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.

Catching Up

On the Taconic Parkway north (11/22/25)

There, by the grace of Babe Ruth or whomever, I reached the anniversary of my birth last Saturday.

Honestly, the last 365 or so have been some of the toughest ones. I don't try to predict the future, and I'm glad I don't, because I couldn't foresee where life was going to take me.

And yet -- somehow -- I'm actually in a good place as this 58th year begins.

Is every part of life in harmony? Oh, good grief, no. But I'm not tossing and turning in bed, wondering how I'm going to pay the rent. That doesn't mean all of life's issues have been resolved, and I'm not here to tell you otherwise. Life is still life, and I'm a survivor.

Let's clear one thing up since we last spoke. While I acknowledged a new avenue in my career, I'm not going to tell much related to that. As you probably know, I've been around student athletes for basically half my life. Protecting them as the true amateurs that they are has always been a top priority. A bad play can be acknowledged. 

If they tell me I can talk about their favorite music or some other narrative? Cool.

But telling you what goes on behind the doors of the school? Nope.

I knew that long ago.

And so, don't expect tales of North Mianus or any other school. In short, I can't. I think most of you know my style and know that I have always used good judgment.

I mean, if you follow along, you'll learn enough.

But I'll say this: I'm doing fine.

Within the past month, things have been swinging.

Our good friend Phil has reared his head again, accusing me of taking a swipe at his child. Um, does anyone recall where I'm working? Why would I ever do that? 

So, he attacked me with a few invectives ("petulant child" and such) and tried to accuse me of other things that I still don't understand, but eventually deleted his posts. Hey, whatever helps him sleep, right?

He's sort of like Walter Peck from Ghostbusters. If you know, well, then, yeah.

Funny enough, that same day Phil was on the attack, I was in New York hosting another Hunt Scanlon conference. Frankly, the work was well-received, setting me up for a trip to London for two -- count 'em, TWO -- conferences in just over a week.

And that same day I received word that I could finally announce a new venture that I've wanted to talk about for some time. 

I'm going to teach a non-credit, continuing education college course on sports broadcasting, specifically play-by-play.

For such a "petulant child," I was having a good day.

And people continue to notice these things.

Also, I've had to turn down a few state broadcasting assignments due to my crazy, tight schedule. So, yes, let's damage that narrative also.

Oh, that doesn't mean I haven't worked on other things. I spent my birthday in Albany, NY, calling the regional football final between Middletown and Saratoga Springs. I would have called a state semifinal and a state championship had a different team advanced to Syracuse for the title game.

And I spent consecutive weekends in Massachusetts covering Brunswick, including a very proud day where we drove to Milton for the Bruins in their bowl game. But Gus, our trusty cameraman, wasn't available, so Sean (the Renegades' master cameraman and employee of the year) did the honors.

He was nervous and cold, but he did a great job, considering we worked the game from the parking lots at the 30-yard line.

Let's see, what else? I hosted the Greenwich Old Timer's banquet again, had a nasty cold that impacted my voice, and just kept grinding along. Oh, and there have been lots of Beatles throughout the month. More than usual, to be honest.

As we turn towards the final month of 2025, one of my biggest disappointments will be this very space. I've written an all-time number of times and I suppose that was mostly due to my own headspace. I simply elected to not write. I'm still trying to get to where I want to do more.

But, most joyously, I'm not just sitting on the couch. I'm active and feel like I can start to live again.

Get busy living or get busy dying, as Morgan Freeman once said in The Shawshank Redemption.

I've got a lot of living to do.

Back To School

 

This happened quickly.

A look at my life a few weeks back revealed that some things needed to change. In short, I needed to work more.

To that end, I've often been told that I should become a substitute teacher. Once, briefly, many years ago, I played with the idea of becoming a substitute in Mahopac. There was mutual interest and, for some reason, it never came to be.

This time, only a few weeks ago, I went to the Greenwich Public Schools website and began the process of applying.

By the next morning, I had an interview booked. For that afternoon.

A day or so later, I was offered a position. After that, it was a whirlwind of paperwork, references, background checks, and so on.

Oh, many thanks to those who served as my references. I owe you one. I likely owe you many.

