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.

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

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.

That's Me in the Corner

 

The Cubeta Stadium scoreboard between
FCIAC semifinal games tonight

This is a public service announcement from the desk of Rascal Squeakybeast, President of Robcasting Media.

OK, it's a PSA from me.

Please. 

Pretty please.

When I'm somewhere to call a game, please let me call the game.

Don't be the peanut gallery, trying to catch any little mistake I make so you can have the satisfaction of correcting me.

Chances are I'm going to catch myself. Though, yes, there are times I won't.

I've heard it all.

Let's face it, this goes back to the affair at Cardinal Stadium last year. 

But here's a reminder:

- I'm not running the music.

- I'm not responsible for the in-stadium announcements.

- I'm not rooting for your team. 

- I'm not rooting against your team.

- I'm actually rooting for your athletes -- all of them -- to do great things.

- I'm rooting for drama, certainly, because that's just so wonderful to describe.

- Lastly, and I can't stress this enough, I have microphones and, often, a couple of them, with me and they're live. They're recording. And what you're saying could possibly be heard. More to the point, it can be distracting!

So don't get twisted if I say a pitcher has retired nine in a row but I said eight. Again, I'm likely to catch it.

I realize, generally speaking, people are trying to help and support and so often it comes in handy. Yes, there's no question it's often in how the message is relayed.

But, also, there's a method to my madness.

Are there times that I've colossally screwed up? Oh, no question. There have been epic moments of mental blocks that have had me calling schools by the wrong name and other delights.

But there is also an inherent "I got ya" mentality to all of this. You want to be the smartest cookie in the big jar of a press box and gosh darn it, you'll show that dastardly announcer person a thing or two!

I love a lively press box when it flows correctly. It's great to catch my eye in a break and tell me something. People do it all the time.

And I love to laugh with people. It makes the whole situation more pleasant.

Most of the time, I want to just be invisible, like the kid who used to sit and call games off the TV to practice.

This probably isn't coming off the way I want it to and perhaps I'm best to just stop.

I'm happy to talk in calmer moments about broadcasting. I love talking about broadcasting, explaining my career, telling stories, etc.

But I'm also there to do a job and once the "red light" goes on (theoretical or otherwise) there's work to be done.

Anyway, I'm babbling and not explaining this well.

*****

Bobby Murcer, 1969

Happy 78th birthday, Bobby Ray Murcer, wherever you are. We lost you much too soon. Your impact on me -- first as an athlete who was larger than life, then as a broadcaster -- was immense.

Your heading into broadcasting in 1983 was almost an "ah ha!" moment for me, making me think about what I wanted to do when I grew up.

I'm still trying to figure that out.

But the icons who have inspired me have generally been grounded souls. Good people.

I continue to lament the fact that the Yankees -- the team you loved so much -- have treated you often as an afterthought. It drivers my nuts when so many people spell your last name wrong. Only calling Graig Nettles "Craig" can rival that for me.

But there's no plaque in Monument Park or any other honor. Even finding items related to you can often be tough.

I wonder if you hadn't been a Yankee -- a team so filthy rich in legends -- might there be more attention.

But, the game after Thurman's funeral is known as The Bobby Murcer Game. Ask anyone of my generation and you are beloved. Just not by the team.

I don't kid myself about you making the Hall of Fame as a player or receiving a Ford Frick Award for your broadcasting.

And you never needed that for me.

But you deserve acknowledgment for a nearly 50-year association with the Yankees.

No, they weren't the greatest years and you didn't become "the next Mickey Mantle." You didn't need to.

You were the occasionally only shining light fans had.

You were the only Bobby Murcer.

And that was enough.

I remain proud to be a fan of you as a player, a broadcaster, and a person. Thank you for showing me that it's ok to meet heroes.

In my case, it was better than OK.

It was unforgettable.

Happy Opening Day 2024

 

(Photo: Bob DeChiara, USA TODAY Sports)

I'm reaching into the Wayback Machine for this one. I've rerun this post from time to time and have been told this it was pretty good.

I remember being in a bit of an emotional state when I wrote it and I poured every ounce I had into it.

Baseball was my first love. I love all sports now but there was a time when I didn't know any better. It was baseball for me and nothing else.

It still ignites me even if the joy can be lessened by the surrounding noise.

First pitch is later today. With that, I present the post titled "Baseball" written on April 5, 2015.

*****

 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.

Bud Harrelson

 

I received a text last night and it made me think.

Chris Hunt -- the Hunt of Hunt Scanlon -- suggested that I write a post about the passing of Bud Harrelson, the shortstop on the 1969 Mets and the third base coach for the 1986 World Series winning team.

Yet, as I read it, I felt it shouldn't come from me. I was grateful for the vote of confidence but who am I to write about a Met like this? To me, this is different from Tom Seaver, who transcended from being a one-time New York Met.

Seaver was "The Franchise." He was a star and eventually a Hall of Famer.

