Ali: The Self-Appointed Greatest

Before he was Ali, Cassius Clay met four British lads in Miami in 1964.

I wasn't going to write about Muhammad Ali. I just wasn't. Like Prince, I was just going to let it go.

You know Prince died, right? Not Elvis or John Lennon or McCartney or Dylan, but Prince. Huh. OK.

Anyway, that's my point, even if you liked the person who has passed (I had some regard for some of Prince's music, and liked Ali), you're a horrible person (and likely accused of being a racist) if you dare to show any warts. At least according to comedian and "radio personality" Jim Norton.

If Ali wasn't one of your heroes, you're probably an asshole. Forever grateful to have met him.#RIPMuhammadAli pic.twitter.com/jKjgPXqDIw

— Jim Norton (@JimNorton) June 4, 2016

Well thanks there, pal.

Then I read the most brilliant obituary in the Wall Street Journal by author Jonathan Eig. FULL DISCLOSURE! Jonathan has been on Nutmeg Sports with me and is a Facebook friend whom I've interacted with. We haven't had tea at the The Plaza. I've never met the man in person.

That being said, this obituary is so amazingly outstanding that it must be shared.

It allows us - the reader - to not simply think Ali was "The Greatest" but that he was mortal. Flawed.

So many people have taken to social media today to laud the great Ali, and deservedly so. Ali was a tremendous boxer, but I hasten to say he was the greatest ever. Sugar Ray Robinson and Joe Louis immediately spring to my mind. My dad, who enjoyed boxing (one of the last things I ever remember watching with him was a Mike Tyson fight) said he felt Rocky Marciano was the best.

I'm not saying Ali wasn't the greatest. I'm not saying he was either. I'd probably take Sugar Ray Robinson, but boxing is not my area of expertise.

Ali was The Greatest (see what I did there?). Why? Because he told you so. He was a brilliant marketing showman. He defined it. He was crazy quotable. The interwebs are littered with his quotes today. Heck, even baseball's poet laureate announced the news.

Vin Scully on 'The Greatest of All Time', Muhammad Ali.https://t.co/A8eH3SEM47

— Los Angeles Dodgers (@Dodgers) June 4, 2016

Oh but back to the work of Mr. Eig. You see, I was born around the time of Ali's conscientiously objecting to going into the Armed Services. I lived in a house with a father who wanted to serve his country in Korea and couldn't due to his debilitating arthritis. So we had the two-headed monster of recognizing Ali's brilliance as a boxer, but also the very-common feeling of him dumping on the country.

Amazing how time, the great equalizer, can soothe that. If any quote stunned me in Jonathan's obit, it was this one:

In a career full of seemingly magical feats, Ali’s greatest trick may have been his transformation—from one the nation’s most reviled characters to one of its most beloved. 

Bingo.

Read on and discover how Ali was critical of Dr. King. Can you imagine?

But Ali was the most gifted of people, in that he worked magic to make Americans of the 70s and 80s begin to forget his objecting and embrace him as a boxer, humanitarian, and personality. He was a nearly one-man PR crew, although he had plenty of people by his side (and no small assist handed in by a certain Mr. Howard Cosell, speaking of sports).

Indeed, with the exception of Michael Jordan, he's the most famous face in the history of Sports Illustrated. It's without question that he's one of the most famous people in the world.

Who was better to light the cauldron at the Olympics in Atlanta in '96?

But he was also very real. That attention he craved through his bombast carried into a personal life of failed marriages and myriad affairs.

That's why I love this obituary so much. It allows us to see Ali for all that he was. Civil Rights activist? Yes. Conscientious objector? You bet. Great boxer? Oh my yeah. Funny man? Hahaha, of course.

Flawed? Without question. The truth is, despite the politically-correct bluster of today, we are a nation who likes our heroes slightly flawed. Save for a Lou Gehrig (please read Eig's brilliant biography of him, Luckiest Man), we can generally find some warts in everyone (and Gehrig was habitually cheap, by the way).

Mickey Mantle once told Billy Crystal to be truthful when it came to portraying his story. Mickey told us all he was no role model. The end of his life, when he told us that, were his finest hours.

So rest in peace, champ. Thanks for the many moments of making a young boy laugh, but also for teaching me hard lessons about heroes at an early age.

No-Hitters

Jake Arrieta, working on his no-hitter in 2015 in LA. (Photo: Jayne Kamin-Oncea-USA TODAY Sports)

I just finished watching Jake Arrieta of the Cubs finish no-hitting the Reds.

I love love love love no-hitters. Of course, they're the less exclusive brothers of perfect games (295 vs. 23 as of tonight), but I love them both.

I've watched or listened to too many to count (both perfectos and no-no's).

David Cone. Dwight Gooden. Felix Hernandez. Johan Santana (what a farce). Dave Righetti. Jack Morris. The list goes on.

I remember sitting in the parking lot at Stew Leonard's listening to Jon Miller cal the end of Tim Lincecum's in 2014.

I remember missing every pitch of David Wells' perfect game in 1998 (the first one by a Yankee since Don Larsen - of course - in 1956). I was at a convention in Las Vegas, and found out via TV, and literally yelled.

I caught Cone's in 1999 while in a friends' car, and refused to change the radio. That drive from Albany to Danbury was something to remember.

As social media began reporting tonight's gem, I began to pull myself together for where I would watch the event. Of course, I would also address the so-called "curse."*

* It's said that if anyone says the words "no-hitter" or "perfect game," it curses it. This includes fans, players, coaches, concessionaires, taxi cab drivers, clubhouse attendants, and kindly little old ladies.

And broadcasters. Most of all.

Yet there's this guy - name's Scully - and he's called 20 no-hitter and three perfect games. Somehow, he has said those dreadful words in just about all of them.

Just saying.

So whenever I watch one, I'm reminded of a rainy Saturday: September 4, 1993 at Yankee Stadium. I didn't think the game would be played, and there were only 27, 125 on hand at the glorious old House.

I was there, in the lower deck right field seats. Jim Abbott - born without a right hand - worked his way through a talented and upcoming Cleveland Indians lineup. A group that, in fact, would be in the World Series in both 1995 and 1997.

The rhythm of a perfect game or no-hitter carries is as such: You largely downplay the first couple of innings. In fact, you might not even know what's going on. Innings 4-6 are when things start getting real.

After the sixth inning, people know**. Now the nerves kick in.

** Except for some of the people I was with that day.

In the seventh inning, the buzz builds. The stomach begins to churn.

In the eighth inning, the knuckles get whiter. Get through the eighth, and it's probably time to text, call, or contact your friends via social media.

To the ninth inning. You're jumping at every pitch. You're growling at Kenny Lofton for trying to bunt (BUNT! You wuss!) his way on. To paraphrase Mr. Scully: you're seeing the game with your heart, and not your head.

Two outs to go. This is brutal.

One out to go. Just throw the damn ball.

