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I posted a "selfie" taken at a Waffle House just off Exit 49 of I-95 just outside of Fayetteville, NC this morning.
As we speak, it has received a semi-astounding 55 (yes, really) likes on Facebook.
In some ways, I know the joke's on me. Yes, my love of casa del Waffle is as well-known as my affection for Huey Lewis, The Beatles, the Yankees, and the Steelers.
I get ridiculed for it certainly, with "various and sundry" types either mocking me openly or behind my back. Some think it's an obsession.
I also get the "it's so unhealthy for you" types, and I understand that also.
As with anything else, it's all about moderation.
I don't expect you to believe that I do things in moderation. I get teased about French dips and chili-covered whatever.
I'm in on the joke, and I hope you understand that. I play it up. That's why my smile is goofy in the picture. (OK, so it's goofier than usual)
Not that I'm phony about it. I do love exactly what I wrote in the Instagram/Facebook post.
I order an All-Star Special every time, with scrambled eggs with cheese and a plain waffle and ham and hash browns covered, plus white toast (yes, I'm lame) and coffee.
It's tasty, it's fun, and I do it a few times every year, mostly in a spurt when I'm visiting North Carolina.
But I get the joke. I even get the stereotypes.
But it's also a happy place. I need happy places.
We all do.
By the way, Fayetteville's baseball stadium is beautiful. Too bad they're not around this week for me to go to a game.
Wait, what's flying anyway? I don't think I'd like that. There's probably no catnip* there.
Or Fancy Feast. By the way, why do we get served that junk? I'd like a real chicken or turkey, thank you very much.
*Catnip probably isn't available in Harnett County. They say that county is "dry," whatever that means. So catnip probably is illegal there or something.
Wait. I just want to sit on this scratching pad. Just because it's here.
I hear voices. There are weird people here.
I should investi...zzzzzzzzz
*****
Fort McHenry Tunnel, Baltimore
Stedman, NC -- OK, I asked Sean for a topic to write about tonight, and he gave me the title, so I had fun with it for a few moments.
In truth, Harnett County, which is just north of Cumberland County, is indeed dry.
So is the very town I'm sitting in, which is actually the size of, say, Tokeneke Road in Darien.
Or smaller.
We had another adventure in driving today, as the news reported a car fire on I-95 south near Baltimore. I was up at 4:30 and ready to go, but didn't leave the hotel before 5:30 and wasn't on the road until 6:00 a.m.
The impact of the car fire was that we took the EZ Pass "Express" lanes, which weren't exactly express. In my mind, the toll should be refunded, but I know it's not how it works.
And the very Washington, D.C. traffic I feared lived up to expectations. Just awful on the Beltway.
We mocked the man in the White House as we crossed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. Not because of anything political, but we might to make fun of everyone.
Virginia was a mixed bag of traffic, with an issue between Richmond and Petersburg.
After that, things flowed nicely. But what could have been seven hours turned into eight (and close to ten when you factor in stops).
Again, I track these things.
There were moments when I was riding the brakes that I thought this wasn't that much fun anymore. Maybe I'm getting old and even a little jaded.
Then the roads opened. Plus, Richmond. I can't say enough how I love me some Richmond, VA, and it's not something I can easily explain.
It's a unique mix of people and politics and culture and natural beauty and local restaurants (and even chains) and industry and commerce. But every city has that.
But every city isn't Richmond. Every city doesn't have my friends in Richmond and the memories I've made there.
I miss Richmond. A lot.
But I do like it down here. Yes, I realize I drove past a big ol' Confederate flag, which sort of went out of style with The Dukes of Hazzard up around Noo York.
But there's also a charm here, like the young girl with the long, flowing hair at the Food Lion, who said, "Y'all have a good night." She was probably heading into her senior year at nearby Cape Fear High School, but she had a pleasant disposition.
But most of all, it's family. That can be tough because family can certainly (and does) vex us. But this family is comfortable, and that makes a huge difference.
That's Stache in the middle of the floor. I hasten to even try to think what's in that mind.
OK, maybe not. I started this post at 10:16 Sunday night in Mahopac. But I'm hoping to be sitting in Elkton by sometime Monday night.
Maybe I'll wax poetic about the drive. About the time that I made on the roads out of metro New York City and down the New Jersey Turnpike, where I was counting the cars (they've all come to look for America, said Simon and Garfunkel).
Did I cut through Philly? Did I take 295? Did I stay on the Turnpike? How's Delaware these days?
Will we jump in the pool and grab dinner at the nearby Wawa, or will we hit the Waffle House?
Who knows! I'm still typing away in New York.
*****
OK, now I'm really in Elkton, MD, population 15,652.
It was once "the elopement capital of the East Coast" with the likes of Willie Mays marrying here.
A Pan Am flight also crashed here in 1963.
On the more positive side, gas prices here, and in neighboring Newark (pronounced Noo-ARK) are upwards of 50 cents cheaper than at home.
It's just across the line from Delaware and is the first exit off I-95 in Maryland. But you have to pay a toll, and I wasn't in the mood to do that, so I worked around it.
After three hours and fifty-six minutes of driving, I can be forgiven if I don't want to pay a toll.
It should never take 3:56, but rush hour in New York and New Jersey reared its mighty ugly head and hurt me bad.
Once it settled down, it became more like the drives that I'm used to.
But I'm a roads guy, so forgive me.
I checked something off my list tonight.
Interstate 95 has been a constant ribbon through my life. I have traveled and driven on it through its lower parts in Florida, and from Daytona Beach up to the Philadelphia area...then again from New Jersey to just past Freeport, ME.
There was an incomplete, NIMBY-blocked portion that caused a break until last year. Ninety-five now splits from the New Jersey Turnpike southbound at Exit 6, turns west and crosses into Pennsylvania, before turning south near Bristol, PA.
And I drove the missing link tonight.
To you (well, most of you), it's frivolous. I didn't even mention it to my family when we drove it. But I assure you that it was quite meaningful to me. I just kept my fingers crossed that rush hour wouldn't be a Philly special.
We had no issues at all. Just heavy traffic that kept moving.
We pulled into Elkton, grabbed sandwiches at Wawa, and came to the hotel. We would up with a great two-room suite thanks to the nice person at the front desk.
Then again, she sent us to the wrong room first, then we discovered our actual room is missing a chain for the toilet handle. Like...what?
Anyway, that's travel for ya.
Up early tomorrow to try to survive Baltimore/Washington/Fredericksburg.
This guy misses us already, but he'll be mightily spoiled by others this week who will keep him company.