Harrelson was a good-glove, limited bat player, typical of shortstops of that era. Across town, Yankees fans had Gene "Stick" Michael.

Harrelson was beloved by Mets fans, not only for his feisty on-field play and being the rare person to be a part of both Mets' titles, but also for something else.

You see, ask me (and many others) about Buddy Harrelson, and one thing comes to mind. In fact, it's just one name.

Pete Rose.

It was Game 3 of the 1973 National League Championship. The Mets were an upstart bunch, having finished at 82-79, but that was enough to win the National League East. The Cincinnati Reds, on the other hand, were the defending NL champs, and had gone to two of the previous three World Series as they became "The Big Red Machine." They won 99 games in 1973 and boasted a great lineup with several players who would make the Hall of Fame.

But the Mets weren't going to be intimidated, living on Tug McGraw's rallying cry of "You Gotta Believe!" Johnny Bench homered off Seaver to win Game 1 but Jon Matlack spun a two-hitter in Game 2.

That got the Reds' attention. More to the point, Harrelson rankled Cincinnati with his praise of Matlack, noting how the pitcher made the Reds look in Game 2.

"He made the Big Red Machine look like me hitting today," said Harelson, a career .236 hitter.

It particularly bothered Rose. So when Joe Morgan hit into a double play with the Mets up 9-2 in the fifth inning of Game 3 at Shea Stadium, Rose decided to take action.

The ball went to first baseman John Milner, who fired to Harrelson at second as part of the 3-6-3 twin-killing. Rose, ever the hard-nosed player, barreled into Buddy in an attempt to break up the double play, but anybody knows there was a message in that contact.

Harrelson wasn't going to take it and, as Milner finished the double play, Rose shoved him. The benches emptied with punches exchanged in one of the more memorable on-field battles.

That was Bud Harrelson. He was the heart and soul of those teams. He was a lunchpail type of player. All fanbases love that kind of player. But, beyond that, it's hard to find anyone with a bad word about him. He was found to be always approachable with fans and media and beloved by his teammates.

The Mets won the 1973 National League Championship in five games over Cincinnati before falling to the Oakland Athletics in seven games in the World Series.

That's where the inevitable screaming about Seaver, Yogi Berra, and a pitcher named George Stone comes into play but that's a longer story for another time. Trust me, bring up the Mets in 1973 to any fan and you'll certainly get the full story.

Harrelson spent his latter years in baseball, including time with the Long Island Duck of the Atlantic League as a co-owner, manager, and coach. I don't recall our paths crossing while I was broadcasting with the Bridgeport Bluefish on WGCH but that doesn't mean I didn't see him.

I suppose, as I considered Chris Hunt's text, what stood out to me was the passing of another of our boyhood heroes. I certainly grew up with those Mets teams and watched a share of their games when the Yankees weren't on but Bud Harrelson wasn't my guy. But to Chris and maybe Dave Torromeo and many others, he was their guy.

We sadly see players of our youth passing so often and, in many cases, we feel bad for that. But players like Bud Harrelson and Tom Seaver and Bobby Murcer and Mel Stottelmyre hit differently. Like it or not, these were heroes to us.

We imitated their batting stances and pitching windups. We had their baseball cards and posters and magazine articles. We clipped their newspaper pictures and created scrapbooks. We memorized their statistics.

For instance: .292 batting avg., 33 home runs, 96 RBI, a gold glove, 102 runs scored, and fifth in the MVP. Who? Bobby Murcer, 1972.

To many, we knew we couldn't be them but we admired the heck out of them. Oh, we tried, playing ball in our yards or towns or high schools or even college. Some make the minor leagues and the majors. That's what Anthony Volpe is now for the Yankees.

But, to most, they achieved greatness that we'd never know and we loved it.

In so many cases, they let us down by either being a jerk off the field or, sadly, worse.

Yet we're often blessed to meet them and have the interaction be beyond our hopes. For me, that was Bobby Murcer and even Mickey Mantle. In fact, as a fan and as a broadcaster/reporter, I've only come across just a few athletes who were difficult.

Reporter Darren Rovell tweeted about his bar mitzvah back in 1991. Word got to Harrelson, managing the Mets at the time, that Rovell was a huge Mets fan. Harrelson went to the bar mitzvah and surprised Rovell.

"This guy was gold," Rovell wrote.

Sadly, again, this is also a case in which Alzheimer's is the cause and I hope we continue to proceed toward advances in eradicating that insidious disease.

Rest in peace, Bud Harrelson, and my condolences to Mets fans everywhere. Baseball lost a good one.

Brooksie

 

Robinson makes one of his several standout plays
in the 1970 World Series

Brooks Robinson has died at 86.

I have no problem naming him the greatest defensive third baseman in baseball history.

Offensively, he was pretty good. He won the 1964 AL MVP when he hit .317 with 28 home runs and a league-leading 118 RBIs. Those numbers were career highs for him. Robinson was a career .267 hitter with 268 home runs.

