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Mostly, you tell me. I see the numbers dwindle and realize the product is likely stale and boring.
Therefore, this writer is also.
I feel down. It's probably the weather, but it's also lots of realities.
You don't need down. You need encouraging and positive stories.
In truth, I'm waking up most nights around 3 a.m. lately for one reason or another. Then the demons stroll in and hang out. Sometimes I'll get back to sleep after awhile.
I think I've just had too many nights of that. Too much of this rat race right now.
Too much of trying to write things that will inspire and excite you. And failing.
But, it's more than that. It's fighting with computers that can't handle what I'm trying to do and struggling with lack of technology in one form or another, all while being pulled at in several different ways. These are things that everyone is experiencing right now and, most days, you suck it up and move on.
Then there comes that one night where you're just shot.
Rich Eisen and John Nash play supporting roles in this post.
To be honest, I had a different post planned,
Much different. I started writing it earlier. When an idea comes, I try to get something jotted down, so as to not leave it to the chance of my fumbling, decaying brain.
It was called "The Voice," and I decided it was time to (vaguely) address my disdain for the term "The Voice."
You see, Mel Allen was "The Voice." He was the first to be known as "The Voice."
"The Voice of the Yankees."
After that, everyone has been a pretender.
Yes, we had the "Voice of God" (Bob Sheppard and John Facenda) and myriad other people who are voices. Every broadcaster thinks they're "The Voice."
I've been fortunate enough to have people deem me "The Voice" of one thing or another, such as a New York-based baseball team in 2020.
In each case, I was given the title, whether I wanted it or not.
I never bought them, and I didn't think they were for sale. I didn't think someone could just claim it.
Silly me. Everything is for sale.
So, no. This wasn't the avenue I wanted to go down tonight.
Yet, I was taught by my dad that, when punched, it's OK to punch back, and I've been getting punched like a cheap palooka for a long time. Sometimes, we punching bags get tired of it.
As you probably know, respect is a huge thing to me. I give it and I'm sort of big on receiving it.
Now you know why last night's post was so short.
So, what does Rich and John have to do with this?
I've been binge-watching a phenomenal British TV show called Broadchurch (look it up if you haven't seen it). Three seasons, 24 episodes, great cast. It gets my seal of excellence.
My phone buzzed a few minutes ago as I was watching it.
It was John Nash (co-conspirator), tweeting a video at me
The video was a tweet from Rich Eisen, the sports broadcaster now with the NFL Network, who had once worked at ESPN. He also hosts a popular talk show.
Regardless of that, Rich lost his father on Friday, and spoke about as elloquently as anyone ever could on the topic.
The message is very simple. Love each other and show compassion.
When Rich spoke of his dad being his number one fan, well, that about did it for me. When Rich spoke about now being "a part of a world that I did not know really existed...," let's just say I get that, and have gotten that for 30 years.
I've called it being in a club, and whether it was Tim Parry or Paul Silverfarb or anyone else, I welcomed them into that club.
It's not a good club, and there's no rule about not not talking about it.
My condolences to Rich and his family. I hope his dad is continuing to watch the show from a comfortable place.
Welcome to the club, Rich.
To close out today's show, @richeisen addressed the passing of his father Joel and, in his loving memory, made a request of us all: pic.twitter.com/qcDDeR4ysh
Grantland Rice was the original Bard of Baseball, I suppose. Born in 1880, Rice attended Vanderbilt University where he lettered in football and was captain of the baseball team in 1901.
Rice worked at several newspapers before reaching the New York Tribune. There, he wrote the famed "Four Horsemen" piece regarding the Notre Dame/Army game at the Polo Grounds. His brilliant prose, published in the New York Herald Tribune on October 18, 1924, read:
Outlined against a blue-gray October sky the Four Horsemen rode again. In dramatic lore they are known as famine, pestilence, destruction and death. These are only aliases. Their real names are: Stuhldreher, Miller, Crowley and Layden. They formed the crest of the South Bend cyclone before which another fighting Army team was swept over the precipice at the Polo Grounds this afternoon as 55,000 spectators peered down upon the bewildering panorama spread out upon the green plain below.
Rice would dabble briefly in early play-by-play announcing on the World Series from 1921 and 1922, but in truth, that wasn't his thing.
He also wrote poetry, including a passage he titled "Game Called." Rice had a first version published in 1910 by The Tennessean Company, and a latter version published after his death, in 1956, in The Fireside Book of Baseball.