I called this post "That's Enough" for two reasons:
1) I'm leaving for vacation tomorrow in North Carolina. Realistically I can't afford it and will do everything in my soul to make it affordable. But I have to go for several reasons, not the least of which is I'm George Jetson walking Astro the dog and saying, "Jane! Stop this crazy thing."
So we'll come back to that.
But then there's...
Nah. Umpire Ben May is just looking to make dinner plans and thought the Yankees wanted to join him.
2) And the truth is, I had a whole rant written about the Yankees kerfuffle in their game against the Indians with the umpiring crew. I've changed it. I said what I needed to say on social media and will let others continue to ramble on.
Those who think they know better as they sit in their towers.
The truth is, I'll change no minds, so why bother writing? Yankees wrong (oh, and I'm biased of course). Umpires right. Brett Gardner is the first to ever throw a fit.
We're good.
Enjoy this lovely collection of baseball tantrums instead (Gardner included, along with St. David Ortiz).
*****
The part of Astro will be played by Sonic the Hedgehog
With that said and put to bed, as I will not be taking questions (just like all umpires), I will move onto trip planning.
I love to travel. Like, love love love it.
But I'm not great at just throwing stuff in a bag and going. Can I do that? I guess, but it's not my style.
More often than not, I'm the planner of the whole thing. Find the hotels, restaurants, what roads, and on and on and on.
I spent most of the day in some form of travel mode. Pack. Make the proper arrangments for Chico (the large gray cat). Get dissatisfied with my choice of luggage. Pack again. Do any necessary laundry. Check that the car is ready.
Think about which route I want to take. Can I get to the now-completed Interstate 95 from New Jersey into Pennsylvania? Will I hit Philadelphia at rush hour?
We're staying over tomorrow night, a concession to making things easier, and not normally my style. I love the challenge of the one-day drive. I love writing down the times and mileage, and seeing how it all stacks up. I can draw from six previous drives, and have a spreadsheet to back it all up.
Missing from this edition of the trip will be the 5:30 a.m. start time from New York. However, we'll do that on Tuesday morning when we leave the hotel, so instead of concerning myself with New York and Philadephia morning rush, it will be Baltimore and Washington.
I was taught as a kid to fear Washington D.C. rush hour with all proper respect and might. I still do.
I'll be pondering it and relying on the Waze app, as well as WTOP Radio for constant updates.
It's like sports to me. There's a strategy involved. It can be very cerebral. It can be grueling (up early, drive all day).
If it all goes well, I'll be sitting in my niece's house by sometime Tuesday afternoon. We'll also make every effort to keep our Project 365 alive.
Waffle House awaits!
I'm bringing just enough radio equipment to do a show if we get the urge.
Otherwise, I'm out of here.
That's enough.
*****
Two last notes:
- The wonderfully eloquent Jack Whitaker died today. He was the last living TV voice from Super Bowl I, calling the game on CBS. In fact, he was the only living TV voice from the first 21 super Sundays.
He made his way over to ABC where he continued to be a voice of grace. He was at Normandy just after D-Day.
He was foolishly banned from The Masters for five years after uttering the words "mob scene."
He described the exploits of Secretariat.
He was 95.
- FIOS1 News is shutting down in November after being unable to reach a contract agreement with Verizon, and thus putting roughly 150 people at RNN out of work. I'm saddened to see local journalism suffer yet again, and even sadder to see friends and good journalists and good people behind the camera out of work. Respect and best wishes to all.
Like basically everything I do, I didn't just jump in headfirst. I needed a name for the blog and a web address and I needed to be certain it wouldn't exist for a few months and die (and no, my podcast won't meet that fate either. There's just a different level of work to that).
I decided to use Blogger as my home and went with steelyankee as part of the address. I've used that as a faux production company name for years (and, yet, somehow it isn't SteelYankee Radio instead of Robcasting).
Next came the name. I agonized over it. How could I represent myself?
Baseball? Football? TV? Radio? Music?
Roads won out. The term "exit" hit my mind, thinking of that as a metaphor for escape. Fifty-five has long been my favorite number. Exit...55. Bingo.
I had no illusions about what the blog would be at first. I thought it would be great if writing led to opportunities, and I think that's happened in some small ways.
It would be great if it could find an audience, and it has, again in small ways. But, as in broadcasting, I had to remind myself to do my best regardless of audience size.
I hoped it would create conversation and reasonable debate. Again, sort of.
I hoped it would strike emotions.
It's well known that, as in life, there have been ups and downs with the bloggity. I hit a high point of 464 posts in 2009 when I was willing to log on to write only a few sentences and post that.
Well, that's what Twitter is now.
So the social media aspect of it, and my very behavior has changed as the years have gone on. We have certainly ebbed and flowed.
The blog has often felt like an extension of my broadcasting, in that I find myself saying, "Wait. You read/listened?" I guess people will come (to the radio/video/blog).
But it's still shocking and a little embarrassing.
Still, there were ruts in the road. When the blog was used against me (and, trust me, it was) I wondered about shutting it down. Not because the criticism bothered me, but because...well, take my word for it. In the process, the posts became more vanilla(ish), less risky or opinionated, and most of all, less frequent.
The worst is having to explain posts or having the posts be misunderstood. It's an awful feeling to be a communicator and explain what the heck you mean so often.
That's when I'd ponder posting a "Gone Fishing" or "Sorry, We're Closed" sign.
Or I'd ponder a goodbye post.
Or I'd just stop and leave it like the end of "The Sopranos."
Maybe "Don't Stop Believing" would play on a shot of me, just sitting at the keyboard, looking perplexed.
Then, as I often do, I found a little energy at the end of last year. Normally, the turn of the calendar got me to do a few posts every year and this year was no different. Then I'd promise that I'd do one post per day.
Then I'd do nothing, often lamenting that nobody cared, even if they did.
Mick would yell at me. Susan would gently tell me she liked my writing. Others would ask why I hadn't written. This wasn't exactly Harper Lee level, mind you, but I appreciated the sentiment.
Then came John Nash and the challenge to do #Project365.
I've documented the long nights, where I'd be sitting on the side of the road to just get a post online.
I've also put a few "evergreen" posts in the drafts folder, just in case. Some will likely never see the light of day (I hope).
I've bled with you. I've been honest with you. I've gotten emotional with you, and that's probably when I know those are my better posts. If I can feel an emotional nerve -- mostly, choking up -- then I know I've got something, and have to always be prepared for the all-important clicks* to be low.