He also played 23 years and was pretty consistent in games appeared until he slowed down in 1976.

But 23 years. All with the Baltimore Orioles. Thus, he was "Mr. Oriole."

More than that, in a sport with great nicknames, Brooks Calbert Robinson, Jr. was "The Human Vacuum Cleaner," so named for the stunning brilliance with which he played third base.

To me growing up in New York, as great as Frank Robinson, Jim Palmer, and Boog Powell were on the teams of the late 60s and early 70s, Brooks Robinson was the man. He was the Orioles. He was Baltimore in the same breath as Johnny Unitas.

I realize to many Cal Ripken has become the most iconic of Baltimore athletes but Brooks and Unitas still hold that mark for me.    

Only Graig Nettles, to me, lived in that defensive rarified air that Robinson did. Nettles worked magic in 1978, turning around a World Series that found the Yankees down two games to none. They won in six.

Robinson dominated the 1970 Fall Classic not only with his defense (which was on a different level) but also with his bat, hitting .429 with two home runs and six runs driven in. He was named the World Series MVP in the five-game conquest of the Cincinnati Reds.

Robinson remained involved in baseball as an ambassador and broadcaster through his later years. He also helped found the York Revolution baseball team of the Atlantic League in 2007.

His number five was retired by the Orioles in 1978 and he was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1983.

Robinson, from Arkansas with Bobby Murcer, from Oklahoma
 in 1969

Brooks Robinson, personally, takes me back to my youth. It was special to see him play against the Yankees on TV as well as in the All-Star Game. But, more, he was the gentleman from Little Rock, AR who always had a smile for fans and opponents. He was a ballplayer who was flashy on the field but still maintained dignity and class. That carried off the field as well. Try finding something negative about him. It won't be easy.

Sadly, we lose our legends. Our greats. Our Hall of Famers. It reminds us of the fragility of life of course.

When I start taking a mental inventory of those whom we have lost it serves as a stark reminder. It's a reality check.

But we can always smile at the footage of Robinson at third base or at the plate. Some of the video is black and white or faded color but that adds to the vintage quality.

To some, those of us reading this news and feeling melancholy receive the much-hated "OK, Boomer" treatment.

If it's sad to recall youth and the times with those you miss, consider me guilty, but I'm still very much in the present in 2023.

Thinking of the past doesn't dampen the present. It makes life that much sweeter.

If Heaven needed a third baseman on their team they now have one that will make all of the plays.

We'll see Brooks Robinson forever in our minds, sprawled out near the hot corner, glove erect to show a no-doubt shocked umpire that he caught that hot shot off the bat of Johnny Bench.

Robinson (5), Dave McNally (19), and Andy Etchebarren (8)
after the last out of the 1966 World Series

The number five on the back of the jersey and "B. Robinson" above the number to differentiate him from "F. Robinson," as in Frank. 

The two Robinsons along with the many stars of the era in Baltimore at "The Old Grey Lady off 33rd St" known as Memorial Stadium.

So when someone asks "What was so special about Brooks Robinson," the answers are 1) defensively on another planet, 2) as gracious as you'd want an athlete to be, and 3) he was the Baltimore Orioles.

A player from a different time who made every play.

Tonight, raise a Natty Boh to Mr. Oriole.

Here's to you, Mr. Robinson.

Sunday with The Cat

 

I did go out today.

I picked up dinner.

Other than that, it's been a day at home with our friend The Cat.

He has been by my side since I walked in the door at 9:14 last night.

Normally, he sleeps in my closet or somewhere else but he was keeping an eye on me.

Granted, I haven't been around much in the past few weeks and, if things go as they seem to be going, I'll be gone again for a few more days.

For now, I'm here, and it's very low-key.

I enjoyed a piece of cheesecake. I had some Connecticut Italian food. I sat in my lounge chair on the deck. I cleaned.

I also pondered what to write.

Stuff like that.

I popped on my Bobby Murcer replica Cubs jersey (circa 1979). The jersey was a rare impulse buy from me as I'm such a stickler for such things and I wasn't sure the Cubbies had names on their jerseys. But a check of the interwebs produced a video with them showing the surnames on the back.

The package was waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs last night. While it looks legit, I know the deal (especially given what I paid) but it's a pretty faithful jersey nonetheless.

It's also incredibly comfortable and perfect for a quiet Sunday at home.

Sean has been heard from as his good times roll on in Maryland. I'm happy for him. He was never one to be away from home like this and I think it's extremely positive and healthy for him. I could tell he was concerned as we sat in traffic yesterday, getting anxious about connecting in Ocean City with his friends.

It was all no big deal. Sadly, he gets that anxiety from me (and he yells at me when I get anxious).

I texted him a picture of the cat this morning. Otherwise, he's on his own down there. I'm beyond positive he's going to have a great time. He texted me a picture of his friend Chris at Wawa last night, which is apparently not far from where they're staying. 

There's plenty of minigolf and other attractions for him to have fun with. Plus there's this big called the Atlantic Ocean for him. Plus Chris and his friend Ethan (whose family invited Sean) are there.