Then it happens. The ball hangs in the air for an eternity. The umpire calls a third strike. Wade Boggs strikes out swinging.

It's over.

In the ballpark, you're high-fiving strangers, because you now share something that millions will say they were at, but only (in my case), 27, 000 were. You're glowing. You never want it to end.

Of course, assuming your team won.

I smiled all the way home that day, and watched it again on TV later. On the other hand, I glared at the screen when six (yes, SIX) Astros pitchers combined to no-hit the Yankees in 2003.

Interesting side note: the Yankees still have no been no-hit by one single pitcher since September 20, 1958, when Hoyt Wilhelm beat them 1-0.

For me, I'll always have Jim Abbott. Along with the scorecard.

The Final Opening Day for Vin Scully

There's a finality to today.

Vin Scully, the voice of 1000 Vin Scully Avenue (so dedicated yesterday), will ascend to the Vin Scully Press Box at Dodger Stadium in the City of the Angels, at Chavez Ravine, and begin calling his final opening day.

You think I talk about it too much. Write about it until it's over-the-top. Criticize, mock, and laugh at me. I embrace it all.

But we're never going to see his like again.

Ever.

Vin is second from left, and wife Sandi is third. (Photo: Rick Loomis/Los Angeles Times)

From the Duke and the Boys of Summer through Koufax and Drysdale to Garvey and Fernando to Gibson to Piazza to Kershaw. He's seen it all.

He told us the Dodgers were the world champions. Saw the greatest game ever pitched. Witnessed the year that had been improbable, when the impossible happened. Told us about 29,000 and a million butterflies.

We pulled up a chair for him.

We only have approximately 80 games left.

Savor it. First pitch is in about an hour.

Thoughts on the Lawn and The Boss

Yes, I mowed that...and I liked it!

I mowed the lawn today.

Between, essentially, May and the end of October, that would be standard operating procedure. But on April 10 (National Siblings Day, because Everything Must Have a Day), when it's only 46 degrees, and the ground is still sort of soft from the winter, it's a little unusual.

But that's me. Weird, I suppose.

I loved it.

I mean, the thing to understand is that I wanted to make sure the mower would start. It did (after I jumped it off my car), so I wanted it to run for a bit. So...I mowed. Some of the grass didn't go wrong from having it cut (including in that image above). The rest of the yard benefitted from having the twigs and tree branches mulched up.

Don't get me wrong. I won't enjoy it in the not-too-distant future. When it's 95 degrees and the grass is too high.

Yet that time is often my time, in that while my phone is omnipresent, I can still sort of zone out. Maybe I can listen to a ballgame of music (and, yes, good music). Many times, I just think. Which is dangerous.

Blog posts get written after I think.

I will dispel with the #Robcasting, thus sparing my thoughts on things like Bo Bice and Rob Thomas* (Jesus, can stores not play drivel that pounds a spike into your brain for hours after you listen to it?).

* More proof that looks matter with music.

Therefore, I will not climb back onto the American Idol soapbox (that's where ol' Bo comes in...I mean, who really likes him? Nickelback fans?). Oh believe me, I wasn't done the other night. That was the tame version.

I smiled a lot as I buzzed around the yard. My hands were cold, but the smell was that of spring. Of summer. I could smell the cut grass, albeit mixed with the exhaust of the machine, but after it was over it smelled of warm, sunny days.

Of lots of catches with footballs and baseballs.

Of my comfy folding chair with the little tray that pops up to hold a cold beverage and a book.

Of taking a walk or riding a bike.

Of kids playing (even if they're all playing a video game. Sean included).

Despite the thoughts of wanting to write about things that grind my gears, I enjoyed being outside as the daylights faded and the evening grew even cooler.

Sunday nights aren't always my favorite anyway (Sean has gone back to his mother by then), so it was nice to just do something that perhaps seemed strange to others.

*****
A final thing, and this has been percolating in my mind for about 48 hours: Bruce Springsteen can do what he wants. I know he's socially and politically active (yeah, go play another Dem fundraiser). All well and good. Part of what puts him in that line of Woodie Guthrie to Bob Dylan.

But...

Deciding to bail on a concert in North Carolina 48 hours before showtime just isn't cool. Some kid in Greensboro has never seen you before. Some family has booked a hotel or plane tickets to get to this show. Let's be real: if you were a nobody trying to make it, you'd play the show. But because you have more money than you know what to do with, you can afford to be socially conscious.

I get it, Boss. You're the man of the people and you care about human rights. But try telling people that when they can't afford to plunk down $200 to go to one of your shows.

You and I weren't on the best of terms recently, for multiple reasons. I feel like you've lost touch. Something has been ruined for me. As I've said before, maybe it's because I couldn't afford to see you more than that one time, thus rendering me a terrible fan**.

** Yes, there are people who really think this way.

Let's be clear: the North Carolina "bathroom law" isn't cool, but it isn't entirely what meets the eye either.

This isn't a "shut up and sing" thing. It's a "make good on your commitment to your fans" thing. A little more lead time to cancel it, and I'd likely think nothing of it. Forty-eight hours before the gig? No.

We'll make up eventually, I suppose. But let it known that I never had such issues with Mssrs. McCartney, Lennon, Starr, and Harrison. Or a Mr. Lewis of Marin County, California.

You were born to run, Bruce. Back to the mansion on the hill. But don't look for Crazy Janie. She's with Rosalita, trying to get the machine that's a dud, out stuck in the mud, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.

You left her there.

Adios, "Idol"

I'm going to try to be polite about this.

Apparently, "American Idol" ends tonight. The short version is, I have never - ever - ever multiple times - cared about that show.

But since I'm writing about it, I suppose I'm guilty of caring tangentially. So hey, where's Dunkleman?

I care about quality, and am pretty damn passionate about music. I have long believed that American Idol played a role in the death of popular music. Ot at least in the damaging of it.

Let's let Dave Grohl speak:

“When I think about kids watching a TV show like American Idol or The Voice, then they think, ‘Oh, OK, that’s how you become a musician, you stand in line for eight f*cking hours with 800 people at a convention center and… then you sing your heart out for someone and then they tell you it’s not f*ckin’ good enough.’ Can you imagine? It’s destroying the next generation of musicians! Musicians should go to a yard sale and buy and old f*cking drum set and get in their garage and just suck. And get their friends to come in and they’ll suck, too. And then they’ll f*cking start playing and they’ll have the best time they’ve ever had in their lives and then all of a sudden they’ll become Nirvana. Because that’s exactly what happened with Nirvana. Just a bunch of guys that had some sh*tty old instruments and they got together and started playing some noisy-ass shit, and they became the biggest band in the world. That can happen again! You don’t need a f*cking computer or the internet or The Voice or American Idol.”

Indeed.

Here's the thing: talent is talent. If you want to believe Kelly Clarkson or Carrie Underwood are talented (they are, but I don't think much separates them from what's currently out there), then they would have gotten discovered, just as Dave Grohl implied. Because at the end of the day, the public has a way of deciding. I mean, hey, it didn't quite go for all of the winners, right?

