It Really Was Twenty Years Ago Today

 

Not quite how it turned out

It was a Thursday. 

August 17, 2006.

"London Bridge" by Fergie was the top song in the land (yikes). Snakes on a Plane was holding its premiere in Los Angeles (double yikes). There were events both various and sundry going on around the world.

The day before, in The Bronx, NY, the New York Yankees held a groundbreaking for a new stadium.

In Carmel, NY, 37-year-old me was thinking about the groundbreaking with a mixture of anger, sadness, and pure disgust.

Ah! Inspiration!

As a result, I stepped on board the S.S. Blogger.

I wrote my first post here. Actually, I wrote it on Aug 16, slept on it, then hit post on the 17th.

Four thousand, four hundred, ninety-two posts later, here we are.

If you're keeping track (good lord, why would you?), this is the first time I have posted since Dec 6, 2025.

So, what happened?

Oh, I tried to get my groove back. In early July, I grabbed my laptop and started composing a post meant to present the joy of having completed my first year as a substitute teacher, and the gratitude I felt for being given hope of having a better form of this thing called life.

I was maybe 400 words in when I stopped.

I didn't like it. Any of it. Not the mood, tone, or words. I felt like it had no flow and no emotion. At least, not the emotion I was hoping for.

In short, it struck me that my passion for writing was gone. The energy that composed a single post every day for 2,629 consecutive days had disappeared.

Writers deal with scrutiny. We invite it, to a point. We even expect it at times.

But it just felt like I had too many trips to the principal's office (not literally), and I elected to disengage.

I'm glad people read. Of course, I do. But whether as a writer or broadcaster, one hopes to see a number that indicates that effort is worth it, especially if there is no money involved.

And, well, I reached a point where I tapped out.

Oh, I stayed busy. Teaching kept me buzzing. Sure, I'd love to tell you stories of some kind and, of course, no students, assignments, or even fellow teachers would be named. But I elected to shut down.

But, you bet I stayed active. The teaching. Instructing at CSB. WGCH, with Meet the Beatles and Doubleheader. Hanging with Zolz and Clicks at The Beacon. The Hudson Valley Renegades. A few video depositions. Dabbling in more mentoring and instructing. Producing podcasts galore.

And that little thing called play-by-play. I called 32 baseball games in July alone.

Trust me, when I was able to flop down on my couch and binge-watch "Suits," I was able to do so without feeling guilty. Maybe the basement won't get clean this summer or whatever other project I wanted to do. But I could be home and not feel bad about it.

For the two people (maybe less) who wanted to read content on this little nook of the interwebs, I apologize for my disappearing act. I feel sad that writing stopped producing the emotion I wanted it to. I'm hoping to get it back.

This -- a post to honor 20 years of "Exit 55" -- is meant to be a start.

I didn't feel the need to write a farewell post because this isn't an airport. But I also never felt like I had departed anyway.

I'm proud of what I've created here, even if I'm not proud of every word. I always tried to write things that I stood by. Authenticity has always been at the very heart of me. Still, I don't reflect all that I've written in 20 years, and realize I've evolved.

So I think about what my life was like in 2006.

Well, to start, I was married, owned a house, and so on. That's all gone, of course. It was hardly bliss then, either, but I always had Sean. That has not changed. Heck, he's making Buffalo wings as I'm typing. We were always close, and we're arguably closer now.

I'm probably not as hard-driving as I was then. I've become more chill, I suppose.

But the things I love are probably still all the same.

And I'm a survivor. Of what, you ask? Well, I'm not married anymore. That should tell you a lot.

But I've continued to love and tried to believe in such. And continued to just be me, even if it's an updated model.

Maybe a reintroduction in a future post is necessary.

A future post. 

That sounds nice.

To those reading -- then, and now -- I can't thank you enough. The same goes for those who have critiqued, cajoled, and any other word.

I said from day one that I wouldn't start a blog to end it after a few weeks or months.

I've made it to 20 years somehow. I've perhaps enriched some, enlightened some, mocked many, angered a few, and entertained all.

That first post is here. They're all on this site, in fact. The good, bad, and ugly.

I won't say I'm back for good.

I'll just say I'm back. For tonight.

It's good to be here.

Oh, Christmas Tree

 

Hop on Pop. I loved the book as a kid. This was from Sean.

One might say it is a Christmas miracle.

Mock it if you wish.

But the significance of a Christmas Tree in my home is no small thing.

The tree itself is a relic, dating back to a time when I was married, and it served as a second tree for us. As I recall, it came from a store where they were getting ready to throw it out.

So it got claimed.

After the various machinations of life -- relocation, etc -- it came to be Sean's while living at his mother's. Last year, he said he wanted to move it to Greenwich.

I couldn't say no. I wouldn't say no.

So he brought it here, well into the season, we lit it up, and it sat there until just after the first of the year. We didn't put ornaments on it, but there was a certain amount of joy regardless.

Oh, I've buried some stuff here, haven't I? Christmas and the season post-Thanksgiving have long been an issue for me. My dad loved Christmas, so I put on a happy face every year to keep Mom going after he died. It seemed like the right thing to do. Keep up appearances.

