Feet Up

Sean's artwork on the balcony at our villa in Vermont

For the first time in what feels like weeks, I'm home alone on a Saturday.

On the one hand, there is the loneliness that comes with this, and is why I am always so active on the weekend. On the other hand, after five days of shows in Vermont, it's a welcomed break.

Up there, I was responsible for the programming and audio on HAN Radio and the HAN Network. I also feel a large responsibility for the video side of things, which is why I am more than just the radio manager. I believe, in my heart, I have an obligation to every aspect of our broadcasting.

Beyond that, I had Sean with me. For as easy as he is to watch over, he is still such a large chunk of my world. Therefore, when our tent blew over onto a power line - with Sean sitting below - I shook for probably a half-hour after we resolved it.

My first reaction was to yell at Sean to get away and to grab the tent. Then I realized it was on the power line.

Yes. That happened. See the leg up against the (thankfully insulated) power line? (Photo courtesy Kate Czaplinski)

I take my world seriously. I'm not being pithy, dramatic, disrespectful, unreasonable, or anything else. I'm being honest. I take my job, my friends, my acquaintances, my relationships, and most of my life, seriously.

With a lot of laughter, of course.

A few thoughts about Vermont: it's still as beautiful as I remember from a lifetime ago. Bennington is a very sweet town. The Bennington Motor Inn is surprisingly pleasant in its simplicity. The Wilburton Inn is amazing (Melissa Levis and her adorable dog Jetson were wonderful hosts). Manchester can get clogged with shoppers looking for goodies. I could spend hours in the Northshire Bookstore.

I cooked chicken on a grill and nobody got sick. I saw some interesting art at the Wilburton. Sean and I found Jetson on the loose a few times.

Sean is growing up, yet he's still a boy, and I'm holding onto that. But he loves the stories that I tell him, and that's a wonderful gift.

Melissa and Jetson chat with Marty Hersam and some other guy. (Joshua Fisher photo)

I loved the simplicity of Vermont and didn't want to come home. Yet I'm pleased to be stretched out at home, watching baseball.

On the other hand, when Chris Kaelin called a short time ago to say he was driving to Virginia, I almost jumped at the chance to ride along.

The Green Mountain State was a fun experience, to be sure. We all put a lot of work and energy into setting four broadcasts up and breaking them down each day. Our Vermont colleagues seemed happy to have us there, and I hope we can go back again.

I'm especially grateful to everyone who welcomed Sean. The kindness makes him feel good. Toasting him at dinner on Thursday night brought a big smile to his face.

It took some coaxing, but he had a blast learning to fly fish from Peter Kutzer at the Orvis flagship store.

I had mixed emotions when I dropped him off last night. I was certainly ready for a break but sad to be alone.

I guess I'm torn.

Four days, three nights here? OK. (Strawberry Hill Villa, Wilburton Inn)

Anyway, I'm rambling.

I'm home. Next adventure is coming up very soon. Looks like North Carolina is happening again.

Sean learning to fly fish at Orvis, with Ian Murren filming in the background. Special thanks to Peter Kutzer of Orvis for his amazing kindness.

Sean is in the video from Orvis twice: once at 1:50:00, and again at 2:48:00, where the fly fishing segment begins.

Rule 55: Stop Trying

Greetings on a sticky Saturday.

Here's a tune for you: a rare live HLN tune, from the first album. Stop Trying.

That's all.

Amy...and Me

I was chatting with some friends and colleagues the other day when the topic of Amy, the new documentary about Amy Winehouse, came up.

After she had become a caricature - another striking example of the famed 27 Club - we (well, maybe just I) forgot about the music. I was reminded of how striking her sound was. How intense the lyrics were. How there was a complete flashback to the 60s soul that hit our AM radios.

I also remembered how I had not listened to Back to Black, her stunning 2006 album, in probably eight years.


*****

Trust is a vital part of life. Like many, I have thrown a large collection of eggs into the basket of various people in my world. I've often felt, rightly or wrongly, that I could lean on a person in my inner circle.

There are those - we all have one or two (or more) - that we can feel completely unburdened with. For sure, we feel like we can tell that person every little flaw. Every quirk. We feel like they will never let us down, because we trust them. So they truly become that soul mate.

Even as things are falling apart, we hold on for dear life, because there's just no way that person that you put so much faith into will hurt you. They simply will not cheat you. They won't tell the secrets that you gave them. They won't stray.

As Ms. Winehouse would croon: "No. No. No."

*****

Her album would rocket through 2007, gaining worldwide airplay, and find itself in my iTunes. But times were changing. Tastes were changing. Life, itself, was changing.

For Amy Winehouse, there would be disastrous public appearances, drugs, booze, and ultimately, death in July, 2011. A life full of promise was gone in a haze.

Amy Winehouse and her Back to Black album would visit me again, when I discovered that it could be the soundtrack to destroying trust and all that one believes in.

I've been struggling to find it ever since.

Life moves on. You have no choice. You coin a mantra: "Keep moving forward." You do just that.

You're better off in continuing to move with it.

You discover that maybe, just maybe, you can try trusting again. Maybe you can let your soul be what it once was.

Then again, maybe not. It's a work in progress.

I went home following the conversation about Amy Winehouse and put Back to Black on as I mowed the lawn. The music astounded me. Moved me.

I suppose, in some way, it was therapeutic. Almost a form of, wait for it...

Rehab.

No. No. No.

A Flashback and an Addendum: WGCH-FM Revisited

I don't often get comments left for me on the site, but I stumbled on one today. It was for a post that I wrote in 2008.

Yes, seven years ago.

It was about WGCH, or should I say, the predecessor to the AM station at 1490. It was about WGCH-FM, at 95.9.

I found the story of it in the history originally here, while there's more on Hartford Radio History as well. I've since stumbled across a third version on the Greenwich Library website.

With all of that said, I wrote about WGCH-FM on March 10, 2008. A reader commented on it back in late June of this year, and have added her comments as a quick update. So jump into the Exit 55 Wayback Machine again and have a read.

Oh yeah, and since it's Huey Lewis' birthday, and we're going back in time, well...yeah...

Musical Musings of Monkees Mayhem and More

Rivalry? What rivalry? Michael Nesmith and John Lennon

I truly enjoy a great conversation about music, especially when it's not one of those "Bon Jovi is da greatest American bands evah"-types of debates, where you know you just can't deal with logic.

I'm not one to shy away from an a good music debate (John Cougar Monkfish, anyone?) but I like it when it stays civil and fun.

I especially like a conversation that makes me (or perhaps the person I'm talking to) seek out some of the tunes being discussed. When there's a moment of "Holy moly! I thought I was the only one that liked that song/artist/band/genre."