*The whole "click culture" is an insult to journalism. "Hey -- do a story on the Elvis impersonator who is a greeter down at the Walmart in Norwalk!" Yeah, great journalistic instinct there, bub.
Writing has always fascinated me, from the work of famed sportswriters such as Mike Lupica, to the great authors (Fitzgerald, Lee, Steinbeck). I can barely do any of these people justice, just as I'm likely an insult to the great journalists I know (Susan, Paul, the Game Time gang, etc). As always, I can't name everyone.
A professor I had in my first year at Westchester Community College -- and, to this day, I can not remember her name -- once stopped me in the parking lot to ask me if I was interested in tutoring a student.
On writing.
I looked at her, said I wasn't available, and let her walk away. I wondered if it was a missed opportunity. But I figured she had the wrong person. Seriously, me? A Writer? I headed towards my next class, stunned. Nah. I'm just a voice.
I'm still just a voice. But a voice who keeps trying to write and report.
Thanks for reading, all. I raise my glass to you -- especially those who who have inspired and supported me for 13 years.
Life moves pretty fast, as Ferris told us, but there would have been consequences had he really gotten busted.
Life makes you grow up pretty fast sometimes.
There are, of course, circumstances in which one can, and should, be young. You know, act their age.
But there comes a point where the saying "just a kid" needs to fly out the window.
I'm a pretty tough but fair dad. I've worked with Sean on being respectful and appropriate.
Not saying "thank you" at virtually any age brought a swift rebuke.
Sorry. but "just a kid" doesn't fly there.
So when he steps into "big boy" circumstances, there are no excuses.
When he went on the air with me at the Greenwich Town Party, criticism would have been totally fair. The reviews were kind.
Yet I knew that stepping into that arena (pardon the pun) opened us both up. It would have been justified if he was bad, and I would have had to deal with it.
In fact, I was prepared for our Operations Manager at WGCH, Bob Small, to criticize him. Bob is not known to hold his thoughts -- good and bad. We've had our share of disagreements for sure as we've voiced our opinions.
Fortunately, it was not a problem.
So that's the thing. "Just a kid" becomes a crutch. It should be fair game to criticize when the "kid" steps into the big arena and, yet, they get the treatment of diplomatic immunity.
Or, more often than not, whispering goes on behind backs because no one wants to overstep the Just a Kid Treaty.
I try to build reality with Sean. He doesn't have certain advantages, and that actually includes me.
He was in a radio "club" in high school that had literally nothing to do with radio, and he quickly became disillusioned with it. There was nothing I could do about it.
He's going to earn everything in life. Just as I have.
That's not always the case, as advantages (read: money) buys opportunities. It's frustrating, but there's little that can be done about it.
On our way home from Yankee Stadium Monday night, Sean noticed the lights of a bridge overhead.
Shining over the Hudson River, the bridge -- stretching over the Tappan Zee area of the river, at its widest point -- is known to most of us by its original name.
The Tappan Zee Bridge, or more formally, the Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge. Wilson was governor of New York in 1973-1974.
Of course, officially, the Tappan Zee Bridge is gone, replaced with what was codenamed "The New NY Bridge." That moniker struck me as weird, but it all made sense when New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo made a last-second legislature push to name the bridge after his father, Mario Cuomo.
Mario M. Cuomo, to be exact.
The signs went up along with the collective blood pressure of the Hudson Valley.
As we often find out, what's in a name is quite a bit. A few crossings in New York City have been renamed, including the (Robert. F. Kennedy) Triboro Bridge, the (Hugh Carey) Brooklyn Battery Tunnel, and the (Ed Koch) Queensboro Bridge.
Those newer names haven't been accepted so kindly.
On the other hand, there was once a place called Idlewild Airport. We now know it as John F. Kennedy International Airport.
Names are funny things. We have a deli on Secor Road in Mahopac that older folks still call "George's." I don't think George has owned the deli since the 1980s.
To some of us, Franklin Delano Roosevelt State Park is still "Mohansic," which was its given name.
Among a large portion of my road friends, the bridge renamings haven't gone over well.
There are others, however, who think "we" need to get over it. I get it. I respect it.
But I'll readily admit this is one that I've dug my heels in on.
The Journal News is adamant that their stylebook says they must call it the Mario M. Cuomo Bridge.
On the radio, I've made it clear that I absolutely refuse to do so.
For the record, part of the West Side Highway in Manhattan is known as the Joe DiMaggio Highway. Nobody -- me included -- calls it that.
Despite efforts to rename it as the "Tappan Zee Bridge," or compromise as the "Governor Mario M. Cuomo Tappan Zee Bridge," the Cuomo name has stayed in place.
Where the signs said "Mario Cuomo Bridge," they now will be corrected to "Mario M. Cuomo Bridge."
You can't make this stuff up.
The pure arrogance of this situation is astounding and embarrassing.
And better yet? We the taxpayers get to foot the bill for Andy's Folly.
"We are currently in the process of installing overlays on existing signs for the sake of uniformity across the state highway and Thruway systems, and to ensure every sign reflects the official name of the new bridge," spokesman Joseph Morrissey said in a statement.
I mean, are you kidding me? This is Andrew Cuomo thumbing his nose at everyone, money be damned.
And it's not Cuomo's first sign screw up. He cost the state $14 million 514 signs that were against the standards of the Federal Highway Administration.
But New York pays the price. Literally.
It is a stunningly beautiful crossing. A gorgeous twin cable-stayed span that replaced the 1955 original. It is fantastic to see as night, as noted by Sean.
But it will remain known as the Tappan Zee Bridge, crossing the Tappan Zee of the Hudson River.
I'm tired tonight and need to be up early tomorrow to teach at the Connecticut School of Broadcasting.
And I'm sickened watching what happened in Philadelphia tonight.
We're seeing New York City police officers kill themselves. Eight of them have taken their own lives in 2019. (UPDATE: NINE)
Earlier today in Philadelphia, police went to serve a warrant on N. 15th St. in the Nicetown-Tioga area of town. Then gunfire erupted.
Six officers have been hit by bullets. Fortunately, their wounds are said to be minimal.
There was once a time when this would have been a pretty major story for our "Big 3" networks (ABC/NBC/CBS), but continuing coverage of such things has migrated over to CNN/MSNBC/FOX News and so on.
Except, the last I looked, it was full Trump obsession talk.
So my kudos goes to KYW Newsradio 1060 AM.
Yes. Radio. AM Radio.
For the win.
They sound exhausted as they've been on the case for hours.