But I'll run with his version from 1948, written as a eulogy for Babe Ruth. I don't know if it's particularly great poetry (I'm frankly not that smart) but I do think it paints a good picture. It ran in the New York Sun.
The work is copyright Grantland Rice, 1948.
Game Called by darkness — let the curtain fall. No more remembered thunder sweeps the field. No more the ancient echoes hear the call To one who wore so well both sword and shield: The Big Guy’s left us with the night to face And there is no one who can take his place. Game Called — and silence settles on the plain. Where is the crash of ash against the sphere? Where is the mighty music, the refrain That once brought joy to every waiting ear? The Big Guy’s left us lonely in the dark Forever waiting for the flaming spark. Game Called — what more is there for us to say? How dull and drab the field looks to the eye For one who ruled it in a golden day Has waved his cap to bid us all good-bye. The Big Guy’s gone — by land or sea or foam May the Great Umpire call him “safe at home.”
Game called here also. At least until tomorrow.
Remember what I said about broadcasting Mahopac football? Scratch that. The superintendent found two other people.
Never heard of them. Don't know if they're any good. Doesn't matter.
I was actually initially asked to do Trumbull football this Friday, but kept it open for Mahopac. Then Trumbull went away without discussion, and now Mahopac is gone.
Just the latest in a string of things in a lovely week. I'd love to list them all.
For 13 years on this blog, I've preached to "Keep moving forward," but when the insults pile up like dirty laundry, when is enough simply enough?
When are we allowed to snap?
Instead of moving forward, just stop.
When you're treated like discarded trash, you just wonder what's next.
Add in missing Sean on the first day of his senior year, and it seems like a good day to sit this one out, post a video, and go with "Rule 55."
I believe in respect and understanding. I'd like a little in return.
** This is one of those posts that I write while emotional, then step away. It's already been tweaked a few times. This has always been a live journal of sorts, and I let fly, up to a point. Shockingly, I don't say everything. I didn't name names or even tell scenarios. It's just not realistic. I also realize "better days are coming," and "keep your chin up," and other sayings are appropriate here. But, once in a while, we're allowed a moment. Some will call it a pity party. I call it a harsh reality.
Unless you're nowhere near Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, a TV, radio, smart device, Hallmark store, Wal Mart, Target, or literally anywhere in the United States...
Then you probably know it's Mother's Day.
I'm going out on a limb here.
So we here at the Exit 55 nerve center wish all of the moms a happy day. Mothers are in all styles, shall we say.
Yes, there are the biological moms, like mine, who has been stuck with me for over 50 years now and more often than not wants to choke the ever living life out of me but then who would she text while he was in the middle of a broadcast?
(For the sarcasm-impaired, please know that this is indeed sarcasm. For the record, I tried to say, "We'll talk about it later." Of course, I found a break between faceoffs to give her the answer she was looking for.)
The are stepmoms and mothers-in-law and pet moms and women who simply like to mother people even if they're not mothers. All deserve respect and acknowledgment today and every day.
My mom -- along with my dad -- are responsible for my holding doors and showing basic respect and standing for the National Anthem and working hard countless other things that somehow I have done correctly.
What my mom did absolutely not give me is my sense of direction. Honestly, she wouldn't know Cheshire, CT from a Cheshire cat. She'll just keep driving north, figuring she'll run into Interstate 84 eventually, never mind the sign that says "Canadian Border 1000 Feet."
"I knew I had been driving a long time," she'll say.
We love our parents regardless. More often than not, I think she deserves far better than she has gotten, but there's also therapy for that.
In all seriousness, Happy Mother's Day to the many wonderful women in our lives who have rounded us and supported us. We know we can't thank you enough. To those missed today, know that you're in our hearts.
I feel very fortunate to have my mom, sister, friends and other mothers in my life whom I admire.
The writer, Christopher Bonanos, ranks "We Didn't Start The Fire" at 120, second from last. Given both exceptional friends Paul and Susan (with a nod to Mick) are in my Billy Joel trust zone, I will tell you that they are primarily pro-WDSTF, where I'm more meh. It served its purpose at the time.
I will say it gives plenty of love to the New York Yankees, as do several of his songs (and, yet, people think he's a Mets fan. Bwahahahahahahahaha).
Again, I don't have the energy to break down all 121 songs, but "We Didn't Start the Fire" at 120 is, well, come on.