There was the question of juggling other parts of my life to make sure we can make it all happen. Hunt Scanlon conferences remain important for me. Games, obviously. The Renegades, of course. And so on.

I was told that wouldn't be a problem. I'll be able to get to London in December for two conferences (yes, two). As for games and other commitments, there will be some hustling, but we're going to try to make it work.

Then, the only thing left to do was start. That is, after I went to San Francisco for Hunt Scanlon last week. I had been asked to start even sooner, but they were very understanding.

So today was my first day.

I handled the afternoon for a kindergarten class. But, before that, I was given a pretty complete tour of North Mianus School, my new home.

Every teacher and many of the students greeted me with warmth and genuine excitement.

Now, let's deal with the most obvious point of all: I'm not a teacher. I'm a substitute. There's a big difference.

And, after only one day, let me tell you: teachers are incredible. 

They're heroes.

The work they put into caring for their students is remarkable.

For me, that's a similarity to being a broadcaster: the students come first.

And that's what it will continue to be.

But how was my first day? I kept saying I was overwhelmed, and I stand by that. That's exactly why teachers are incredible.

When it was over -- when I knew each child was safely where they were supposed to be -- I packed up and went home to be a radio broadcaster.

Then I fell asleep. I had been thinking this day for a few weeks and pushing back the anxiety. It manifested into me passing out on the couch.

And now, onto the next day. 

How will this play out? Anything can happen, and that's what I keep telling myself. But this was something I had to pursue. I've often felt I should have been a teacher, while maybe broadcasting on the side. Life, of course, doesn't play out how we think.

And thus I'm here now.

So, as I ponder everything, I think about whether or not I did right by the students and by the teacher I filled in for.

I mentioned that to a colleague (is that fair to say?) who had helped me during the day, and her response was a panacea.

"You're here," she said. "We need you. Don't question yourself."

I'll move all around my new home, mindful of the responsibility of caring for these students when they're with me. They'll get my best.

Oh, one more thing. For my entire life -- as a father, baseball coach, and anything else -- I've generally avoided the title of "Mr. Adams." 

Like it or not, that's who I am now, and it's very weird.

Back at it tomorrow.

There are some other things coming that I can't quite talk about yet, but I'm excited to put all of these things together. For now, that's all I can offer.

A year ago today, I ended Project 55, my nearly six-year run of publishing one blog post per day. I had reached a point of some burnout and felt it was time to stop. To be honest, I thought I would have written more over the past year, but I opted for more of a micro approach by putting thoughts out via things like social media posts.

But, rest assured, I think about writing often. Sometimes, it's just getting me in front of the computer with an inspiration to my thoughts down.

Like today. This felt like an important day for me.

Mr. Spielberg, Here's the Story

 

Once upon a time...

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

Oh, OK. Let's set that scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to the New York Yankees.

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

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

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

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

Oh, wait, this story isn't over.

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

That's a story that needs a finale.

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

NBC SportsEngine Play.

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

Scully. Enberg. Emrick. Costas.

Adams.

This story is too far-fetched.

-----

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story continues. May the sequel be even sweeter.

On Grief

 

Mom and Dad with their third child, Dec 1968

I think about them every day.

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

Every day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then we planned the funeral.

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

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

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

And, no, I don't forget.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I get emotional rather easily on that topic. 

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

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

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

But we'll continue to laugh.

We have to.

That's how we grieve.

circa 1976

What I Did On My Summer (Non) Vacation

 

The Electric City!

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

Jan 1 is to many people. 

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

And I think Labor Day is one as well.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nevertheless, we had a great day.

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

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

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

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

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

Again, it has to change.

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

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

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

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

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

But let's dive into September. 

A hopeful fall and winter await.

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

Nineteen Years

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To people I've hurt, I apologize. 

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

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

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

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

And I often agonize over where the line is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hope there are many more stories to tell.

Thank you, all.

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

"No" Way

 

OK, this one will turn personal. 

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

I abhor it, especially if I do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter.

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

Yes, the Indians were stacked.

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

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

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

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

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

To the Yankees. I was overjoyed.

