Baseball '25

(Photo: New York Yankees on X)

Tomorrow is that grandest day.

It's Opening Day for Major League Baseball. The Yankees and Brewers will throw first pitch at 3:05.

I'm looking forward to the things that have intoxicated me about this game since at least 1972.

But, to be honest, I struggled with baseball this off-season. I missed it, but I didn't miss it. The 2024 World Series was an unenjoyable blur and the worst World Series involving the Yankees that I can ever remember. That fifth game dangled the most dangerous word -- hope -- in front of all of us before it evaporated over a disgusting single inning of terrible play.

I also allowed things to get under my skin. While it should be shame on those who did things, it's ultimately my fault. So, shame on me.

I'll feel the fire. I will.

And screw the haters. They're obsessed anyway.

Once again, I'm sharing the post I wrote on April 5, 2015. When I wrote it, I was in a very vulnerable, emotional place. Ah, the glory days of the HAN Network.

The words below comprise a post that was among the most meaningful I've ever written. I hope -- sincerely hope -- you enjoy them.

Remember, as we embark on this season, be good to each other. It's still baseball. A sport. A game.

That's just it. Enjoy the game and watch it with those who bring you joy.

*****

 From left: Lou Gehrig, Joe Cronin, Bill Dickey, Joe DiMaggio,
Charlie Gehringer, Jimmie Foxx, and Hank Greenberg. 

Check out that picture above. Look at them: Gehirg, Cronin, Dickey, DiMaggio, Gehringer, Foxx, Greenberg. Even non-baseball/sports fans know at least two of those names (Gehrig and Joe D., of course).

It was taken at the 1937 All-Star Game at Griffith Stadium in Washington. Look at that glorious NBC sign in the background. Incidentally, three radio networks broadcast that game (NBC, CBS, and Mutual).

You might not know that every one of those players is enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Yet they are. Those guys aren't scrubs. They're among the best to ever play the game of baseball. Naturally, I've written tons about The Iron Horse, and a few words about DiMaggio as well. Bill Dickey, by the way, is vastly overlooked.

For you non-fans, Jimmie Foxx was the loose model for Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own.

You probably know this, if you've read anything here, but I love this great game. My god, we've screwed it up incredibly over the years. The race issues were deplorable. The sport struggled with growth and competition from the NFL through the 70s (and it continues today). We've added playoff teams and dealt with drugs (steroids, greenies, cocaine, etc. Go on. Look it up.). We're worried about pace of play and bringing the inner city back.

We had Black Sox and a gambling Red (just put him in the Hall of Fame, please?).

We have the Babe. The one and only. The single greatest, most important athlete in the history of sports. Yes, I know, Jim Thorpe, Bo Jackson, and others might have been better true athletes, but given everything involved, there's Babe Ruth and everyone else.

We've sold our souls too many times. Baseball shouldn't open at night, but ESPN's money is too much to overlook.

Yet tomorrow, in the day, with the stands full and the records 0-0, the lines will be painted fresh. The grass will be gloriously green. I wish a band would play, and we could recreate some of the openings of seasons past, but a voice will intone the starting lineups, and they will gather on those freshly-painted baselines. The anthem will be sung. A ceremonial first pitch will be thrown. There might be a flyover or some other special effect.

Then, as there has been since 1869 (the generally agreed upon "first year" of Major League Baseball), a batter will step up to home plate. A pitcher - 60 feet, six inches away - will author a first pitch.

And there will be baseball. To me, for its history, grandeur, strategy - everything - it is the greatest game of them all.

Football is the national passion. Baseball is the National Pastime.

Give me 714. Give me .406. Sixty-one. Fifty-six. I wish we could have 1918 back, but time marches on. A fan knows what these numbers are.

Give me the billy goat. The Bambino. Curses real or imagined.

Give me those uniform numbers that we all know: four. Three. Seven. Five. Forty-two.

Give me The Mick. Jeet. Gabby. Dizzy. Daffy. Dazzy. Pudge. Yaz. Three-Finger. Blue Moon. Vida. Catfish. Bucky. Stan the Man.

Give me Willie, Mickey, and The Duke. Tinker to Evers to Chance.

Give me The Called Shot. The Homer in The Gloamin'. The Shot Heard Round the World. The Miracle of Coogan's Bluff. Those last two are the same thing.

Give me Ebbets Field. Forbes Field. Crosley Field. Now give me Camden Yards and Fenway and Wrigley. The Big A. Chavez Ravine.

Give me the corner of E. 161st Street and River Ave. The most famous address in sports history.

Give me the Royal Rooters and the Bleacher Creatures.

Give me 27 rings.

Give me those great quotes, from music to movies to TV and beyond.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game. "Luckiest Man."

