Mr. Spielberg, Here's the Story

 

Once upon a time...

No, don't do that. It's too hokey. The scriptwriters will never buy it.

Oh, OK. Let's set that scene.

A kid grows up in the New York suburbs. He has little to no athletic ability but loves sports. He loves broadcasting. He is fascinated by it. He spends time watching and listening to all the games on all the channels. Radio and TV. He loves the Yankees. Frank Messer, Bill White, Phil Rizzuto. Eventually, Bobby Murcer -- his boyhood hero -- becomes a broadcaster.

He watches college football on ABC with Keith Jackson. Monday Night Football with Howard, Frank, and Dandy Don, and that evolves with Al Michaels. Watches the Rangers and Islanders. He is taken with Jiggs McDonald. Marv Albert, of course, looms large for all of his work. Over on CBS, the kid watches Summerall and Madden. Brent and "The NFL Today," of course. Also on CBS is a baseball announcer, calling football and golf. What's his name again? Oh, Scully, that's right. Let's put a pin in that.

Because Scully would head to NBC to do "Game of the Week." 

The kid has opinions and studies all of this. And it is his opinion that NBC is the place.

The National Broadcasting Company. Founded in 1926 as a radio network. It is at the forefront of TV in the 30s. Pauses for the war in the 40s before putting the World Series on the air in 1947.

It is the home of not only Vin Scully but, at one time or another, Bob Costas, Red Barber, Mel Allen, Curt Gowdy, Charlie Jones, Don Criqui, Joe Garagiola, Tony Kubek, Mike "Doc" Emrick, and so many other great broadcasters that put their stamp on the air at the "Peacock Network."

And of special note is the work of Dick Enberg, who, combined with Merlin Olsen, forms the most formidable football broadcast duo of the young man's life.

This, he tells his Connecticut School of Broadcasting class, is where he wants to be. Sure, he wants the Yankees also (he's not asking too much), but NBC is the place.

Life, of course, has other things are in store. He has to make money, so off to the corporate world he goes. He stays local to go to college, so he doesn't get that "big broadcasting school" pedigree that others look down on him for.

He doesn't have Syracuse or Missouri or Fordham. He has Westchester Community College and Western Connecticut State University.

There aren't the avenues now that there were then, but he's patient, and he grinds. 

He works in corporate America. He nearly gives up on school after the death of his father, but with Connecticut School of Broadcasting, he rebuilds himself.

A survivor, he is. A bit of an underdog, perhaps.

He gets a radio job and, except for a break in the 90s, goes on to have a 35-year career of broadcasting music, news, and everything else. It's a career in that it's part-time and full-time. It's a roller coaster.

Oh, and he does sports, of course, but yes, he literally does just about everything, including maintenance. Clean a plugged toilet at the station? Sure. Sleep on the floor after covering a major storm -- one he wasn't scheduled to work and didn't get paid a dime for? Uh huh.

There are a lot of stories like that. NBC Sports and the Yankees don't happen, and yet, he's kind of OK.

Somehow, this George Bailey sort of character feels he's reached a pinnacle because he works his tail off on every broadcast, bringing everything a professional feel with his own touches.

He doesn't need "the top level." He raised his son, survived a divorce, and dealt with life's other calamities. There are plenty of ups and downs. Heck, he even helped a newspaper company get a streaming broadcasting outlet off the ground before ego and power trips took over.

With friends worrying about his health, he leaves before the backstabbing gets worse.

He returns to work in Greenwich, at WGCH, where he's been for nearly three decades. A newspaper position in town doesn't quite work out (long story -- consider that for a sequel), but he builds a relationship with another school in town. Sure, he's called Greenwich High School broadcasts but now the Brunswick School wants him.

With that, he helps a streaming service called Bleachers. Well, that doesn't exactly fly, but it grows into LocalLive. With LocalLive, it feels like things will soar!

Well, there are bumps on that road. He gets shoved, nudged, and sometimes overlooked. That's business. 

In the meantime, a baseball position has opened in his native Hudson Valley, a Tampa Bay Rays minor league affiliate. He's worked there many times. It feels meant to be, and sure enough, he gets it! 