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

Oh, and I was at that one also.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh yeah," came the reply.

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

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

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

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

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

There were three outs left.

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh."

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

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

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

Seriously, he made it look easy.

Two outs.

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

One out to go.

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

Abbott delivered. Baerga swung.

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

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

Jim Abbott was the pitcher of a no-hitter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

OK. Here.

 

So, yeah, it's been a minute.

Let's talk.

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

I've posted seven times since then.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'd keep going.

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

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

Phil, of course, didn't respond.

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

Otherwise, he never responded.

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

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

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

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

That would be a no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It didn't.

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

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

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

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

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

I truly hope that day isn't too late.

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

Peace Out, 24

 

I did more game broadcasts this year than I've ever done in a year before. I'm very proud of that but I've declined to say how many the number is because I don't think it makes any difference.

I assembled a highlight reel that has its moments but given I'm my worst judge, I'll say nothing further.

Plus, more to the point, it's about quality, not quantity. And, beyond that, there's always a need to one-up and I just don't feel like playing that game.

I'll hit a milestone, likely in the spring of 2025, so we'll deal with that when we reach it.

This has been one of those years where it would be appropriate to say it was bad. But, is that fair? I suggest that it isn't. It was a year in which there was a lot of good, some bad, and a ton of stress.

There were highs and lows. But it just felt like a rut hung in the air.

I traveled some. We went to Florida. I got back to San Francisco. I went to Rhode Island.

I had experiences. We made the best of everything as always.

We also had to move unexpectedly and while we're fortunate to be where we are it hasn't been seamless. To be honest, we have a bit of a troublesome person nearby. You might remember me buying a rug a few months back and, what a shock, it did not quell the situation.

And yet, the thing is, I'm tired of that stuff. I don't want the conflicts. I'm tired of the fights.

You all know about "Toxic" and "Town Hall" and so on. I actually deleted something yesterday and, while it was there for a moment, I consider it a moment of sanity for me.

I've said several times I've wanted to move forward. But I can't guarantee something won't trigger me. I still have to defend myself.

Those issues hung over me all year. They impacted me mentally. 

I'm tired of it.

At times, I just sat on the couch. 

Or just stayed in bed.

I felt empty.

Those are clear signs of dealing with depression. Or not dealing with it.

And money. My least favorite topic. I nearly curled up in a fetal position when I had to do some banking earlier this week.

It has to change. I can't make it any clearer than that. And so, if I can't reach the number of broadcasts I did this year, it might just have to be. 

I did games. Games in Connecticut. New York. Rhode Island. Massachusetts. New Jersey. Pennsylvania. Plus shows. "Doubleheader." "The Clubhouse." "Zolz's Are You Kidding Me ... Again?." "Meet the Beatles." "Hanratty's Huddle." "Talent Talks." Plus a lot of Renegades games as a PA announcer.

The number of events covered comes to a lot. Some of them were paid. Some weren't.

And it still wasn't enough. At least, not financially.

But, so long as I loved it, had fun, and was proud of the work I did, I could accept it.

And, as I take stock of 2024, I was reminded of how I'm blessed with truly wonderful people in my life. I'm spoiled in that there are too many to name who support me on the island of misfit toys. There's no need to let the bad apples spoil things.

I know I won't wake up tomorrow feeling different. Change doesn't happen that quickly.

But I'm reaching for a better 2025.

And I'm hoping for the same for you.

For the record, this is post number 305 for 2024. Does that make me "Mr. 305?" No. No, it does not. But, in all seriousness, while I stopped doing a post-per-day, we're still here and I thank you for reading.

Wonderful Christmastime

Greetings, friends.

We send you our love and best wishes on this Christmas Eve.

Sean and I again did our low-key evening of food and movies.

I also went to five grocery stores today to look for something but that's not relevant to this story.

Our movies this year were Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me and Elf.

Despite our running joke, we did not start watching American Psycho every year on Christmas Eve. at least not tonight.

To many, this night is about gatherings that are both joyous and uncomfortable.

However you are spending it, I hope it is joyous, wonderful, and stress-free.

The picture at the top is from 2013 after Mom had open-heart surgery.