My hat is off to them.
This does not take away from any previous story. Gilroy, El Paso, Dayton, and every other shooting deserves attention.
But there are people actively celebrating the NYPD cops who have killed themselves. There will be those saying, "Good," for this situation tonight.
Without climbing on any soapboxes, I'll just offer that it's sad.
There were shots being fired at police on a city street. It was frightening to watch.
It's terrible to watch.
Thank you to KYW Radio for their continuing coverage, as well as the Philadelphia police scanner via Broadcastify.
I'm quick to recognize The Mick was an amazingly flawed person.
A drinker? Check. Womanizer? Check. Occasional grump? Check.
But he was also full of Oklahoma charm and boyishness, with a talent for sports that can only be described as "God-given" (or "Ruth-given").
Flawed? You bet.
He first appeared on the scene in 1951, but he worked his way through an un-Mantle-like .267 average with 13 home runs. It was the lowest home run total of his career.
Playing across the Harlem River was another rookie who would go up against Mantle in the '51 World Series. His name was Willie Mays. That's a lot of talent in the span of barely a mile.
Mickey would give baseball fans 18 years of thrills. A triple crown in '56. Three MVP's. All-star appearances every year except 1951. A fine defensive play in left center field that kept Don Larsen's perfect game alive. Myriad big hits. A career-high 54 home runs in 1961, when only a kid from North Dakota named Roger Maris could outhomer him.
Nobody hit more World Series home runs than him. Facing a 38-year-old knuckleballer named Barney Schultz in Game 3 of the 1964 Fall Classic, Mantle allegedly told catcher Elston Howard to head to the locker room, because the game was over. He was that confident.
Watch Mantle run. Always with his head down, because he was -- at heart -- a shy kid who didn't want to show anyone up.
But those flaws. Those injuries. No Mantle man -- his father included -- lived past 40. Hodgkins Disease is awful. Mickey felt guilty about that and a lot of his behavior -- his demons -- were a result of that.
Joe DiMaggio didn't help things, but so was the fractured psyche of Mickey Charles Mantle.
When Mick was sent back to Kansas City during that '51 campaign, he called his father and told him he might not have what it took to make it. His dad drove to where Mickey was staying, busted into his room, and began packing a suitcase. "I thought I raised a man," 'Mutt' Mantle said. "I see I raised a coward instead."
That did it. Mick got it together, and Cooperstown awaited.
That fall, Mays hit a fly ball to right center. Mantle, playing right, charged in before being called off at the last minute by DiMaggio. Mick stopped, caught his spikes in a drainpipe, and wrecked his knee.
Mutt helped his son into Lenox Hill Hospital before having to be admitted himself. They watched the rest of the Series together in the hospital before Hodgkins claimed Mutt in early 1952.
Then there was the mythicism. Besides the on-field exploits for the most-famous, and most-successful team, there was the off-field impact. He was a Madison Ave darling in a golden era that would later add Frank Gifford and Joe Namath and Tom Seaver. Those boyhood looks were good, and many a baby was born to the name.
One of my closest friends will never be known by his given name. In fact, don't even call him that. It shows up on his legal paperwork, but not for a day is he known by his birth name.
He's known by his middle name: Mick.
He finished with 536 home runs, and one can only wonder what he could have done. But look around Yankee Stadium to this day, and you'll still see plenty of number seven jerseys patrolling the concourse.
His death in 1995 brought baby boomers to their knees. Just 63, years of drinking ravaged his liver. Though he received a transplant, cancer had ravaged his body. At a press conference that year, he said, "This is a role model: Don't be like me."
Though controversial, organ donations increased as a result of Mantle.
The funeral was carried on ESPN. Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Bobby Murcer, Hank Bauer, Moose Skowron, and Johnny Blanchard were the pallbearers in the greatest of Old Timer's Days. Bobby Richardson officiated in the most graceful way I've ever seen. I'd be honored to have such class do the same.
I listened to it on the radio at work and watched it when I got home.
1988
For the record, I met Mickey Mantle once, in the last '80s at a card show in White Plains. He could not have been more gracious and kind in the briefest of encounters. The story was memorable enough to Sean that when we talked about it last night at Yankee Stadium, he remembered it.
"You met him at the place where the (New York) Streets play," he said, recalling that I told him about it when we were at the Westchester County Center watching an arena football game.
(For what it's worth, the Yankees/Orioles last night game helped rekindle some love of being at the ballpark.)
*****
It's taken roughly 800 words to get to the real point of why we're here, in the worst case of burying the lede.
I was exchanging tweets with my friend Mark Del Franco about Mantle and baseball cards when I was reminded of my own cards. The Mick published a book of the same name in 1986 that was a huge hit. To promote the paperback edition of the book, the publisher printed baseball cards that were free giveaways. I snagged a few of them from the Waldenbooks in Jefferson Valley Mall. I still have them.
Except for one.
My father died in 1989, and that's no secret to those who have read this effort on the interweb. As he was being laid to rest, it was decided that there were going to be items that would be buried with him. I recall his Teamsters jacket being included. Feeling like I should add something to this time capsule, I began to think about exactly what.
Clearly, you can figure out what it was. With minimal notice, I grabbed one card from its sleeve, delivered the eulogy at his funeral that Tuesday, turned around, and placed it in his casket.
The Mick. With my dad for eternity.
To quote Costas: "I just hope God has a place for him where he can run again. Where he can play practical jokes on his teammates and smile that boyish smile, ’cause God knows, no one’s perfect. And God knows there’s something special about heroes.
So long, Mick. Thanks."
I hope my dad is running again as well, but that's a different story for another time.
You were flawed, Mick. You were also one in a million.
For me, that's a lifetime. Sort of like not winning a World Series in 10 years.
In a Yankees fans life, we count things like this.
So, for the first time in those precious 1,516 days, I'll walk back into Yankee Stadium tonight, thanks to my son.
Sean took a class in sports history and competition in the past school year. Included in the class was a field trip to Yankee Stadium.
"I want to go with you," he said.
You don't understand what that meant to me. Like, it's almost indescribable. We barely have a sports connection. He'll ask how a game went occasionally, but this class -- taught by a hockey coach who I know -- has given us a whole different bond.
I didn't forget his request to go and finally made good on it.
Orioles/Yankees tonight at 7:05 p.m.
Yankee Stadium has always been my home. The old stadium was it. Old or refurbished, it was heaven. My field of dreams.
The new one is...fine. Nice. It's just not the old one.