Don't get me started on Adam Lambert (it still sickens me that Queen went on tour with him). Not an "Idol" winner, but he was still part of the circus.

It takes good material and talent to make it. From there, it's fairly hit or miss. The public does occasionally make mistakes, or get caught up in a fad. Then we all wake up and say, "What the heck were we thinking?"

When it came to "Idol," I was never in.  The same goes for The Voice and anything else. As you can imagine, I was no fan of any effort to have a sports broadcasting talent show. I mean, ESPN's "Dream Job?" Really?

Then again, I can't imagine you'd like it if, after years of studying and toiling to succeed in your job, a talent competition came along to find you a colleague/replacement.

Anyway, I'm in the minority. I get that. While the rest of the world fell for Simon, William Hung, Paula, Randy (DAWG!), Justin, Kelly, Carrie, the Soul Patrol, Ryan-freaking-Seacrest, and whatever other godforsaken stuff that went on for 14 years, I stayed vaguely aware of it all.

But virtually never watched.

Peace out, "Idol". Rock on.



The Simpsons Judge American Idol by sir-roddick

It Matters

I was looking at something a moment ago when I let out a big sigh.

It is well known that I sigh. A lot. Some of the sighs are exasperation of one form or another. Others are just a result of my breathing pattern.

This, indeed, was exasperation.

In the midst of video games, The Big Bang Theory, Vin Scully talk, dinner and other home activities, Sean paused to check on his old man.

Yes. He thinks I'm old. He reminds me of it frequently.

Sean: "Daddy? What was that sigh for? Are you OK?"

Me: "Yep" (as I sighed again).

Sean: "You don't sound it."

Me: "It doesn't matter."

Sean: "Yes it does. It always matters, and you sounded upset."

Me: "I'm fine. Just foolishness."

He's becoming a bit of a "teenager." Yep, it happens. But he still cares a great deal about his dad, and I'm thankful for that.

Holy cow. I love that kid.

And a Very Good Evening To You

Our friend Mr. Scully is beginning the swan song of 67 years of magic in the broadcast booth. The Dodgers can say they're not replacing him, and believe me, they can't. If they think what they've hired or have in mind or currently have on staff will suffice, they're nuts.

There are people (present company included) who will care about the Dodgers only because of Vin. Next year, they go right back to the being the hated Dodgers. Once a bum, always a bum indeed.

But for now, let's enjoy the approximately 87 games that the master will give us in 2016. He met the media yesterday for the first time in spring training before calling his first spring game. The gremlins at MLB.com (or here at the Exit 55 Rest Area) won't allow me to embed the video.

Vin and Joe, circa 1984. Yes, I want those jackets. Photo courtesy Getty Images

Also worth watching is this wonderful tribute to Vin's Game of the Week partner, Joe Garagiola.  Here are Vin and Joe, calling a 1987 weeknight game on NBC as the Royals (and George Brett, again) beat the Yankees.

There was a reason why I hated George Brett. He devoured the Yankees.

27 Years

My dad's picture book, ca. 1940

I had a post written this morning, and it somehow got deleted. I'm not going to try to repeat it. Somehow I feel like someone is saying to me, "Dude. Get over it."

My dad's been gone for 27 years.

I've written words and words and words. I still feel the loss everyday.

I looked at picture I posted of him and I this morning and said, "Was he real? Did he ever really exist?"

I don't know if that makes sense. I know he was real. I can still hear his voice and his laugh.

Anyway, so ends another St. Patrick's Day. 

Follow this link to see how you write about loss, by the way. 

An Update

A few minutes ago, I posted the update to a post called Award Winner, now renamed Award Winner (Not Really).

It was also referenced in this post.

Anyway, as I wrote in the award post, Susan and I were not the winners of the NENPA award for Multimedia, as we originally thought. Our colleagues Maureen, Jenny, and Mario were the winners and through a series of mistakes, I wound up going to Boston and accepting the award that I thought Susan and I had earned. They should have been the ones heading to Massachusetts instead of me.

I think I can still talk for Susan when I say we're both incredibly proud of our work. The crew that accompanied me on the broadcasts related to the 2015 Connecticut Girls Ice Hockey Championship game and subsequent interviews helped create memorable audio that was heard around the world. Susan was inspired by us to write a stunning editorial.

It would have been remarkable to share the award with a person whose work I greatly admire (I mean, read this - a gorgeous poem about loss - and get back to me).

The stars were the teams and coaches (Simsbury, East Catholic, Glastonbury, South Windsor). They showed the greatest grace of all.

Hopefully we called attention to what was a confusing situation in 2015.

That confusion rolled into 2016.

Incidentally, a worthy watch (since we're talking about girls ice hockey) is Anya Battaglino's appearance earlier this week on Nutmeg Sports. Pretty cool. A great reminder that athletes are athletes, regardless of gender.

Bud Collins

Dick Enberg and Bud Collins, 1982. Photo by Art Seitz/NBC/NBCU

The news broke yesterday that Bud Collins -- as strong a voice in the media as tennis has ever had -- died at the age of 86.

Ah, the memories of watching Breakfast at Wimbledon on NBC with Dick Enberg and Bud. Dick's "Oh my!" combined with Bud's encyclopedic knowledge, good guy rapport, and sense of humor (not to mention the trademark pans), made for some appointment TV through the 80s and 90s.

Tennis is weaker today. Certainly sadder. Oh the sport will be just fine, but something was lost for me. Heck, something was lost for me when Enberg and Collins split up.

I met Mr. Collins in the late 90s, when I was at Flushing Meadows. Yes, do not be fooled by the fact I was in the shadow of Shea Stadium. Heck, the Beatles played there, as did the Yankees in 1974 and 1975.

Anyway, I was there having won tickets to watch the Imus in the Morning show at the US Open. Bud, a frequent guest of the I-Man, was there with his wife, Anita. I was able to say hello to both of them at one point, as they left the court on which the show was being broadcast from. They were both very gracious and kind to spend the briefest of moments saying hello.

Truly, it was a passing thing.

Thanks, Bud. I hope more people read up on what an important man you were for sports, tennis, and media.

Last Game of the Season

Darien wins the Girls FCIAC Title last Saturday.

There comes a point where, no doubt, the crew is ready to say goodbye.

I'm usually not that person.

Later today, at Terry Conners Rink in Stamford, Greenwich will play St. Joseph for the FCAC Championship. As it currently stands, it will be my last hockey call for many months.

It struck me last night that, following Westhill's win over Danbury in the basketball final, I was done with hoops as well.

Oh sure, I know baseball is approaching (and isn't it fantastic?), and lacrosse, and much more, and before we know it, the cycle will go around again, but there is something sad about putting the notes away.

It's been a manic couple of months. Just like the manic couple before that. Yet it's a good manic. It feels a little more like there's a rhythm to it all now. Indeed, it's down to a science.