Christmas Eve was spent with her in a rehab center in Fairfield.

She was tired but even looking at the picture, she looked as happy as she could be under the circumstances. In fact, we all were pretty happy.

Being with her was what mattered. Having us all together at that moment was a bonus.

We sat in a common room, had pizza, kept Mom company, and laughed.

We got her back to her room, made sure she was comfortable and took off.

Yet, in a moment of spontaneity, we went to the Setti's Christmas Village display in Norwalk before heading for home. A snowstorm added to the images of the night, and made the drive home a little more cautious.

In fact, it got a bit white-knuckled when my car began to slip down a hill on Route 137 in South Salem, NY. Every fiber of my body tensed up but I tried to keep it from my 11-year-old in the passenger seat.

After I got control of the car, he reached over, massaged my shoulders, and told me I seemed tense.

He's sometimes too smart.

Eventually, we settled into the rhythm of what we do now. 

We worked up some meatballs and sauce from a "Secret Santa" with pasta and mozzarella sticks before moving to marble cheesecake for dessert. 

After we completed our movie-watching, Sean went back upstairs and I grabbed the computer. For a moment, I put It's a Wonderful Life on but I just can't watch Uncle Billy losing the money before George has his breakdown on the bridge. It's too emotional.

My Christmas wish remains the same every year. I want peace. I want joy. I want happiness. 

Selfishly, I want to live without stress and anxiety. I want to stop being on the hamster wheel.

I want us all to be honest, real, and good to each other.

We can have our differences but can agree to disagree.

It's simple respect.

Merry Christmas, friends. I'm blessed to have you all in my world.

Honestly, I write with love and admiration for all of you.

And to those who are struggling, know that better days are ahead. You might not think so, but I believe that, though it's hard to see in the darkest of moments.

May tomorrow, and the days after, be bright.

Sick Day

 

I felt it Friday night. Pain in my nose.

I decided to be proactive and take something for it. It's time for some seasonal allergies for me.

Then, on Saturday, as I mentioned I just felt "off" while calling the Brunswick game. Yet, I'm glad to say the highlight package that Brunswick's social media puts online made me sound OK. To that, I say thank you.

By Sunday, yeah, it felt pretty obvious that this was some kind of sinus infection (or, in my case, the common cold).

Moving to last night, I kept having to go off the microphone to cough or blow my nose during "Zolz's Are You Kidding Me ... Again (co-starring Sheriff Kirk Imperati and, oh yeah, me)." 

As I drove home from the studios near Fishkill, my head was on fire. Upon coming home, I took meds, and even added a sleeping pill, and went into a decent night of sleep.

And I'm probably dealing with the back end of feeling like garbage today. You know the drill: stuffy nose, stuffed ears, sore throat, etc.

It's purely in my head (yes, I know), and the rest of my body is fine. I'm also fortunate (though I don't know if that's the right word) to have a light schedule today. 

I have been out because a quick grocery store trip was needed this morning. So that means I pulled myself together and got dressed. I'm not a complete slug today. But, mostly, I've been able to confine myself to the living room a limited amount of time in the bedroom.

OK, about my bedroom. Who knew that a building erected in 1930 might creek a bit. Apparently, that's the issue with the person below us who complained to the landlord. Thus the reason I needed to put a black carpet down in there in the hope of muting some noise. For what it's worth, it camouflages the cat very well.

And, in the "good neighbor" category, she scowls at me every time she sees me. I mean, I didn't have "bad neighbor" on my bingo card and I'm hoping the situation will simply go away.

Because, let's face it, we're not going away anytime soon.

We've met many people in the neighborhood otherwise and we all just kind of say hello, pass the time, admire various dogs, and make limited small talk.

But loud? Despite my love of music, I don't play it loud. I don't think the TV is loud either. Is it that this person isn't used to someone being upstairs during the daytime hours? I'm honestly not sure. In fact, the neighbor hasn't said a word to us, which I find kind of disappointing. We're pretty reasonable, despite anything you hear to the contrary.

Anyway, I shouldn't feel weird going into my own bedroom. 