Then COVID cancels the season. No worries, he's told, the job is his next year. Oh, and the Hudson Valley team is changing affiliates...

to the New York Yankees.

Yes, in a small way, our guy is now a broadcaster for the Yankees.

Ah, but life. In a strange season, he works his tail off, calling every home game before being told that he'd be back the next year if it were up to his boss.

His boss leaves. Changes happen. What seems like a "no-brainer" ends with him no longer working for the team. He finds out he's out four days before Christmas, leading to a holiday spent alone, sitting on his couch.

Then they bring him back by asking him to be the public address announcer. Considering his son and other loved ones still work there, he goes back. He meets new friends, including one known as "Clicks" for his work on the Click Effects sound system.

Oh, wait, this story isn't over.

He battles with finances. His many jobs barely provide stability. His thought is always that he wants to keep a roof over the head of himself and his son.

That's a story that needs a finale.

But LocalLive is going through changes. He receives a phone call that indicates he still has that position, but it won't be called LocalLive anymore. LocalLive will migrate to a new company and a new name...

NBC SportsEngine Play.

He -- in a small way -- has made it to NBC Sports.

Scully. Enberg. Emrick. Costas.

Adams.

This story is too far-fetched.

-----

In no way do I think I'm really part of NBC Sports, any more than I feel that I'm part of ESPN, though I have been on ESPN+, or that I'm part of the Yankees. I don't work with Michael Kay, for instance, despite the wishes of my friends.

Yes, the financial realities still exist, and I'm trying to resolve them by getting one of these many "opportunities" to actually come to fruition. But through a certain amount of hard work and good fortune, I've achieved some of those lofty goals, even if they're on different terms. 

Later today, I'll call Brunswick and Suffield Academy football on NBC SportsEngine Play. I get chills every time I say it. 

My friend Mikey "Clicks" knows some of my journey and found a few things in his travels to celebrate this.

This is an NBC SportsEngine winter hat. Seems perfect for cold days in the Hartong Rink, as I call Brunswick hockey.

But he gave me something else that my inner NBC nerd screamed about.

This banner could have hung at Yankee Stadium or Three Rivers Stadium, or some arena with the heroes of my broadcasting youth. Honestly, I don't know, and I'd rather not ruin that fantasy. All I know is I found room in my apartment and it now hangs here, with profound thanks to Clicks for his thoughtful gift.

My story still has a long way to go and still has answers that I need to get. And again, I don't have "imposter syndrome" that makes me think I'm really a part of these organizations that have defined my career. I can't stress that enough. But, in some small way, I can claim a tiny piece of achieving my goals.

The story continues. May the sequel be even sweeter.

On Grief

 

Mom and Dad with their third child, Dec 1968

I think about them every day.

My parents. Robert (Donald/Bob) and Nancy. 

Every day.

Dad died on St. Patrick's night, 1989. He was 59. 

Mom died five years ago today at 83. The images are seared into my brain.

I've been chasing my father's age, frankly, ever since. I want to be around for Sean, who says I have to outlive his grandmother. Dare to dream, I guess.

But it's the grief -- and how to handle it -- that has been my issue ever since.

I went through the stages, especially after Dad passed. I was resigned, angry, low-key, and aggressive. I mourned. With Mom, the reactions were different. Grief has a funny way of helping you adjust. Whether it's death or something else, we grieve different things.

It's always grief over a loss of something, but what is that something? Sure, it can be a parent, a pet, or a loved one. But it can also be a loss of innocence, trust, a relationship, or something else.

Mom's passing was more of an overall shock for me, followed by doing what I do. I put one foot in front of the other. I kept moving. 

In that shock, I spoke with 911 and the EMTs and the police, and the funeral home.

Then we planned the funeral.

Then we dealt with the aftermath of finances, the house, etc.

And there were other things, items that removed my focus from ever allowing to grieve my mother.

Some knew what the end was like. Some didn't and never will. Or they'll never understand or care to understand. But I carry all of that with me.

And, no, I don't forget.