One of those chats occurred the other day. By the end of it I was seeking out my copy of Billy Joel's Cold Spring Harbor, an album famous for being mistakenly mastered at a higher speed. You realize what a wonderful album it is that sets him up for greater success.

Music can come and go emotionally. The song you detested in 1986 is beloved today. A band like U2 can be genius circa 1982-1985 before The Joshua Tree destroys it. It takes 15 years to come back to them, only to have life sort of ruin it.

A song like "Take On Me" can go from being "meh" to annoying to detested to laughed at (thank you, Family Guy) as you connect with your child over it.

It's all truly personal preference, though one has to try to be fair, like it or not. I get it: Mr. Mellancamp has sold millions. Of the nearly 17,000 songs in the iTunes on the computer I'm typing from, I spy three songs of his that were undoubtedly given to me or part of some collection. He is, no doubt, a talented musician. Again. You have to be fair.

Another recent conversation revealed a fondness for "Let It Grow" by Eric Claption. It creates one of those moments when the conversation hits stunned silence at the discovery of something that you didn't expect. Yes, indeed.



Still another conversation got me thinking about The Monkees. I always love the narrative that gets created (by fans and media, of course) of a rivalry between The Beatles and The Monkees (and of course, between The Beatles and The Rolling Stones).

None existed, folks. Hit the Googler (or look at the top of this post). Discover it for yourself. See how both Nesmith and Dolenz were hanging out at Abbey Road with John, Paul, George, and Ringo.

If anything, "rivalries" occasionally produce music. Without Pet Sounds by The Beach Boys, we might not get Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band by the Liverpool Lads.

I can tell you that I liked the Pre-Fab Four, and of course loved the show. The music, especially the earlier work had tremendous songwriting behind them (Neil Diamond, Carole King, Harry Nilsson, among others). But wait! There's more!

Now I'm not here to tell you The Monkees are better than The Beatles. You know from hanging around these parts that The Beatles are in my blood, so I will always be a bigger fan of theirs. That's where personal preference comes in (and sometimes, with it, a certain level of "guilt."**) I'm not going to tell you Huey Lewis and the News are America's GREATEST BAND, but I'm sure going to tell you that they don't necessarily get the respect they deserve. They are what they are.

** Bonus reading at the bottom as we hit the Exit 55 WAYBACK MACHINE!

I will say the same about The Monkees. Their hits are monsters, and yes, they didn't play on them...blah blah blah. It's still their voices. Look, let's not go there. This isn't Milli Vanilli we're talking about. Yet we tend to overlook them as being a goofy novelty act without digging deeper. I submit to you a couple of tunes.

"Listen to The Band" Just when you want to say, "Oh this is just some Mike Nesmith country-western twang thang," stop. Immediately(because even if it was, so what?). Listen to the horns kick in. His vocal works perfectly. There's a great bass line in there. I was stunned to rediscover this one.


You can hear why "Papa Nez" has his cult following. Now listen to "Words" in which you get the great vocal of Micky Dolenz, but check out the harmonizing and co-lead vocal of Peter Tork. Often thought of as, arguably, the Monkee with the best instrumental chops, you hear another dimension. Again, there's a great bass line (Nesmith plays that one, with Tork on lead guitar).


Lastly, check out "Randy Scouse Git (Alternate Title)" with its reference to the "Four Kings of EMI." (The Beatles, of course)

I love a song with depth. A tympani drum? The piano interlude in the beginning? Nesmith yawning in the video? OK, that last piece has nothing to do with the song itself, but still. Read Wikipedia for more on it.

Unless you really know their music you're probably not aware of these tunes.

Look, I'm not trying to get them elected to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but let's be honest, are the Monkees better than, er, Mr. Mellancamp (who is, shamefully, in)? Again, personal preference, but it's a debate worth having.

Anyway, the point of this exercise was to discuss how a great conversation, a moment, a thought, can lead one to discover or rediscover music. There are certain bridges that likely will never be crossed, but there are others that, with an open mind, can lead to a whole new world that the wisdom of time can give.

** I said we'd hit the WAYBACK MACHINE (Sherman and Peabody are nowhere to be found for this). Back to 2009 we go, when I previously wrote about guilty pleasure in music.

Home and Quiet

Is that a monument protruding from your shoulder or are you just happy to see me?

I was going to write tonight. I had a topic.

But...no.

I'll focus instaed on the weekend that has just concluded - an impromptu road trip back to Scranton, PA that turned into (almost) a repeat of the one Sean and I just had in April. There were changes and, at the last-minute, a decision to stay overnight.

Of course, I had thought about packing a bag just in case, but I didn't. So a quick shopping trip was needed to pick up some goodies.

The reason to go was Father's Day, combined with the end of the school year. It was great for both of us, as well as my mom, who came along for the ride.

As was the sprit of the weekend, we stumbled into High Point State Park in New Jersey (no jokes. I'm being polite). My mother's family had frequented the park many times, and there is supposedly a document from my grandfather buried in a time capsule at the war monument, which opened in 1930.

My grandfather Adams, Mom, and Dad. High Point State Park, NJ (circa 1958)

I'd been there a few times myself, including sometime in the late 70s (or maybe 1980), when the monument was closed.

Me with my cousins Alice and Matt

Another visit came in 2005, this time with Sean and mom.

Each trip was made out of season, meaning we didn't pay for park fees, but also meaning the monument was closed. In recent years, the park faced closing and the refurbishing of the monument, among other things.

Today's trip meant paying $20 in park fees because it was the weekend and we are out of state residents. So to do so, I needed to know the monument was open.

It was.

A long climb to the top was made and after over 35 years, I finally visited the top of the High Point monument.

The climb awaits.

 Sean and I made it. The heights didn't bother me, and it was a good workout.

Success!

Back at the bottom, I was exhilarated. Sean was, er, not.

Anyway, that's all I've got. It beats writing about silliness.

She's Right on Time

Ah the 80s.

A time in which videos were cheesy and how we lived.

When the M stood for MUSIC in MTV.

When Billy Joel was, you know, Billy Joel. Not an overpriced franchise at Madison Square Garden* but a living, breathing, brilliant hit maker.

*I still love you, Billy, but tickets are too expensive. Besides that, I don't have anyone to go see you with, and as much as Paul Silverfarb is a dear friend, he should be seeing you with his wife. That's always been how I've rolled. (P.S., Paul agrees with this sentiment)

Anyway, I've long thought, going back to when The Nylon Curtain came out, that She's Right on Time was among his most underrated tunes. That an Vienna from The Stranger.