Eventually, I was blessed with Sean, and of course, I wanted all of his days to be merry and bright.

He grew up, and times changed. With Mom getting older and holiday events being anywhere but at her house, the tree tradition just stopped.

Sean still had a tree at his mother's house, and we were sort of OK with all of it. Plus, the holiday season just became this thing that we survived.

Of course, after Mom passed in 2020, neither one of us was in any great rush to put a tree up. The emotional weight of her loss made that an easy call, combined with the inevitability that we'd move and the living room being loaded with stuff.

Again, we'd keep up appearances, but the family part of it changed. Of course, our address would also change with the move to Greenwich.

I'd do little things each year, like put up a few holiday-related items, even if just for a chuckle. I'd work in our Waffle House Christmas mugs along with our WSNO radio station model.

A small tree -- Mom had one of those fiber optic ones, might also come out as a nod to her minimalist approach toward the end of her life.

The ornaments, however, stayed in a bin.

Finally, Sean brought the tree here last December. There would be no presents under it -- a result of economic realities -- but it was there.

What we would do is treat ourselves to a trip as a present. But, yeah, times were really tough. We're still not exactly on easy street either.

We put the tree back in our basement last December, and it stayed there. I didn't give it much thought until Sean reminded me.

With this year -- and maybe a renewed sense of life -- I said it was time to reach into the time capsule of ornaments.

Bugs Bunny, Derek Jeter, Mickey Mantle, Fred Flintstone, Goassamer the monster, The Beatles, and myriad sports ornaments dot the tree. The Hop on Pop ornament -- a gift from Sean to me when he was little -- is clipped in place. Other nostalgic trinkets, dating back before I was born, are in their rightful place.

There's even a WGCH ornament, from the brief era that we also owned WVIP out of Mount Kisco.

It's minimal. It's leaning slightly. It has an angel topper that was created, probably back in the mid-70s.

It's perfect for us.

Oh, please. Go ahead and call it a Charlie Brown tree. I've already said it.

But it's also like Mom and Dad are here.

And, you know what?

I'm here also.

And that's how it should be.

*****

I'm off to England tomorrow morning. For the first time since 1999, I won't be on a Greenwich football playoff game. I was on the semifinal win over Fairfield Prep as the sideline reporter (!) in '99, before John Connelly called the championship win over Southington.

I've called every playoff game since.

Monday night, Dan Murphy will be in the lead seat as the Cardinals play -- yup! -- Fairfield Prep. He'll also likely be solo, as no one on the roster is available. Chemistry matters, and I reached out to people I trust. 

I trust Dan. He'll be great.

I'll miss it. But I'll be in the UK.

Game time 6:00 on WGCH and -- yes! -- Robcasting.

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.

"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.

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.

Back From the Bay Break

 

The view at lunch

No, I wasn't tempted.

I took three full days off from writing here. 

Yes, I went to San Francisco but, in reality, I made my decision to take a break long before the plans for this trip were firm.

So I did a 64-hour whirlwind trip to California that included an Irish Coffee at The Buena Vista with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge, visited the three sea lions who elected to be visible at Pier 39, and rode a cable car back to our hotel after an hour wait to get on it.

We got what was supposed to be the go-to pizza in San Francisco (news flash: it wasn't New York. At all.).

We had fantastic Italian food at Sodini's in North Beach.

We saw several Waymo self-driving cars but we never took one. Maybe in 2025. 

Reviewing the conference script

We rocked another Hunt Scanlon conference.

And despite my bag being plucked twice by security, my travel woes were minimal. Overall, I just don't love flying. Especially the sketchy turbulence coming home and the hard-breaking landing upon arrival at JFK yesterday.

But I also slept like a rock, passing out at 9 p.m. (midnight Eastern) on Monday night. I had given my all, up since 3 a.m. in Greenwich and never sleeping on the train. Then we remained active from the moment we got off the plane. Then we stuffed badges and ate the tasty but not New York pizza. All that while we watched Game 3 of the World Series.

No question, I'll treasure watching Game 4 and Anthony Volpe's grand slam while crushing a chicken parm dinner at Sodini's.

I'll always be proud of every conference and this trip was no exception. The team works really hard and I try to be a good face and voice for the day. 

And I keep things on time.

San Francisco is hardly a perfect town but there's a lot about it that fits me, especially their love of sports. And, overall, there were plenty of anti-Dodgers there (not a surprise) so it was nice to have that in common, given I was obviously rooting for the Yankees. 

San Francisco is also a city of hotel protests. Last year, it was our hotel (the Omni). This year, three other hotels had protests. It was pretty interesting to say the least.

Me, Walker, Jack, Leo at dinner

And the team I worked with was the best. Walker, Leo, Sam, and Jack are great colleagues and friends. It was hard work and many laughs. 

As for the World Series, last night was horrific. Horrible. Unacceptable. Arguably the worst Yankees World Series game ever. 

