Opening Night of FCIAC Football

Lancaster Field at Tiger Hollow, Ridgefield (RA photo)

The HAN Network is four broadcasts into the high school season. We called football games at Yorktown and Notre Dame (Fairfield), as well as soccer(!) matches (correct lingo) at Brien McMahon and Greenwich.

Those felt like the warmup acts, and I mean no disrespect with that statement.

Oh, let's spend a moment on soccer (aka futbol). I know how loyal fans are of the "Beautiful Game." I also know how they feel about their broadcasters (the Gus Johnson disaster, anyone?). I'm no Ian Darke, or Kenn Tomasch, or any other respected soccer voice that I admire. For now, I'm a narrator, as I respect the passion for the sport and don't want to infringe on it. The last thing I want to do is insult fans. I'm content to guide the broadcast along as best as I can, with the analyst (both Dave Stewart and Tim Murphy were excellent, as Mike Suppe will also be) explaining the game. This will also be the style for field hockey.

Anyway, I'm babbling. Back to the point.

Friday night was the fifth broadcast of the fall season, and it was not only time for football, but it was time for FCIAC football.

To me, it was really opening night. As such, despite the addition of a whole new level of production, it was time for the emotions.

Yes. Those emotions.

You see, now in some cosmic way, I'm the...er..."voice" of the FCIAC. Or the face. Or whatever. Football has always been the opening of my year. These emotions that I speak of normally hit me before the first Greenwich game of the year.

It's a combination of nerves, fear, and pride, coupled with a certain amount of doubt.

Things felt OK as we got close to opening the extended pregame show (FCIAC Tailgate and FCIAC Gameday). Yet once things shut down on those, I texted a friend the following: "I'm getting nervous."

The response, naturally, was of support and empowerment. Still, I stepped away to get my thoughts together and get ready. At that point, my emotions were that of tremendous pride and excitement. It was a good nervousness.

Many hours earlier, I had texted Chris Erway, my "A-Team" broadcast partner a simple message: "FOOTBALL FRIDAY!" Clearly we were both ready, but that was also some 10 hours before kickoff.

Now, in the lobby of Lancaster Field at Tiger Hollow, I gathered myself.

The lights were lit in our "broadcast booth" (we used our tent in the crowd, and it looked great), and Chris and I did our live opening. We high-fived each other as we went to the commercial for the National Anthem.

And...boom.

Fortunately, nobody could see me. I paused. I thought of family, friends (past and present). I thought of those that I wished were able to watch. I thought of those that I wished were at the game.

That moment, during the anthem, is very important to me. It's my last breath. It's my warmup music.

I felt sad. I felt proud. I felt pressure. I felt that I. Was. Exactly. Where. I. Belonged.

It was time to get to work.

The game wasn't great. No, nothing is ever perfect, but it was an excellent broadcast, with the outstanding analysis of my friend, and the merely OK that is me.

So we're off and running. Down to business.

Pregame


Game Broadcast

Tunnel of Love, Indeed

Photo by Jamie UK on Flickr

Thanks to a largely dry summer, I hadn't needed to mow the lawn in a few weeks.

Until today. Which is always dangerous because it gives me time to think.

Sometimes I put a game on in my headphones. Alas, the Steelers were still over an hour away from kicking off. The Yankees were scheduled to play someone tonight.

As I moved a car to get the tractor out of the garage, I spied a title on the radio: "Tunnel of Love."

It seemed like fate.

Bruce Springsteen and I are on speaking terms, and it's certainly not the split of 1984, when I was just sick of him (and can still not entirely tolerate Born in the USA). Indeed, for me, "Bobby Jean" is still the best track on the album.

But I've felt a disconnect with the Boss lately. The reasons aren't entirely clear or important, I guess, though I admit that I've felt a little un-Boss-worthy because I've only seen him once.

Yes, some fans - especially Springsteen fans - look down on such things.

There is a certain amount of resentment built it. I feel it towards him because his tickets are normally obscenely high-priced. Then again, they're not easy to get, and I generally resist scalpers, save for one time outside The Chance in Poughkeepsie, NY, when Sean's mother and I plopped down winnings from a football pool to see a band called The Sports Section.