It's going to be all good. It's also going to be an opportunity for Sean to develop his own personality as a traveler. I warned him that he's going to see how another family travels and that it might be a revelation to him, given he's been stuck with his old man for so long.

My travel style is directly from my father and I know that. It has been refined over the years. It also continues to evolve.

Now, Sean gets his chance and I think it's great.

*****

I'm noticing a lot of bloviating on the socials about "positivity" and while I can be a cheerleader for so many (but an honest cheerleader), I call B.S.

Frankly, such rampant positivity can be Pollyannaish which is blatantly fraudulent.

Live in this world.

There's nothing wrong with being honest. Being honest isn't the same as being mean. Being honest doesn't necessarily mean negativity either. There's a line that can be crossed and that's the complexity of the situation.

Have I crossed the line? Yeah, I know I have.

But I don't think of myself as a mean person.

I think I'm often quite positive but, more often than not, I'm simply realistic.

There's not a thing wrong with that.

*****

Oh, back to the jersey. Well, I figure it's fitting since today is Aug 6, the 44th anniversary of "The Bobby Murcer Game" in which our guy drove in five runs to beat Baltimore 5-4 on the night of Thurman Munson's funeral.

I realize Bobby Ray was with the Yankees by then (and wearing number two after a few games in number 27). But I wanted to break out this beauty, so I wore it today to watch the Yankees lose on TV, once I figured out what channel they were on.

I like that the jersey is a pullover, much like my super-comfortable Fenómenos Enmascarados one from the Renegades.

Plus those looks of the 70s were so garish that they are cool now. Consider the Braves and Pirates and the myriad powder blues (Cubs included) of the era.

Murcer was also with the Giants and his number 20 jersey can be purchased but I haven't done that yet. Then, to be a completist, I could have Yankees jerseys made in 27 and 17 (his rookie year) but let's not get too crazy.

I'm crazy enough already.

The Next Baseball Call and Other Saturday Stuff

 

(Photo: National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum)

I'm happy to say I'm not done with baseball yet.

Through a series of conversations this morning, I became the play-by-play announcer for this week's FCIAC baseball semifinals and championship game. The games will be carried on Robcasting at robcasting.mixlr.com live from Cubeta Stadium in Stamford, CT beginning with the semis on Monday.

No. 3 Staples vs. No. 2 Warde will begin our coverage at 4 p.m., followed by No. 8 Westhill vs. No. 5 Trumbull at 6:30 p.m. I'd suspect the broadcasts will start with a five-minute pregame show but I'm still working those things out.

The winners will meet in the championship game Wednesday night at 7 p.m. At a quick glance, I think it will be my sixth baseball championship call.

Unless I download some public address announcements the games will run commercial-free.

Ah, the last time I called the championship was in 2021. I was sitting in Fairfield sipping a cup of coffee that Friday morning, expecting to head to Hudson Valley that night to call a Renegades game. Then I got a text from Kevin Devaney, Jr saying that LocalLive needed a broadcaster in Stamford that day.

Yes, that day. As in the game was roughly 2.5 hours away from starting. My initial reaction was that it was a tall ask, especially having to get to what is now Heritage Financial Park that night.

Also, how would I prepare? I didn't have the 20 hours that are apparently required! I did, however, have equipment, my computer, and my scorebook binder with me.

But, this is me. I got nudged to do the game -- Greenwich versus Fairfield Warde. I fired off a couple of quick messages on Twitter to the two teams, hoping for any help with rosters and notes. Warde didn't respond (they would eventually) but Greenwich did and loaded me up.

Now, with a 1 p.m. game, I had to hope to be wrapped up shortly after 3 p.m. to begin the drive to Fishkill.

To Stamford, I went. Fortunately, I had a blank scorecard with me, and the lineups were delivered to the booth.

Oh, one thing to know about the booth at Cubeta Stadium: there is no soundproofing so any chatter will get picked up on the mic. I can still hear broadcasters from WWPT on my call of the game-winner in 2019 (don't read this, Shawn Sailer!) when the Wreckers rallied to win over Shawn's Fairfield Ludlowe team.

We avoided that in 2021 and I suggest we try to avoid it again this year. Trust me, I like the guys from WWPT and they promised they wouldn't step on the FCIAC call in 2019 (I'm sort of there in the "official" capacity) but, yeah. They're high school students calling games of their friends and classmates and haven't quite developed that neutral stance quite yet.

So, think of it this way: I'm like the national broadcaster. Even with Greenwich in the game in 2021, I only focused on keeping the call fair and when the Mustangs of Fairfield Warde secured a decisive title, I proclaimed they were the definitive champions.

It doesn't matter who I'm "affiliated" with.

So, yeah, 2019. Not long after I got to Cubeta Stadium, I got a text from Joe Ausanio, my boss with the Gades at the time, telling me the game was postponed due to impending storms later that night. I heaved a sigh of relief. Now, the pressure of the game length was off and I could also go to honor our dear friend Susan as she departed from the Darien Times. The town hosted a sendoff for her and I wound being asked to speak at it. 