Admittedly, times have changed. That last football game of a season could spell the last game I'd call -- in ANY sport -- for months. So it's not like I'm walking away from everything in a few hours.

So what I'll do is what I always do. I'll call the game. I'll have fun doing it. I'll work with friends. We'll rock it all as a team.

Then a champion will be crowned. Hopefully people will tweet us and have a good time with it all.

Then I'll reflect. The odds that I'll be happy with the call? Slim, at best. It's just how I am.

I've come to know that there are some who want the broadcast for posterity. They'll want to hear that final call or big moment. I'm honored by that, but it's also a little intimidating. I've reached a point in my life where certain calls are quoted to me ("Eat a sandwich. Catch a touchdown.").

I appreciate it. I laugh at it. Yet I don't want to think about it. I don't want it to be rehearsed. The whole process needs to come off as natural and spontaneous.

One last frenetic hockey game for me later today. Two outstanding goalies: Nick Bozzuto (Greenwich) and Ryan Wilson (St. Joseph). A new champion will take its place (St. Joseph has never won, and Greenwich last won in 2009).

A few hours after that, Darien will play ETB for the girls state championship. Best of luck to both teams.

I'm rambling here. Just thinking about the end of the season.

Seasons change.

A Disappearing Post

A few weeks back, I posted some good news that I received in Boston. Within hours, I found out the news might not have been as good as initially reported. I thought about how to handle it here on the ol' bippity bobbity blog.

I took the post down, and put it back into "draft" status. Once I get further clarification, I will repost it - regardless of the outcome. At that time, I will also tell you "the rest of the story."

So if you saw it, and now see it's gone, well, yeah. Now you know.

A Bad Dream

Yep. That pretty much sums it up.

I had a dream last night, and it absolutely rocked my world.

I don't usually have very memorable dreams, but on occasion, I have ones that pop up. My father, no surprise, has visited me a few times, most notably in a dream so vivid, that I still remember the details.

We were in a car (perfect place for us) and I started talking with him about why he died. I started asking him why he had to leave us. Yet there he was, in this car, talking with me. It was clear. Memorable. Most of the time, I know I'm dreaming. This time, I did not.

I woke up with a tremendous thud.

I won't discuss last night, but I'll only say it was bad. As in I need to use italics bad.

About the worst thing I can imagine.

Again, it woke me up, horribly. Still I was relieved to discover that it was only a dream.

Yet I wound up awake for a few hours, watching whatever I could find on TV and reading my iPad. I was finally able to get back to sleep, but I'm still a wreck over it.

Oh yeah, add in some debit card fraud (no, I'm not in Illinois today, thank you very much), and I'm just a touch rattled.

There's the obvious silver lining that all, otherwise is fine, and I'm quite fortunate. The dream wasn't real and the debit card was quickly resolved.

But it's still in the back of my mind.

Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Roy Orbison.

Cats and Cradles

My child arrived 14 years ago today. He came to the world in the usual way, but there were games to catch and bills to pay... (with apologies to Harry Chapin)

Sean Robert Adams, the pride of a family, was born on this day in 2002. One can't help but marvel at where time has gone.

It's been said many times that Sean is Sean. I love him for that. I don't want him to be anyone else. He loves Minecraft and Super Mario Maker and Doctor Who. He loves cats. He goes on about things that are of very little interest to me, but interest me because of him.

He's among the best travel companions I'll ever know. He kept me company for every step of our drives to and from North Carolina. Oh yeah, his head is into some device, but he's there.

We're thick as thieves as father and son, and thankfully he is the most patient of kids. I've dragged him to countless games and broadcasting events.

I often think about how I've failed him. There seems to be the notion that kids must do certain things due to peer pressure. Yet he overall doesn't complain, but if it wasn't for certain moments of serendipity, he wouldn't have had some of the experiences that he has had. Certainly our trip to Vermont last August comes to mind. If it wasn't for my job, that wouldn't have happened. Yet not only was he invited, but he was a welcomed part of a gathering of adults.

He gets bullied and I talk to him about that a lot. I always want him to know that there are avenues to deal with such things.

He's a sensitive soul with a great sense of humor.

Life has dealt us curveballs that we've adjusted to. We don't do Wednesday dinners often anymore - if at all. That's on me (and thus I hear "Cats in the Cradle" playing). We've obviously had changes in our lives. I don't nearly see him enough.

We're able to try to talk about anything. He's certainly there for me, and has a mature, yet childlike approach to everything. When I was pretty annoyed about something a few weeks ago, I was able to talk to him. That's a rare gift.

He holds certain things in. I know what is hurting him, but he doesn't want to make too much of it.

I've no doubt talked about him way too much. I've shared countless pictures and stories. To a point, I apologize for that. Yet I don't.

My life changed on February 23, 2002. It's a day I'll never forget. I became a father, and there is no job I've relished more. I've screwed it up, no doubt, but I'm so proud of this kid.

I looked at his mother a few months ago and said, "He's a great kid."

He is. He's working on becoming a great young man.

Incidentally, he starts high school in the fall.

Happy birthday, Sean.

Award Winner (Update: Not Really)

UPDATE: Below are the thoughts from early in the morning on Sunday, Feb. 21. A few hours later, we began to find out that there might have been a mistake. I took the post down later that evening, after I returned from Boston. In fact, Susan Shultz and I did not win the award seen above. Through a series of confusion, we were named as nominees and, eventually, winners. While the whole thing is embarrassing (if that's the right word), I congratulate Mario, Jenny, and Maureen, our colleagues who are the real winner of this award. I've decided to leave the original post up, but want to make sure that I'm pleased that HAN still picked up another ward, and that Mario, Jenny, and Maureen are deserving winners.

*****

I'm still trying to process this.

I have to get ready to leave Boston and head back home, but I still can't believe this.

Surreal? Yeah.

I'm not an awards person, and I drove Susan Shultz and Paul Silverfarb nuts with that very thought. They pushed me to please come to Boston (there's a song in there).

It was a team effort, except for Susan. She wrote a great editorial (nothing new there). I had Paul, Eric Gendron, Jake Zimmer, and Chris Kaelin to help me call the girls hockey game and get the interviews that followed the game and produced this award.

It's important for the teams and the players to know that we're grateful to them for their grace and talent.

I'm honored my name is on it.

I'm thrilled HAN Network is on it. It's our first award of any kind.

I'm proud to share it with Susan and the Darien Times.

I had to step away and have a moment. Thoughts of Pop came into my brain, especially as I texted and messaged the people who wanted to know if we won.

We waited all night, and were almost the last award given out. I shot raw video so that Susan could see and hear it for herself.

I trembled as I walked up there. I shook as I posed for pictures.

I need breakfast. I'm rambling.

Maybe I'm amazed.

There's a song there also.

Speaking of Susan, find this book. Buy it. You'll enjoy it.

A Day in Boston

I'm in Boston this weekend for the NENPA convention. It's my third time here for the convention, though I've been to Boston many times.