"Stop in Nevada" is at 105? I might want to stop before I get mad.
"She's Right On Time" is at 92. Many don't get this song. I fell in love with it back in probably 1983. It has a video (never his strong suit -- name me a great Billy Joel video), but that's the most it got airplay. It has always sat strong with me in his catalog, and somehow I discovered Susan loved it also. She is literally the only other person that I've ever known that is passionate about that song.
"I've had to wait forever. But better late than never." Yes. This.
"A Matter of Trust" is at 86? Dude, come on. The Bridge is hardly his best album (those are easier to rank), but this is a huge highlight. I remember its debut on MTV and how it rocked.
We make our way to "Zanzibar" at 67. Again, I simply can't break every song down (not tonight, anyway). It's like the way that Shawn Sailer wants me to rank all Yankees play-by-play voices (hint: I know the bottom three, and I know number one) but finding the time is another story. As for "Zanzibar," there's a jazz edge here. That won me over because it felt different then. It still does.
Let's not talk about “Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)” at 61. I'll allow that I built a CD of songs that I put Sean to bed with every night. This song was on it. Tears are falling as I'm typing. Got it?
60: "Shameless." God...damn...passion. And screw Garth Brooks, Chris Gaines, and so on.
57: "Sometimes a Fantasy." You see, Glass Houses was the album for me. While I loved 52nd Street (the first album of his I bought), I wore out my first copy of Glass Houses on vinyl. A not-quite-perfect album.
50: "All For Leyna." What was that I was just saying about Glass Houses? Thirty-nine years later, I still crank this one.
37: "Laura." Yes, I have a sister with the same name. She's not this messed up. Another reason why The Nylon Curtain sits near the top of my favorite albums of his.
Wait. This writer put "James," the most '70s sounding song IN THE HISTORY OF SEVENTIES-SOUNDING SONGS at 36? It's the single song the pulls Turnstiles down.
I shouldn't be getting hung up on his rankings. OK, trying to keep this moving along...
"Summer, Highland Falls" is at 27. I'd go higher with this one (yes, I'm obsessing with his ranking), and the opening line -- "They say that these are not the best of times. But they're the only times I've ever known" -- is among his best and most-quoted. Incidentally, as a non-religious person (and thus "Only The Good Dies Young gets major points) the next line -- "And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own" -- is brilliant.
Sorry. This post is getting long.
We reach "The Stranger" at number 16, and I can't find a bad song on the album of the same name. The lines -- "Well, we all have a face that we hide away forever. And we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone" -- has been given more meaning to me over the past decade.
A note about "Leave a Tender Moment Alone" at number 11. Susan loves it. I'm fine with it. This is too high of a ranking for me, but it's sweet. Another person (no, it's not Paul or Mick) walked up one day and, essentially, told Susan to never play it again. That is a true story.
At number nine (number nine, oops, sorry, wrong artist) is "I Don't Want To Be Alone." Oh. My. God. Yes. Again, it's about lines. "She said she'd meet me in the bar at the Plaza hotel. Wear a jacket and a tie." I remember hearing those lines back in 1980. One day, I hope to hear the same.
"Vienna" is at number 8. Literally, any Billy Joel fan (I think) will say to make this top five. Maybe even top three. It is absolutely gorgeous. Paul played it in front of me on a beautiful piano in Boston once. My own shyness (and fear of being heard) kept me from singing it. So I stood there. Mesmerized.
I'll politely say "Just The Way You Are" should be much much much lower. Much. Again. It defines the '70s. Not that it's a bad thing (or song).
“Miami 2017 (Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway)” is at seven. In my world, I think (I'm spitballing here) that "Miami 2017," "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant," and "Vienna" would somehow make up my top three. I raise a glass -- any glass -- when I reach the line, "And picked the Yankees up for free" (and the crowd goes wild).
In the case of Christopher Bonanos, the writer of the ranking of all Billy Joel songs, numbers three to one are "New York State of Mind," "Only The Good Die Young, and "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant." My goodness. Three classics.
"NY State" is in the best ever category about New York. It's not, however, "Theme From New York, New York" but that takes nothing away from it. I know "New York State of Mind" would be in my mind if I were to ever leave and long from my hometown. I wouldn't rank it this high, but it's still great. I wish Billy would back off the sax as much as he uses it live (and on the 1985 Greatest Hits remix).