As for being sick, it's hard to imagine there was once a time when one was careful to admit that. I mean, I look back at the chaos of 2020-2021 and just marvel at it. I mean, that really happened. If you ever sneezed or coughed you thought were had a scarlet letter on you.

It was truly a time, wasn't it?

In this case, I'm happy to write not (roughly 2:30 in the afternoon) and still do "Doubleheader" at 4:00. Then I can just chill after that.

The rest of the week will be busy enough and I'll need the energy.

For the record, if I had to be somewhere, I'd be there. It's pretty rare that I actually call out like that. That reliability is one of my better points.

Fear not for me, and please know I'm otherwise fine. It's a cold. It's not that big of a deal. I've just been writing for over 2,100 consecutive days and I needed a topic.

*sneeze*

And this was that topic.

Life Reclaimed

 

Thanks to various circumstances, I've dealt with difficult times financially.

To that end, I had to get creative. Protective.

Proactive.

Today, however, I took control again.

It involved the signing of papers and chatting with a professional.

When it was over, I felt more like myself again. It was almost like I got my own name back.

It has been a long road to this point and, believe me, we've not really reached the end of it. But we have reached a bit of a milestone.

It's truly sad the things we have to do for the purpose of survival but the art of such is always impressive. I have enormous respect for those who can dust themselves off and keep going. I try to emulate that. 

Survival comes in many forms. Physical. Mental. Spiritual. Financial. Emotional. And so on.

And, I suppose, I have also been a survivor. No matter the circumstances I've persevered to do what's best for me, my son, and my loved ones.

I guess it's one thing about this existence of mine that I'm proud of. 

Survival. Plus the ability to make the most of a bad situation. Which, as I type these words is also a form of survival.

Survival can be small and big. And medium. It comes in all sizes.

For too many years, there were others out to take from me. It all tended to go back to the same person but, still, it was different parties in the process.

Well, I'm not exposed to that any longer and, as a result, I can proudly sign my own name again.

Again, there are still things on this road to resolve. Plenty of speed bumps to maneuver.

But today was significant.

And I celebrate that.

Wearing the Black Hat

 

Lee Marvin was brilliant as the ruthless Liberty Valance in
1962's The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.
James Stewart (R) was pretty good also.

Let's talk about friends, shall we?

I mean, really.

The friends I want close to me are honest. Loyal. Trustworthy. Thoughtful.

They don't stab me in the back or (conveniently) forget about me.

They don't pacify me but, at the same time, they know how to handle me and I do the same for them.

And, for what it's worth, I don't forget much. Good or bad.

But, man, it gets exhausting playing the bad guy.

I play it because I'm loyal and honest. Often to a fault.

And some can't handle that.

And then I get in trouble.

And I become the unwelcomed outcast.

Unwelcome because I don't enable people.

In fact, I have a huge problem with that kind of behavior.

Huge.

Just pat them on the head and tell them that the honest people are evil. I know of too many examples in my life.

And the arguments are often stupid. The things they get called out about are ridiculous.

And that, I suppose, is where it's my fault. Because I don't suffer fools and I say so. I actually stay quiet more often than not. But when I see something wrong, I often go all in.

As I often do, I'm avoiding specifics to avoid this getting nuclear.

I also won't be taking questions about this. Literally, none.

This stuff does bother me. It gnaws at me.

I mean, honestly, what's so hard about agreeing to disagree? I know, I know. Silly me. If that were the case we wouldn't have a large percentage of our problems in the world today.

I guess, in the end, my truest friends tend to know me best. 

And since I'm babbling this seems to be the best place to stop.

I have to go do whatever it is villains do in those old Westerns.

Radio Matters Always

 

(Photo: CNN)

A woman named Tricia is trying to find her sister Tamara on Bear Creek Road in Asheville, NC.

I know this because I'm listening to WWNC Radio from Asheville.

In truth, through the magic of "corporate radio," the duo I'm listening to are broadcasting from Greenville, SC but transmitting over WWNC and other iHeart Radio outlets.

While that's not my favorite, I think you have to do what you have to do.

Certainly, on the night of Superstorm Sandy, I was in the studio until we lost power. But, with no generator, once the lights went dark, we were done. There was no other option for us. We are an independent station. There was no other option, other than we should have had a generator.