Being a Yankees fan is...well, it's whatever. Most hate us. Detest us. Despise us.
Winning makes a fanbase an arrogant lot, and I know that.
It's funny to remember that this franchise -- born out of the dregs of the old Baltimore Orioles in 1903 -- was a joke when it first came into the American League.
Though they battled to the last day of the 1904 season, before a team from Boston -- yeah, them -- won the pennant on a wild pitch, the Yankees* of 1903-1919 were actually pretty middling to bad.
* Yes, I know they were also the Highlanders, but as Marty Appel pointed out in Pinstripe Empire: The New York Yankees from Before the Babe to After the Boss, the "Yankees" name was fairly prominent before becoming permanent around 1912.
So when the Yankees -- the little brother to the Giants -- acquired George Herman Ruth in December 1919, the world immediately changed.
They made their first World Series in 1921. They won their first title in 1923, which is the same year that the REAL Yankee Stadium opened.
There have been 26 more titles since then. They didn't go very long without winning, so to a Yankees fan, the years of 1962 to 1977 and 1978 to 1996 were purgatory.
It's been 10 years. They've haven't gone a decade without a World Series appearance since the 1910s.
And if they don't get better pitching, that's going to happen in the 2010s.
So they need to continue to feast on the Orioles, which they'll do tonight at 7:05.
A double rainbow over Stewart Airport on Thursday night
I think I'm going to sit this one out tonight.
It's a combination of being tired and tapped out.
I don't want to write deep stuff. I don't want to write angry stuff.
Not to say there isn't positive stuff. There is.
But then again, I had a long debate over the picture I posted the other night. The person did not even read the post.
So...
Instead of negativity, I'd rather just pause and step away.
The upcoming radio schedule is: no show tomorrow, then we're moving Doubleheader to 4pm starting Tuesday. We'll do the show Tuesday through Friday, then I'm taking the next week off. Then I'll be off Aug 26-27 (can't say why yet). Then back fresh on Aug 28.
Tomorrow is Monday. We can start fresh then.
I have plans tomorrow night. Might have to write before I go.
Oh, Belinda Carlisle. You and your dancing in the "Head Over Heels" video.
The Great Music Project continued for a chunk of today, but at this point, I'm into cleaning it up.
Most of the heavy lifting seems to be done, with thanks to AJ Szymanowski, who tipped me off to a database that helps fill in some blanks.
There's still more to do, but I'm in a much better place than I was.
Still, it reminded me, as I peered through the window of musical regret, what the hell was I thinking with some of the downloads? I mean, I actually spent money on some of this dreck?
But different times call for different sounds and different laughs.
In the process, I eradicated roughly 1,500 songs from my iTunes. A Bon Jovi album bit the dust, and I took joy in saying "Ta ta" to the Spice Girls.
Both were items I acquired from others when they gave me their entire catalog of music.
On the other hand, I cleaned up the Bon Jovi greatest hits album that I have and didn't delete it.
I cut deep at times, and I was proud of myself for doing so. Practicality and common sense (which is simply not that common) won the day!
In the midst of this sort of strange week, my son announced he had gotten his learners permit. I'm proud of him for taking that initiative and for wanting to surprise me. It was wonderful. Now we need to hit the road.
But first, he's heading to a party tonight at a friends house. One thing I've avoided in my life has been the late-night pickups for whatever reason. So I have no reason to say no, even if it means going from Mahopac to Hopewell Jct and having to hangout up that way until I pick him up around 11.
If you know him, you know he's a great kid, dude, young man...
Wait. He asked me for a razor today. Although he has shaved, he hasn't done so here.
So I guess he's a man of 17.
We're not going to have a "Cats in the Cradle" moment though.
I just noticed I have a copy of that in my iTunes. It's the only Harry Chapin song I own, and that's sad.
I'm also deficient on Phil Collins. No, I mean good Phil Collins.
And Joni Mitchell. While Tom Hanks once said -- playfully -- "I could never be with someone who likes Joni Mitchell," I assure that I can.
He said it You've Got Mail, and it makes sense if you've seen the movie.
Even though I have thousands of songs, there are still plenty of things that I lack.
By the way, while I'm enjoying the pleasant "Kumbaya" feeling of the Yankees/Mets peace accord, all it will take is one obnoxious fan to have me spouting like a Mitch Williams fastball ("Wild Thing," you know).
So let's please let sleeping dogs lie, shall we?
I'll never understand why some have to poke the bear.
I had it in my mind as I began typing to begin writing a post in which I would announce that I had seen the light.
That I was opening my heart to the Metsies of New York.
While I'll admit they're a fun team to watch, it also would be patently phony of me to suddenly climb on a Mets bandwagon.
I can certainly ride along with a fan base, but come on. Let's be real here.
Besides, no Mets fan worth their interest in David Wright would want me.
So I'll take the role of an onlooker. I'll enjoy watching the games.
Tonight's game was a great one, for instance.
Down 6-3 in the ninth inning, Todd Frazier* hit a three-run homer to tie it.
*Todd Frazier is from Toms River, NJ. He also once stood on the field at Yankee Stadium next to Derek Jeter. These are storylines that should be furthered by sports media.
The Mets soon walked it off a few batters later.
Put it in the books!
On the other hand, the New York Yankees -- the team I've rooted for since 1972 (even if Joe on Twitter doesn't buy it or whatever that dudes problem is) -- got blasted by the Blue Jays.
Brett Gardner got ejected because the home plate umpire heard "something" and figured, oh what the heck, let me throw Gardy out of the game. He seems...guilty. He's got a reputation. So he's gone.
No biggie.
Tomorrow is another day for the Savages from The Bronx.
Twitter had something called the #BestMovieLineEver trending today.
Which isn't easy, of course. Too many movies. Too many great lines.
I immediately reached for my Ferris Bueller's Day Off bag of tricks to use "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."
Oh yeah (chibba cha kaaaaaa).
Chris Kaelin chimed in with some goodness from The Godfather (again, highly quotable).
We can go for Caddyshack, Bull Durham, Major Leauge, Airplane!, Blazing Saddles, any of the Star Wars movies, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, any John Hughes movie, Pulp Fiction...well, you get the idea.
So many quotes and so much fun.
The best is when you hear the quotes and never know where they came from. Sean (he of the brand new learners permit) didn't realize how many quotes came from Caddyshack until he watched it for the first time last year.
We could just do a list of sports quotes.
"Just a bit outside."
"Dynamite drop-in, Monty. That broadcast school has really paid off."
"If you build it, he will come."