But then again, I wish Liberty DeVitto were still his drummer.
I can't lie. I had an aunt named Virginia (though known as Jean). She was, indeed, Catholic. So, yeah, tee hee.
"Scenes." Yes. That will do quite nicely. I wanted a bottle of red and a bottle of white in honor of Billy's birthday today, but we can't have everything, can we?
As for the albums, I'll take this: 1) The Stranger, 2) Glass Houses, 3) The Nylon Curtain. Probably 52nd Street fourth and Turnstiles fifth. Or Piano Man. They get mixed up after the top three. River of Dreams is probably last.
Anyway, happy birthday Billy. Thanks for the music. You were one of the first artists that I felt like I made my own, as opposed to being brought up on The Beatles. You continue to bring me together with people to this day.
Now take that space and, basically, cut it in half.
Honestly, I don't have much in me tonight. It happens.
As always, I poured my heart and soul into 14 innings of softball. There are reasons why I do things the way I do them. I'm not saying I do them particularly well.
For those who love charts and graphs and colors, I barely had space for my phone and held my scorecard on my lap. I didn't even bother with my iPad or laptop.
I tried to work with a crew I've never worked with, including two different young broadcasters -- one for each game.
I'm proud to say I've now done something with ESPN, as well as with Yale.
I thought I was ... ... ... meh (as always), but others say differently.
Thanks to those of you who supported me in one way or another. I really appreciate it.
I didn't get a recording of either game, and that's fine.
I otherwise lack the eloquence tonight, so I'm going to sit this one out.
I recorded the third episode of my podcast, "Tales From the Booth," tonight. I continued to dig around some of the earliest play-by-play audio, centering once again on the year 1934, though I thread in a few goodies from 1927 and 1956.
The show is now available on TuneIn, iTunes, Stitcher, and Spotify, as well as our home base of Whooshka. I'd really appreciate it if you'd listen and tell your friends. Write a review (hopefully a good one!).
I know I used those same words last week, but that makes it nice and easy for me to copy in the links.
It's St. Patrick's Day. If that's your thing, I hope it was nice.
You’re not going to believe this but I’m in my car., and it's moving.
No, I'm not typing while I’m driving but talking while I’m driving.
Just to keep the streak alive.
Consider this Lou Gehrig batting leadoff on a day in which he needs a break.
But it’s 10 o’clock and I’ve just finished broadcasting two hockey games with Mick. I don’t know if I’ll get home before midnight to write a real post.
That's pretty much it from me tonight. Days/nights like this are going to happen sometimes, and silence is the best choice for me.
I'll let House Oversight Committee Chairman Elijah Cummings (D-MD) have the final say. Not as an indictment of President Trump. But as an indictment of everything.
Be better, people. I keep saying it and, yet, I can say no more tonight.
An early title image (taken in New Jersey in 2008)
We've hit our 45th consecutive day of posting (43 of them in 2019).
Combining the renewed focus on writing with the blog being born again (praise Marty Moose!), it was suggested that I explain our little effort here in this corner of the interwebs.
Blogs were quite the rage in the late-00's (lazy, hazy days, of course). I was just a suburban dad with a job, as well as a side gig calling sporting events. I had a four-year-old that I adored (and still do).
I was intrigued by the idea of starting a blog, but it had to be right.
My feeling was that I wasn't willing to do a blog unless I invested wholeheartedly. I didn't want to do it and then let it just languish.
A few friends began writing one, and that was the last straw. It was time to take the plunge. I opted for Blogger (and have never moved off of it, despite the temptation to run to WordPress or somewhere else), and decided it would be multifaceted. At no point did I want it to just be sports, or music, or roads, or movies, or politics, or anything else.
I wanted it to be about everything, and it has been.
There are things that I'm sure I've written that I regret, and there are others that I'm pretty proud of. For instance...
- What has become known as "The McCartney Post."
- After Yogi Berra died, I wrote about "The Yankees Saloon."
- I also wrote about the pure joy of the game of baseball ("Baseball").
The title of the blog was actually the thing I obsessed over the most, but I'm pleased with how it came together. It was very organic. I wanted something that fits me, and the combination of roads with my favorite number, and the metaphor of "exit" as a place to release my writing all worked.
It just hit me, and it's actually been a bit of an identifier for me. Just as "Robcasting" is becoming now.
I've evolved in many ways, but old Yankee Stadium still makes me very wistful.