“That's baseball, and it's my game. Y' know, you take your worries to the game, and you leave 'em there. You yell like crazy for your guys. It's good for your lungs, gives you a lift, and nobody calls the cops. Pretty girls, lots of 'em.”
―Humphrey Bogart

Give me Vincent Edward Scully. The man known as Vin. The man who learned at the side of Walter Lanier Barber, the Old Redhead himself sitting in the catbird seat, while the bases were FOB (full of Brooklyn).

Give me a Ballantine Blast. Tell me "It's Miller Time" or "This Bud's for you."

Give me Cooperstown (maybe in a little over a week from now).

I love this game. It energizes me. Engulfs me. Fills my heart, yet breaks it. It enraptured me for sure when I saw my first pro game in 1972 and a guy named Murcer doubled off another guy named Palmer. One is a hall of famer. The other doesn't need to be.

It made me cry when in 1996, my boyhood team won their first title in 18 years, and I couldn't share it with the one person I wanted to share it with.

Most of all, selfishly, give me a microphone so that I can broadcast it.

This is the beginning of my year. This is when I feel refreshed.

This is when I know that this horrible winter is over.

It's Opening Day.

Play ball.

February Made Me Shiver

The face of 2,000 games with a voice that is
hanging on by a thread

 The second month of 2025 has nearly passed by completely and I haven't written. I don't want you to forget about me!

In truth, my sojourn away from the blog has been emblematic of my needing a break more than I realized. The past few months -- if I can grab my seat on Oprah's couch -- haven't been easy.

I mean, I'm still here and so on, but telling you the stories of not making enough money or not working enough or not sleeping or worrying about paying the bills or about the entitled person downstairs complaining about how loudly we walk (seriously) or the usual social media nonsense would have been redundant and not very compelling.

So, I stopped. 

But, I also worked whenever and wherever I could. Doubleheader at the Westchester County Center? Cool. Five CYO basketball games on Long Island for no money but it beats sitting on the couch? Sweet. FCIAC's? Brunswick? Greenwich High? Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

I'm going to do softball (!) in Pennsylvania this weekend and there are other things in the pipeline.

I suppose, if anything, in the "it's always darkest before the dawn" way, (hopefully) things are turning in the right direction. There's a glimpse of a light and now I have to reach it.

Sean turned 23 last Sunday and I've written so many words about him. He remains my greatest joy. I'm so proud of him and enjoy the time we spend together. We have a wonderful relationship as father and son (and roommates and colleagues). He's also, like me, a wise ass.

On Monday night, I broadcast my 2,000th sporting event -- Fairfield Ludlowe and Staples in the FCIAC boys basketball semifinal. I realize it is an achievement but I wasn't sure I would give it much thought other than mentioning it to a few people.

But then I pondered the many people I've worked with and those who have supported me and, once in a while, I need to promote myself a bit. So I thought I'd post something publicly, mostly, and be done with it. Yes, I'd acknowledge it somehow on the air and try not to get emotional.

If I'm being completely honest, I wanted the 2,000th to be a game that meant something. In other words, a baseball game would have been great. On WGCH also would have been important. So when it became apparent that it wouldn't be a Brunswick or Greenwich game, I was really happy to have it be Ludlowe and Warde, featuring two coaches who are friends of mine and two schools I have great respect for.

Some time back, another broadcaster bought a cake in honor of a milestone of his own. As that is completely not my style, I couldn't help but laugh. Shawn Sailer -- another wise guy -- kept it in mind and presented me with a picture of a cake to congratulate me when I called my 1,900th. I laughed. Hard. I updated it Monday morning before leaving.

Fast forward to Monday night. I knew Shawn would be at the game and wondered if he had anything up his sleeve. Turning serious for a moment, as we were talking, I wanted to thank him for his loyalty and unwavering support, but knew I couldn't say the words without getting emotional. I texted him instead. 

I also touched base with Susan and Chris Erway to thank them as well. There are so many others to thank who have kept me going. This business is not for the weak and there are many wanting to bring you down. I've highlighted them before and of course neither one of them acknowledged me this week.

Obviously, I thought of my parents and hoped they were proud. I've tried to carry the values they instilled, including standing at attention for the national anthem until the last note has concluded. I did that before tipoff and thought about the pride of this moment.

Then, it was time to work. Mike Buswell did color with me and he acknowledged the 2,000th game. For the most part, it was a non-factor otherwise. We called the game as Staples advanced to the FCIAC Championship.

There was nothing ceremonial about the night otherwise. There was no need. I did my job, thanked everyone, and went home. No need for a cake.

Tuesday came and went. I did some work and taught at CSB.

I came home around 11 last night and decided I wanted a seltzer before I went to bed.

I opened the fridge and, on the bottom shelf, I saw something.

A cake. A cheesecake. With a handwritten note on the outside of the package.

My son strikes again.