As for these games, I'm pleased that I've already seen Warde play and I know enough of the other three teams heading into the broadcasts on Monday. It should be a blast.

While we're on the broadcasting bug, tomorrow's Prep Nationals Championship lacrosse game is the rematch that I thought might happen. Brunswick will play Lawrenceville for the title. The Big Red beat the Bruins back in April and it really set them on a tear to be the number-one team in North America.

Now, the Bruins have revenge on their minds. Technically, they're the lower seed and will be the visiting team but don't fool yourself. They'll have the home crowd.

The game is at 2 p.m. tomorrow and Dan Arestia will join me for the call.

I was overwhelmed by the number of people who stopped in the booth last night during the semifinals to say hello from all of the teams to say how much they enjoy the broadcasts. One person called it "better than most college broadcasts" and that's a testament to the people behind the scenes that make it look good. For me, it's humbling and a great reminder to keep grinding at this stuff.

As I've noted many times, confidence can be so fleeting for a variety of reasons. But to have people stop in the booth to say how their mom stays home "just to listen to you" is overwhelming. 

I worked with the weight of knowing what the broadcasts mean to viewers and the last thing I want to be is annoying or a negative aspect of the experience.

*****

Aaron Hicks is a former Yankee today, designated for assignment by the team after a rare trade with the Boston Red Sox to acquire outfielder Greg Allen.

Hicks had become a mess and that happens. He signed a huge contract a few years back, dealt with injuries, and never found himself again.

Fans were, of course, brutal. Heck, even I knew he had to go.

But, still, he is human and, much like the Joey Gallo fiasco, nobody looks good when it becomes personal. Personally, I wish Hicks well wherever he goes. If it's to another team then so be it. If he retires, well, again, I hold no malice.

Thanks for the good memories and best wishes.

*****

I've read that Mahopac, under pressure and scrutiny from New York Governor Kathy Hochul, will indeed be changing their mascot -- the one they've had since 1937. Many of us proud Mahopac -- gulp -- "Indians" will have to get used to the new moniker: the "Wolf Pac."

Yes. "Wolf Pac" as in "Pac" as in Mahopac.

For those thinking "old (white) man will be screaming at cloud" I only say that, sure, I'm sorry to see the mascot that I grew up with go away. I've never been a fan of renaming. I also thought "Lakers" would have been a great name, given our pride in Lake Mahopac as well as Kirk Lake, Lake Casse, Lake MacGregor (where I spent many summer days) and most of all, Lake Secor, where my grandparents had a house.

So, sure, I'm bummed. But wasting the energy of the anger simply isn't worth it to me. We'll evolve and move on.

But I'll always be a proud Mahopac Indian and should I ever get the chance to broadcast their games again, I'll do the professional thing by calling them the "Wolf Pac."

Time moves on.

Like it or not.

*****

We finish with a tip of the cap and microphone to Bobby Ray Murcer on what would have been his 77th birthday. We lost him far too soon and I still see the details with perfect clarity of the moment I found out he had passed.

He was a wonderful baseball player who became a wonderfully charming broadcaster. Like the other heroes of my youth, he had a profound impact on me.

I watched part of his Yankeeography today and his five-RBI game the night of Thurman Munson's funeral is still the stuff of mystique and aura.

I wish the Yankees would honor him in Monument Park for nearly 50 years of service and that's all I have to say about that.

He's missed.

Baseball, 2023

 

I wrote a post called "Baseball" on Apr 5, 2015. At the time, it was one of the most-praised things I'd ever written. I was asked to read it on the air on the HAN Network at that time.

In truth, I wrote it with my heart in my throat. Things at HAN were, oh, tenuous and I wrote to be in a happy place. Yet, fearing my every step at that time, I wondered if I should post it. But something wonderful happened and the reaction was overwhelming. I've referenced the post or even reprinted it every year since. I post it this year with a few updates on our game eight years later.

Happy Opening Day.

*****

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.

Well, here's my first interjection. Pace of play has become everything to baseball -- far more than concerning themselves with inner-city fans. Oh, they think shortening games will return the inner-city fans who specifically love football and basketball. Why? There's more action in the other sports. Baseball will always be for the thinking soul. That's why it's the hardest to broadcast. There's more down time. But, yes, put pitch clocks on the field and ban the shift and enlarge the bases.

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

Shoeless Joe and Pete Rose are no closer to getting into the Hall of Fame than Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens are. Yet, I think the PED users are going to eventually find a way to get in, and, let's be honest, there are several users who are already enshrined in Cooperstown. You're a smart audience. You figure out who the guilty parties are.

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.

Nothing -- not even Shohei Otani -- is changing my mind. It's Ruth. Next case.

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

It's Opening DAY, people. Not Opening Night. Can't even blame ESPN anymore. It looks like every team will open on the same day (or night) for the time since 1968 today.