The day was spent in seminars and talking, and spending time with former colleague and good friend Paul Silverfarb.

Later in the day, after grabbing a cup of coffee, we walked to a nearby piano store so that Paul could get some advice on his own piano. At the end of the conversation, he asked if he could play one. He sat down at a gorgeous, $125,000 Steinway and played pieces of a few songs.

Rather gorgeously, I might add.

He broke into "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)" by Billy Joel, and I admittedly had to walk away for a moment to compose myself. It's a song that takes me back to when Sean was a baby. I can still hear it on the CD player every night when he went to bed.


It still grabs me quite emotionally. My little boy keeps getting older (there will likely be more about that in a few days).

It also worked as a way to divert my attention from other things in that moment. I don't understand some things in life.

I'm babbling, I guess.

And so it goes.

Pictures...memories

1986...

2016 (courtesy Shawn Sailer)

Pictures can tell us so much. They can be painful. They can be sweet. Great memories. Bad memories.

They also tell the story of time.

I remember my family putting some old home movies on one night, and my dad getting upset because he didn't really want to watch them. For reasons all his own, they were sad.

I found myself looking through an album this morning for a picture from 1986 that I used in the last post. It made me smile to see the memory of posing with characters at Disney World, along with other assorted trinkets. Pictures of my dad, sister, brother, nieces, aunts, uncles, my grandparents, my beloved cat Bandit, and more.

In short, as both pictures show above, I enjoy being silly. Standing with the Big Bad Wolf or Cinderella (her hair felt like a horse brush) or making a goofy face for Shawn Sailer as we got ready to go on the air on Thursday night.

I'll post more, maybe, as time goes on.

Oh, it's still Valentine's Day...yeah...more HLN. When this baby hits 88 miles per hour...

Perspective: Weather

Just a couple of guys hanging with a blonde in Florida in 1986.

It was -6 when I woke up this morning here in the 8-4-5.

That's six below zero Fahrenheit. Or 21 below Celsius.

Around here, everyone is posting pictures of thermometers or screen grabs from their smartphones.

In short, it's really cold. It's the lead story on the news, of course.

Yet in International Falls, MN, it is currently eight. They're fairly used to that.

In Fairbanks, AL, it's four below. Yeah. They know a thing or two about that also.

It's currently one here. We're not used to that.

It will be in the fifties by Tuesday.

And we'll all be sick by Wednesday.

Pitchers and catchers report to Tampa on Thursday. I spent several President's Days around Tampa. Thus we have the picture of the two dudes and a girl that they met in 1986 at the top. We were dared to pose with her.

Oh and it's Valentine's Day. So there's that. Do you believe in love?

Off the Bench Sunday

I posted the above picture on social media earlier today. It's just a good reminder. I tend to live in the moment, believing in two of my favorite mantras:

"All I want from tomorrow is to get it better than today." - Bruce Hornsby/John Hornsby (sung by Huey Lewis)

"Keep moving forward" - said by many, I assume, but used frequently here.

Anyway, once in a while, I get hung up. There's nothing deeper to what I'm saying here, except to say that when I saw my old friend John Monty of Sears days (1986-1988) post it on Instagram, I had a moment of EUREKA!

Or HOLY MOLY! I'm not sure which.

So there's that. I'm just reminding myself to live in the here and now.

***** (please notice I use five stars, because 55 would look ridiculous)
So hey, er, that was some game last night in Arizona, no? A week after the utter insanity of Steelers/Bengals (Bengals=thugs, Steelers/Joe Porter=not 100% smart), we got an "off-the-hook" game last night.

Remember one key thing though: Larry Fitzgerald is one fantastic football player. One kids should emulate.

Speaking of that Packers/Cardinals games, this is a crazy good play-by-play call from one of the absolute best: Kevin Kugler of Westwood One.
He keeps it simple. Works in some humor. Gives you all of the details. Isn't too flashy. He's absolutely brilliant.

*****
I give the Steelers very little chance today in Denver. No Antonio Brown? No DeAngelo Williams? Banged up Ben Rothlisberger? A weak secondary?

Yeah. No.

*****
Pitchers and catchers report in last than a month. Consider this a public service announcement.

I was partially responsible for the notion of #Metsies15. I believed in that team, even when they weren't playing so well. Then they went to the World Series, and doggone it, they lost.

Given the offseason they're having, I'm struggling with the notion of #Metsies16.

Though, with that pitching, well, yeah.

#Metsies16 it is!

*****
On Friday, this happened:

The Force is strong with me, I think.

*****
I hope you catch the HAN Network soon (if you haven't already). We have hockey twice this week, along with hoops, programs, and more. Go check everything out at han.network.

As parodies of sports broadcasts go, this had me cracking up.

The Year of Vin Begins

The 1979 CBS Sports NFLTeam

Unless things change, 2016 will be the final year in the career of Vin Scully.

Normally I would use an adjective to describe his career, but really, what more is there to say? He's remarkable, great, legendary, iconic, etc. Words aren't necessary, but I will undoubtedly say and type so many before it's all over.

I decided, since it's January 1, and it's traditionally a football day*, I would find a pigskin highlight featuring Vinny.

* It's evolving, folks. I used to live for college football on January 1, but hockey has definitely grabbed a share. Reasons for this? The football games have all moved to other outlets (mostly ESPN), and there's just nothing compelling about them anymore. Today's games, in particular, were awful, and last night's semifinals drew terrible ratings.

Hockey, and the Winter Classic (no matter how terrible today's game was) has stepped into the spotlight. Give me that.**

** Dear Yankees, the NHL very much wanted the first Winter Classic, pre-lockout, to be at Yankee Stadium. They wanted Rangers-Bruins. You were part of the reason it didn't happen. Sadly. Let's fix that.

Anyway, back to Vin. Here's just a small highlight, from September 24, 1978. Vin is calling the action on CBS, with coach George Allen, and Jim Brown (no introduction necessary). Let's just say Coach Allen gets a touch excited, as does Brown. Vinny does what Vinny does as Earl Campbell shows why he was a legendary running back.

The Flip of the Calendar

Sean - The Doctor's Apprentice - plays his new WiiU.

So we're done with this year.

It's tempting to look back at 2015 and break it all down. Sure, it was trying, but it does me no good to wallow in the mire*.

*Come on, baby, light my fire.

I'd rather, if anything, look at the good. There was plenty. So many broadcasts. So many shows.

So. Many. Games. I loved it. Call fifteen baseball games over five days? YES, PLEASE?!?

A favorite picture, with one of my closest friends: Paul Silverfarb, in Cooperstown.

I got to travel a bit - even if I never left the east coast. I still got to visit Boston, Scranton twice (mock if you wish), Cooperstown, Vermont, and everything between here and the North Carolina/South Carolina border.

As always, friendships were strengthened. Relationships were deepened. We loved. We lost.

There was bad to 2015, but there's bad to every year. I'd rather focus on the good, and of course, keep moving forward©.