I suppose there's a Rule 55 in here somewhere (posting a video when I want to say something else). The truth is this song was in my head before (it takes me to a special place) and I just wanted to post it.

Such a Grand Old Flag

Thank you, nameless person on the interwebs, for inspiring me.

Thank you for posting a picture that, in my mind, disrespected the flag of the United States of America, on Flag Day.

Look, I get some of your anger at our great nation. Indeed we are a fractured fatherland with unresolved racism but also problems with gender inequity reverse racism (racism is racism, after all) and what seems to be an abundance of violent crime.

But.

Is it really as bad as it might seem?

Are we - am I - part of the problem?

Well...yeah.

First, we can blame the media. Not all of us, of course, but yes we can certainly glance at the need for viewers. So yes, we need dirty laundry! CNN, MSNBC, FOX, TMZ, and so on. You get the idea.

We need stories. Don't have one? MAKE ONE UP! Embellish.

Ugh

But there's more. We are all responsible. Do you read Twitter? Facebook? Instsagram? Well that's where some leads come from for stories, as well as demonstrating our instant gratification society.

Let's put if this way: we report nearly everything now. We didn't always.

Also think of how far we've come as a country. Ever hear of that Jackie Robinson guy? The one who broke the modern baseball color barrier? Yeah. That's clearly changed, thankfully. Glance at Washington. Love him. Hate him. Whatever. A black man (please spare me the politics) is President of the United States.

Oh I have lots more, but just go read a history book. Glance at a documentary. Check out the googler on this world-wide-internet-thingy!

No, we're not perfect. Health care is still a mess. The President - the very one I mentioned above - doesn't seem to be a whole better than his predecessor. Chuck Schumer is still talking into microphones. Al Shapton...good lord.

I said I wasn't getting into politics, so I'll stop there.

Ferguson and Baltimore and Eric Garner on Staten Island didn't help things. Certainly it opened wounds.

Yet does anyone know how divisive this country was during the Vietnam War? Do we recall when blacks couldn't eat at the same lunch counters as whites? When they had to go to separate hotels? How about when women couldn't vote? There's also a bad history of religious idiocy.

Then I hear way too much about "the good old days," when we were one big group hug of a country. Eisenhower, baby!

Yet, again. Separate hotels. Lynchings. Come on, people. Just different eras.

I often hear it: what is wrong with this world? In some ways, we ARE worse. Yet, in some ways, just look around. It's better. Much.

Sure, I wish we could have a lot of things back, but we can't. So let's accept what we have now and move on with life. Let's try, just a little, to make it better.

I'm no 'Merica type of guy. I have my form of patriotism that is very much my own style: honest and real. I detest the "September 12" phenomenon, in which we're one big HAPPY country...and within days the same problems creep back up, and those flags that are flying and acting as bumper stickers are tattered and faded.

But I won't see the flag disrespected. Too much blood was spent. Too many battles - on too many fronts - were raged.

It's a symbol of this country. To disrespect it is to dump on my uncles, friends, my nieces husband, and other loved ones who fought for it. It disrespects my own father, who desperately wanted to go to Korea so that he could defend it.

I apologize if this sounds like some form of jingoism. I assure you it's not.

Think before you post, people.

Pathetic

I'm sort of a damaged soul, if you haven't learned by now.

There are reasons various and sundry for that. Some of it is not caring what people think.

Some of it is caring too much.

I'm not to be pitied, nor am I looking for such. There are a lot of stories in the world. This is where I get to tell mine.

I don't write everything of course. Honestly, how can I? For one thing, not every story is for public consumption. For another, stories are open to interpretation because I often don't name names.

Such is the risk.

Among the things that has damaged me was the time that someone I cared greatly for called my pursuit of a broadcasting career "pathetic." I can still hear it. The truth is that it could have been said specifically to hurt me. Eventually, I didn't know what to trust or believe.

Still the words stayed with me.

It was a different world when I started my career, almost 25 years ago. I kept working full-time while going to school part-time and dabbling in radio on the weekend. Eventually I slid over to WREF and WGCH and began an odyssey of so many things.

Life decisions had to play into all of that. I stayed in New York for family and friends. I passed on a chance to go away to college at 23 to finish up my Bachelor's Degree. Eventually Sean came along and I couldn't see the point of relocating. I was 33 by then and it didn't seem likely that a play-by-play job would pay the bills to raise a family.

Generally, despite layoffs, I made some good money in other worlds, which led to a house and a decent life.

Yes I made some attempts to move on, but I never left.

I continued to soothe my broadcasting jones by calling whatever I could. I handled Greenwich football and jumped on Hudson Valley Renegades broadcasts and a lot more.

Of course, that life came crashing down.

Pathetic.

Tomorrow I will handle, arguably, one of the biggest assignment of my career. From the radio calls in Greenwich of multiple sports to the Renegades and Sound Tigers and Bluefish and Mount Saint Mary College and interviews and other amazing experiences, I've done a lot.

Satisfied? Hardly. Would I still love a team of my own or to make the jump to a big league? Of course.

Yet tomorrow I will call all three state lacrosse championships in Connecticut. I will be "the voice" of them. Nobody else is supposed to have that duty and, beyond that, they will run on CPTV (yep, television) next week.

I've never taken a championship assignment lightly. It doesn't matter if it's a league championship, state championship, or youth football league. I care about that call, just as I do about all games.

Somebody cares about it. I've learned that. People tell me - years later - what I said in that moment. They remember. It's shocking.

I often say it's an honor. That's not just a line. I mean it.

I called two lacrosse semifinals on Wednesday night. They didn't run on HAN Radio but we produced them, and the same will go for tomorrow. At first, I was a little off my call because I felt like I was out of my element. Call it putting too much pressure on myself, but I felt like I might hyperventilate in the opening of the first game.

Eventually I pulled it together and it became another broadcast. Yet it wasn't.

The same goes for tomorrow.

Let me be quite clear: I'm fortunate to be in the right place at the right time. I'm fortunate that the powers-that-be elected to have HAN Radio take this lacrosse assignment on. I'm fortunate that my powers-that-be want me to be the lead broadcaster.

Don't think for a second that anyone said they had to have us because of me. Not at all. We're a great team.

Tomorrow I'm the voice - the face (YIKES) - of the 2015 CIAC lacrosse championships on the NFHS Network.

No matter the result, the broadcasts will get the same attention, passion, and energy that I've given the others. If it's awful, it won't be due to lack of trying.

I'm sure I can give you other reasons that I'm pathetic.

My broadcasting isn't one of them.