Yet tomorrow (today), 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.

I miss Bob Sheppard, forever the "voice" of Yankee Stadium. His introductions of the starting lineups gave me chills. It just sounded right.

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.

It does concern me that these numbers are becoming less sacred. We had a long discussion about 70, 61, and 62 last year. Yes, the record book says 70 home runs is the record but the court of public opinion overwhelmingly said 62 became the new benchmark. But baseball has always been a numbers game. We've muddied that water badly.

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.

#BlackIsNotAMetsColor

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

Funny thing: I referred to Anthony Volpe as "AV" in the last broadcast of the 2021 season. That was apparently mocked behind my back because who was I to create such a moniker? Yet I said at the time that I knew it was tenuous and I was just having fun. And since last Sunday, more than ever, what have I seen Volpe referred to as? "AV." Vindication.

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.

One note -- baseball or otherwise -- that scares me is how little many care about history anymore. I'm willing to bet a lot of you don't know a lot of these references. Baseball loves its history. I love history and baseball.

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.

I'd gladly accept 28. Or more.

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).

Vin was still working when I wrote this. He's since died. Damn, I miss him a lot.

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

Ah, Yankees broadcasts of the 70s and 80s. I can still see Reggie, Munson, Piniella, Nettles, etc, crossing home plate and listening to one of the Yankees' "voices" saying "Hey, Don Mattingly. This Bud's for you!"

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

We did go to Cooperstown not long after I posted this in 2015 and had a good but crazy weekend. Calling a game at Doubleday Field is a career highlight and I'd love to do it again.

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.

Yeah, about that. I'm getting desperate here and I read people online moaning about opportunities when they have gigs I'd give a year of my life for.

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.

*****

I haven't been to an Opening Day game since 1998 (I think) and that's OK. So long as I can watch the lineup intros and ceremonies, and take in the game, I'm fine. I'll be happy here at home.

I've sat and shivered through many openers but I have wonderful memories that I carry from them. It's possible that I'll go back again one day.

But there's just nothing like today. No other sport does it this well. Will the new rules be good for baseball? That's all I can hope for. There comes a point that I can only state my disagreement but still have to move forward. The Yankees opening with the San Francisco Giants -- a National League team -- is silly but interleague play has been a thing for years. I still don't like it but I'm going to focus on enjoying the game.

The game. That's what it is, right?

Yes, I know. It's also a bu$ine$$. 

But it's still the game that first pulled me in as a little kid. I was probably two or three when my obsession began.

It continues today.

First pitch: 1:05 p.m.

It's time.

The Empty Booth

Tim McCarver sat in Yankee Stadium on many October nights

In the play-by-play world, there is no sadder sound than that of the broadcast with no voice on it. It's the crowd-humming equivalent of dead air.

I looked at a few minutes of last night's Greenwich/Wilton basketball game for reasons other than the game, including the stellar camera work of Lucy "Snakey," Susan's equivalent to Sean.

Both Lucy and Sean do camera work. Both can handle audio work. Both are riots with well-timed commentary. Both are sarcastic. Both will also rip your heart out if you hurt someone (like, say, their parents).

Anyway, much to my dismay Wilton didn't have a voice on the basketball game. Now, look, I would have likely muted it quickly if there was one because I don't want to get into the criticism, judging, and nitpicking that comes with being a teacher of this profession.

So the question becomes is it best to simply have a voice on a game? Well, I, er, maybe?

Now, if you're sitting there saying, "You wish you had called it," well of course I do. It's was I do. When it comes to youth broadcasting organizations, there needs to be an advisor who is hands-on and is not afraid to step in to help teach in the name of creating a professional effort.

I have no idea if Wilton or any other school that I watch has that kind of hands-on approach. An exception is Darien's DAF Media where Damian Andrew not only sets it all up and breaks it all down but also guides it and even serves as an air talent when needed.

I've heard of a few who were, let's say, hands-off. Very off. They're literally advisors and that's it.

There's no criticism in this. For sure, I would have shot to Wilton for that basketball if they wanted a voice in part because I'd get a good laugh out of working a broadcast with Lucy, who I had on the air when she was probably seven years old. Plus I'd enjoy being the grizzled old fool who could help the students. I'd love to be a play-by-play advisor (YES, I'M BEING SERIOUS).

It gets me out of the house since I was home doing nothing last night.

Plus Greenwich was playing and I know a few of their players.

I mean, it's all unrealistic and completely hypothetical but that's how my mind works. I want to call games and then call some more. There are always ideas running around with ways to make that happen.

But back to the whole no broadcaster thing. Games need that voice because, as the famed Jets'Dolphins "announcerless game" proved, we do serve a purpose. We fill in the blanks that are needed on TV/video. Oh, the picture tells a lot but it really doesn't tell it all. We -- the much-hated broadcasters -- fill that void.