See, here's the thing. He's proud of his old man, sure. He even watched the game -- he never does that. He was incredibly supportive and I think the cake was meant in kindness.

But.

He also loves cheesecake. So it's a win-win for him.

And me.

And, nose to the grindstone, I'll be back on the mic tonight. I have a break tomorrow before more games on Friday and beyond. I've called 14 games in a week. Of course, I always want quality over quantity and I hope I've lived up to those standards. I've made friends and, sadly, lost some. I'm sorry about that.

Anyway, March is full of opportunities and promises. 

We're not out of the woods yet.

But I'm starting to see daylight.

It's Cold and People Are Hot

 

This is warm compared to this morning

It was six degrees this morning outside my window.

Yikes.

I'm at work now, but have a few minutes to gather my thoughts and try to present them in a way that will be enlightening, charming, and oh whatever.

I see the world is handling things juuuusst fiiiinnne this week. No, I can not type those words with a straight face. The behavior of this country is sad. Obsessed. And so on.

For someone like me, there is nowhere to run to (Martha and the Vandellas, 1965). I can't afford to hide on an island or bury my head in the sand. So I turn my collar to the cold and damp (I'd like to think no explanation is necessary on that one, but it's Simon and Garfunkel, originally in 1964) and keep pushing forward.

I mean, I simply don't have the bandwidth to do battle. As such, I mostly ignore it all. And I try to go into my "I don't care" bubble.

Or I pick my fights.

But, for the record, stop. Please. We're all guilty of the divide.

*****

While I'm on that rant, no rule says one must engage on a topic. Any topic. You can simply keep scrolling. I do it all the time. It's not that difficult.

There is this desperation to be the smartest person in the room (even virtually). There's also an obsession with fighting and arguing. There's just no need.

And the macho "tough guy" stuff online. It's nuts, such as the witch hunt for who didn't vote for Ichiro to be in the Hall of Fame. One person -- one -- didn't vote for him, keeping Mariano Rivera as the lone unanimous inductee. 

It also happened with Derek Jeter and, well, OK. So be it. I'm not going to rescind that person's voting right nor do "I want to meet the one person that didn’t think Ichiro was a Hall of Famer," as one nitwit said.

For the record, that one voter is a fool but it's still their right.

*****

It's been a month of working. But not enough working. We're surviving. Barely.

But, still, there are games to call and I'm doing what I do.

I posted a tweet/X/whatever this morning calling for all young broadcasters to be mentored. I stand by that belief.

I've seen it. Entitlement, lack of preparation, bias, etc. Overall, forgetting how lucky they -- we -- are to be there.

I'm extremely fortunate to be moving towards 2,000 game broadcasts. I've been welcomed at so many different places to call a game and am overall grateful for every stop -- from stools on a sideline in a small gym to a heated booth at Cardinal Stadium to a two-level suite at Fenway Park.

I'm additionally grateful when schools work with me to make it all work but, at the end of the day, it's up to me. So when Harrison High School put us in an auditorium to call a football game and I had to look through a window over ten feet away with no view of the end zone to my left, we made it work. In that case, I sent Chris Erway to the field with a wireless microphone. We survived. We laughed about it.

An athletic director has enough to do without dealing with us. So we minimize any grief.

For the record, I called basketball last night at Greenwich High School. Times have changed and I no longer sit at center court to call a game like I did in 1999. Instead, athletic director Peter Georgiou and site manager Joe Urbano set me up with a folding table in the corner of the gym, near the Greenwich bench.

Perfect. No complaints.

But consider this. You're a young broadcaster. You're calling sports. You're following your classmates around, explaining their athletic exploits to a waiting audience. These are calls and moments that will live forever. Don't you want to do it the right way? Don't you want to do it where your call and behavior are both things to be proud of?

More than anything, don't you want to simply do your "job" and stay mostly out of the way?

That's my approach, I suppose, but to each their own.

Regardless, it's often the "Wild West" with young announcers. They need guidance to improve and to decide if they want to stay in the business at all. And, frankly, they need criticism -- sometimes blunt and honest. Even those who wanted to only be mentored by top-level broadcasters got treated like that by me. Not naming names.

They know. Maybe.

I'd just like to see us elevate the business, especially given how the media is viewed.

*****

One last note: last night's game broadcast was only on Robcasting. It was sadly last-minute but exists now in archival form. What it was supposed to be was the beginning of a span of winter games on WGCH (and Robcasting). 

I'm confident that WGCH will join us soon. I'm planning to call another Greenwich game very soon (possibly tomorrow or Friday).

Being back in the GHS gym brought back a flood of memories of great games and great people. 

But in the end, it produced a 57-52 upset win for Greenwich over undefeated Staples. A lot of people were smiling as they walked out.

Including me.

Turning my collar to the freezing Greenwich night.