"Boots on the ground" as the saying goes, is always best but, in truth, who knows what the conditions are at the WWNC studios in Asheville? Far be it for me to judge them under the circumstances. Given the historic amount of flooding in Asheville, along with power loss, there might be no way to be on the air from their studios. From what I'm hearing, they lost their fiber optic services and so they were off the air.

Regardless, these people anchoring remotely are doing phenomenal work. They're getting whatever phone calls and messages that they can and relaying them.

A big shout-out to Aaron Michael and Kix Layton for the work they're doing tonight. I don't even know if they have a background in news and information but they're crushing it.

They're explaining where the shelters are. They're relaying the messages of what gas stations have fuel. They're saying which roads are open, given the news is reporting that Asheville is closed off to the outside world. The reports are the roads are washed out and Asheville is currently only accessible via air.

But they're explaining more than just Asheville. They're talking about the surrounding area.

They're also taking gutwrenching phone calls. The emotions have run wild. They just took a phone call from Mark Starling, morning host on WWNC. He choked up talking about the events of the last few days. He also said there are trees down all over the access road to the radio station and he'll be back to work on clearing things up on Sunday morning. 

Radio goes on.

Stations like this are often what's known as "voice tracked." Chances are, none of these stations aren't normally live, with the "voices" having been recorded days or hours earlier. Or, as you might know, the program originates over a satellite from somewhere else.

In this case, these two people are live -- granted over an hour outside of Asheville -- but they're local and on top of the news.

I've done things like this, during the Superstorm but also during snow storms and things like that. It takes a calm voice, a firm presence, but also a lot of empathy and patience. These times can get chaotic.

The compassion these two hosts are showing is wonderful. It's truly positive and supportive while remaining realistic.

Sure, they're repeating themselves at times but that's the nature of an audience. New listeners come and go all the time so it's best to repeat. I'm sure that can be frustrating to hear as a listener but please be patient with them.

Radio, since the very beginning, has been about information as well as entertainment. The very beginnings of commercial radio. -- yes, the history is somewhat murky -- featured presidential election night results in 1920 on KDKA in Pittsburgh.

Since then, Pearl Harbor, D-Day, the JFK assassination, Vietnam, Watergate, the Challenger disaster, the Gulf War, Sep 11, and too many weather events have played out on the radio.

Obviously, TV is so important as well but when we do it right, we all work together.

These guys are crushing it and doing an enormously important job.

We sadly see historic events like this frequently.

Even in this era of radio broadcasting, it's good to know that we can find a way to get the information to those who need it.

Sending support to these broadcasters with thanks for what they're doing.

Sending love and best wishes to those impacted by this storm.

The "E" is For Enjoyable

 

Vermont building at The Big E (@TheBigEFair on X)

I chose to honor tradition and be good to myself today.

While we're watching costs during this time, I'm being very cautious about everything.

That being said, Sean and I went to The Big E today. The event is a large fair that I went to annually for roughly 20 years. But as life changed I backed away from it. Every fall I'd glance towards it, decide it wasn't something I needed to do, and figured that part of my life might be over.

Then Sean and I went a few years ago and the magic was still there. Plus, Sean and I do things our way.

We go, do what we want, and leave. We don't tend to linger.

While the fair is huge, we were in and out in just over three hours. 

We are fairly predictable in our routine. We go to the state houses, pick up maple cream cones in Vermont, look at everything, and think about what we want to come back to.

Then we walk the rest of the fair.

Some years, things grab us. Some years, they just don't. This was a year where we were content to just walk.

And walk. 

We saw everything.

We grabbed food here and there, with a bacon cheeseburger on a waffle being a big winner outside the Massachusetts house. We grabbed cider donuts in Vermont and he had a whoopie pie in Maine.

And, of course, the maple cones in Vermont. This is when Sean normally makes fun of my love of maple. He also makes fun of my habit of picking up road maps and other literature, which I had traditionally put in a backpack I carried all day.

Today, I did not carry one. I allowed myself exactly one map, from Maine. Because I do love that state.