"MOONLIGHT GRAHAM."
"The rose goes in the front."
"Candlesticks make a nice wedding present."
"Lollygaggers!"
"I mean anything travels that far oughta have a damn stewardess on it."
"You Adrian!"
"WE'RE LOSIN'! They're burying us alive!" "Eddie Shore?" "Oh, piss of Eddie Shore!"
"Come on, Hobbs, knock the cover off the ball!"
"There's no crying in baseball!"
"The cathedral that is Yankee Stadium belongs to a chapel."
And, speaking of crying...
"I love Brian Piccolo. And I'd like all of you to love him, too. And so tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him."
I haven't even gotten to Rudy, Remember the Titans, Hoosiers, Miracle, and so on.
I mean, I'm just giving you a small sample.
So, anyway, how could we possibly come up with one single quote and call it the best ever?
Besides, many quotes get bungled anyway (Ilsa doesn't say "Play it again, Sam" in Casablanca. She says, "Play it, Sam.").
So to close, I say, "Good talk, son" (which is from National Lampoon's Vacation) and is often misquoted as "Good talk, Russ."
Incidentally, Vacation is by far the best of the National Lampoon movies, but that's a debate for another time.
August has, sadly, become too quiet of a month on the work front.
Oh, speaking of which, it's looking like I'll be moving Doubleheader to 4pm in the very near future. Stay tuned.
Anyway, August winds up being a time to catch up on things (not that I ever catch up).
I'm a fairly meticulous, organized person and I used to really pride myself on how my music was set up.
The CD bookcase or cassette drawers or album crates had be just right. Same went for digital music.
Time and other responsibilities takes some of that away. Then I discovered that, somehow, all of the hard work that I put into organizing my iTunes (or whatever music software you choose) had gotten fairly messed up.
So I've begun the process of cleaning it up. It's a fairly intense thing that I'm doing in stages because literally hundreds of albums got screwed up. Album titles were lost along with data like the year of the album and track numbers.
Again, this is a "me" problem. But it's a good process for myriad reasons.
For one, it's good for my soul to work through the reorganization. It's nice to zone out and focus on this one thing. It's hard to explain, and likely sounds frivolous to you, but it's been a good thing.
But it also means reviewing the good and the bad. I've been given a lot of music over the years. I've also purchased a lot. So you see where you've acquired things that are...er...not the best call. Or things that might surprise you that I own.
Guilty pleasures? Check. Embarrassing items? Check and double check.
But I'm also a bit of a music hoarder in that you never know when a song will catch your attention for whatever reason (good or bad). Maybe I can use it for audio production. Maybe I'll decide I like it. Maybe somebody wants a copy of it.
Still, you also find yourself reviewing your life in such a task. There's a lot of remembering where I was when I heard "that song."
It's a journey that has its ups and downs.
But it's also freeing, in that I've allowed myself to look at some of the albums that need fixing and realize I'll literally never play (and never remember I had it). For one thing, it was wonderful to look at a-ha's Hunting High and Low that had been sitting at the top of the list alphabetically and say, "Adios, a-ha! Take on THIS!"
It felt great, actually, for some reason.
There were some other things that I had picked up that were bad bootlegs with questionable sound quality. Again, gone.
So it's been good.
It will take a long while. I'm only into the "D's," going by first name of the artist, and I can see Don Henley has a lot of fixing to do.
The Beatles also took some time, but one must be meticulous when working with the GOATs.
There are also a bunch of songs that have only a song title but no artist or album. So, as you can see, this is sort of daunting.
But it's worth it to me.
I hope to get it done, but I'm not setting a timetable. It's just something I'll do when I have some time.
Now, if you'll excuse me, there are some old Dave Matthews Band albums that need fixing.
How we'll always see it: the foggy, almost ghosted image of Bobby Murcer from 1979
It's Monday, Aug 6, 1979. Any Yankees fan knows the date.
"Farewell to the Captain" is what the YES Network calls it.
Everyone else seems to call it "The Bobby Murcer Game."
I remember a hot day, and maybe even a little bit of rain at one point. If my memory serves me, I was at a birthday party for Joe Dagnone at his house on Hitchcock Hill. They had a pool. His parents also told me that, on the right day, you could see New York City from there, which I thought would be really cool.
The game didn't start well in New York. Ron Guidry was OK, but not great. Then again, would you be? You've dragged yourself through three forgettable games against the Orioles, winning somehow on Sunday.
You've flown with the team to Canton, OH that day for Thurman Munson's funeral. You captain and teammate died Thursday in a plane crash.
Now you're watching grown men sob.
You're listening to Lou Piniella speak one of the eulogies.
"Thurman was the best of competitors...unselfish...a winner...rough and tough but fair," Piniella said.
And you listen to Bobby Murcer, Thurman's closest friend, just back from Chicago in a trade in June.
"Thurman Munson wore the pinstripes as number 15, but in living, loving, and legend, history will forever remember my friend as number one," Murcer said.
Perhaps ironically, Murcer was the man whose uniform had number one on it during their best years together in the early '70s.
So you can understand Guidry being exhausted as he pitched that night. But proving baseball is a different game now, Gator allowed four earned runs and struck out nine in a complete-game effort. Lee May and Ken Singleton -- yes, that Ken Singleton -- homered off of Guidry. A Rich Dauer sacrifice fly was also part of the Baltimore offense as they built a 4-0 lead after six.
At home, I was disgusted, to say the least. While not the priority of the night, the dream of a three-peat was quickly dying. The Orioles were running away with the American League East, so losing to them on this night -- of all nights -- was too much to watch.
Again, if my memory is serving me at all, I recall the game being broadcast on WPIX, in addition to Monday Night Baseball on ABC. That also means that there would also be radio calls from both the Yankees and Orioles. I don't have them all.
The ABC broadcast exists in perpetuity, as I try to sound like Howard Cosell, who stepped all over Keith Jackson's call (and anyone else who got in his way).
The Orioles of Singleton, Eddie Murray, Jim Palmer, Earl Weaver, and so on were cruising in back of Dennis Martinez.
In the bottom of the seventh, Bobby Brown lined out. Brad Gulden, who had the unenviable duty of catching on Aug 6, 1979, flied out. But Bucky Dent worked out a walk and Willie Randolph doubled.
Up stepped Bobby Murcer.
Fate has a funny way with things. Billy Martin -- the much-maligned and, occasionally, brilliant manager -- told the gentleman from Oklahoma that he would not be playing that night.