Years ago (I think it was 1987), a college professor asked me to mentor a student about writing. It shocked me, as I never thought of myself in that way (I wasn't available to do so, sadly). Yet for years, I read the work of people like Mike Lupica, and I wondered if I could present my thoughts in a similar way.
I never thought I could get that on paper. Or the internet.
Yet the blog was a way to try. If I failed, then the investment was literally nothing.
Instead, it opened doors. I made friends and allowed the blog to be a way to peer inside. People began quoting the blog to me, and telling me about things that they read.
I was shocked. I'm still shocked.
I haven't told all of the stories. Oh no, not even close. Those who thought vague posts were about anyone were, more often than not, wrong.
That's what "Rule 55" was for, where I would use a video instead of firing away. It was Sean Kilkelly's idea, and it worked to perfection.
It's still a fine line, this blog. The "shi**y reporter" that I am, I choose words and phrasing carefully. Being that it's writing, I can utilize a delete key. I can't do that on radio or TV.
I found my writing voice. Then I thought I lost it.
Before we dive into the second month of 2019 (I realize it's February 2), I want to hit a few things:
- First, I'm touched by the number of responses to the two-part post on mental health (Part 1 and Part 2). I received several texts and private messages as Thursday turned to Friday. I'm actually hoping to sit down with one person and just talk. This all gives me hope, which can often be a dangerous thing. Plus I heard from a recruiter.
The bigger note is that, while the post highlighted me, it wasn't meant to be about me, and that embarrasses me. I wanted it the posts to be a conversation starter, so I opened up. That's all.
- Second, a huge shout out to John Nash, who is the primary reason that I'm cranking out one post per day. As he writes, John "...had half-jokingly challenged to join me in this Project 365 undertaking and he surprisingly accepted."
Yes. Yes he did, and here I am. I'm a Yankees fan. He's a Sox fan. We get along just fine.
As I've said before, I'd let this blog languish. I had been close so many times to either announcing the end, or just letting it go, like many others do. I got into writing a blog in 2006 with the promise that I would fully commit. Up until 2013, I mostly adhered to that.
I suppose, not coincidentally, 2013 was when I joined Hersam Acorn Newspapers, with Hersam Acorn Radio, HAN Radio (dot com) and HAN Network to follow. My writing priorities had changed, as had my confidence as a writer, to be honest.
I felt like everything I'd known -- punctuation, grammar, tense, my own inner-voice -- was shattered. There were reasons. As I writer, I became afraid.
I still suck when it comes to "affect vs. effect," but I've always sucked at that.
With this post, I'm three away from tying the amount I wrote last year. Total.
So thanks to John, as well as Susan, Shawn, Paul, Mick, Mike Hirn, Harold, Jon, AJ, and everyone else who keep me cranking this thing out.
Share it as you wish and let's get people talking with good, respectful conversations and debates.
- Last thing. A quick note of sadness for the Turk family on the passing of Patti, sister of Betty, Mary, and Harold. There are the things we always say (gone too soon, too young, etc), and those are all accurate. Yet I don't think I have words. I thought of Patti as the real deal: a free spirit (in a family of real deal people, to be sure) who loved the Penguins of Pittsburgh.
That's a year with a particular sting to it, along the lines of 1980. But worse.
I saw Julius Campbell died today (courtesy PennLive). Julius played for the Titans of T.C. Williams High School and won a state championship in 1971.
Remember the Titans, indeed. Strong side, left side.
Look, the movie is pure Disney fantasy (I still try to maintain a sort of family blog so I'll watch my language), and not even in the same zip code of what really happened, but most football fans love it (I'm guilty).
You. Blitz. All. Night.
The Challenger explosion happened 33 years ago today. My dad was home and saw it live. I was in high school, and found out in seventh period history. We seem to always remember that date, but never the date of the Columbia disaster.
February 1, 2003. I raced to WGCH to anchor our coverage.
The overall theme? Don't claim to be something you're not. Especially when there are others who have done it much longer.
Weather permitting, I'll be back on the air tomorrow for basketball in Trumbull, as they host Greenwich.
Oh, and one more thing. I've hesitated to write this for whatever reason, but please offer your best (whatever it might be) to Paul Silverfarb, his mom, brother Sam and sister Rachel. Dad Howard died last week after fighting ALS (yes, Lou Gehrig's Disease). Mr. Silverfarb was a very good man. A very brave man. His obituary hits the highlights of a remarkable life.