The better team won. Let's be clear. But the errors, missed coverage of first base, catchers interference, etc were just bad. And there's a legion of trolls out there doing their damndest to inflict more pain, led by Mr. Toxic Positivity himself. I'm pretty much ready to just write his name and be done with it but, overall, his followers ignore him.

There reaches a point where you just say "Oh, screw it" and get it all out. I'm there with a few things.

But now it's back to the grind here in Greenwich. Another conference awaits next week and there are games to broadcast and hoops to jump through. 

Lastly, I will say that my reflexes tingled a few times during my break. There were times that I thought, "Oh, that would be a good topic" but didn't give it a second thought. There were also a few times that I needed to remind myself that I didn't need to carve in a window to write.

I'd have to say that. I didn't really miss writing. But, alas, here I am so what does that tell you?

Overall, I didn't miss my computer and was content with my iPad and iPhone for any communication. 

I'm grateful to all of you for your support and kindness about the break and the content here. 

It's nice to be back.

Justice for Bobby

 

Screenshot from ABC broadcast of Game 3
of the 1981 World Series

The year was 1981. 

Christopher Cross was near the top of the pop charts with "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)."

And the Yankees were playing the Dodgers in the World Series.

It's worth pausing here to note that, late last night, news broke that Fernando Valenzuela died. Fernando ties us right back to 1981 in that he was the pitching sensation in that strike-shortened year. The lefthander from Mexico went 13-7 with a 2.48 ERA and league highs in starts, complete games, shutouts, and strikeouts.

He won both the National League Cy Young Award and Rookie of the Year.

More than that, he was a cultural hero, especially to the Los Angeles Latino community, but he helped bridge the gap with people from all walks of life with a nasty screwball and a quirky windup.

He threw a no-hitter in 1990, with a double play to finish it off. In the booth at Dodger Stadium, as only he could, Vin Scully punctuated the achievement by saying, "If you have a sombrero, throw it to the sky."

Some of the magic of Fernandomania didn't last but he won 173 games with six teams over 17 seasons. That era, that supernova that he was, will never be forgotten by any baseball fan, especially those of us robbed of innocence by the strike.

But he was always a Dodger and returned to the team to be part of their Spanish-language broadcasts until late this season when he stepped away "to focus on his health."

Always an ambassador and a delight, Fernando is gone at just 63. No doubt that his passing will serve as a rallying cry for the Dodgers' faithful.

Fernando pitched a complete game in Game 3 of the 1981 World Series, beating the Yankees 5-4. 

The '81 Series was also the first time that my guy, Bobby Ray Murcer, played in the Fall Classic. As usual, said with complete bias on my part, he was misused by manager Bob Lemon, playing sparingly, including a sacrifice bunt in Game 2.

In Game 3, with two on and nobody out, Lemon went back to Bobby, this time to bunt against Fernando. Bobby, an excellent athlete, bunted a liner down the left field line that was snared by Ron Cey, who then wheeled to first to double up Larry Milbourne.

Back in New York, I listened to the radio with sheer terror in my blood. Bobby wound up 0-for-3 in the Series, including a warning track fly ball that I thought had a chance to go out at Yankee Stadium in Game 6. It was another questionable decision by Lemon, having Bobby pinch hit for Tommy John in the fourth inning with the game tied at one. The Yankees went on to lose 9-2.

I was crestfallen.

Bobby, traded from the Yankees to the Giants in Oct 1974, missed the late '70s glory years in New York, returned in time for the passing of Thurman Munson, played in the postseason in 1980-81, and never got back. He retired in Jun 1983 and immediately became a broadcaster. He did get to cover the Yankees through the 90s dynasty, but I've never quite gotten over the 1981 World Series.

I even saw that 1981 American League Championship ring that he wore in person but that's hardly the big prize.

And beginning with that October, I loathed the Dodgers in a way that I reserved for the 76 Reds and a few others of the era.

It took a certain broadcaster to help those feelings melt a little when it came to Los Angeles. By the late 80s, it no longer mattered. Chris Erway being a fan of the Chavez Ravine team didn't hurt either. I suppose the dashed dreams of a kid simply weren't worth the energy of maintaining such disdain.

But I never forgot 1981.

And so, with all due respect to Fernando Valenzuela, the 2024 World Series is "Justice for Bobby Murcer" to me.

I'm trying to remind myself that, somewhere, Vin Scully will smile if the Dodgers bring this one home. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm just preparing myself to be gracious if that's the case, and Vin is one of the few things that will make me get there.

But screw it.

Go win this thing, Yankees.

With a tip of the cap to Bobby Ray, who was robbed of his chance in 1981.

My 1981 baseball card

Props to the ... Mets?

 

Jose Iglesias

There are bad apples in every bunch.

Some would say that describes me and to each their own.

Regardless of thoughts about their fan base, I genuinely marvel at what the New York Mets did this season.

Yes, as I've been reminded ad nauseam for what seems like years, they were not expected to do well this year. Of course, they did better than well, taking until the final day of the regular season -- in a bizarre doubleheader that was the only action on that day -- and making the playoffs.