Each New England state has its own state house and they are, in fact, extensions of their state or commonwealth. In Connecticut, for instance, the beer stand couldn't open until 11 a.m.

So, if we were ranking each of the houses for the content of each, I'm guessing we'd go like this:

- Vermont (maple, Ben & Jerry's, though points lost because the wood-fired pizza we used to eat is gone)

- Massachusetts (good cross-section of items, though points deducted for Boston sports)

- Maine (the Maine potato and the whoopie pies)

- Rhode Island (a solid selection of seafood items, Del's lemonade, and a candy stand)

- New Hampshire (it's sort of a house of "meh")

- Connecticut (it's a train wreck, quite honestly, plus their desperate need for attention -- see picture)

Yeah. This.
Maybe spend money on fixing roads and not on pithy signs?

They're all great to walk through but it's certainly a variety of wares to purchase, some displays to look at, and a whole lot of foot traffic.

We did nothing extravagant. We gassed up the car, paid for parking and admission, got our food, and made a grocery store stop on the way home.

So, for what it's worth, it was a reasonable day. But it also gave us a chance to walk around and just talk. He is always playing his Pokémon GO game and I'm a willing participant in helping him however possible, even if normally by walking to a certain place. I understand none of it but I try to help.

The day also allowed me some time to check out and think a bit. It will be a busy week.

And, as for the ride home, allow me to once again say that Connecticut can afford signs that trumpet things unnecessarily, but can't do anything about the roads in the state. It should not have taken us nearly three hours to get home from just outside Springfield, MA.

I-95. Merritt Parkway. Wilbur Cross Parkway. I-84. I-91. It doesn't matter. All had some form of slowdown.

This is in addition to the 45 minutes to drive the last mile to where we parked for the fair.

That's more than enough.

But if the fates allow, we'll do it all over again next year.

Try Again

 

Just before sunrise at Buc-ee's, Florence, SC, 3/19/24

Once again, the sun came up.

Once again, I pulled myself out of bed, mostly because The Cat knocked a bottle of water flying at 6 a.m. and spilled all over my bedroom floor.

A perfect start to the day. All I could do was laugh.

Once again, I sit at my computer, answering questions and writing more nonsensical words.

Yes, friends, I expressed frustration yesterday. No, I was not in a good frame of mind. Even when I tried to get out of it, well, things happen.

In the process, priorities get rearranged and emotions get scrambled and soon I'm having a meltdown on "Doubleheader," and...

So I come here to this space to say some things. Of course, it's not a private world. These words -- useless as they are -- are open to scrutiny. 

That, of course, serves as a reminder that I should just stay quiet. But, as I can't afford therapy, well, there's that.

People mean well. 

For now, I'm still intending to broadcast games. I have football on Friday and Saturday. I'm going to prep for them.

Assuming I'm still needed.

Then I'm going to watch the Renegades in Game 2 of the SAL Championship.

As a fan.

So I can just laugh and relax. If the Gades win, I work tomorrow. 

We just keep moving forward.

Even when we take a step behind.

Respect Should Be Expected

 

No respect

OK, so today wasn't good.

I might even say it was bad.

It involved work, respect, and lack of both for me.

I admit, I lost my patience and temper with both.

I'm past it now, save for the delightful side effects of depression and snark, which are in abundance, but as always, I'll deal.

Honestly, I have no other choice, no matter how bleak things feel.

But, if I'm being honest, I suggested to a few people that I'd be willing to just put the equipment up for sale or even give it away.

Yeah, I was that mad.

And I'm still pretty bummed.

The details aren't appropriate to get into due to my desire to not overstep and burn bridges. 

But after all of these years and the so-called all-important compliments that I'm supposed to share with the world (har har) I find myself asking the age-old question: Is it me?

Oh, I could get into the nitty gritty of explaining the effort, grinding, blah blah blah just to get nothing but then I just sound like any other whining fool.

So, I'll keep this to myself.

But, no question, it makes me reassess things. 

This is a continuation of things being dangled in front of me and then disappearing. In that regard, I'm OK, because I'd rather have something definitive. Just be done with it.

But I didn't like how this one happened.