Lou and The Babe

The saddest day in American sports history: July 4, 1939

Yeah, I know. It's supposed to be The Babe and Lou.

Not here. Look, I revere Ruth, and when the subject of God comes up, I use the Bambino, because he's simply a god. There has never been - and never will be - anyone like him.

The. Best. Ever. No argument.

But Gehrig? Well, Lou is different. Brilliant in his own right, and if not for Babe Ruth, you'd have a hell of a debate on that "best ever" stuff.

Cobb? Sure. Mays? Of course. Musial? Bonds (controversially). Mantle. DiMaggio. So on.

And Henry Louis Gehrig.

He left us far too soon, on this day in 1941, not quite 38 years of age. If - such a brutal word - not for the disease that bears his name? Well, there would have been a lot more than the 493 home runs (second only to that Babe guy).

He was always connected to The Babe. Even today, June 2, many noted the fact that The Babe retired 80 years ago. Yes, he left the Boston Braves on June 2, 1935 after playing briefly in Boston with the hope of managing there.

Yet it was on June 2, 1925 that Wally Pipp had a headache, or so the story goes. Then Lou Gehrig, who had pinch hit for Pee Wee Wanninger the day before, took over at first base for Pipp, and didn't give the position up until May 1, 1939.

I know, Cal Ripken has the record, blah blah blah. Give me The Iron Horse in the days of doubleheaders, primitive (by comparison) medical efforts, wool uniforms, and train travel. Just one man's preference, with all due respect to number eight in Baltimore.

Shockingly, this is a picture I've never seen. Taken sometime in 1935.

They are connected forever, Ruth and Gehrig. Even in death, Ruth is buried in Gate of Heaven cemetery in Valhalla, NY. Gehrig? Next cemetery over - Kensico, also in Valhalla. They're a five-minute drive apart.

In 1927, Ruth hit 60 home runs. Gehrig hit a mere 47. Oh and this was at a time when players could still outhomer entire teams. Indeed both did just that.

Of course, famously, when Ruth hit the "called shot" in the 1932 World Series, guess who was up next? Gehrig. What did Gehrig do? Hit a home run. Just not as famously.

They're intertwined forever. The Babe and Lou. Ruth and Gehrig. The Iron Horse and The Bambino.

They share June 2nd for very different reasons.

Lou Gehrig's locker, Cooperstown, NY.

When I visited Ernest Hemingways house last year in Key West, a friend asked me to text a picture. She told me about how she cried when she saw his writing desk upon her own visit. That went through my mind when I saw Gehrig's locker this past April in Cooperstown. Thus the power.

Connected, even in death (1941)

I beg, plead, implore you to read Jonathan Eig's brilliant Luckiest Man. It is, arguably, the best sports biography I have ever read.

Memorial Day and Freedom

Old Glory, Cooperstown, NY, April 18, 2015 (Shockingly, I took that picture)

Around our slice of the world, there are parades going on.

Bands are playing. Children are smiling. Later, grills will fire up. Here in the Pac, it's 80 degrees, and I'm planning on reading before taking Sean home. If I can find some energy, I will try to clean around the house.

It's low-key, and we get to do so because of the freedom we have.

Many - on social media (and on a radio/video webstream) - have espoused that we should thank those who have defended our flag, way of life, etc for allowing us to have this freedom.

Of course many do it for show (HEY! LOOK AT ME! I'M A PATRIOT!). Others do it because it's proper. I did it during Friday's game broadcast because I wanted to reinforce it.

Again, like having the right to post on social media about religion or politics (I have very strong thoughts about this, frankly), we have freedom.

But know why we're off today. Do just a little research. Read about Sandra Ennor of Darien (Darien Times, by Aaron Marsh).

Read something to learn.

Take five minutes. Ten, maybe.

Take some time and do it.

Then go play ball or enjoy that burger, or listen to Born to Run (still, to me, the ultimate summer kickoff song).

Me and My Doppelganger

Sean had a concert tonight at the high school he will attend: John Jay in Hopewell Jct, NY.

His grandmother took a picture of us following the show. Sean plays a mean alto saxophone.

I posted it on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, but this is one that I wanted to also post here, since not everyone is social media savvy.

I'm crazy proud of this kid. You probably know that. I also miss him like crazy when I don't see him. Chances are you know that as well. I hope he feels the same.

I mourn a lot of lost time. Decisions that I'm not a part of. Feeling like I'm just...well...I don't know.

Back to hockey.

Rule 55, and Why It's Still Relevant

Sean, Jackson Square, New Orleans, 2006.

I've been saving this one for a few days. Rule 55 is a glorious thing, but it must be used at the right times.

Long ago, I started posted videos when I had something to say but couldn't. My friend Sean Kilkelly deemed it "Rule 55," in honor of me, when he had the urge to do the same in his writing.

Rule 55 is my outlet. It's my way of saying "something is up."

My writing is raw. Passionate. Sometimes joyous. Sometimes angry. It expresses a wide range of emotion. It's often vague, and that brings both praise and grief.

I've felt sadness as I've ached over one thing or another that I've written. I've laughed at certain passages.

So above is a picture of Sean in New Orleans in 2006, along with a song that mentions the Crescent City below.

A bottle of red. A bottle of white.

Domestic Violence and Total Asshattery

Rachel Nichols

Michelle Beadle

I've posted a new "From the Press Box" over at HAN Radio. Domestic violence isn't something I mess around about.

Trying to take the eye off the issue by playing a shell game - LOOK, it's THEIR fault - isn't something I'm going to abide by.

I can't defend it. I can't support it. I won't have it.

Climbing off my soap box now, I'll direct your attention here.

Reflections and Flashbacks

August 3, 2007.

First, an apology. I'm sure I've worn you all out with the constant pictures of Sean (and narcissistic selfies) from Cooperstown and Scranton and points between.

Thanks to those who, despite that, liked and commented. A pox on those who didn't...

Regardless, here is one more: past and present comes to life. At the top is a picture of Sean on the Tri-States Rock in Port Jervis, NY in 2007. He is posing as the "Statue of Limberty." Here he is three years later.

Sept. 4, 2010.

Finally, we reach today. He couldn't resist doing the pose again, hence the laughing face with the eyes closed.

Incidentally, here's another version, before the "Limberty" one.

Anyway, that's that.

In Scranton

Sean and I are turning towards the final stages of our third annual father-son trip.

Scranton, you say? Hell, I read where Craig Calcaterra of NBC Sports Hardball Talk ranked the move from New York to Scranton as the worst demotion in baseball.

I get it, yet I sort of dig it here. We liked Lancaster last year, but remembered how much we liked Scranton from our 2013 trip. So we came back here.