Billy Martin, who had reclaimed uniform number one upon becoming manager in 1975. Billy Martin, who was number one in his playing years for the Yankees.
Now Billy the manager, who would be fired again following 1979, was telling Murcer, wearing number two, that he would not be playing. Murcer felt differently.
Martin relented and placed Bobby second in the lineup, playing right field.
But on this night, he had looked pedestrian at best. He struck out, flied to right, and lined to short.
Yet here he was, down 4-0 and looking Dennis Martinez in the eye.
ABC flashed a graphic on the screen in that classic yellow with the rounded, italicized letters in all caps.
"Well that says a lot, doesn't it?" Cosell asked. Oh-for-fifteen with two outs and runners on base."
The comment oozed with Cosellian arrogance. Even pity.
Murcer was a perfect fit for Yankee Stadium. He always was. He knew how to hit line drives over the porch in right.
Don Drysdale knew Murcer wanted a pitch middle-in to "jerk out of here."
He got a high fastball.
Bang.
"He did drive it down the line. If it's fair...it's gone," said Drysdale, a dear friend of Vin Scully's who died at the much-too-early age of 56 in a Montreal hotel room. Drysdale had been a Dodgers announcer besides his network gigs.
"I told you he was due to break out of it," said Cosell. "And so, we have a ballgame."
It was 4-3 Baltimore. Martinez allowed a single to Chris Chambliss before being replaced by the dominant Tippy Martinez.
Reggie Jackson reached on an error but Tippy wiggled out of it. He retired the Yankees in order in the eighth.
Guidry worked his way through the Baltimore ninth before Tippy came out to finish it up.
Again, fate stepped in.
Tippy Martinez is a lefthanded pitcher. In virtually any other spot, baseball dictates that certain lefthanded hitters are best to not face lefthanded pitcher.
This was no ordinary night.
Martinez walked the righthanded hitting Bucky Dent. He allowed Randolph to reach on an error.
But fate intervened again. Earl Weaver left Tippy Martinez in to face Bobby Murcer. Lefty versus lefty.
Former Yankee (Tippy) who was a teammate with Munson against Munson's best friend.
You know what happened, of course.
Line drive past third. Dent and Randolph scored. Game over.
While Twitter nonsense is in full effect tonight*, allow us to bask in the glow of the honorary anniversary of the creation of play-by-play.
* I'm not kidding. One...er...poster interpreted a tweet of mine last night as my being a Red Sox fan. Yes. Read that again. When I made it quite clear that I was, of course, not one, he went full "I don't care and I'll curse at you with a pithy picture to make sure you know I don't care." Which, of course, means he did care.
On Aug 5, 1921, Harold Arlin went to Forbes Field in Pittsburgh and called the Phillies/Pirates game on KDKA. While there had been other efforts to relay sports via "wireless," this seems to be the date most recognized as the birth of play-by-play.
Things were quite primitive, to say the least, but so was everything in the early days in radio. Both KDKA and WJZ relayed descriptions of the 1921 World Series, with WJZ (based out of the Newark, NJ) doing the 1922 Fall Classic.
Graham McNamee (an eventual Ford Frick Award winner) first appeared on the Series in 1923.
Play-by-play would grow during the '20s with the World Series, college football, Davis Cup tennis matches, and more being attempted. In fact, every World Series has been broadcast since 1921.
It's mighty safe to say we've had many characters and high-energy personalities since Mr. Arlin in 1921. We've had poets and wordsmiths (Vin Scully, of course) and southern lawyers (Mel Allen, who passed the bar exam) and explosive calls (paging Russ Hodges) and great expressions ("Oh Doctor" from Red Barber).
Ever heard of Rosey Rowswell? Likely not. Full of sound effects and canned phrases, he entertained
Pirates fans for 19 years with home run calls, like "Raise the window, Aunt Minnie. Here it comes, right into your petunia patch!" That was followed by someone (likely his assistant, Bob Prince, who would become a Pirates legend in his own right) dropping a tray full of various items to sound like a crash.
How about Dizzy Dean? Sure, he was a Hall of Fame pitcher. He was also an English-destroying, Wabash Cannonball-singing play-by-play announcer from 1941 to 1965.
So yeah. We've seen a lot. We've heard a lot. Don't get lost in the notion that we were always stodgy chain-smokers.
And we continue to grow. We evolve further into the 21st Century with true talents like Joe Davis of the Dodgers and FOX (who sort of took over the seat once occupied by the GOAT, Mr. Scully).
That also means there are some less-than-quality "voices" in the stew. That's just the nature of the talent pool.
The future will be fascinating. Let's see what tomorrow holds. Even for me.
Kendall Long comforts Kianna Long, who was in the freezer section of the Walmart Supercenter when the shooting incident occurred. One male suspect is in custody in connection with the mass shooting that left 20 people dead and 26 injured. Photo by Ivan Pierre Aguirre/EPA-EFE
We've had two mass-murders in the past 24 hours in the United States.
We found ourselves staring helplessly at a Walmart in El Paso, TX.
It was better to be occupied with house cleaning, lawn mowing, and the great Bob Costas calling Yankees/Red Sox.
But, in truth, I knew. The number kept climbing...15...16...19.
Twenty.
El Paso.
"Not far from the border," I said to my niece Stephanie last night at dinner.
I knew it. I'm sure we all did.
I was tossing and turning around five this morning. At one time, I would have reached for the TV remote. Now I reach for my phone or iPad.
Again, numbers. This time it was Dayton, OH.
As of the last check, it's nine dead.
From there it goes into the land of the politically absurd. The right offers thoughts and prayers. The left says to keep them.
The right wants walls and guns. The left wants no wall and no guns.
I want common sense. Less posturing and pandering, more action.
I want less AOC (who's from Yorktown Heights, by the way). But I want less Trump and McConnell.
I want less Jim Himes and Chris Murphy (Connecticut, so I hear a lot of them) but also much less Schumer.
Either way, I want them all to dosomething and, honesty, shut up.
Their tweets and comments are about as useful as my blog.
** Incidentally, responding to these people on Twitter is fruitless because, more than likely, their notifications are off. They, frankly, don't care what you have to say, and more to the point, they don't see them. So are YOU doing it to be seen? For your ego? To get it off your chest? **
Let's get back to the point. The one basic, simple fact.
Twenty-nine lives have been lost.
I don't come here with answers, other than the common sense of better background checks and waiting periods. I'm not trying to go all pro-Second Amendment either.
But we shouldn't be in fear of going to Walmart in El Paso or a nightclub in Dayton or a TGI Friday's in Hamden, CT for that matter.