They're usually known as Huey Lewis and the News.

I resent myself because I can't afford his obscenely high-priced tickets.

Oh, and not that this matters, but I don't really have a date for such events. That's for me to deal with. The aforementioned Mr. Lewis is playing Long Island in October. Tickets are reasonable. But...nah.

I'm getting way off-track here.

I set up a system that sent the music from this very computer to my radio so that I could listen to Tunnel of Love. If not for the J. Geils Band, the album could easily be called Love Stinks.  The album is as much about flawed romance as it is about loss. His marriage to the actress Julianne Phillips was crumbling. He was splitting from the members of the E Street Band (and "shacking up" with Ms. Scialfa).

The words, as usual from the poet Bruce, hit home.

"I tried so hard, baby, but I just can't see, what a woman like you, is doing with me." (from "Brilliant Disguise")

"When I look at myself I don't see the man I wanted to be." (from "One Step Up")

"Ought to be easy. Ought to be simple enough. Man meets woman and they fall in love but this house is haunted and the ride gets rough. You have to learn to live with what you can't rise above if you want to ride on down, down into this tunnel of love." (from "Tunnel of Love" and, quite honestly, one of my favorite song lyrics.)

Of course, that's just a small sample of the collection of the quotable lines.

We've touched on "One Step Up" before (Jan, 2013).

I'm sure if I had written this post immediately after I finished mowing the lawn, or even while I was on the tractor (kidding...sort of), this would have been a little deeper, and more profound. Probably a lot darker, but I'm guessing that's pretty much assumed by this point.

For the record, Bruce and I aren't totally on the outs. I'll still find a higher volume for "Born to Run", "Spirit in the Night", and others, and I know both Sean and I have an extremely tight bond for "Rosalita (Come Out Tonight)."

But something's not right. Today didn't patch that up, but it didn't hurt either. It was the right album for the right mood.

No easy answers.

One step up and two steps back.

*Incidentally, if you ever want to hear another great "Tunnel of Love" song, and have never heard it, I encourage you to listen to Dire Straits' 1980 song from their masterful album Making Movies, with the gorgeous "Romeo and Juliet." A fascinating tidbit between the two "Tunnels" is that Roy Bittain - yes, "The Professor" on E Street - plays on both versions. The things you learn.

Fourteen Years Later

It's been something of a rite around here: a post dedicated to the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

It's hardly minimized when you're a New Yorker. Oh, no. It will take many years for that to happen. If ever.

Even for me: nothing more than a lousy suburbanite who suffered no truly personal losses that day, there's still a sting. An anger. A bitterness. The whole day - every ounce of it - is still so vivid to me. Walking out of our apartment to a blue sky that seemed to bless the warmth in the air. Listening to Mr. Imus as Warner Wolf called in to say he felt the first impact from his apartment. Knowing I was on NY route 139 in Somers, NY, right near its intersection with NY route 100. Beginning to turn the dial for more.

Remembering how I glanced at the sky after the second plane hit while southbound on Interstate 684 near the Katonah service area.

The scene at WGCH as everything else unfolded, and relaying things I had heard on the radio to my colleagues Jim Thompson and Dima Joseph, who frantically worked the story to get on the air.

Seeing a friend sob as one of the towers fell.

Watching the final tower fall myself as a I sat in a nearly empty conference room.

There was a piece of me that ached to get on the air and talk. I'm not sure what good I would have been.

Short of that, I drove home.

I wound up on air - in theory, to do a golf show - on September 12. I can't think of a darker hour of radio in my career.

Every year since, I've relived it. I've watched the video. I've listened to the audio that I collected.


I always think of my great friend Harold, still pondering the loss of a childhood friend. I always think of the Zions of Greenwich, a football family who lost a father. I think of wanting to be close to my unborn child, as we tried to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.

This is rambling. I apologize. Maybe it's the mood. A lousy night's sleep. A bad football game. Bad...stuff. I can't quite seem to get at what I'm trying to say here.

It will pass. Work to be done. Football to broadcast.

Every year, I put Springsteen's The Rising on. I feel sick. Sad. 

For some reason, I don't have it in me this year. Again, maybe it's the mood. I admit something's not right.