So I honor my parents via social media posts and occasional meals, and toasts. Birthdays, anniversaries of their passing, and the wretched holidays.

What I can't do -- ever -- is stop living. I can't be that thief of joy. Neither one of them would tolerate that. If there's a post-game (aka "afterlife"), they'd both express their displeasure in that regard. I'm sure they'll have enough to say.

So I've continued to live. Sean and I travel, and we both feel the lack of Mom in the backseat every time. It was profound -- so strong -- at first. Her absence hovered over our first weekend getaway like a bad meal.

We learned. We had to. Moving forward is what we do.

More than anything, grieving for us involves humor. Some of it is dark, and I don't share it with many because you likely wouldn't understand. But we understand. It's how we survive.

Losing my father at such a young age -- for both of us -- has impacted me in ways that I'll never truly appreciate. All of the things he didn't see or experience, and all of the things I never spoke to him about, continue to gnaw at me.

I get emotional rather easily on that topic. 

With Mom, it's still almost like a shock. There are moments out of the blue when I think I should reach out. It's hard to explain. I know the reality, and yet the reality still kind of stabs me.

But I never wanted people to feel like I discussed either of them too often, or dwelled on their passing. I've written so much here over the years. Honestly, I've backed down quite a bit.

The hurt -- the loss -- is always there. Always within me. I can't stand the tears. 

But we'll continue to laugh.

We have to.

That's how we grieve.

circa 1976

What I Did On My Summer (Non) Vacation

 

The Electric City!

There are a few times that feel like a fresh start.

Jan 1 is to many people. 

Opening Day of baseball season will always be one to me.

And I think Labor Day is one as well.

Around these parts, that means school is either about to start or has just started.

When I was a kid (yes, way back when), Labor Day normally meant a picnic somewhere.

There would be a lot of wiffle ball and volleyball and badminton and football, and more.

There would be food and family. Or people who felt like family.

We laughed and battled and ate and listened to music and tried to live in the moment. We didn't want it to end because it was also the realization that summer was over and school was about to begin. It was important to stay in the moment.

School -- wearing that first day fit, getting reacquainted with friends, meeting the teacher or teachers, settling back into the rhythm, and buying supplies -- would wait.

School still plays a big part in my life now, as the beginning of school means the beginning of a new year of sports broadcasts for me.

When -- ahem -- Sep 1998 began, I had no idea that it would begin this long association with high school sports. I worked a few Ridgefield High School football broadcasts from the WREF Radio studio in 1996, but I had moved to WGCH by the late summer of 1998. Eventually, they needed someone to run their studio for some games, and I got that opportunity.

That also meant I got to do some on-air work as well. But it all changed when I called Port Chester/Greenwich baseball in 1999. I was now a play-by-play announcer and never looked back.

That December, I worked my first Greenwich football game, capping off the end of my first full season of calling football, doing a slate of Westchester games on WVIP.

This Saturday, I'll be at Brunswick for a scrimmage to check the equipment and have a chance to get some practice in. Next Friday, Dan Murphy and I will put the headsets on and get started on another year of Greenwich football, as the Cardinals host Fairfield Prep. The following day, I'll be at Avon Old Farms for the Brunswick opener against the Winged Beavers.

I'm blessed to be the "voice" (no matter how much I don't love that term) of two great programs. 

Labor Day weekend has been a collection of activity and inactivity. It began with Sean and me going to Scranton for a day trip to Waffle House, trains, and Sheetz. In truth, we should have stayed the night and enjoyed ourselves, but there's a little issue of paying the bills that keeps me up at night.

That, friends, needs to change even if it is at the cost of the number of games I cover.

Nevertheless, we had a great day.

I also had a bittersweet day on Saturday, when I went to see Greenwich and Newtown play a scrimmage. I stood quietly and took in the game, feeling the rush of wanting to put the headset back on.

After the game, I made the short drive to nearby Sandy Hook and briefly visited the new school that replaced the one where the unspeakable happened in December 2012. I pulled in, thinking that the memorial to the 26 lives lost was there before realizing it was up the road. 