No person should be fearful due to their nationality, race, gender, religion, political party, choice of sports team or anything else.
I'm outraged by the whole thing, but it's useless.
I'm watching the Yankees game today with the sound on.
In fact, I pumped the sound into my headphones while I mowed the lawn.
This is an important development.
With Michael Kay away, YES has been using others in the TV booth as their lead announcer. I decided to buy the gameday audio from MLB's At Bat app.
Please note that I love Kenny Singleton, who did a few games during this stretch.
So I'd either watch the games on mute or switch over to the radio call (home or away).
Today, YES has Bob Costas in the booth with Paul O'Neill and David Cone.
For my money -- with no disrespect intended -- it's the best locally-produced Yankees broadcast I've watched and listened to in years.
While I've come to think Kay, O'Neill, and Cone have become a group on par with the Mets trio of Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez, and Ron Darling (yep. I said it and mean it), this is another level.
Costas is an all-time great. He's a Ford Frick Award winner, and (to my knowledge) the first Frick winner to be in the Yankees local booth since Tim McCarver (in 2001) and Tony Kubek (1994).
The game just sounds different. It has the feel of a network game with a local flair. It's been fun but professional.
That's a style I'm quite familiar with.
Costas admitted growing up a fan of the Bombers on Long Island, but how he had to be an unbiased professional during his years at NBC and the MLB Network.
"Everyone thinks I hate your team," he said. "Everyone thinks Joe Buck hates your team."
Of course, as I know, we don't love OR hate your teams once we put that headset on.
He also spoke of being in restaurants and people expressing surprise that he uses his real voice.
"This is my voice," he said.
Too many -- including people whom I've trained, and work in the same region as me -- don't use their real voice. Costas just schooled you. Use your voice. Don't be a radio DJ (and I still used my own voice when I did that).
It's been a master class of how to call a game (in any sport). Just listen to this call, as DJ LeMahieu hits a first inning home run for a 1-0 Yankees lead. No fancy call. No trademark. Not even really raising his voice. Just professional.
I realize Costas can be high and mighty and maybe isn't quite as charming as he was when he was younger, but my goodness gracious, this has been a fun listen.
Still, he seems revitalized today, even going on an interview to drop some lyrics.
Please understand that the Yankees had Frick Award winners in their booth on a yearly basis for a long time. Arch McDonald, Mel Allen, Russ Hodges, Al Helfer, Curt Gowdy, Red Barber, Joe Garagiola, Kubek, and McCarver each called The Bronx home for some stretch of their career.
Then there were the glory years that stretched from Allen to Barber to Rizzuto to Coleman to Garagiola to Frank Messer and Bill White (with Rizzuto). On the other sides of town (Giants, Dodgers, and Mets) there was greatness aplenty, including the Queens trio of Bob Murphy (who died on this day in 2004), Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson.
We were truly spoiled and lucky.
Not to say we don't have some good ones now. It's just different, and each era has had its hiccups.
But today is exceptional. There's an elegance to the booth.
I was in the building the night he called this one. Didn't get to hear it until much later.
He wasn't about glamour. This is the essence of Thurman Munson
It was August 1, 1979, and the Yankees were in Chicago.
The Bombers beat the White Sox 9-1 to improve to ten games over .500. Reggie Jackson, Lou Piniella, and Jerry Narron homered to back the pitching of Don Hood (remember him?).
It was the last time we'd ever see Thurman Munson.
Thurman, the captain of the team who was in the conversation of '70s catchers with Johnny Bench and Carlton Fisk, walked in the first after Bobby Murcer had singled and been caught stealing. Munson -- Thurm, Tugboat -- scored on Jackson's home run.
I was watching at home (what a shock) on WPIX-TV. My first memory was how weird it was to see Munson play first base.
Munson would leave the game after the at-bat. He told Jerry Narron to expect more playing time behind the plate, as the 32-year-old was pretty banged up.
A night earlier Munson, Piniella, and Murcer went back to the apartment that Bobby and Kay had in Chicago. Murcer had been with the Cubs until June when a minor trade sent him back to New York.
The friends talked and laughed, with the Murcers eventually retreating to bed. Piniella and Munson sat and talked hitting until the wee hours.
After the Wednesday game, the Murcers drove Thurman to the airport and watched him fly away on the Cessna Citation I/SP jet that he'd recently bought.
The consummate family man, Tugboat wanted to get back to Canton to be with Diana and their three kids.
Thursday, August 2, 1979, was an off day for the Yankees. Thurman went back to the Akron-Canton airport to practics takeoffs and landings. On his third run, he brought the plane in too low. The plane came down roughly 1000 feet from the runway, just off of Greensburg Road where it hit a tree stump and burst into flames.
His two passengers -- instructor Dave Hall and friend Jerry Anderson -- were able to get off the plane with injuries that weren't life-threatening. Munson was trapped. He had broken his neck.
He died of asphyxiation.
He was 32.
Word quickly spread. For some reason, I remember it being around 4:30 while I was watching channel 5 (WNEW) in New York. I remember anchor John Roland being the one who delivered the news.
I remember being stunned. I was 10. This was different. My first reaction was to run to my room and look at my Yankees Yearbooks (a collection that I had of all years from the 70s until the early 2000s.
I just wanted to look at a picture of him and process what I had learned.
Baseball went on. The Yankees lost both Friday and Saturday before winning Sunday's game. Munson was buried on Monday and played that night on national TV in what's become known as "The Bobby Murcer Game."
Another story for another time.
While thinking about Thurman today, and knowing I wanted to talk about it on Doubleheader, I stumbled on this amazing piece of audio. It ran on WMCA in New York during the Mets/Phillies game played on August 2 at Shea Stadium. Ralph Kiner and Bob Murphy are the Hall of Fame voices. There are also news reports from ABC and CBS at the back end of this file. (File courtesy of YouTube user ericpaddon).
A year later, a plaque was placed in Monument Park at Yankee Stadium. Former teammates Murcer, Piniella, and Gene Michael were there, as well as Diana Munson. The words on it read:
Thurman Munson
New York Yankees
June 7, 1947-August 2, 1979
Our captain and leader has not left us, today, tomorrow, this year, next
Our endeavors will reflect our love and admiration for him.
Erected by the New York Yankees
September 20, 1980
His locker still exists. After leaving it in the locker room at the old Stadium, it moved across the street, where it now resides in the museum.
It took a long time to move on from it.
For some of us who lived it, even as fans, it still hurts.