Again, there was good.

There are things that drive me for the future. I said this a year ago - about wanting certain things badly. Nothing has changed.

Two guys talking sports. John Kovach and I rocking in Cooperstown.

We didn't do much around the bloggity this year, and for that, I apologize. But I'm grateful - so very - for the views. For every kind word. Even the criticisms. They sting. Sure. But they help make me better. They give me things to think about. I got more criticism of my broadcasting than ever this year, and that had much to do with more ears and eyeballs on it. I think about all of it, and assess it. Then I move on and decide how to address it.

Two guys, 50 FCIAC Championships: Chris Erway and I.

I love my friends and their support means so much to me.

While my family vexes me, I still love them.

I'm honored by the people who have helped make HAN Network a machine. A couple of times stand out to me:

- Cooperstown, in which I glanced over my shoulder at one point on NY Route 28, to see I was the lead car of a whole bunch of HAN people, all dedicated to a kick-ass baseball broadcast. We did that, and a lot more. The spirit there is remarkable.

- The New England Babe Ruth Regional, where we did those 15 games. Then I rested my voice.

- Vermont, where for four days, we spoke with business leaders and more in some truly beautiful settings. My great son was there. Plus we didn't get electrocuted when our tent was launched onto wires.

- The Turkey Bowl/FCIAC Championship game, where we put on one hell of a broadcast, despite being minutes from possibly not getting on the air. It's where my 25 years in this business came in handy. I knew - KNEW - we'd find a way to pull it off. The number of games that haven't made the air in my career have been minimal, and that one was going to be fine.

Kato and I. Laughing and drinking coffee.

The images that I shared here represent just a few of the many wonderful moments. I can't possibly represent everyone and everything.

There are more. Many more highlight moments. Laughs with those great friends of mine. Dinners. Quiet moments. Moments of reflection.

Things that I've learned about myself.

"All I want from tomorrow is to get it better than today." A wise man once wrote that (Bruce Hornsby) and a great man sang it (Huey Lewis).

Onto 2016. Another day follows January 1. Let's make that one better than the one before. Then repeat.

Sean gets shy talking about "Snakey."

Onward.

The Final Nutmeg Sports of 2015

Casey Kasem on the left, and Shadoe Stevens on the right...counting 'em down!

This came together quickly.

Nutmeg Sports - our final broadcast on HAN Network in 2015 - counted down a top 15 of 2015.

I put the list together on Sunday with a random collection of memories. Then I tossed the idea towards both AJ Szymanowski and, eventually, Eric Gendron. Initially, it seemed too last minute.

Then we put it together. A couple of final suggestions came in, and with social media from Kate Czaplinski, video editing from Eric, audio editing and photo selection from me, a nudge from Susan Shultz for a particular call*, and Marty Hersam's enthusiasm, we banged it.

Donald Eng joined me for the show (he's normally not available on Wednesday's) to co-host.

It's one of my favorite shows of the year.

Just phenomenal work from the HAN Network team.

*People have quoted a few calls and comments to me over the years. It seems that "Eat a sandwich, catch a touchdown" is a favorite. I appreciate the love for it, but I've used lines like that before. Nevertheless, I'm happy it resonated, although maybe not so much with the Trumbull Eagles. Susan told me that she thought it was hysterical, and that her reporter, Kevin Webb, has even mentioned it. Yet it's more about Michael Collins, the New Canaan quarterback who threw nine touchdowns that night, en route to eventually breaking the state season record. It's about the games and the athletes. So the call was fun. I hope it enhanced it.

Here it is - the final show of 2015. Thanks for watching.

A Christmas Song?

I just saw a post on the evil of FB from old friend John Monteforte (ah, the Sears days of 1986-88) about Christmas songs.

Indeed, for instance, The Pretenders* didn't intend "2000 Miles" to become a holiday staple, just because it mentions Christmas. Alas, it has.

* Incidentally, every now and then I come back to listening to The Pretenders, and if you need educating, let me just say Chrissie Hynde rocks. I mean, so does James Honeyman-Scott, Pete Farndon, and Martin Chambers (the original lineup for the first two albums, along with Hynde), as well as the lineup she used on Learning to Crawl, their 1984 album. Both Honeyman-Scott and Farndon had died and she regrouped with Malcolm Foster on bass and the wonderful Robbie MacIntosh on guitar. Maybe it's the correct spelling of Robbie that I like about him. Anyway, getting way off-topic, I recently revisited The Pretenders' first album. Wow. That's basically the point. Start with "Precious" and let Hyndy simply punch you in the gut.

Wow. Again.

Ok, I digressed wildly there.

Now, back to non-Christmas-yet-Christmas songs.

This isn't a Christmas song. Yet it mentions Christmas. As I write, it's Christmas Eve. Again, alas.

Turn on all the Christmas Lights (and listen).


Such a great, under appreciated song from Billy Joel. The Nylon Curtain has long sat right near the very top of my favorite albums of his, and this song is part of why.

Music (Non-Christmas Division) Just Because

Ah yes...1991...

Here's an old HLN song I saw on the evil of Facebook today.

The song was on the album Hard at Play, and came out in 1991. Yes, the video and the song ooze of 1991, but so be it. The band is in major blues/soul mode. He don't know. No, I mean he really doesn't know.

But I do.

Favorite album? No. Favorite song? Nah.

It's still Huey and Johnny and Chris and Mario and Bill and Sean. The original lineup.

That's all.

Perfection - Sinatra

Sinatra and Basie

I've said this before.

I'll say it again.

Frank Sinatra, with Count Basie and his Orchestra (conducted by Quincy Jones), in an arrangement by Nelson Riddle, performing "I've Got You Under My Skin" in early 1966 is just about the greatest piece of recorded music I've ever heard.

Written by Cole Porter, the song was part of a "wonderful new show" at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas that was released as Sinatra at the Sands later in 1966. The overall album is widely-regarded as one of the greatest live shows ever put on record (or CD or 8-track or digital media). Rolling Stone placed it at 36th all-time.

The Chairman of the Board had just turned 50, and he is in fine voice throughout the album. But it's "I've Got You Under My Skin" that is simply blistering. Basie and the band don't overwhelm it. They sit in waiting, tingling along until WHACK!

That's when things explode.

It settles back down, with Frank's voice - that masterful interpretation - taking it from there.

Then it climbs until we reach the zenith: "Don't you know, you fool, there ain't no chance to win. Why not use your mentality?  Wake up! Step up to reality! Annnnnnnd each time I do, just the thought of you makes me stop just before I begin!"

Then a moment of silence. The slightest moment, as Sinatra breaks it down.

You feel it. You know our hero stands no chance.

None. He's trying to be wise. He's trying to recognize it and walk away.

He can't. He's whipped.

"Because I've got you," he sighs. "Under my skin. Yeah you're grabbing me under my skin."

Basie bangs the piano and we're done.

It's exhilarating and exhausting.