What I feel matters very little. It's those who lost - and those we lost - that matter on September 11.

I don't want today off. I don't want a holiday. I want life - the very thing we were all doing 14 years ago - to go on.

So I'll call into WGCH in a moment to chat sports with Tony Savino. I'll go on the air on the HAN Network at 11 from a remote in Vista, NY. Then I'll do my best to call football later on from Yorktown High School.

And as we always do, we keep moving forward.

In New York, Washington, Shanksville, Boston, San Francisco, and everywhere else, the same will go on.

A Song, Fate, and Coincidence

I was chatting with a friend when I texted them a YouTube link.

It was a link to a song. The song, while it had meeting to me and that moment, was nothing grand beyond that. It worked in that particular conversation.

The friend liked it, yet had never heard it before.

I reacted with a touch of shock, feeling that this tune, while not a big hit, was another piece of a legendary artist (The Beatles, of course). Yet I filed the conversation away and moved on with my evening.

A day later, the same friend went to an unusual place. It wouldn't shock me if it was the first time ever going there, and certainly not more than once or twice a year at most.

Coincidentally, not unlike me going to a church.

Just after I got the first text to say where they went, I got a second. It might as well have said the following:

"Dude. That Beatles song is on here."

I mean, I dig fate. I buy into it. I also have a healthy dose of skepticism. Yet sometimes I just can't help but glance into the abyss.

Why - WHY - was that song playing THEN?

I was stunned. Just dumbfounded. I mean, of all the songs in all the gin joints, it played there?

It's not obscure, but my friend had. Never. Hear. It. Before.

And yet, here it was, bellowing over a PA system in an off-the-wall place. A place that has far more importance to me.

Coincidence? Maybe. Yet funnel some of the tunes that played on my recent trip to North Carolina (the first one when I got in the car just made me laugh) and you can't help but wonder.

What can I say?

The Babe works in mysterious ways.

Post #2200: A Video From Two Years Ago

Front...

Back...East Meadow, NY

I wore my Huey Lewis and the News Sports 30th Anniversary Tour T-shirt today, and it hit me as I put it on: that concert was two years ago today.

Now I can't say it was the best show of theirs I've been to. It will be very hard to top 1986 at the Garden, when they were as big as any band in the world, and MSG was rocking.

But I can say that it was an emotionally wonderful show because my dear friends Mick and Gretchen (with baby on the way) were there.

Oh so was Sean. It was his first concert ever.

Now, keep in mind that it was a free concert on Long Island. They had, roughly 10,000 or so. It. Was. Packed.

We had to sit at the top of a hill, and couldn't see the stage. We could, however, hear the music.

I wrote about it.

Due to the crowd, we made our way to the car towards the end. Let's just say that I know a thing or two about HLN shows.

Mick: We should probably get going or we'll be stuck in traffic (not "Stuck with You") all night.

Me: Well they probably have "Power of Love," "Do You Believe in Love," and "Working for a Living" left.

Mick: You're a sick man. OK. Meet you in the lot.

So Sean and I watched "The Power of Love" together with the best view of the stage all night. I grabbed my phone and filmed some. The quality is terrible, but the music sounds great. Sean danced. I danced. Pretty heavenly.



 If I never go to another concert, that's a good moment to stop on.

Nine Times, and Thank You

ROONEY...GRRRRRRR

I wanted to do it. I wanted to.

Somewhere, in the back of my brain, I knew I could write. I knew I had a voice.

My friends - a couple of them - did it. It felt like a challenge.

So I jumped in also. I started a blog.

Exit 55 was born nine years ago today. Nine times I've celebrated this thing (now maybe you can understand the title and the picture of Ed Rooney).

That first post rings true. I'm still annoyed that the old Yankee Stadium is gone. You know that, no doubt.

We've waged war on so many topics. We've celebrated triumphs. We've dumped tons of emotion around these parts. Sports? Oh yeah, we've talked just a wee bit about them. Travel? Music? Movies? TV? Life? A kid named Sean? Yeah. All of the above.

We've dealt with heartache and heartbreak. New beginnings and some endings.

I've made mistakes. I've shared too much.

We've visited the past, as we try to do every year on September 11. This is that first one, from 2006.