Simply throwing any old voice on who is ill-prepared, can't keep up with the action, or (worse) simply wants to throw out one-liners isn't sufficient. 

A pro is needed.

But anyone thinks they can do it.

We know, of course, that they can't.

So we find ourselves at the conundrum of if a game is better off without a broadcaster. 

Ultimately, it is not.

*****

Tim McCarver, Don Larsen, and Bobby Murcer during
David Cone's perfect game in 1999

A tip of the headset to Tim McCarver on his passing. While he was briefly a Yankees broadcaster, he was frequently on my TV with the Yankees every October on FOX with Joe Buck.

McCarver called more than just Yankees World Series and playoffs, having dabbled in broadcasting in the late 1970s before joining the Phillies' booth and eventually making the Mets' booth shine. He also did color for NBC, ABC, and CBS before his long run at FOX.

Tim was part of the crazy 1985 World Series as well as the Earthquake Series of 1989 and the magnificent Twins/Braves nail-biter of 1991. He also witnessed Joe Carter never hit a bigger home run in 1993.

Then came the Yankees upon his move to FOX in 1996 and he got to witness quite a bit. The '96 team. The Tino Martinez grand slam. The Mr. November of Derek Jeter. The Scott Brosius home run. Eventually, he also saw Mariano close out the Phillies in 2009.

He was a fascinating man who had a lot of skills beyond simply baseball in sports broadcasting. He could do a lot and do it well.

He was also another broadcaster who I had debates about because of his polarizing nature (yes, just like Joe Buck).

Lastly, he was a very good catcher with the Cardinals, Phillies, Expos, and Red Sox, though I probably would have disliked him for the way he tortured the Yankees in the 1964 World Series.

But he knew the game and he taught the game to many on TV.

Respect to him and condolences to his loved ones.

And thanks for the scouting report on Mark Wohlers. Made that Jim Leyritz three-run homer in Game 4 of the 1996 World Series even sweeter.

He hung the slider.

Still Thinking of Thurman

 

More than 1,000 people (including members of the Yankees) waited outside of the Canton Civic Center on Aug. 6, 1979 in Canton, Ohio to pay their respects to Thurman Munson after Munson's funeral attended by more than 500 people including his family and the entire New York Yankees' team and many of their wives. Bobby Murcer, Lou Piniella, and George Steinbrenner are easy to spot. (New York Daily News)

Forty-three years have passed since we lost Thurman Munson.

Yankees fans -- and fans who have a heart -- still mourn this day as we do the anniversary of Roberto Clemente or, in a non-baseball sense, Kobe Bryant.

Still, with Thurman, it was different. Like Darryl Kyle, Lyman Bostock, and Jose Fernandez, his death happened during the season. Each one of those players was legit stars and bright lights in the baseball world.

Munson, however, was the captain of the Yankees -- the first one (however honorary the title is) since Lou Gehrig in 1939.  Munson was in the middle of a possible Hall of Fame career.

Munson was a true superstar, no worse than the third-best catcher in baseball at the time of his death. He, Carlton Fisk, and Johnny Bench were the clear big three with Bob Boone and Ted Simmons right there.

That takes nothing away from any of those other players but Munson had been on the postseason stage the previous three years.

Now, August 2, 1979, he was gone. Dead in an airplane crash.

His own airplane.

One that -- even if he had lived -- it's pretty clear he would not have walked out of thanks to the very nature of his injuries. It is in fact those injuries that led to his two passengers in the plane that day having to leave him. They could not get him out of his seat as the plane filled with smoke and flames.

Unimaginable.

Only 32 years old.

There are so many "what ifs" with Thurman.

Would he have gone to Cleveland after 1979, as had been rumored?

Would he come back to the Yankees in 1980?

Was he done as a catcher?

Could he still be a good hitter, given injuries were a factor?

Would he move to first base? His last game was at first base, in fact.

Would he be a designated hitter?

How would all of this impact the Yankees?

The Yankees weren't going to catch the Orioles in 1979. They were the clear best team in the American League that year.

But, what about 1980?

Or after?

How much longer does he play?

Instead, as death tends to do, everything is frozen.

Munson remains 32. His facial hair -- often grown to mess with George Steinbrenner -- is stuck in time, There's no gray to be found.

You can't help but think about Diana, his wonderful widow who has remained the face of the Munson family. You wonder how her life -- and the lives of their kids -- would have changed.

But, no. We're always left with the "what ifs" and the still profound sadness that older fans like me still feel.

I was 10 when it happened, gleefully flying around Longview Drive on my red and black Huffy bicycle and playing baseball in my yard. I was taking my swings on the side of the house day after day, targeting the swamp and empty lot across the street.

It felt like we were forced to grow up with this news.

In reality, that wasn't true but it was still a harsh reality.

For years, the Yankees would play a highlight montage of Thurman, with this sad guitar music underneath it. I could swear they continued to play that into the late 90s though perhaps not as often as they had years earlier.