The Spring Hill Suites is a great place. We have a nice view of PNC Field. There are places for trains, trolleys, coal mines and various Sean-friendly activities.

Plus we have our food bonanza of Waffle House, Krispy Kreme, and Wegman's has now become a Sean favorite.

It's not your idea of fun, perhaps. But it's ours.

I agonized over doing this trip, mostly due to the root of all evil (yes, money). But as I watched Sean smile, and listened to him rave about how much he loves traveling with me, I figured there really wasn't any question about this being the right thing to do.

Now I'm listening to him laugh hysterically over things he is watching on his iPad in our room.

We hit the pool a couple of times, and don't you know it takes being there for this kid to want to have a catch with his father?

We'll carry the memories home. I'll carry the last vestiges of my little boy being a little boy.

I'm holding on for dear life.

We still have most of today before real life takes back over.

Calling a Game with Sean

I had a guest analyst when I called a baseball game last Saturday: Sean Adams, who called the bottom of the second, bottom of the sixth, and top of the seventh with me.

I wrote about the experience, and posted the audio, over at HAN Radio, in my "From the Press Box" column.

Vin Calls Sandy

I've begged, pleaded, and implored people to listen to the most fabulous ten minutes in sports play-by-play history. Tonight, on the eve of Opening Day, I'm posting it again.

Sandy Koufax was perfect through eight innings against the Cubs on September 9, 1965. Only 29,000 fans were at Dodger Stadium on that night. Vin Scully was in the booth, calling the game on radio.

There is no video of the game. No full audio broadcast. Only the ninth inning. Why? Because not everything was recorded in those days, but "Vinny" asked the engineer to roll tape, as a potential souvenir for Koufax if he could get the three outs in the top of the ninth.

This is poetry. The mellifluous Scully, in his 16th year working for the Dodgers, at 37 years of age, went to work on calling the game in his usual style. There's no hype. There are no theatrics and histrionics. In fact, he chides Koufax at one point:

That’s only the second time tonight where I have had the feeling that Sandy threw instead of pitched, trying to get that little extra, and that time he tried so hard his hat fell off — he took an extremely long stride to the plate — and (Jeff) Torborg had to go up to get it.

There are other lines in this inning that simply give me chills.

The Dodgers defensively in this spine-tingling moment: Sandy Koufax and Jeff Torborg. The boys who will try and stop anything hit their way: Wes Parker, Dick Tracewski, Maury Wills and John Kennedy; the outfield of Lou Johnson, Willie Davis and Ron Fairly. And there’s 29,000 people in the ballpark and a million butterflies. Twenty nine thousand, one hundred and thirty-nine paid.

There had only been five perfect games in the "modern era" of baseball, and seven total prior to Sept. 9, 1965. Spine-tingling, indeed.

A lot of people in the ballpark now are starting to see the pitches with their hearts.

I would think that the mound at Dodger Stadium right now is the loneliest place in the world.

Finally, the coda:

Sandy into his windup, here’s the pitch: Swung on and missed, a perfect game!

Yes, we still believe in miracles. The Giants won the pennant. The ball still gets by Buckner. In the year that had been so improbable, the impossible happened. Holy cow, going going gone, and the waiting is over. All great calls (and many many more).

This is the one I tell students to listen to. It's just how you do it. It was transcribed on Salon in 1999.

Baseball

 From left: Lou Gehrig, Joe Cronin, Bill Dickey, Joe DiMaggio, Charlie Gehringer, Jimmie Foxx, and Hank Greenberg. 

Check out that picture above. Look at them: Gehirg, Cronin, Dickey, DiMaggio, Gehringer, Foxx, Greenberg. Even non-baseball/sports fans know at least two of those names (Gehrig and Joe D., of course).

It was taken at the 1937 All-Star Game at Griffith Stadium in Washington. Look at that glorious NBC sign in the background. Incidentally, three radio networks broadcast that game (NBC, CBS, and Mutual).

You might not know that every one of those players is enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Yet they are. Those guys aren't scrubs. They're among the best to ever play the game of baseball. Naturally, I've written tons about The Iron Horse, and a few words about DiMaggio as well. Bill Dickey, by the way, is vastly overlooked.

For you non-fans, Jimmie Foxx was the loose model for Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own.

You probably know this, if you've read anything here, but I love this great game. My god, we've screwed it up incredibly over the years. The race issues were deplorable. The sport struggled with growth and competition from the NFL through the 70s (and it continues today). We've added playoff teams and dealt with drugs (steroids, greenies, cocaine, etc. Go on. Look it up.). We're worried about pace of play and bringing the inner city back.

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

We have the Babe. The one and only. The single greatest, most important athlete in the history of sports. Yes, I know, Jim Thorpe, Bo Jackson, and others might have been better true athletes, but given everything involved, there's Babe Ruth and everyone else.

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

Yet tomorrow, in the day, with the stands full and the records 0-0, the lines will be painted fresh. The grass will be gloriously green. I wish a band would play, and we could recreate some of the openings of seasons past, but a voice will intone the starting lineups, and they will gather on those freshly-painted baselines. The anthem will be sung. A ceremonial first pitch will be thrown. There might be a flyover or some other special effect.

Then, as there has been since 1869 (the generally agreed upon "first year" of Major League Baseball), a batter will step up to home plate. A pitcher - 60 feet, six inches away - will author a first pitch.

And there will be baseball. To me, for its history, grandeur, strategy - everything - it is the greatest game of them all.

Football is the national passion. Baseball is the National Pastime.

Give me 714. Give me .406. Sixty-one. Fifty-six. I wish we could have 1918 back, but time marches on. A fan knows what these numbers are.

Give me the billy goat. The Bambino. Curses real or imagined.

Give me those uniform numbers that we all know: four. Three. Seven. Five. Forty-two.

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

Give me Willie, Mickey, and The Duke. Tinker to Evers to Chance.

Give me The Called Shot. The Homer in The Gloamin'. The Shot Heard Round the World. The Miracle of Coogan's Bluff. Those last two are the same thing.

Give me Ebbets Field. Forbes Field. Crosley Field. Now give me Camden Yards and Fenway and Wrigley. The Big A. Chavez Ravine.

Give me the corner of E. 161st Street and River Ave. The most famous address in sports history.

Give me the Royal Rooters and the Bleacher Creatures.

Give me 27 rings.

Give me those great quotes, from music to movies to TV and beyond.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game. "Luckiest Man."

