sean and others who never met him.

It's been thirty-five years since we lost him and it's still difficult. I tell friends when they suffer a loss that it's important to hold the memories close but make sure to keep moving forward.

I think about my dad every day.

But some days are harder than others.

Home, but Active

He's watching me

 

I slept last night.

I mean, it wasn't off the charts but I slept, er, OK.

So I was up and drinking a cup of coffee in the living room.

The living room has boxes and some walking room in it. The cat sits up in his tower. But, mostly, it's becoming a holding area to move.

In fact, preparing for the move was how I thought the day was going to go.

Then the phone rang. Could I jump on a case?

Um, OK. When.

"Now."

My hair was still in several places thanks to bed head but I quickly splashed some water on it and threw on an appropriate shirt.  A faded creamsicle Tampa Bay Bucs jersey isn't the way to appear on Zoom for a court deposition.

I went from that phone call to going on the record in seven minutes. They needed me to be fast and so I hustled.

The truth is I only really need to be seen on camera to start the proceedings. After that, it's my voice and not my face that is needed.

So as they began the deposition, I double-checked everything. The recording was rolling and each other item was correct.

At that point, with a mostly quiet day ahead of me, I was good to go with a case that would take up the day and I figured I could use my home time wisely, and then...it was over.

Quickly. That was all the time they needed.

So I did my paperwork, fixed an issue with uploading the files, and that was it.

From there, I had my day in front of me. 

Oh, there were plenty of things to do. I went up into the attic. I did some paperwork and cleaning/rearranging. I did "Doubleheader."

There is still the clerical side of moving, which is mostly organizing things like switching the electricity and cable/internet accounts, along with changing addresses to several accounts.

We're still waiting patiently to hear when (and if) we can start moving anything over to our new address.

*****

I'm watching the Stanley Cup Finals and lead announcer Sean McDonough is clearly battling through an illness.

His voice clearly isn't right and I feel for him.

McDonough's performance throughout these playoffs has faced heavy scrutiny. Those saying they never speak ill of another broadcaster have waged a nearly nightly war on McDonough, saying how he should be removed by the more excitable Bob Wichusen.

"Bullet Bob," a former WFAN update anchor, is certainly worthy of the praise.

But I feel for McDonough, especially tonight. If you're not familiar with him, it's easy to criticize him because his voice is very flat. He's normally not like this.

I've been in this place, in terms of voice issues during a call. Dealing with a sore throat, along with whatever else, and loss of power in how I make my living isn't what you want.

So McDonough isn't at his best tonight and these are the Stanley Cup Finals. Oh, the information is still sharp but the power and energy are off.

I'd truly love to go to someone else's job and judge how they do. That's what dealing with armchair broadcasters is like.

McDonough has called the World Series, the Cup Finals, and myriad other big events. He's a pro and knows what he's doing.

I always read how fellow broadcasters shouldn't criticize one another.

Read the cesspool of Twitter/X tonight and you'll see the jabs McDonough is taking throw that belief right out the window.

Very petty.

And not very positive.

Oh, and while I'm at it, leave reporter Emily Kaplan alone. Yes, she asks questions that are unique, but she also knows her stuff. Any comments about her appearance are unnecessary. 

Lastly, since I'm on a roll, I'm here to stand up for Portland Sea Dogs broadcaster Emma Tiedemann. Once again, I'm sorry to say backward-thinking Neanderthal men still exist.

According to Jesse Scaglion (Tiedemann's husband), this clown called the front off and announced that he was "NEVER coming back to a Sea Dogs game b/c we have a female broadcaster & men only go to baseball games to 'get away from women & that our broadcaster should go to softball.'"

Not cool.

Speaking of pros, that's Emma.

We don't care about these things and have to have thick skin. Then again, we do care.

Sometimes, all one can say is "Do better."

Therapeutic Laughter

 

Four friends walked into a pub...

How long had it been?

That was the question four friends asked upon sitting down for dinner in a restaurant on Greenwich Ave. last night.

Me? On the Avenue? In this economy?

Well, yeah. But it was worth it.

The best answer we could figure out was 12 years. So it was that Lindth, Tawm, Oy, and Rawb were together again.

The four of us worked in a network radio office beginning in 2007. I'd known Lindsey and Joy longer than that but 2007 was when I first met Tom. In the insanity of broadcasting offices, we became a unit.

More to the point, they became family to me during those horrible years.

If you don't know, this is when my marriage was in full nosedive mode. It felt like every day brought a new challenge that I was learning about.

My job at the time was to do the morning sports from home and then come to the office to do traffic duties, meaning I was programming the commercials and other elements for the outlets in question. On some days, I was waking up at 5:30 am, recording the reports, taking care of Sean, then driving to Stamford, working there, going and calling a game, and returning to the office after the game.

If you're keeping track, there were some 18-hour days.

There were a lot of days when I just drove to work in a mental fog.

But Lindsey, Joy, and Tom were there and I was there for them. The truth is, I normally just wanted to walk in, put music on at my desk, do my job, and go home. I didn't want to be antisocial but, well, that's not how it went.

We laughed. Daily. Especially out front where Linds, Joy, and I formed a wall against the utter insanity, narcissism, and other activities of that office.

It drove *them* nuts. 

*Them.* Always.

And who bore the brunt? This guy. We all agree upon that. Why? Because I took the attention of the females away from the people who wanted it.

Toxic. Oh, was it ever.