The Stadium would grow extremely quiet as grown men and women gulped back tears. Then polite applause would rise until a crescendo of appreciation for number 15 sounded out.

He was our 70s captain, the one who wasn't supposed to be. The role of captain had been retired with the death of Lou Gehrig but that didn't stop George Steinbrenner. Munson, Graig Nettles, Ron Guidry, Willie Randolph, Don Mattingly, and of course, Derek Jeter have had the "job" since then.

Forty-three years later, we still mourn that dark day and that awful weekend, capped by the funeral and "The Bobby Murcer Game" that Monday night.

We still remember our Tugboat.

Our catcher.

Our champion and MVP.

Our number 15 forever.

Monument Park

 

(MLB)

The Yankees announced the retirement of Paul O'Neill's number 21 today.

Look, I love Paulie. In my lifetime, he's in my "holy trinity" with Bobby Murcer and Don Mattingly. I loved his fire, his clutch play, and literally everything about him. When he looked done in 2000, he worked out a walk in Game 1 of the World Series against Armando Benitez after fouling off 20 pitches*.

*An exaggeration, though Benitez deserved to make the Hall of Fame just for allowing that walk.

When the Yankees were down to their last out in the 1997 ALDS, it was Paulie who basically dragged his face through the Jacobs Field dirt for a double to keep any hope alive.

I revere him. I'm happy for him.

But I still have reservations about the Yankees retiring numbers. They've really overdone it (in my opinion). Paulie's will be the 23rd to be taken out of circulation.

That being said, the Bombers have basically kept number 21 aside for 20 years*.

*OK, LaTroy Hawkins -- a fine pitcher and man -- tried to wear 21 with the Yankees in 2008. It didn't go well. He was booed. Horrifically booed. I didn't love seeing that number either but felt it was time to move forward. Hawkins eventually changed his number and soon left New York.

But the bigger issue to me -- past the ridiculous, Oprah-esque retiring of numbers ("Everbody gets a retired number!")  -- is how little the Yankees are truly acknowledging their history anymore.

Retired numbers aside, Monument Park is supposed to be a place of reverence where the Yankees can have their own form of a Hall of Fame. Still, as a business, they know millennials will come out to cheer O'Neill and the 90s Yankees.

Past that? Meh.

But there's a lot of history being left aside.

Look, I'll show my hand here. I don't think Bobby Murcer is a Hall of Famer. At best, I'd love to see him considered for the Ford Frick Award for broadcasting. But I do -- without hesitation -- think he should be in Monument Park. I don't want his number retired (though I think he, Earl Combs, and Bobby Richardson certainly honored the number one as much as Billy Martin did) but I do want to see a plaque go up to recognize his years as a player, coach (briefly), and broadcaster. Bobby spent over 40 years in MLB as a player and "voice" with most of those years with the Yankees. He played his heart out in San Francisco and Chicago between 1975 and July, 1979 but his heart was truly in New York all along (with apologies to Tony Bennett). He means a ton to those of us who grew up with him. He represented the team with total grace.

But the thinking is putting a Bobby Murcer plaque in Monument Park won't draw ticket buyers. The same goes for basically anyone prior to 1990 at this point. I mean, where's "Sweet" Lou Piniella? Where's the aforementioned Bobby Richardson? Where's Dave Winfield (that's actually embarrassing)? Where's "Steady" Eddie Lopat or Vic Raschi? Where's "Poosh-em-up" Tony Lazzeri or Waite Hoyt or Urban Shocker or (Spencer Pierce's favorite) "Wee" Willie Keeler? Where's Tony Kubek? 

Mel Allen is in Monument Park. Where are Red Barber and Jerry Coleman and Frank Messer and Bill White?

All should be considered.

But this doesn't sell tickets. Jorge Posada and Andy Pettitte and Derek Sanderson Jeter sell tickets.

Red Rolfe and Joe Gordon and Frankie Crosetti don't.

But, in my mind, Monument Park is supposed to be the Yankees' version of a Hall of Fame. They're the true giants -- Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Ford, Yogi, Mo, Jeets -- and the players who we all loved and respected.

That would be Donnie Baseball and Mel Stottlemyre and Bobby friggin Ray Murcer.

And Paul O'Neill.

So, take nothing away from Paulie O' on today's announcement but it triggered my brain that the Yankees could do much better.

Much, much better.

The Yankees are about history. They're about greatness. They're about 27 World Championships and the drive for more.

They're about excellence. 

Much like I want to walk loved ones around Cooperstown and explain to them who certain players are, I very much want to do the same in the Bronx. This is how we keep the history of "our game" alive, by passing the stories down through generations.

Few things would make me prouder than to see Sean or literally anyone that knows me walk through Monument Park one day and say, "Ah, Bobby Murcer. That was my dad's favorite player. He told me all about the time he drove in all five runs on the night of Thurman Munson's funeral, how he hit for the cycle and homered four times in a doubleheader, and how he wanted to be a broadcaster because of him, and..."

THAT'S what a place like Monument Park is supposed to be about.