“That's baseball, and it's my game. Y' know, you take your worries to the game, and you leave 'em there. You yell like crazy for your guys. It's good for your lungs, gives you a lift, and nobody calls the cops. Pretty girls, lots of 'em.”
―Humphrey Bogart

Give me Vincent Edward Scully. The man known as Vin. The man who learned at the side of Walter Lanier Barber, the Old Redhead himself sitting in the catbird seat, while the bases were FOB (full of Brooklyn).

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

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

I love this game. It energizes me. Engulfs me. Fills my heart, yet breaks it. It enraptured me for sure when I saw my first pro game in 1972 and a guy named Murcer doubled off another guy named Palmer. One is a hall of famer. The other doesn't need to be.

It made me cry when in 1996, my boyhood team won their first title in 18 years, and I couldn't share it with the one person I wanted to share it with.

Most of all, selfishly, give me a microphone so that I can broadcast it.

This is the beginning of my year. This is when I feel refreshed.

This is when I know that this horrible winter is over.

It's Opening Day.

Play ball.

I Can See Right Through That

In 1978, a budding superstar stepped to the plate in a tight baseball game and watched as a pitch hit the outside corner.

Strike three.

The young stud athlete cried, vowing to never allowed that to happen again*. The backwards K (the scorecard indication for a called third strike in baseball) was another red mark in an otherwise stellar year. One that featured three donuts.

*My batting average was .000

Not long after, it was determined that my right eye - my lead batting eye - was weak. My father promised me a present for my first hit in the 1979 season.

I got glasses and I singled in my first at-bat. Pop and I went to Tom-Kat Sporting Goods in Mahopac and we mocked up a white T-shirt to look like a Yankees away jersey (number 55 on the back, of course).

I generally resisted my glasses (though insisted on having them on for my fourth grade picture). I'd wear them for my times at the plate in baseball, casting them away as soon as I reached first base on struck out (swinging).

For the record, I never did get caught looking again. I became a serious student of the strike zone, and knew how to work my way to a walk, though it stunned me when legendary coach Lou D'Aliso started batting me leadoff later in my illustrious career.

By 1984, I wanted glasses to be a backup, and worked my way into contact lenses, and oh what misadventures we had with losing them and breaking them.

In the early 90's, my left eye caught up my right and I was into wearing two contacts.

Within the last year, two things happened: 1) I ran out of contact lenses, and 2) I couldn't afford new contact lenses.

Then a little over a week ago, the trusty glasses that I had for roughly five years snapped on me. It was time for a change, and a reality check.

Yes. I'm 46, and my reading vision has deteriorated (I'm traditionally nearsighted). So it was time for a progressive bifocal lens. At the same time, it was time to shake it up and go to a plastic frame.

That's what you see above.

There might be some contact lenses again, but I've also had people tell me I look "better" in glasses.

Oh no. That's not supposed to be insulting at all.

Anyway, it will be nice to call a game with the proper vision again. Speaking of which, games begin ramping back up tomorrow. It's almost baseball season.

I can see clearly now.

The Egg and Cheese Sandwich

My phone rang a short time ago, with the news that teen sensation Sean Adams wanted "one of
Daddy's amazing" cheesy egg concoctions.

Let's not get into why that news was delivered via a phone call. It would waste valuable brain cells.

So I went upstairs, grabbed the frying pan, plopped some butter in in, whipped two eggs, lightly toasted some bread (we didn't have rolls or bagels), threw a piece of cheese on the toast, laid the eggs on top, and it was done. His majesty asked for a piece of ham on the side, and I complied. I put my ham on my sandwich (after heating it up, of course).

Sean raved. "You really are a great sandwich-maker. You get the right consistency of the cheese, without overpowering the eggs."

Yes. That's a quote.

Yet there is nothing special about it. To be honest, I think my egg and cheese creations are terrible. I think a few people have gagged them down at one time or another.

The eggs aren't fluffy enough. I've dabbled with different attempts at adding flavor and the results have been, at best, tepid.

Still Sean likes them.

Baffling.

This Post Will Be a Dinger (Sorry, AP)

From the notebook of Rob Adams, once and forever "sh*tty reporter":

Deadspin reports that the 2015 Associated Press Stylebook, the...er...Bible* of too many periodicals to count, is updating how sports stories are to be written.

* Yes, Bible is the correct term here. You would understand if you've ever been in a newsroom and heard some smarmy editor/reporter climb to the pulpit and, in their best "schoolmarm" voice say: "That is not proper AP style!" Incidentally, to be a proper schoolmarm (male or female, in this case, by the way), it is preferred that your rrrroll your "r" in "proper."

I've seen the performance. It's quite impressive. I too appreciate AP style. In my world, I would love all broadcasters to ascribe to the Barber/Scully stylebook, but to my knowledge, Gus Johnson is still employed.

OK, digressing here fantastically, let me return to the task at hand, since by now I've likely infuriated friends and colleagues, many of whom at this point either aren't getting the joke or are simply sarcasm-impaired.


Getting back on-point, I don't think I used the term "dinger" when I wrote baseball stories for Tim Murphy in the Wilton Bulletin (we, too, are adjusting style, so following along, I'm not italicizing publication titles anymore. Though I might. You never know.).

I tend to avoid too much slang (shockingly) when I wrote professionally because I thought, golly gee willickers, that it should be sort of "professional." Ergo, AP style!

I also don't think I've written "disaster" in regards to a loss, but I've abso-frickin-lutely used it on the radio. Because it is.

Then again, us sports radio "talking heads" are the lowest of the low. You know, at least a rung or two below a "sh*tty reporter."

I'm having fun with this, if you couldn't guess. It allows me to write with glowing snark and sarcasm, without unburdening the raging rapids of anger buried deep in the soul.

I hope no one is a wet blanket over this sockdollager. I'd bet a simeolean or even a sawbuck that the sap who came up with this malarkey is just a reuben or a rummy. But even the tomato I was just talking to says it's all on the up and up. All this hooey has me wanting some hooch. It's just that I need to be a little more hard-boiled, that's all. A fella needs a nice get-up to meet him a floorflusher. So come on, Daddy-o. Let's go have a whiz bang of a time and spend two bits to get a few ducats to watch the Babe hit a couple of whammers. It will be a hoot!

(Most, if not all of that jargon, came from this site. Fortunately the AP isn't giving me the bum's rush.)

A Wilton Disappointment

Wilton High School's field house

They aren't disappointed in Wilton. Oh goodness, no.

The Wilton High School girls basketball team - the Warriors - won a state championship last week.

I'm the one feeling the disappointment.