On this day - the 100th anniversary of Sinatra's birth, take a moment and listen to something of his. Even if it's not your genre. Just take three minutes and listen. Listen. Hear that voice. He's not just singing. It's something entirely different.

You'll feel it.

It's Sinatra.

Accept no substitutes.

A Smile

Tonight was Sean's holiday concert at his middle school. If you've been to one, then you know the drill. You wait patiently for your child/brother/friend/cousin/whomever to perform and try to survive the rest of the evening.

Sean rocked on the sax as always, but that wasn't the story of the night.

Sean doesn't have braces anymore. Yet that's not the story either. Not entirely.

Let's back up.

From the time he could do so, Sean had an electric smile. I mean, simply mega-watts. It was the expression handed down through generations.

Then, basically, it stopped.

He'd grin. He'd smile without showing his teeth. On occasions, he'd show his teeth, but it was the smile I was used to.

He didn't like his teeth.

He got braces a few years ago, and the smiles continued to hide, or be seen in moments with the braces showing.

Yet tonight, after he finished the concert and greeted his family, he posed for a picture. The braces were removed today, and I encouraged him to show those teeth off. This instantly became one of my favorite pictures of him.

By the way, here is his eighth grade picture. Still handsome for sure.

Happy Second Anniversary

Before the first broadcast: Me, Bill Bloxsom, Dave Stewart. Nov. 21, 2013 (Joshua Fisher photo)

A quick note to recognize the second anniversary of what is now the HAN Network.

We started, softly, with a pregame show at Noon on November 21, 2013. Our "grand opening" happened a night later.

This is what that pregame show sounded like.



The next night, New Canaan beat St. Joseph for the FCIAC Championship. Paul Silverfarb and Chris Kaelin joined me for the call.



Two years. Two-hundred-fifty-one games. Too many programs for me to comprehend. The move into video. The development of broadcasters and production people.

Boyle Stadium. Doubleday Field. Pelham Country Club. Brewery Ommegang. Vermont. Mohegan Sun. Even Key West.

The addition of friendships. Tons of emotion. Blood. Sweat. Tears.

Laughs.

Pride.

The future is very exciting.

0-for-October

Just me. With Mo.

I struck out in October. I went a complete month without posting.

That's never happened. Not since we started this whole thing.

Sure I have topics. Sometimes I have a few minutes where I can write.

Yet I didn't.

I've been reading lately, and just finished up To Kill a Mockingbird. After all these years, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is next.

Incidentally, To Kill a Mockingbird is special. Very special. Far more special when you read it as an adult.

I interviewed Mariano Rivera in October. Yes. Very cool.



I've called games. Lots of them. I flew past 900 for my career, and will sail to 1,000 pretty soon with any luck.

I tried to get back into the world a little. I went to the movies on Halloween night and saw Bridge of Spies. I recommend it.

I watched some sports - especially baseball. As a Yankees fan who has long considered myself to be fair, I get that I am charged with bias and whatever against the Mets (and any other team that fits the narrative). Yet here's the thing: I picked the Mets to make the playoffs. I created the hashtag #Metsies15. The nicest thing I can say is that I didn't care how they were doing otherwise. Ambivalence is a beautiful thing.

The Yankees departed the postseason after one game. Sigh.

The Mets made the World Series. So did the Royals. The Royals won in five. Bully for them.

Over the past month, I've seen more Mets hats, t-shirts, license plater frames, etc than I have in the past 30 years. Why is that? I wear my Yankees stuff when times are good or bad. Wore plenty of it in the 80's, when the Mets "ruled New York."

I always wear something the day after they lose in the playoffs. It's a pride thing. Coincidentally, I saw no one piece of Mets garb yesterday. Again, that's a coincidence, given that I know reading comprehension can be a struggle and, hey, there's a narrative to be told.

Fans who said - categorically - they would never watch the team again suddenly came roaring back.

These same fans lauded Daniel Murphy as the second coming of George Herman Ruth. Then, days later, they booed him.

Yet I get called out about it. OK. Makes sense.

Anyway, congratulations to the legitimate fans. I know a bunch - Dave Sweet, Tony Savino, John Connelly, John Kovach, etc. They wouldn't have emptied out Citi Field the other night (which was first reported by several sports guys on Twitter. Then FOX's camera showed the pictures).

I've got not time for the phonies. I can't be one.

I actually didn't care who won or lost, but I saw some bad stuff during this week. Can't add anything more to that statement.

I'll focus on what my team - the Yankees, my team since 1972 - will do next year. But since I'm a sports talk personality, I also have a job to comment on the goings-on around the world of sports. So I shall.

Anyway, it's Election Day, and for the first time since 1999, I won't be covering any elections. No campaign headquarters for me this year. I'll be calling the FCIAC field hockey quarterfinals tonight at championships.han.network.

Hopefully I'll be posting more also. Like anything else, it just take a few minutes. Yet it's easier than it sounds.

An Editorial: Not My Child

Many of you who read Exit 55 are parents. Most of you are around children that you care about.

Many of you - many of us - believe our kids are safe and insulated from the evils of the world.

And that's where we make the mistake.

So read this editorial from the Darien Times.

As usual, the writer in question (TWIQ) is spot-on, and while she is specifically writing about Darien, CT, the information can be applied anywhere.  I suppose we can surmise that Darien is an affluent community and, as such, it's easier to acquire narcotics, but the reality is one will get what one wants.

That's the sickness of it all.

In fact, I discussed the editorial with TWIQ and praised her for it. Just another in a long line of excellent writing by her. If there was anything to quarrel with, it was the last line:

"Don't be a friend now, because you want to be a parent for the rest of your life."

It's actually not a quarrel, but it's the conundrum of the life of a single dad.

Specifically, this single dad.

Susan, er, TWIQ is absolutely correct: "Don't be a friend," and indeed I'm not. Sean does know, without question that (commence Darth Vader breathing), "I am your father."

Yet I see him every other weekend (and Wednesday's when I'm available). My friends (and likely, you) know that I worry about him constantly because I don't know the level of details that I want to know.

I know there is bullying at school (that's what he tells me, and I have no reason to doubt him). I know of the other contentious parts of his life. Yet I hear other things either second-hand or well after the fact.

I can't be a helicopter to him. As I once said, I wanted nothing more than to hug him on the day of the Sandy Hook story. I couldn't.

We're finally at the point where we're talking about a smartphone for him, and believe me, the same things that I've enforced with his iPad will carry on. He's a smart kid and is largely reminiscent of his father as I was truly not someone to engage in such activities.  I'm still not.

A man in a deli told him to make sure to stay away from all evils yesterday morning. The man felt that his telling him - as opposed to his father - would have more impact, especially since this guy had just given up smoking, and was a reformed drinker as well. Sean was, as ever, polite if shy.

I trust Sean. I do. We're pals. We're father/son. That doesn't mean there aren't evils.