From there, they did what any great team does. They played team baseball and were never once out of a game. They supported each other and you could tell there was a general charm to them.

They rallied around things like Grimace and the "OMG" pop song and their fans ate it all up. Let us not forget the appearance of Ms. Hawk Tuah.

But the true hallmark of the team was that they simply wouldn't go away. They kept playing. Seemingly finished against Milwaukee, Pete Alonso hit a ninth-inning, three-run homer to advance to play the Phillies.

Then they rolled past the Phillies in four games.

Then they went up against the Dodgers. The fan base got louder and more confident that they were on their way to their sixth National League pennant. I'm fairly certain they all wanted the Yankees, who they were 4-0 against in interleague play.

But the Dodgers are the Dodgers and they're quite good if not great. Finally, the Mets were out of answers, falling in Game 6 last night.

The Dodgers will play the much-hated Bronx Bombers beginning Friday night.

Should Mets fans be proud? Absolutely. I mean, that's silly to even consider. It was a great ride, complete with an MVP-caliber performance by Francisco Lindor and the probable resurgence of Alonso plus the breakout of Mark Vientos.

Should they be disappointed? Yes, I think they should. Spare me the "I'm happy we just got here" stuff. You reached the NLCS. You took two games from the Dodgers. The media that you think hates you called you the team nobody wanted to face.

Mets fans shared humor, whimsy, and joy everywhere you went, along with no "effs" to give.

And they have an owner who will spend like it's Monopoly money this offseason. 

They're salty today though. Not all of them. Some. Well, the social media types and tough guys. I actually considered reaching out to one of them who just completely hates me to do a wellness check but, well, that probably wouldn't have mattered.

It's the good fans -- the rational ones, the ones I enjoy talking with -- that I need to rally around. They're the ones who are good for my own soul and good for baseball.

They're the ones who don't worry about feeling sorry for themselves or MVP votes of Gold Gloves or Derek Jeter humorously walking off the set of FOX's postgame show after shenanigans involving Mr. and Mrs. Met.

The others are toxic. They're too hung up on The Best Booth in Baseball ™ and other nonsense to recognize how annoying it all is. Them. Not the other stuff.

There's no need to be annoying. The Mets were good for baseball in 2024.

They'll be scary with a few improvements in 2025.

So, tonight, I'm calling a truce and tipping my cap.

Oh, don't worry, I still believe "Black is Not a Mets Color."™

I raise a glass to the memory of Tom Seaver and salute the 2024 Mets.

See how easy that was?

Onto the Fall Classic

 

That sure looks like joy to me

The ball settled into Juan Soto's glove and it was over.

I sat back and smiled.

Sean sat down next to The Cat. There was much laughter.

The Yankees were back in the World Series for the first time since 2009.

It's their 41st American League Pennant and, somehow, the 12th in my lifetime.

In that moment, I wanted to see Sean's reaction, recalling how he was only seven the last time they were in the Series. In fact, I had to wake him up for the last out when they beat the Phillies.

I felt fortunate. Spoiled. And yet, unafraid to be greedy. I recall being a few outs away in 2001 from a four-peat. I always wondered what it was like to live through the 1936-1939 and 1949-1953 Yankee runs. Of course, the 2001 Series imploded in the bottom of the ninth in Arizona at a time when we needed sports as much as ever.

That loss hurts more now than it did then.

In an era in which a fanbase thinks they're the only one who ever experiences happiness (you know: humor, whimsy, and joy), I'm here to say that winning is fun. That was basically the point of a tweet I sent out a few hours ago that I'm being eviscerated for.

No, seriously.  As I'm writing in the early afternoon, the tweet has over 76,000 impressions, and Mets fans are just foaming as opposed to, you know, focusing on Game 6. They absolutely missed the point but they're also uptight and are taking it out on me.

For those wondering, sports is especially full of whimy, humor, and joy when you win. Pop songs and secondary fast food mascots aren't necessary. There are myriad ways to have fun in sports but, ultimately, it's about winning at that level.

It's baseball. It's supposed to be fun.

I never said they were the smartest fan base in the world. They're not.

The replies, frankly, are hysterical. I've been laughing for probably a solid five hours now.

Regardless of them, the New York Yankees are back in the World Series. In truth, I'll be watching two games in San Francisco. Let's face it, if it's against the Dodgers, the Yankees will be the more popular team since they hate Los Angeles there.

The good news, of course, is that those games will likely be over by 9 p.m. Pacific time.

There was once a time when this felt like a birthright but I soon learned it wasn't. The Yankees of the early 70s were fun but were also, mostly, mediocre. At least until 1976.

Then 1977.

Then 1978.

Three pennants. Two titles. It felt like it would happen every year. 

Then came 1979. The Orioles were better and Thurman Munson died. 

And then came the 80s. After 1981 came one year after another. Some great players. Some great moments. Lots of fun. Watching games. Listening to games. But no playoffs.

The early 90s were the bottom.