We had a fun day last Saturday. Thanks to the weather, a combination of Eric Gendron, Chris Kaelin, Jake Zimmer and I called three hockey games at venerable David S. Ingalls Rink in New Haven. It's quickly become one of my favorites places to work. Oh the press areas are small and I had to climb over the counter to get into it, and there can be the awful mix of raging egos of fellow reporters and broadcasters, but I overall like it. There are people I enjoy seeing as I try to earn my spot (after a mere 18 years) in the club of Connecticut media.

We wish congratulations to EO Smith/Tolland, Darien, and Suffield/Granby/Windsor Locks. Each hockey champion won fair and square.

There was, however, no basketball on our air. This is where you will find my disappointment.

In short, it involved contracts and rights and so on. Hopefully they get it sorted out because I wasn't thrilled to see the (at least) three other radio stations that were allowed to show up at Mohegan Sun, while we had to leave our mics at home.

I'm disappointed for Kato, John Kovach, Paul Silverfarb, and Nora Delaney. Each one was looking forward to calling a state championship game. I've called so many, and they're still a big honor, and a huge responsibility that I do not take lightly. Kato would have had the call for at least a couple of the hoops games. Those would have been his first championship play-by-play gigs.

They were simply not to be.

I'm disappointed because I wanted to see Wilton - those Warriors - attempt to win the Class LL title.

We had only just met a few days earlier. I was setting up for a boys game while they were on the floor, practicing, when they spontaneously broke into The Star-Spangled Banner. I stopped, respected the flag, then applauded. Of course I said "Play ball." Once an awkward idiot, always an awkward idiot.

As I walked past them, I said, "See you tomorrow night."

Then they went out and beat Stamford the next night. We followed them to their semi-final matchup against Mercy at Jonathan Law High School under a week later. They won 55-54, to advance to their first state championship game.

After it was over, I interviewed Eric Meyer, a Providence College-bound senior. As we ended the interview, I told her that we would see her at Mohegan Sun. I laughed and said the Warriors were 2-0 with HAN Radio in the room. Politely, with a laugh of her own, she said she wanted us there for the championship.

Then we found out we couldn't go.

What made me want to go? A number of things, but one of them was just how excited they were. As we know, girls athletics don't get the attention. They were pleased to see us (or at least they acted it). They came on with Paul Silverfarb and I on Nutmeg Sports two days after they won the title.

They also deserve that attention because they're a terrific basketball team, and the second best team in the state of Connecticut, regardless of school size.

I wanted to go because it was a story I wanted to tell. It's a team whose core grew up together, and now they were 32 minutes from being a state champion. I wanted to see Erica, and Haley, and Erin, and Makenna and their teammates play South Windsor.

They won, 73-45. John Miscioscla has more at the Wilton Bulletin.

They didn't need us there, to be honest. They can get the video from CPTV, and I'm sure it was a perfectly fine call. They'd likely never remember the polite radio people anyway.

That wasn't the point.

I wanted us to tell their story, along with those of St. Joseph, Notre Dame of Fairfield, Westhill, Fairfield Prep, and Bunnell (local schools, all).

Nobody will lose any sleep, of course.

That doesn't squash the disappointment.

Instead of going to Mohegan Sun Saturday night - instead of figuring out all of the logistics - we called our three hockey games.

I smiled as I reported the Warriors championship (along with St. Joe's, and congratulations to them).

Then I packed up and went home.

I'm sure the Warriors bus ride back from Uncasville was a far more exciting affair.

Respect

I grabbed my copy of the Darien Times Thursday morning, which featured an editorial by Susan Shultz, on the recent girls hockey game situation, along with overall thoughts about gender equality.

Before you roll your eyes, this isn't some kind of "I am woman, hear my roar bra-burning manifesto." Gloria Steinem is nowhere to be found. This is just a common-sense view of doing what's right.

I am so proud of this editorial, and how it looped into my overall vision for HAN Radio, that I hung it at my desk in Ridgefield. It's strong, powerful, and passionate.

I'm also honored to have inspired the editorial, but it is really more about the girls on those two hockey teams than it is about me. I'm a conduit, and nothing more.

It speaks of respect, a concept that will always drive me. I demand it - from others and from myself.

Anyway, it seems the story has died, and the two teams won't play a rematch. That's too bad.

Respect is more than an Aretha Franklin song. It's also harder thing to achieve than at first glance. It should be easy. It's not.

Guess that's about all I've got.

Route 106

Route 106 didn't go that way in '89. It does now.

Connecticut Route 106 winds from its beginning at US 1 and Interstate 95 in Stamford (near the headquarters of WWE, for you wrestling fans) through New Canaan into Wilton, where it ends at route 53. You can learn more about it at Kurumi.com.

It's a route number that I've been on many times, especially the parts around Stamford and New Canaan. I don't use the stretch between New Canaan and Wilton as much, because I never had the need, but there was one day I specifically remember being on it.

March 17, 1989. St. Patrick's Day.

It was a Friday, and I needed to do some shopping for a birthday present for Sean's mother. After finishing work in Rye Brook, NY, I decided I would go to Danbury Fair Mall before picking her up. I felt like I had some time on my hands, so I could take one of my interesting drives.

I hit the Hutchinson River Parkway, which becomes the Merritt Parkway once you enter Connecticut. Then I decided to take 106 from the Merritt to US 7 in Wilton. I found how 106 twists and turns from one road to another (including parts of Wilton, such as Belden Hill Road, that it no longer uses).

Once I reached US 7, I went straight to Danbury, did my shopping, moved onto picking up Sean's mother and proceeding with the night. I kind of wanted a quiet night, but she wanted to go out and at least take a drive. I felt like I hadn't seen my dad in some time, and a night at home would be nice. She won.

I had last seen Pop on Wednesday morning, when I let Bandit, my cat, out. My father was eating his breakfast in the kitchen, leaning on the counter as he always did. We exchanged looks, not even a word, and I went back to bed.

Dinner was nothing special, after all I was 20 and working in a mail room for General Foods. So it was Denny's in Newburgh, NY. From there we took a drive down US 9W from Newburgh to the Bear Mountain Bridge and got back to her house around 11 or so. Her father - never one to meet us - told me to get home.

I thought it was my nearly 93-year-old grandfather in Florida. He would die six weeks later.

I came home to cars in the driveway and garage as normal, but an empty house. A phone call produced the answer: my father was dead at 59 of a heart attack.

I've told the stories before. So much of the events after are crystal clear. Making phone calls. Watching college basketball all night before getting an hour or two of sleep.

I've talked about him here. Soft. Caring. Hard. Flawed. Strong. Great-hearted. Determined. Stubborn. The greatest smile. All among the tons of descriptions.