Sheepishly, I left and found the stirring memorial, where I quietly paid my respects. I have no words, and I don't think any are needed.

The rest of the weekend was mostly quiet, which tends to be a problem. Oh, sure, I hosted "Meet the Beatles" and we went to Wegmans for groceries, but the summer of 2025 was sometimes too quiet for me.

Don't get me wrong. I called a lot of games, recorded a lot of podcasts, and attended a lot of meetings. But there's a reason I was too cheap to get a room in Scranton.

Again, it has to change.

September will reignite me. Sean and I will get to The Big E. I'll call football and maybe some soccer. Hopefully, depositions will pick back up. We have one more week of Renegades games. And we're heading into a good stretch of conferences from now until early December.

September, of course, also brings reminders of sadness with the reminder of September 11 next week. I'll likely be over at Cos Cob Park that morning for the ceremony honoring the lives lost 24 years ago.

Further, we'll remember Mom later this week, on the fifth anniversary of her passing. Time flies, and we must keep moving forward.

While the summer wasn't full of travels, it was full of ups and downs and a few adventures. And, as the nights get cool, I'm hopeful.

One of these days, the promises will come together into something beautiful.

But let's dive into September. 

A hopeful fall and winter await.

Oh, a final note. Midnight tonight -- Sep 2 -- marks my 35th anniversary in broadcasting. To that, I say thank you for listening, watching, and supporting.

Nineteen Years

 

An "interesting" Alt US 19 shield, Tarpon Springs, FL, 2024

On this date in 2006, I took the plunge into writing a blog. 

Several of my friends were doing it and I thought maybe I'd give it a try. It took me some time to come up with a name, but ultimately I thought I made the right choice.

And so we sit here 19 years later. I'm still mostly the same person at heart, but I've evolved so much and I'm pretty proud of that.

Nineteen years ago, I was living in a house that we couldn't afford, married to a person who didn't want to be married to me. As awful as that might sound, I'm long past it. I didn't think I was a bad person to spend a life with and, with hindsight, well, I'll stop there.

Nearly 4,500 posts have emerged from this blog since Aug 17, 2006. Obviously, much of it came from the not-quite six years I invested in writing daily. I wish I had that drive back but I simply felt like I had run out of gas.

More to the point, I didn't want to go on about what there was to go on about. It didn't feel compelling and frankly seemed repetitive. 

I've given every emotion possible over the years. I've told as much as I felt I could or should. I know, at times, I went too far.

To people I've hurt, I apologize. 

To people who have been positively impacted by these posts, thank you.

I've tried to remain "me." Honest, fair, rational and, yet, sometimes irrational. But I've tried to remain relatable.

That doesn't always make me the most popular guy in the room.

There are things I wish I hadn't written. There are things I wish I had written.

And I often agonize over where the line is.

But, warts and all, it has all been here. 

Perhaps the urge to write consistently will return. Perhaps that will happen when I feel better about myself and about my life.

Obsessing and repeating the same things over and over aren't things I want to do, whether it's stories or compliments I've received or anything else.

Starting a blog wasn't about attention. It wasn't about finding a job, unless it went that way.

It did introduce me to new people. Both good and bad.

But it was about wanting to find my voice as a writer and to tell stories.

I hope there are many more stories to tell.

Thank you, all.

If that fates allow, we'll reach 20 years next August 17.

"No" Way

 

OK, this one will turn personal. 

I have to tell you it's an art form to see people post things and then make them about themselves.

I abhor it, especially if I do it.

But, well, I'll be guilty on this one.

I just finished watching Southpaw: The Life and Legacy of Jim Abbott on ESPN. It's a documentary about the left-handed pitcher whose 10-year career produced 87 wins and some moments of brilliance.

There's a "but" here. Abbott was born without a right hand. That's right. He was a one-handed pitcher. He figured out how to spin the glove off his left hand for fielding, then put it right back on after delivering the pitch. It was stunning to watch.

It was inspiring. In fact, part of the documentary is his dealing with being seen as a "one-handed pitcher" and an inspiration, as opposed to just being a pitcher.