You probably know I'm not a "thoughts and prayers" guy. Honestly, I detest "T&P." I have my reasons. So do whatever is best for you. They're a great family.
OK, this is really my last thought. I don't know these people at all, but Susan does, and that's enough for me. Their story is awful, caused by a selfish driver. The pictures of their car are astounding (story via SILive). There's a GoFundMe that has been established. The gentleman who is fighting for his life took Susan and her friend to her first Air Supply concert.
Which meant so much to her that she's still telling the story.
While driving to work this morning on NY Route 35 (it goes from Peekskill to the Connecticut line, where it continues as Conn Route 35), I saw my phone light up that I'd been tagged in a Facebook post by John Nash.
So...er...um...maybe? He used a road sign for the post. That's hard for me to resist.
This blog is 12 years old and I've cranked out 2,350 posts. I've also slowed down considerably, with just 35 morsels coming out of my keyboard in 2018. That's my lowest ever.
There are reasons (aren't there always)? Most of all is a complete and profound loss of confidence as a writer that is hard to explain.
I also need to factor in a loss of edge, in that I reached a point where I had to watch every word I said, and that includes on the air. Yes, I know, that seems strange given I can appear to be such a "loose cannon," but you have no idea how much I hold in.
Let's just take 2018, for example. The full story of this year would be something to read, though I'm not foolish enough to think I'm different from anyone else. Yet this year one was...something. I put blame for everything at my own feet, but oh boy did I have plenty of help.
I wish I could just let it fly and tell you everything. I can't. Or I shouldn't.
But I can tell you this: I need changes, and I don't need to wait for Ryan-freaking-Seacrest.
First and foremost, there needs to be a change in my employment situation, and to get paid for outstanding work. I'll leave the latter part of that statement right there for now, but let's just say I'm not unwilling to take that story public. I try -- so hard -- to take the high road. But...yeah.
Anyway, work. I clawed my way through myriad broadcasts out of love of the craft and belief in getting games on the air. I also did it to build my -- gulp -- Robcasting brand. I cultivated new relationships, often at a loss of income.
I have an idea for the job. Somebody needs to take a chance for it to happen.
It's time for those trees to bloom, or go do something else so that I can do games on the side.
Or just walk away and get a life.
That's where I was on the blog also. I had thought of hanging the "Gone Fishin'" sign.
I lost faith in my use of grammar. Spelling. Punctuation. No I'm not kidding. All of it.
My posting yesterday was actually fairly significant, and I don't expect anyone to understand why.
So with John's idea, maybe -- just maybe -- I can rediscover a little fire. Only with practice will I rise from the ashes. I've asked a friend to edit my work (I do my best but I miss stuff).
It would be tempting to take 2018 and call it the worst year of my life and so on. But no. Let's call it a success because I'm still standing (yeah yeah yeah). Seriously, that's all we can do, right? We fight to see another day.
It's the very reason why one of my favorite song lines is, "All I want from tomorrow is to get it better than today." Yes, that's Jacob's Ladder, written by Bruce Hornsby and John Hornsby, and perfected by Huey Lewis and the News (well, duh).
So when I hear nonsense about fresh starts and 2019, etc, I get a little crazed. John tagged me in this today. Change can start any time.
Like now.
Will I write every day? I love the idea, but fear (well, that's me in a nutshell, I suppose) that I won't. I'm bound to forget. I'm bound to be in a rut.
On the other hand, I've written two days in a row. So that's something.
So let's see where this goes. I'm making no promises. I'm calling for no resolutions. I'm not hanging the "Closed" sign.
There are days when this business -- and certainly any business -- will eat you alive.
I've dealt with myriad politics in media.
I've been pushed aside thanks to people with money, power-hungry people, old boys clubs, and more.
Don't think I've just hung on at WGCH for 21 years. There are times I've had to fight to be seen and heard.
Sometimes, I still do.
The politics of this business stinks -- even now, as a veteran of nearly three decades.
Everyone wants your job.
Many hate you or blacklist you.
There are stories. Oh yes.
Then there's the low pay, when being nearly 50 means finding work can be brutal (heck, I'll take an office job and broadcast on the side), but the child support bill must be paid.
How do I pay the bills?
How do I survive?
How do get my (insert term here) off my back?
How?
You don't know the full story, and you probably never will.
Power struggles stink.
I've been through and seen it all.