I carry the hurt of 3/17/89 in my heart everyday. I wish I could figure out why. I wish I could figure out how to truly get past it. I stand at attention during every national anthem, not moving until the last note is over. He hated the disrespect shown. He didn't like those who began to move or applaud before the last note. Heck, I struggle to move when I need to adjust a commercial during a broadcast.

Do like Orioles or Darien fans do, and insert yourself into the song? Oh no. No, no, no.

I still subtly point to the sky after that last note every time. That's for him.

With his parents, 1957.

St. Patrick's Day is still a day of bittersweet feelings. I want to smile and laugh and celebrate. I want to do something good to honor it create happy memories. Some years it's easy or happenstance. I was in Disney World one year. I was driving to Stratford-upon-Avon, England another year. I was out laughing and enjoying a frosty beverage with friends on another. I had dinner in Little Italy with my cousin and Sean and extended family member Brittany for yet another (yes, Italian food. Funny.)

Yet that same year, I knew things were changing uptown, and indeed I would be in a whole different relationship status a few weeks later. So it goes.

I love keeping my father's memory alive. I tell stories and I'm sure I've made a few of you say "Oh please shut up about him" from time to time. Again, so it goes.

I love seeing that son has picked up those eyes and that smile. It's a wonderful thing handed from grandfather to father to son.

My would be 85 now.

With some goofy kid, early 1970's.

I've had the reason to drive that stretch of Connecticut Route 106 a few times recently due to working in both New Canaan and Wilton. Just last week, I had to use it to get to a basketball game at Wilton High School. Because I don't drive it frequently, and because it was early March, the memories of that night, and of my dad, flooded my brain.

It's just a road of course. Yet when one of the very foundations of the connection between father and son is roads, and the countless hours we spent driving between New York and Florida, along with multiple other trips, it can begin to make a little more sense.

I'll wear some green today. Perhaps I'll have a drink to toast a man who never drank an alcoholic beverage in my life. I'll broadcast a basketball game later, and that will make me happy.

Then it will be March 18. St. Patrick's Day will be over. The Quiet Man won't be on TV. The beer, bagels, and everything won't be green (at least not on purpose).

Another day will begin, Spring will be here soon, and Route 106 will be just that.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Sláinte.

Is It All a Test?

From Saturday in Stamford

Yesterday, I posted what I thought was a pretty strong column - via hanradio.com - about a girls ice hockey fiasco that I witnessed on Saturday. I thought for sure when I posted it on my Facebook page it would spark discussion.

That sound I heard was crickets.

The reason I'm bringing this up is because I posted the following a few hours ago.

Boom! So began likes and comments.

It's all fairly fascinating.

What I'm guessing is this is another example of Short Attention Span Theater (of the absurd). Or because today is Monday. I really don't know.

I have no quarrels with those who commenting and liked the above status, but it did sort of prove my point about social media, um, er, "enthusiasts."

Anyway, another rambling rant from here. Alas, we move on.

Just very curious.

The Ties That Bind: The CT Girls Hockey Mess

I called a terrific girls hockey game yesterday that ended in a tie after two overtimes. The overriding reason was that the boys FCIAC game was due to follow (at least that's the belief). Still, it left a very bitter taste in the mouths of many, including mine.

I wrote much more about the game in my column, From the Press Box, on hanradio.com.

Go here to read it, and thanks.

After Two Games

We called two hockey games on HAN Radio today: the Connecticut girls hockey championship and the FCIAC boys hockey crown.

The girls game ended, sadly, in a 2-2 tie after two overtimes.

Yep. You read that correctly. I'm still annoyed for those girls, none of which I know, from towns I don't know very well. Simsbury and the cop-op team of East Catholic/Glastonbury/South Windsor deserved a better fate.

In the second game, the Greenwich Cardinals fell to the Darien Blue Wave, 5-3.

That, friends, is eight periods of hockey. It doesn't make me a hero.

I walked into Terry Conners Rink in Stamford a little after 11:30 this morning. It's now past seven.

I'm not complaining, of course. I love calling games more than anything else I do.

But right now, I'm wiped out. Six games in the past week, a website to maintain, multiple radio shows to do, and lots more. Sometimes I just need a break.

Again, I'm not complaining, but I'd hope for a little slack if I fumble the ball.

It was good to see my old WGCH colleagues: Sean Kilkelly and John Spang. Great guys and great friends.

Anyway, in a confluence of events, the other guys on the crew today needed to leave for one reason or another, leaving me as the lone guy to pack up.

I'm packed, but I'm just too burned out to leave. Plus it feels good to sit down.

Anyway, I'm rambling. Many more games to call.

Just a Minute

I felt the need to stop in and say hi. You'd think I could do this once a day, but no.

I read of a Mahopac guy tonight who took his own life yesterday. I don't know anything more than that, but it serves as a fine reminder that there are people who will listen when things are hopeless. It doesn't mean they have the answers, but they'll try to help somehow.

That isn't always what one needs, but it's a start. Not all help has to be about money (and let's face it: that's the biggest stress, perhaps, of them all).

What little I know is that this person was from Mahopac and lived in Greenwich. I sort of know both places fairly well.

UPDATE: Jeff Pearlman has more on David Clingerman, MHS grad.

Regardless, I'm sad to see what I'm reading on social media. People are suffering.

There's a lot of suffering going on.

*****

I had a conversation with someone about religion tonight. Faith is supposed to bring us a certain sense of peace, thus the segue. My dad often preached (see what I did there?) that one shouldn't talk religion or politics, but it was a very nice conversation on a dangerous topic.

Minds don't get changed. That wasn't the purpose of the chat anyway. I'm glad I had it.

There's a thought now that we don't really need to be raised on religion. To each their own. I know those who have been impacted very negatively by organized religion. Others do it out of tradition. Others do it because they want to.

Again, your mileage may vary.

While I'm on the topic of such things, I'm going to post this story from the Darien Times about the passing of Cardinal Edward Egan. I have strong thoughts here, but I'll return to what my father believed. However, I will say that there is no defense when it comes to abuse of children.

None.

The reporting, however, is exquisite in its simplicity, because, to be honest, it's far more complex than you realize. Darien should realize how lucky they are, and they don't, to be blunt. They don't give "Editor of the Year" awards, and that's too bad.

Yet like talking about religion, I'll stop there.

*****

Lastly, Han Solo/Indiana Jones/Jack Ryan/Dr. Richard Kimble/Mr. Calista Flockhart appears to be just fine. For the love of a Wookie, he made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, survived carbonite freezing, got around the snakes, beat Hitler, and survived the godawful Temple of Doom with Short Round and the Crystal Skull. He can handle this. Hell, he survived Air Force One, right?

May the Force be with you, Harrison.