But with expanded playoffs and a better approach to creating a team, the Yankees became a dynasty once more.

The last title was the 2009 one. Lots of playoffs followed. Lots of disappointment. And then a train wreck of a season in 2023.

But they're back.

In the World Series.

Where they belong.

They await an opponent. Either the Dodgers or the Mets.

But today, despite the misguided vitriol being aimed at me by Mets fans, today is a day to smile. 

With more work to be done.

*****

Today's "Meet the Beatles" featured Sun Kings -- A Beatles Tribute and they were outstanding. The show is in my Mixlr archive so please give it a listen. It wasn't an easy show to mix due to mics not working and the challenge of blending the vocals and instruments properly but I'm still pretty happy with it.

They were amazing and they'll be back.

The Day is Done

 

It's just before midnight and I'm fried.

The Yankees made us sweat through a second straight game before finally winning Game 4 of the American League Championship Series. Last night, of course, was a gutwrenching loss.

But they're now up three games to one and are a win away from their 41st league pennant.

There was also football tonight and I was at Cardinal Stadium for Wilton/Greenwich.

Final score: Wilton 20, Greenwich 17. I'm fairly stunned.

But that's why they lace them up and play. Greenwich had their struggles and the Warriors played an outstanding game.

Big Red falls to 4-1. They play again next Friday at Trumbull.

In the booth, Dan and I had a very good call. We were talking later about my assessment of things and I think he's been outstanding. He's been everything I could hope for.

With that, we call it a night.

Onto Brunswick tomorrow.

This is Not a Baseball Post

  

Whitey Ford delivers to Bill Virdon during
1960 World Series at Yankee Stadium

I was going to write about baseball tonight because it is so prominent right now.

You know, playoffs and all, with the Mets playing.

Oh, you say another team is playing? I should check that out.

OK, seriously, I'm probably not going to write a lot about baseball because, sometimes, I just don't feel like posting about stuff that no one reads.

I'm not kidding. The lowest-read posts are generally baseball-related for some reason.

Sometimes, I just write and don't worry about it. Tonight, I'm not feeling it.

So, baseball is on. The Yankees (you know, that other team) are winning. That pleases me.

But I'll spare you any words of wisdom about any of that.

On the other hand, I started something new tonight, helping to get a show off the ground. Rick Zolzer -- you know, "The Zolz" -- and I have been talking about doing a show for a few months. He did one on Z93 in Poughkeepsie and I joined in 2021-2022.

He has since moved over to the Pamal radio cluster and the process began to put a new show on the air. Of course, it's viewed as a "Zolz" show when, in reality, it's Zolz, me, and Sheriff Kirk Imperati.

It will air every Monday night at 6 on "The Beacon," a six-frequency group led by WGHQ, along with WBNR and WLNA. We're on AM and FM as well as the internet and, of course, Robcasting. "The Beacon" is part of the old Hudson Valley Talk Radio that I used to do the Renegades on.

I realize I'm often involved in shows because I'm the glue. What I mean by that is I keep things on the air, run equipment as needed, and act as a voice at times. It's essentially the role I play on "The Clubhouse." In that case, I'm the lead in that I open and close the show, as well as take us into and out of breaks. 

"The Clubhouse," by the way, returns Wednesday night on WGCH. While I'm at it, this is my entire schedule this week:

Mon, 6pm: Zolz's Are You Kidding Me...Again

Tue, 11:30: CT Roughriders/HC Hockey Club

Tue, 4pm: Doubleheader

Wed, 7p: The Clubhouse

Thu, 4pm: Doubleheader

Fri, 6pm: Wilton/Greenwich Football

Sat, 3pm: Phillips Andover/Brunswick Football

Sun, 9p: Meet the Beatles

So, if you're keeping score, I'm (still) on WGCH, fill in on football on WALL, do occasional interviews on WICC, appear on this group, and of course, do Robcasting, LocalLive, FloHockey, and so on. Did I miss anyone?

If only it, you know, paid, but those are minor details.

In the case of tonight's premier show, I got a crash course in running the studio* before we went live at 6 p.m. We had a few hiccups -- including 30 seconds of dead air -- but the content and chemistry were all solid.

*I ran Renegades games and worked in that very studio on and off for a bunch of years. The equipment is mostly the same. However, the automation that runs the commercials has evolved over the years and that's the part I needed training on.

As for the dead air, apparently, there was a hiccup within the automation software. Beyond that, things ran well.

It's a show that will evolve as we move forward. 

And it will be fun.

That's what sports talk should be.

We'll be back next Monday night at 6. 

No Football Tonight

 

Greenwich football has a bye week and, as a result, it's a quiet Friday night.

Brunswick plays tomorrow at Suffield Academy and I plan on being at that one. However, I'm told the setup is a little wonky. I'm going to see it for myself unless I'm told to not go.

I don't do well with byes. For whatever reason, other games are otherwise quiet with the exception of last night's Newburgh/Middletown game. Last year, I picked up a few games at Stepinac but, alas, that's not the case this year.

Instead, today was a day for "Doubleheader" and laundry.