The documentary is astounding. It's gorgeous. It's really well done. It follows him from his early life in Michigan, understanding why he didn't have a right hand, how he adjusted, and being a stud athlete in high school and at the University of Michigan before being drafted by the California Angels.

It centers largely on the most famous day of his baseball career: Sep 4, 1993. 

Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter.

Against the Cleveland Indians. A team that was loaded with Hall of Famers (Jim Thome), potential Hall of Famers (Kenny Lofton, Albert Belle), a damn good close-but-not-quite Hall of Famer (Carlos Baerga), and a guy that could be a Hall of Famer but, hey, steroids (Manny Ramirez).

Yes, the Indians were stacked.

Oh, and Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter against the Cleveland Indians on Sep 4, 1993 at Yankee Stadium. It was the first no-hitter in The Bronx since 1983, when Dave Righetti no-hit the Red Sox.

Here's where I come in. I was at Yankee Stadium that day.

I discovered Abbott while watching TV back in the 80s. In those days of flipping the channel, I came across Abbott and Michigan and became mesmerized. He was incredibly easy to root for and I became a fan.

I was thrilled to see him make it to the Angels. We didn't have the collection of games that we can watch now, so I'd follow him via the newspaper.

But then, after the roller coaster of the first part of his major league career, Abbott found himself traded in late 1992.

To the Yankees. I was overjoyed.

Success, however, wasn't automatic. He pitched the home opener at the Stadium on April 12th, firing a complete game, allowing eight hits, and one earned run as the Bombers beat the Royals 4-1. Two other things that day: new Yankee Paul O'Neill had four hits and the losing pitcher was future Yankee David Cone.

Oh, and I was at that one also.

But by Sep 4, Abbott's returns were mixed. He'd come into that game at 9-11, and he had clearly underachieved. Keep that word in mind when you watch the documentary.

In Mahopac, I pulled myself together and headed to my then-fiancé's house. Her father would drive all of us. I sat in the back of their car and wondered exactly why we were bothering to go. The day was stark. It was cloudy, dark, and misty, and it felt like the game would never happen.

Our seats were in the right field corner lower deck. The Yankees, heading back not only to respectability but to being THE YANKEES, would only draw 27,125 on this miserable day.

Abbott was sharp early, relying on offspeed pitches and breaking balls to keep the dangerous Indians on their heels.

It would take until the bottom of the third for the New York offense to generate something. A Dion James single turned into a Little League home run as the Indians committed two errors and three runs scored.

In the bottom of the fifth, we watched as Randy Velarde lined a home run over the right center field wall. It was 4-0, and that was it for the scoring.

I was keeping score and wasn't moving. Not one to overreact, I made no note of the fact that Abbott had yet to give up a hit.

It was around the middle innings when Sean's mother (yes, my fiancée) asked to go get food. Dutifully, I followed along, rolling my eyes at having to leave my seat. We found a concession stand and satisfied whatever itch she needed to scratch.

What was unusual for me was that I didn't stop keeping score, listening to the radio broadcast as it was pumped through speakers in the concourse area. At that point, a no-hitter didn't seem real to me. I'd been going to Yankee games since 1972 and had never seen one in person.

Back in our seats, the game rolled along. At the end of six innings, I allowed myself to think it. Jim Abbott -- my guy, by the way -- was pitching a no-hitter.

Eventually, as the crowd began to go nuts, I glanced at my former brother-in-law. I think he was 15 or 16 at the time. 

"Do you see what I see on the scoreboard?" I said.

"Oh yeah," came the reply.

In the broadcast booth, I acknowledge no-hitters in the process of reporting. In this case, I said little to nothing here.

Abbott got three groundouts in the top of the seventh. One of them required the usual terrific defensive play, as Wade Boggs snagged a hard grounder in the hole off the bat of Albert Belle. Suddenly, it all felt real.

I remember thinking every no-hitter has "that play." Some kind of solid or great defensive play. The baseball gods need to be in your corner.

I breathed and tried to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" at the seventh inning stretch. 

He struck out Manny in the top of the eighth and, after a walk to Thome, he induced pinch hitter Sandy Alomar Jr to ground to third.