In truth, some days I wasn't even trying. As Lindsey reminded me last night, simply telling a story would have her cracking up.

Of course, as I love a good gag, I also had sound effects and one-liners at my disposal. A request from the other side of the sliding window would be a Woody Woodpecker laugh.

Hence in the middle of the toxicity, our humor was needed to stay sane.

Eventually, I got nudged out and, eventually, so did *they.*

The networks that we worked for would go out of business.

We laughed about all of it last night. Every impression, every insane moment, every curve in the road of life.

Oh, we were serious at times also, detailing some of the heartbreak and drama we've dealt with in the years since. We remembered those lost and recalled faces and stories long forgotten.

And the quotes. So many of them. In-jokes that wouldn't make sense to anyone else.

Joy and I both still work for WGCH. Lindsey is still around Greenwich. Tom is in the City and, as we planned dinner, I shot him a text out of the dark. He was thrilled to join us.

We bonded over lunches at a place in Stamford back then, allowing us to laugh and blow off steam about the insanity around us.

We gathered last night over drinks and appetizers, older and wiser. And grateful for each other.

I walked to dinner and after it was over, I started walking home. 

The night air was so comfortable and there were pleasant smells in the air of various flowers.

You don't survive what we dealt with during that time without support. Sometimes it's that you're a great working team and there was truth to all of that.

*They* badmouthed all of us at one time or another, usually behind our backs.

But in our case, it was more than our teamwork. It was the need to laugh, even when the stories were sort of sad.

One that still cracks Lindsey and Joy up involved me at home one night. Even now.

I was leaning back in an old office chair that I had. I bought it when I worked at Kraft Foods back in the 90s and the metal had weakened on the frame.

And it snapped.

And down I went, hitting my head on the hardwood floor of my house at the time.

I stared at the ceiling for a moment, slightly dazed but more so astounded. Just stunned at the hell I was in at that time.

And yet -- yes, I was still married -- nobody came in to check on me.

To be clear, I was fine (save for whatever brain cells I likely further damaged and a wounded pride) but I guess the way I told the story -- a la Tommy DeVito in Goodfellas -- made them both laugh.

How could I not also laugh at the ridiculousness of it all?

And so I walked home under the streetlights of Greenwich, feeling pretty safe I might add.

Feeling like things were OK. 

Hopeful that it won't be 12 years before we do that again.

Big Words and Other Offseason Thoughts

 

It's a bit of an offseason for me right now. Fortunately, it hits at a good time with the move coming up at the end of the month.

The offseason is an opportunity to pause and reflect. Are there things I want to do better? Things I want to change? Is the status quo OK? Do I want to upgrade the equipment?

I'd say "yes" to almost all, save for the status quo. Oh, sure, I'm generally pleased with the quality of my work as opposed to the quantity. I'll never be pleased with that. Every time I feel any pride in the number of games I do, there's always someone (not naming names) who will try to one-up.

I mean, why is everything like that? Why is it always a contest? Or why is it that when you bleed a little to a friend, you get silence before they figure out how to make it about them?

Nevertheless, I scratched and clawed to get every call I could and still I couldn't get to all of them. Some were postponed or didn't match up with my calendar. I guess that's how it goes.

People tried to give me calls and I had to turn a bunch down. I don't like doing that.

But I put my heart and soul into every call, regardless of how many I did.

So, in the offseason, I find myself in that place of not assuming. Don't assume I'll be back at this place or that. Things change. There are no contracts. No serious commitments.

I have Greenwich's football schedule (and, yes, space is still available in the WGCH radio booth) but anything can happen between now and Sept 13 at 5:50 p.m. That's when the pregame show is expected to start for the Cardinals at West Haven.

Yes, West Haven. I'm kind of a big deal there, after the state semifinal of last year. OK, not really, but they definitely took note of me.

Once again, this tenuousness highlights how I want a home base. Then, maybe, I can do other games outside of that base.

Too many carrots are being dangled with not enough reach to make it edible.

Remember, I have to pay for that new apartment somehow.

So these are the things that race through my skull during these few weeks off. My likely next group of broadcasts will be in early July for baseball in...you guessed it!... Trumbull! It's become a tradition!

The summer Cal Ripken/Babe Ruth tournaments are coming up and I'm excited to get to them.

*****

Oh, about the picture at the top of the post. That was taken on Aug 3, 2002, at Bridgeport's The Ballpark at Harbor Yard. Now, of course, the Hartford Healthcare Amphitheater concert venue is on that site.

It was sort of a mini WGCH Night. We got to take batting practice on the field before calling a doubleheader between the Nashua Pride and the Bridgeport Bluefish.

Those of us broadcasting the games were asked to throw out the first pitch before game 2 and Ian Handwerger had a digital camera with him, so credit to him for the image. It was also Sean's first baseball game. He wasn't quite six months old yet.

I look at that picture and think about the guy in it. Ah, youth. Thinner, more hair, blah blah blah.

Still, I have the wisdom and experience of nearly 22 years later.

If I knew then what I know now and so on.

It's a thing (apparently) to take pictures and add little puff pieces so, in homage to rodomontade*, so I decided to take liberty with it.

And then post it.

Repeatedly.

I'm planning to have a little fun with this concept.

*I had braggadocio as the word I was going to use but wanted something grander. So I found rodomontade, which apparently means the same thing. I suppose it's rather grandiloquent or sesquipedalian of me.

Or, simply, pompous.

Not my style.