Otherwise, I'm trying to just relax and watch baseball.

And write, of course.

Oh, and catch up on the very little TV/streaming I commit to.

There are other games going on around the region and a night like this reminds me of how I've thought about doing my own "Game of the Week" concept that would be a true one. 

The CIAC, working with WELI Radio and the NFHS Network, has a "Game" in name only. It goes to what appears to be the best option for the crew, which tends to keep everything centered around the New Haven area. This is fair enough, but for the state to have a "Game of the Week" then it needs to go everywhere.

Back in the HAN Network days, I crawled through all of the FCIAC schedules to make sure we were being fair to the entire region. I tried hard to schedule a game involving every FCIAC team because we were the "voice" of the FCIAC at that time. Some games would get postponed or canceled and the goal would be difficult to achieve but we tried hard. I realize we couldn't make everyone happy.

So, in a state like Connecticut, a true "Game of the Week" needs to go Norwich and Danbury and Torrington. It needs to move around. I suppose it could come to Greenwich as well, although GHS does get what I think is sufficient coverage for every game. I'm legally required to say that.

In fact, Greenwich has been on the CIAC "Game of the Week" just once, at Maloney in Meriden last year. That, of course, is in the regional "sweet spot" off I-91 not far from New Haven.

For the record, that was a true "game of the week" ending on a field goal as time expired. NFHS/WELI and WGCH/Robcasting each called it.

So, just saying, if the CIAC wants another "Game of the Week," I know a guy who is willing to drive.

Let's think about it, in fact. In the last 10 days alone I've called games in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Connecticut, and New York. Before the season is over I will likely call one in Massachusetts as well. Let's not forget working in Rhode Island back in August.

Oh, yes, I'll travel.

Since I'm on that path, I still want to call a game at my niece's high school in North Carolina. Plus Chris Erway and I have discussed the same in his new homeland of "New ErJuania."

Heck, I've even pondered a game in Florida.

As a road enthusiast, I think that would be pretty fun. It also supports my mantra of "Have headset, will travel."

Not everyone thinks that way.

But these are the random things that roll through my mind during a bye week on a (too) quiet Friday night while watching Padres/Dodgers.

Oh, hey, I'm not sure if you know but the Yankees are heading into the American League Championship Series. The past five appearances have not gone well for the Yankees, losing the ALCS in 2010, 2012, 2017, 2019, and 2022. I'm hoping it leads to a World Series appearance this time.

There are, of course, other teams that have that same dream.

But it's worth mentioning again that the Yankees -- considered bereft of humor, whimsy, and joy -- made the ALCS.

It's funny, I think the Yankees have all of that. 

Winning creates that.

*****

Last thing tonight. I saw a recent tweet asking about how long broadcasters take to prepare for a game. To me, there is no set answer. My first concern is rosters and a space to broadcast from. Then it's looking for stats as a way to identify key players and storylines. Then I try to find players who have committed or are being looked at.

It's fun detective work.

Of course, our friend Msgr. Toxic had to weigh in via his sanctimonious, heavy-handed away after he took a break from his obsession with hating Bob Costas. Pretty amazing, given his "positive" nonsense.

Anyway, another responder wrote: "Print up the rosters and let’s go. Preparation destroys improvisation. I would tell younglings to prepare way less and trust their ability to tell the story way more. We’re not broadcasters we’re narrators, we’re hosts. I strongly advise against it."

Read that again: "Preparation destroys improvisation." That's perhaps the most ridiculous thing I've read. Thus that's a broadcaster that's hard to take seriously.

Again, I have the ability to get rosters and go because sometimes it's all I can do, especially when the game comes to me at the last minute. Others can't do that.

I'll be prepared tomorrow. With notes and equipment. And I'll be thinking about it as I drive to Suffield.

Hopefully, it doesn't destroy my improvisation. 

Because it never has.

How About Just Focusing On the Game?

Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola

There seems to be an over-the-top obsession with broadcasting in this year's Major League Baseball playoffs.

Oof.

Let's start with the obvious. With Joe Buck happily nestled into Monday Night Football, Bob Costas has become the whipping boy for fans.

Costas, of course, is quite used to it, as the veteran of nearly 50 years has been a target of critics for years.

He's not on social media, so whatever criticism he hears is just that: hearsay.

Costas has been a lightning rod in part because he has become a commentator on various political affairs. That, obviously, is polarizing.

But, more to the point of sports, Costas brings a style perfected by Mel Allen, Red Barber, Ernie Harwell, and Vin Scully, among others. It's the basics of storytelling, reporting, glimpses of humor, and simplicity. At times, Bob can be heavy-handed in his opinions of various things.

What Bob Costas is not is a screamer. So many fans in this era want the Gus Johnson approach of busting a lung on every play. You're not going to get that on Costas. Buck dealt with the same criticism at one time. It's the same knock on Al Michaels. It's also insane.

There's a notion that Costas doesn't have passion yet I would offer that the man loves the game of baseball. Plus, and it needs to be said, he (and literally all of the national voices) does not have a rooting bias. They don't hate or like any team. They play it straight.