There were three outs left.

The bottom of the eighth, as the Yankees hit, felt endless.

Abbott had walked four. He also had to face the top of the Cleveland lineup in the top of the ninth.

I took a deep breath. History was on the line.

My ex-wife didn't understand why the crowd of 27,000 was losing its collective stuff. In her mind, OK, the game was likely in hand at 4-0, so what was the big deal?

"Look at the 0 in the hit column," I whispered.

"Oh."

Kenny Lofton was first. A classic leadoff tablesetter, Abbott got him to bounce to second.

Next came Felix Fermin. In the midst of a good year in 1994, he was a good contact man, which was the job of a number two hitter at that time.

In this case, Abbott left a pitch out over the plate and Fermin crushed it to left center. They call it "Death Valley" for a reason, as it was 399 feet to the alley. I held my breath as the ball climbed but, as I've taught so many to do, I kept and eye on the outfielders. Bernie Williams, not-quite 25 on that day, moved like a gazelle and caught up to it near the warning track.

Seriously, he made it look easy.

Two outs.

Carlos Baerga was next. A professional hitter, he'd bat .317 in 1993.

One out to go.

Scorecard in hand, voice wavering (very unusual for me), I watched.

Abbott delivered. Baerga swung.

Around the world, millions of people were inspired, watching this man who didn't want to be "a disabled pitcher" live up to that dream.

He was just a pitcher. Baerga rolled a grounder to shortstop Mike Gallego, who threw across to Don Mattingly (another possible Hall of Famer) and it was over.

Jim Abbott was the pitcher of a no-hitter.

Abbott and catcher Matt Nokes had worked together like a charm. The disappointments of the season didn't matter at that point. They won the game.

And Jim Abbott -- a truly lovely, sweet man -- was a hero to millions.

And I was almost without a voice. It was as great a moment as I had ever known in Yankee Stadium.

I still have the scorecard tucked away. I treasure the memories of witnessing it, even if it comes from an entirely different lifetime.

I watched this beautiful documentary with the joy of remembering that game.

Jim Abbott won't have a plaque in Cooperstown. He doesn't need one.

But watch the documentary and you'll understand that, to many, he's already there.

I couldn't find my scorecard tonight, but this is my copy
of the NewYork Daily News from the next morning.

Last note: thank you to the many who reached out following my last post. I know I worried some, but I guess I needed to write what I wrote, no matter how much it embarrassed me. For the record, nothing has changed. But I know I'm loved and I'm grateful.

OK. Here.

 

So, yeah, it's been a minute.

Let's talk.

I stopped writing on a daily basis on Oct 27, 2024. In truth, the grind of life had gotten to me and I was ready to take a break. I went to San Francisco for business the next day and left my computer at home. I thought I'd come back quickly.

I've posted seven times since then.

If I may speak openly, like I did on my radio show today, let me say that the last year or so has been anything but easy. So, because of that, I didn't want to weigh this space down with daily notes about financial hardships, frustrations of life, depression, social media attacks, etc.

I tried to lean on a circle of people. They know who they are, and it was just that they were in the right place to get me to talk. 

There are, in short, a lot of things that have bothered me. The frustrations of (lack of) income have weighed heavily on me. I can't (and won't) begin to list things, but I've done too much for no money for one thing and, in other cases, too much that takes too long to get paid. That doesn't even begin to lead to the number of broken or empty promises.

There are myriad loose ends of life. Personally. Professionally. I often speak about wanting a home. I have an apartment and I enjoy it. I don't enjoy the downstairs showroom person complaining that we walk too loudly or, as she texted our landlord, "The son isn't the problem. It's him."

Him. He has a name. So does the son. We're not bad people. And we're also pretty quiet.

But when I talk about "home" it means a base. Like a place to make a living and have basic necessities and, dare I say, benefits.

Then, of course, I could have written every day about the "Mr. Toxic" thing. Phil (yup, many have asked and have figured it out) has made it a daily obsession to post something intended to rattle me. I've asked others to review and (yup) sent screenshots as well (Phil seems to be bothered by that). 