So when I get this, it means a whole lot.
That came out of nowhere. It wasn't a ringer, and she wasn't a friend.
Honestly, that's all I have to add. The kind words are a good reminder.
Let's be clear. He killed himself, and with the suicide earlier in the same week of designer Kate Spade, we've seen two high profile individuals choose to end their own lives.
Should you want more details, there are plenty of other places for that. We'll pass here.
I liked Bourdain, as the brusque titular member of Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations on The Travel Channel. What you saw on that show was clearly him.
Now, I'm not going to tell you that I'm in to the whole celebrity chef thing. To be honest, nothing could be further from the truth. Yet Bourdain -- Anthony, Tony -- was more. Sure, he knew food (remember, my pallet isn't exactly highfalutin), but he also traveled, and he went to places I'd never go to.
So he was eating food that I'd never eat and in a lot of places I'd never visit. Normally, that's not a combination I'd embrace. But the guy found a way to put a story together that roped me in.
That, of course, is not why we're writing today. We have a big problem on our hands and, at least for me, Anthony Bourdain was a bit earth-shaking.
I don't have answers. Like anyone else, I have struggles. I saw a dear friend open their heart and mind up online after Bourdan's death, and I thought what was written was brave and profound. It's their private thoughts, but again, it had a big impact on me.
Again, we don't have answers.
There is that belief that suicide is cowardly. To a degree, I get it.
But nobody is in that persons' brain at that moment.
I know despair. I know horrible sadness, depression, anxiety, loneliness, and angst at three in the morning, when I can't sleep over fear about money, my son, my career (or utter lack thereof), my health.
I know the horror of the holidays. No, really, any holiday. Three-day weekends are rough. Thanksgiving to January 2nd? I'd rather be on an island. Any island. Gilligan's Island.
I've had a post written in my drafts here for nearly three years on how awful the holidays are. I was encouraged to keep it tucked away, and it will stay there, but now you have a sense of it.
I know. Me. Me. Me. That's not what this is about, but I guess that, too, adds to the demons I chat with.
This post is about our problems with mental health. How we just don't know. People smile all the time. They tell you they're fine. They see the social media posts.
"Wow, you're staying busy," they say. "I can tell you're doing great!"
No. No they're really not doing great. Call it "The Tears of a Clown," if you know what I mean.
Some are blatantly asking -- crying -- for help. Yet for reasons, including bureaucracy, they don't get that help.
Bourdain looked like he had conquered his demons. The drug abuse appeared to be gone, and I thought I even read he was kicking or had kicked smoking. He seemed to still drink, but it looked like -- there are those words: "looked like" -- he was OK. He had a child and a partner. The focus was on living.
So we thought. So it "seemed." So it "looked like."
Nobody knows what happened in that Paris hotel room. We might never know.
If you get the chance to read about Robin Williams, well, yeah. There's another sad story.
We need help. We need to get people help, and it's more than just telling someone to go get therapy. They have to get TO therapy. Short of actually driving someone there and placing them in the office, it's sort of difficult.
In some cases, there are many without healthcare (HI!). Kind of hard to get help when you can't afford it.
Then there is fear. Despite FDR's famed words in 1933, fear is a factor. Fear...Factor, indeed.
I know of a story of someone who was in therapy during a time of upheaval. One of the things they were there to talk about was money. Guess what they got asked each time they walked in the office? Did they have the -- wait for it! -- money to pay the bill!
Vicious circle, right? They stopped going to therapy then and there.
I see people who are mad at Bourdain and Spade. I get it, but I don't. Again, you're not there. They know -- we know -- that they have reasons to live. Kids, spouses, partners, friends.
Yet it can all just be too much. The pain -- whatever that pain is. The imbalance of whatever it might be. The meds help but it's possible they aren't enough or can't be purchased.
People in these states of mind see themselves as a burden. "It will just be easier if I'm not here," is the mantra.
There is no way to defend the actions of a person who takes their life, but there's no true way to indict them either. I'm sorry these people killed themselves, and I wish I could understand why they did.
We have to find how to prevent it, and I'm not smart to figure out how.
But I want to help.
It doesn't have to end this way.
Sure, everyone posts the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255), but does that help? It hardly seems like enough.
I wish I had more. This feels like a lot of words for nothing.
I recited the opening of Free Bird at my dad's funeral in 1989 (copyright, 1973, words by Allen Collins and Ronnie Van Zant).