It seems fairly obvious that Costas doesn't care and the Ford Frick Award winner is in no danger of being fired anytime soon despite criticism that has a hint of ageism to it. I shudder to think what people would think of Vin now.

In fact, in my opinion, Costas should be doing the World Series and is perhaps the best living baseball broadcaster among Jon Miller, Dan Shulman, Joe Buck, and a few others.

Though, to be clear, Joe Davis, who will do the World Series on FOX is outstanding.

Beyond that, there also seems to be a heavy dose of whining (from one fan base in particular) about the national announcers. They want the local voices to be on these games.

To an extent, I get it, and it feels like an alternate feed would be the best way to satisfy that desire. Those things cost money so I will leave that to those smarter than I am.

There was once a time (aka "back in my day") when, for instance, ABC would have the national feed of Yankees/Royals and WPIX would have the local feed with Phil Rizzuto, Bill White, and Frank Messer. As I was fascinated, I'd flip between both. This, eventually, went away, as did using local announcers on NBC's postseason coverage.

At one time, there wasn't an actual "national voice." World Series broadcasters were chosen from the participating teams. Beginning in 1966, Curt Gowdy became the lead, and local announcers joined him in their home city. That continued until 1976.

I completely understand the attachment to the local voices. Believe me, it's frustrating to hear another broadcaster call a team that I cover all season. I can still hear Greenwich fans, who were angry that Chris Erway and I were not on the CIAC state championship call in 2022. However, we were on WGCH, as always.

I offered to call the 2018 title game but was offered the analyst spot. I couldn't abandon Chris like that and WGCH would have needed a play-by-play announcer.

So, yes, I do get it.

But there seems to be more noise about it than usual this year.

So it goes.

*****

I ordered a rug today. It will be here tomorrow.

Yes, there's a story there.

But we're good neighbors and good tenants.

And that's all I have to say about that.

For now.

Pete

 

On a day when baseball had an absolutely compelling game that fans will talk about for years, the game has been rocked by some news.

First, the game. The Mets won game one of a doubleheader today in Atlanta in epic fashion. They rallied from down 3-0 to take the lead on the Braves. The lead swung back to Atlanta before Francisco Lindor hit a two-run homer in the ninth inning.

The Mets advanced to the playoffs where they'll have the Milwaukee Brewers. I congratulate the rational Mets fans whom I enjoy talking baseball with. The Braves won the second game and they've advanced to the playoffs against San Diego. The Arizona Diamondbacks -- the defending National League champion -- were eliminated.

However, the baseball world's eyes are distracted.

Within the last hour, news broke that Pete Rose -- undisputedly, the game's career-hit leader -- has died at the age of 83.

Where do we start?

As I considered the shock of the news and Pete's life, I began to try to explain him to Sean. We had taken a nice long walk around Greenwich, in part because we needed to mail a rent check (longer story there).

Sean knew he was a great player but didn't know the key takeaways.

- Hits leader (4,256). Also most games played, pate appearances, and at bats

- Played the game with an energy that one should aspire to.

- Had a way of getting under opponents with his style (see: Mets, Bud Harrelson)

- 1963 Rookie of the Year

- 1973 National League MVP

- Three-time World Champion (1975, 1976, 1980)

- 17-time All-Star

- Member of the All-Century Team

- 24-year career with his hometown Reds plus the Phillies and Expos

But...and I realize this is speaking ill of the dead on the day he died but that's how complicated his is...

- Gamebled on baseball. Gambled on his team. It's not unfair to say he was a degenerate gambler with a bad habit.

- More to the point, he lied about his gambling. Frequently.

- It took years for him to come clean and admit that he did, indeed, bet on baseball.

- Also had troubles with money laundering and tax evasion.

- More troubling was the accusation that Rose had a sexual relationship with an underage girl beginning in 1973. The girl was 14 or 15 at the time but Rose believed she was 16, which was legal age in Ohio. However you stack it, it's morally reprehensible at the very least.

So, as I add things up, I can't help thinking that Pete Rose might have the most complicated legacy of any athlete. Maybe ever.

I'm sure someone will tell me another name and I'm not even here to say they'd be wrong. 

Some of the faces of the 1970s:
Amos Otis, Willie Stargell, Bobby Murcer, Pete Rose

Rose, on the field, was fire and brimstone. Anything but a classic athlete, he existed almost purely to prove to everyone that he belonged. He wasn't a power hitter, cranking only 160 home runs, but he could hit, finishing with a career .303 batting average. His career high was .348 in 1969. 

Plus he was durable despite a style that was pure reckless abandon. He didn't just throw his body around. He lunged everywhere. He was constant energy at home plate and in the field.

But character -- the bugaboo of a place called the Hall of Fame -- was one of Pete's downfalls. On literally any account, he was a slam dunk Hall of Famer, minus the pesky character clause.

The gambling was bad. Very bad. A death sentence in terms of baseball. 

Quite obviously, statutory rape accusations are beyond the pall. I hope that's clear.