The reactions generally include, "Dude, he has it in for you," and "Wow. What's his problem?" I've tried to joke about the free rent I get in his brain, but I've also made it clear it wears on me. If he'd like to celebrate beating my mental health, well, huzzah. You win.

I spoke honestly. I've been depressed about stuff. I got further dumped on today.

And, look, I'm not innocent. With each post about Gary Cohen, Bob Wischusen, Sean McDonough, and his "hatred" of the Yankees, I'd eventually find a comeback. Sometimes, it was too much, and I do feel bad about that. I would also just step away for days and let him bloviate. 

He'd keep going.

Then he'd add professional digs. Recently, he made a comment about wanting daily, locally-produced sports talk in CT. Um...4pm, WGCH, right? Sure, I miss days, but we're there. 

There were also things sprinkled around a few other games. Enough that a fellow broadcaster had the marbles to message him privately about his comments.

Phil, of course, didn't respond.

That's all in addition to when he tried to embarrass me in a broadcasting group, not realizing I was in the group. I responded politely, hoping to open a dialogue. At one point, the post disappeared.

Otherwise, he never responded.

Sure, the easy answer is "block him." I'm already blocked. Heck, he blocked me on every outlet back in 2023 or whenever it was. He took down the recommendation he wrote for me on LinkedIn. He also removed the one I wrote for him, which he asked me to write.

He further methodically deleted every correspondence between us. I could see it as it was happening. Is this rational?

I thought we were, at best, friendly. And most of my friends know how to give and take. Chris Erway and I wouldn't be friends all these years if we couldn't handle disagreements. The same goes for Chris Kaelin. And others.

Again, I've made mistakes in this process. When Phil called broadcasters who don't prepare like him "lazy," I called it out. I further called him a "prep snob." I shouldn't have said it on WGCH, but I did. I thought, being a professional, he'd touch base, we'd yell, talk, laugh, etc, and move on.

That would be a no.

He's had other broadcasters come after me in various ways as well.

This war is stupid and unnecessary. I have my thoughts on him as a person, and I've had them for over 20 years. But I also appreciated the job tips he offered, how he told me I was too good for a broadcast I was on one night a bunch of years ago, and him asking me to sub for him on Bridgeport Sound Tigers broadcasts.

We disagree on a lot. Isn't that good? Isn't that how it should be?

I'm better because Chris Erway, for instance, challenged me on certain things. Because that always allowed me to think about my stance and whether or not I needed to adjust my thinking. I'm also better in that I don't get into every social media spat. I deplore politics on Facebook. I especially abhor posting about it obsessively.

I also detest that constant judgment. People think they know me. They don't really. Oh, there are a handful, but most don't understand the depth.

And I'm somewhat deep and slightly complex. At least I think so.

Today, I spoke openly on "Doubleheader." I'm sorry that Chris Saunders "caught a stray" in the process, and I was wrong about that. In my hurt, I know I went too far.

But I felt it was time to open up about things. This was all because Phil got hurt over "prep snob," which I actually said to take the grief away from someone else. That's the backstory that isn't known. I actually thought Phil would hear it from me, say, "Come on, Rob, why?" and we'd talk.

Instead, the bombs began getting lobbed. Most were meant to be harmless, with the hope that it would all stop.

It didn't.

And, moments ago, I noticed he posted one last "eff you" to me on Twitter. Instead of any and all avenues leading to a professional and appropriate conversation, he has decided to not double down, but go all-in.

Congrats, Phil. I discussed how openly you have impacted my mental health. To that, you don't care. You, frankly, aren't alone in that thought. How you think thats appropriate is beyond me.

I wish I had that kind of ego, but I also wish you had a hint of a sense of humor. Most people get it or we talk it out. 

You think you are this hyper-positive person, who frankly, passively either doesn't support others or dumps on them. That's why you're "toxic positivity."

Maybe one day you'll get it and we'll simply agree to disagree.

I truly hope that day isn't too late.

This, by the way, was his response via X/Twitter. He's all class. And, yes, I did a screenshot. Sorry, Phil.

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.