I've backed down a great deal. I don't write as much. I delete more than I used to (or leave drafts simmering, as I did last week).

I've nearly walked away from this countless times. Not because I don't want to do it anymore, but because I feel like I should. I like having readers, and I like fostering conversation, but having a small, dedicated group of visitors here works also.

I've nearly walked away because my voice had been quieted, largely by my choice. I can't be as open or honest as I would like to be. Common sense dictates it, but I also find it sad.

There's more as to why I've almost stopped. I've lost confidence as a writer, despite the thoughts of several people who have been huge supporters. I used to just write. I generally trusted my language, my spelling, my grammar. It's like I've forgotten the difference between they're, their, and there.

I said "like." I haven't forgotten. It's just a expression. Sadly, I make that mistake way too often.

I always get affect/effect wrong. Check to see how many times I've used either spelling of that word. I'm willing to bet it's one one hand.

It's been a challenging nine years, but it's been fun also. Things ended. Things began, then ended. And again. With offers to eat excrement and perish, too.

I've been loyal and honest. Often to a fault (yes, that's a reference to the last sentence in that last paragraph).

I forged an idea that I'm deeply proud of. It started as a radio station. It ventured into video. It's now a network. I always wanted to work for a network. Specifically, NBC.

Vin Scully and Dick Enberg were both on NBC. That was enough for me.

Proud as a peacock, indeed.

Along the way, through these nine years, we built friendships. Some because of the blog, others maybe strengthened by it.

Others hurt and damaged.

I officially became a writer, and dare I say, I respected print reporter in early 2013, when I went to the Wilton Bulletin. It's also fair to say my confidence began to dip as a result.

Then again, I've always been a work in progress.

With this post, we hit 2199. There is so much more to say. So much more to do. I've thought about ending it at 10 years, but I don't know. Let's just see where it goes.

I've always enjoyed the journey anyway.

There has been support from many, and I'll forget someone. But Jon, Harold, Mick, JK, Susan, Paul, Jason, Tim, Sean (Kilkelly, that is, though Adams also), Shawn, Kato, Ryan, CJ (ErJuan of ErJuania), Dave, Tony, Jim, Brian, and Kris have been among the many names who have ready many words, if not all of them. (Again, as always, I know I forgot to name a name. I try.)

A few of those names are in the deepest circle of trust, and know me better than anyone. I think they know who they are.

Some, honestly, have read none. Not a single one. Yet they've supported by just being themselves.

So many people in Greenwich have been wonderful. That dates back to the late 90's.

I wish more people in my own hometown knew.

Too many radio friends have been supportive. Newspapers friends. Media friends in total.

Family. Mom, Laura, Doug, and all of my nieces, nephews, and great nieces and great nephews.

The good people that I've never met, or barely know, like all of the guys and girls who enjoy the open highway.

None of you have blinked an eye when the topic resorted back to my dad, my son, my job, my life, my world, the Yankees, the Steelers, Huey Lewis, or roads. Or anything else.

We've covered a lot of ground in nine years. That first post was conceived, largely, on August 16, truth be told. I worked up the courage to hit publish the following morning (the time stamp says 7:00 am).

So year 10 has begun. I really hope, one year from now, we're all in a much better place.

As always, let's keep moving forward.

Jefferson Valley Mall Will Live Again

The future?

I wrote in early 2013 about a stroll around the Jefferson Valley Mall in Yorktown, NY and its demise, mixed with my memories.

The idea of renovating the 32 year-old relic has been bouncing around for some time, because it looked like "JV" was heading towards the fate of the Dutchess Mall, Baldwin Place Mall, South Hills Mall, and others.

Those three are either dead or look completely different.

Well Jefferson Valley is finally getting its long-overdue facelift.

New York State Senator Terrence P. Murphy sounds the trumpets of progress.

A hopeful sign for a place that once meant a lot to the mall rats of the area.

The place I bought my copy of FORE! the day it came out.

Lots of memories. Lots of laughs.

I used to be there almost every day (of course, I worked there for some time). Now I go there about once a year.

So let's hope.

I encourage to watch this delightful video of life at the JV Mall in 1987!

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.