Barreling into third base during the 1976 World Series

Let's get right to it. On the field, he was a Hall of Fame player. If that was how we were to judge him, he would have strolled into Cooperstown years ago.

But the gambling is a non-starter, as he was banned from baseball in 1989. He was placed on the permanently ineligible list, which meant he could not hold a job within Major League Baseball. The Hall of Fame voted to ban those on that list in 1991, meaning Rose couldn't be elected.

He applied several times for reinstatement but was denied each time. It seemed clear that, at best, Pete Rose would not make the Hall of Fame while he was still alive.

The thing about Pete was that every time he took a step forward, he took steps back. I thought, for instance, he was very good on TV, working for FOX and MLB allowed him to do that. He was also allowed, on a few occasions, to be honored or be a part of groups honored in Cincinnati and Philadelphia, as well as the All-Century Team in 1999 in Atlanta.

He was otherwise not allowed to be in locker rooms or on the field.

But now the debate will fire up again about Pete Rose and the Hall of Fame. I'll remain as consistent as I have been forever.

Pete Rose belongs in the Hall of Fame. 

So does "Shoeless" Joe Jackson.

And others (Bonds, Clemens, etc). 

The story of the game of baseball and the greats who we loved watching -- whether we liked them or not -- is incomplete without these players having their rightful place.

It's hypocritical. Don't tell me I can see Pete's uniform, etc in the museum. That's not what we're talking about. He belongs in the gallery. He deserves a plaque. 

He deserves to let me, as a fan, tell his story to those who visit with me. 

He deserves to have a plaque that says he was the hit leader, had an unstoppable energy, and was banned from baseball for gambling. 

I always said honesty was the best way to go. Don't honor him by allowing him to give a speech. Give the facts of him on his plaque.

Well, Pete Rose has died so he won't give a speech. Nor will Shoeless Joe, who died in 1951.

Athletes aren't Boy Scouts and it's unrealistic to think so. We know Babe Ruth was flawed. So was Mickey Mantle. So was Ty Cobb. So were a lot of others. Only the likes of Lou Gehrig and Stan Musial were close to being something considered innocent.

Hell, even Kirby Puckett -- once considered a paragon of goodness -- turned out to not be an innocent man off the field. Kirby is still rightly beloved in Minnesota and around the baseball world, but his story isn't so cut and dried.

Fans should have the right to assess Pete Rose on their own in Cooperstown. 

Look, I was never a fan of the man. I've been wrestling with how to discuss him for a while now.

But there's no question he was a Hall of Fame baseball player.

He was anything but a Hall of Fame man.

Again, congratulations to Mets fans. I fulfilled Chris Hunt's request that I write about it tonight.

Let the playoffs begin.

Games Over ... Almost

 

The Yankees just finished a 6-4 win over the Pittsburgh Pirates.

The Bombers finished the year with 94 wins. They have the best record in the American League and the third-best record in all of baseball.

Hard to believe that this team, which was considered to be such a bust at one point, heads into the postseason in this shape. They watched their lead in the American League East whittle to nothing and saw the Baltimore Orioles briefly overtake them.

And then? The Orioles had their own struggles and the Yankees did just enough.

The Yankees won the division and are the top seed in the AL.

I mean, in Yankees Universe, fifteen years between rings is considered bad. I know it's an entitled attitude but so I have no further answer for it. The hunger to win doesn't stop.

Sadly, short of winning the World Series (or even if they do win it), Aaron Boone and Brian Cashman will still hear calls for their jobs from the fanbase.

I'm not among those voices. 

I can't wait to see how Juan Soto, Anthony Volpe, Jazz Chisholm Jr and others perform for the first time under the October lights in New York.

Ah, but the baseball regular season is not finished yet. 

The Atlanta Braves will host a lovable collection of scamps tomorrow featuring humor, whimsy, and joy. They'll play a doubleheader to finish the season for the right to advance to the playoffs. 

Indeed, the New York Mets are the only team in the history of sports to have humor, whimsy, and joy.

Especially when compared to the dastardly New York Yankees.

Is my sarcasm clear enough?

For the love of Tom Seaver, spare me.

As I speak, I'm currently arguing about who will win the National League MVP because that's the kind of thing Mets fans focus on. That, along with humor, whimsy, and joy, who has the best broadcasters, fast food characters, "OMG," and literally everything other than the game itself.

For the record, like it or not, Shohei Ohtani will win the MVP going away. I realize the guy is shaky with his interpreter and gambling getting swept under the rug but he had a season that was beyond few things we've rarely seen.

Also, Babe Ruth is still the GOAT. I'm content to die on that hill.

And Francisco Lindor of the Mets has become every bit the player that I thought he'd become in New York. He's great to watch and perfect for the spotlight. But the MVP will be Ohtani

Anyway, I'm hoping we have chaos tomorrow to finish the season. The Arizona Diamondbacks will be watching with great interest as their own playoff hopes hinge on what happens in these two games.

After that? The playoffs begin. 

I know who I'm rooting for.