If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on now
'Cause there's too many places I've got to see
Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain and Robin Williams and, sadly, too many others couldn't take more pain. They couldn't take more sadness. They wanted out - for whatever reason. That doesn't make them heroic or criminals or pathetic or weak.
It just means they were done, and nobody could help them.
The Robcasting Radio banner hanging at a recent Mahopac High School game. (Not representative of the story I'm telling)
I recently called a high school game.
The site isn't important. Nor is the sport. To protect certain things, I won't give too much detail.
But holy cow, it's a cautionary tale.
Perched on the roof of a press box, I prepared to broadcast the game in question. Thanks to traffic, my arrival was much later than I would have preferred, but I didn't panic, and set about getting ready. Though I lacked a roster for one of the teams, I knew I could make it all work.
** Quick side note: We are literally begging for accurate rosters to be made available. Twice in the past week, I've had to fudge my way through a game where details weren't available and only had last names. In this era, that is simply unacceptable. In this game, I asked in the press box for a roster. Nothing. I looked around. Nada. Nobody was willing to help. I walked to the scorers table, where I took a picture of the scorebook, and worked off what I had. It was better than nothing, and I relied on what I could overhear for the rest of the details. Accurate (keyword) rosters in numerical order shouldn't be this difficult. In fact, it should be mandated.
Keep the roster thing in mind through the balance of this story.
Standing a few feet away from me were a few student broadcasters. OK, I'm all for that, and always happy to help. But in this case, I had to hurry to even get on the air. After dashing to the field to get any semblance of a roster, I literally started the game out of breath, and let the action on the video speak for itself.
I could overhear the young broadcasters nearby.
"Number eight to number 23 to number two."
Ugh.
Still I concentrated on my own call and got to a break.
With the students was an advisor/teacher who was clearly in charge. She stayed positioned in the booth while her young charges exploded out to do whatever they needed to get to.
"Would they like a roster," I asked?
"They would love one," came the reply.
Silly me, I felt that there would be a sharing of information -- the same thing I've done with countless other play-by-play "voices." Matt Levine, Don Boyle, George DeMaio, and numerous others know exactly what I'm taking about. You're happy to share. You talk about strengths and weaknesses of teams. Maybe little notes. Pronunciations. Anything.
Nope.
As they returned to the booth, I offered to help.
"Who's the play-by-play voice?"
A hand went up. Didn't even look at me.
"Do you want a roster?"
"Nope. I'm good."
Wow.
Entitlement aside, do you suppose, if you really want to do this professionally, that you might want to have accurate information, or is it just about your school, and accuracy be damned?
I was astounded, annoyed, and frustrated. I would have felt worse if I were their advisor.
There is this belief, in our modern information age, that "anyone" can do "anything." You can be a writer -- thus, a blog (and I'm 100% guilty but have tried so hard to do this honorably). You can be a broadcaster -- go to any one of a number of outlets for that. Hell, with a do-it-yourself video, you can be an auto mechanic, or something else.
Still there's something to be said for training, preparation (I do far more than believed, cha cha), and...well...pride, as well as the aforementioned integrity. Have some. Anything less than what I expect sends me into fits, and giving my absolute best exhausts me**.
** Another side note: Many times, after a game, I stand in a parking lot and talk to colleagues and friends, and here's why. It's not a "gripe" session, as has often been believed. Sure, there is an airing of grievances, but it's mostly because I'm so worn out that I'm trying to find the energy to drive home. That's all there is to it. Often, it's a sign that I don't want the night to end, and I also don't want to be sleeping in a parking lot to find said energy to drive home. Do you know how many times I've stayed in a stadium/arena/field to soak it in and summon the will to drive? Too many to count.
So, to recap, while you, young plebe, just climbs down from the press box post-game in search of the free food or the cute girl, I'm climbing back into my car for a drive that normally includes a loss of all adrenaline.
And replaying literally every moment of that broadcast. And telling my friends how much I sucked.
Ask me about the aftermath of Salisbury and Brunswick last Friday. With two of the top three lacrosse teams in the world in front of me, a large audience, and a great production crew, I felt a ton of pressure to have a great call. I gave it all I had, and despite a few goofs, I drove home completely worn out (and, rarely, slightly satisfied). A 90-minute ride through Litchfield and Dutchess counties made for a long trip.
But I slept knowing that I did my best. That I cared. That I had the utmost integrity.