To be honest, I deserve better. But, apparently, I'm also not meant to understand it.

Anyway, thanks for reading. 

Onto tomorrow.

September Mourn

Two weeks to the day before she passed. The clock was ticking.

 

The details of Sept 4, 2020, will live in my mind forever.

Most of the details of Sept 3 will as well.

I'd taken Mom to two appointments on the 3rd, with the second one being a cardiologist. She'd received news that her heart was failing.

According to her as we talked in the car, she said it could be six months or who knows.

I think, in truth, she was ready.

In reality, the doctor said it was a lot less than that. She was gone the next morning.

Four years ago today.

My parents are with me every day and I feel blessed to have had Mom until she was 83, as opposed to Dad dying at 59.

The last years of her life weren't easy. My sister and I tended to be her plus one for events. Laura took her to the weddings and showers while I took her to the parties and picnics.

Of course, she also had grandchildren who were also available. They were all there for her. I'm so glad that she and Sean were so close.

To that end, he and I laugh about her all the time. There are frequent jokes that only we get and she would laugh at.

It helps to have a bit of a dark sense of humor.

So there's no question I'm thinking of her today and trying to not think about the events of that morning.

The call to 911. The EMT arriving. The police. The phone calls. The texts.

The waiting.

Knowing that she was gone and wanting to tell the 911 operator that but carrying on as she was giving me CPR instructions. I couldn't give up but, at the same time, there was the reality to consider.

Remaining calm and keeping emotion out of it all.

The waiting (yes, there was a lot of that).

Finally, the news I expected, was given by the EMT, who assured me it wasn't COVID-related. I knew clear as could be that it was her heart. 

Then more waiting for the funeral home.

Offering the police a drink.

Being advised to not go back to the living room. That bothered me a lot.

Generally not going into the house at all. Just standing at the top of the driveway and making phone calls.

Then standing, almost at attention, as she was brought out. I had to be there for that, even after the funeral director suggested I walk away. 

No. I couldn't. I had to be there for Mom.

Oh, there was more to the day. The phone calls -- some so much harder than others.

And the one I didn't make. Couldn't make.

Sean. That had to happen in person when I picked him up at his mother's house. I remain happy he wasn't at the house for any of it.

Then helping him call his grandparents.

Then a long, lonely, drive from Hopewell Jct, NY to Bridgeport, CT. 

In shock.

If I had anything on the radio, I think it was banal sports talk that I wasn't paying attention to.

Finally, eating, at Jersey Mike's in Fairfield before getting to Bridgeport to call a baseball game. Yes, I was going to work, dammit. Everyone felt I should. I felt confident Mom would want me to honor the commitment. It was bad enough that I wouldn't make a game the evening of her funeral.

At that point, nothing had been said publicly. Then I discovered my aunt wrote something online, so I quickly posted a picture of her and a few words to let people know. We were trying to make sure everyone of importance knew before we made a statement but it was too late.

Then I spoke during the game. I wanted to say something quick to make sure Nick Castellanos didn't "make it a 4-0 ballgame."

Then listeners -- friends -- coming by to express sympathy.

And Paul Silverfarb and Shawn Sailer wanting to take me out for a few minutes postgame. Also, the reality that I had to return to Mahopac. To her house.

That, fortunately, would wait until the next day.

I wound up with family in Bridgeport to have a late dinner and just talk for a bit. That's where I finally got to see my sister. I'd spend a sleepless night on her floor.

Hell, as it turns out, was just beginning for us. This was only the first phase of the storm.

But, while sitting there, a cat came over to try to get my chicken parm. A cute animal named Binx. He was offered to me.

"I'm serious," my niece's husband Eric said. We'd lose Eric roughly six months later. 

A little over a week later, Binx came with me to Mahopac.

His name is Rascal Squeaky Beast now.

A ray of light out of a bad day.

Someone to keep me company and whenever you want to say I'm a crazy cat person, remember why he came into our lives.

Mom, we think of you every day. We were your "partners in crime." We both have so many memories. So much travel. So many stories.

We love telling them.

We miss you.

We have to work tonight.

Don't worry. We'll honor the commitment.