Therefore, back to the editorial. As TWIQ Whatshername writes:

"Ask questions. Violate privacy. Look at phones. Note changing behavior. This can alert us to a variety of problems, not just drug use."

So true.

Boston Baked: The Departure of Don Orsillo

From NESN/Twitter

Things will look and sound different in the TV booth of the Boston Red Sox in 2016.

Don Orsillo, their play-by-play voice, has been let go.

Orsillo, who has been hanging around the Sox since 1989, when he was an intern, will do his last game today (Michael Silverman, Boston Herald), likely step away with the same class and decency that he has exhibited all along, and move on.

Oh don't cry for him too much. There are rampant rumors that he is on his way to San Diego to take over the Padres job, especially as the legendary Dick Enberg enters his final year as TV voice out there*.

* A quick aside: I told Chris Erway this yesterday, and I'll say it here. With Enberg stepping down and/or backing down to a very reduced schedule and...gulp...Vin Scully projecting 2016 as his 67th and final year, you might want to invest in stock for tissues purchased in the metro-Mahopac, NY area.

The decision to dump Orsillo is the responsibility of NESN, the regional cable network that carries the Red Sox. Of course, the team gets a say in that also, and don't think otherwise. Like it or not, here in New York, there are people who approve the return of John Sterling, Michael Kay, Suzyn Waldman, and yes, Ryan Ruocco. The YES Network, WFAN, and the Yankees are in cahoots in these choices.

Like it or not.

Orsillo and his partner, Jerry Remy, the former Red Sox second baseman, have become a very popular pairing. Orsillo plays the straight man, the honest play-by-play voice who calls the game (and does it very well) while playing along with the goofier, New England-accented "RemDawg." Together they became appointment TV. When Remy stepped away a few times (various reasons abounded), it was Orsillo, acting as the glue and working with other analysts who continued to entertain the Boston faithful.

Yet it just wasn't the same.

Yes, we as fans largely tune in for the game. Generally, we hope the broadcaster doesn't get in the way (as in the recent times that I've muted YES and it seems I will have reason to in 2016), or even enhances and gets us to watch/listen (a rarity of course. I call this "The Vin Impact.'")

If Sox fans aren't tuning in, it's simply because the team stinks.

And let's be honest, it's been an awful year in Beantown.

It's no secret to those who read this little corner of the world that I am a passionate Yankees fan. It's also no secret I have plenty to say when it comes to broadcasting. Yet I must also add I've always enjoyed a pleasant relationship with the fans of the team from Boston. I like their history. They've had plenty of players worth admiring. They've often, as an organization, done so many first class things, from the Jimmy Fund to the 1999 All-Star Game to the way they treated both Mariano Rivera and Derek Jeter.

But the Red Sox, and NESN, dropped the ball here.

As I said, it appears Don will be just fine. The Padres, networks, and so on will come calling. He will weigh his options. Will he move his family (he's a New England native)?

It's a lot to consider, and it's the Red Sox fans who come out the loser.

Broadcasters move on. Believe me. I know. Time moves forward.

Fans, overall, don't truly forget. They get over it, but they don't forget, and with the likely move of Dave O'Brien to the Boston TV booth, the Sox will recover from the PR hit.

For the departure of the ultra-popular Red Barber in Brooklyn brought on that kid named Scully full-time. Mel Allen's messy divorce from the Yankees moved Phil Rizzuto to prominence. You get the idea.

Boston better do the same.

At The Yankees Saloon...

It's open mic night at the Yankees Saloon, in a fabled place, situated at the corner of E 161st St, River Ave, and a corn field.

Of course, because this is, well whatever this is, then a corn field must be nearby.

Toots Shor is running things, as usual, because everyone wants to be near Toots.

Mystique and Aura, a local band, just finished their set.

Thurman Munson is grumbling over a beer at a corner table, talking hitting and family with Bobby Murcer. He still feels slighted by Sparky Anderson, who said he was no Johnny Bench in 1976. At least that's what Munson still thinks. Murcer just smiles.

Joe DiMaggio, looking like he just stepped out of the California sun, makes sure his hair is perfectly in place before grabbing a drink.

Babe Ruth has just finished a hot dog. This being, you know, the place, Ruth doesn't have to behave himself as well as he did post-1929, when he married Claire. Oh no, the Babe, as heavenly a figure as any, can have all the dogs and beers he wishes.

The Colonel, Jacob Ruppert is here. Of course he is. Before he bought the Yankees, he was a brewer. So he supplies all of the beer to this establishment.

Robert Merrill, the famed baritone, is performing onstage at this point, when suddenly Bob Sheppard, the "voice" of Yankee Stadium, approaches the microphone. Mel Allen, "voice" of the Yankees, is standing nearby. Something is clearly up.

Pete Sheehy, the legendary Yankee Stadium clubhouse attendant, stops things by flicking the lights. This annoys DiMaggio because Sheehy normally does this only for the Yankee Clipper.

The room falls silent. The laughter stops.

Sitting at the bar, Mickey Mantle and Billy Martin wonder if Whitey Ford is finally coming through the door.

"Your attention, please," Sheppard intones. "Now catching, for the Yankees, number eight, Yogi Berra. Number eight."

Phil Rizzuto is the first to speak, uttering, of course, "Holy cow."

Casey Stengel greets Yogi as he comes in. The two always had the closest of relationships.

"I came to the fork in the road," Yogi says. "I took it. It got late early out there."

The place explodes in laughter.

Lou Gehirg ambles over. It's shocking to see The Iron Horse here, but everyone knows he's on his way to either his mother or his wife, Eleanor. He stops to greet Yogi.

"Nice to see you, son," he says, and disappears without a trace.

Bill Dickey is waiting patiently to hug his old friend. There's a lot to suggest that Berra doesn't truly become a Hall of Fame catcher without the tutelage of the gentleman from Arkansas. Of course, Dickey was number eight long before Yogi.

Roger Maris smiles at the site of Yogi. They were teammates in '61 (yes, always 61 with Roger) and Yogi managed Rajah in '64.

All seems to be well in the saloon. Many other Yankees sidle over, waiting for their chance to chat with the man of 10 World Series Championships. Someone offers a Yoo-Hoo, but that won't do in this room.

"Hi ya, Kid," says Ruth (he never knew names anyway). "Barkeep, get this guy a beer."

Elston Howard, not only the first black Yankee in 1955, but a friend of Berra's, and his successor behind the plate, quiets the room for just a moment.

"Friends," he begins, "we have our catcher."

Many in the room nod in approval.

"Yogi," he continues, "we thank you for your service to our country. For being at D-Day."

Hank Bauer, the tough old Marine, quietly chokes up. Only Moose Skowron notices, and doesn't dare say a thing.

"We salute you for all that you did on the diamond," Howard says. "For raising of a wonderful family with your beloved wife, Carmen. We welcome you into the family you knew your always had."

"Thanks, everyone," Berra finally says. "And I don't care what anyone says. Robinson was out at the plate."

Raucous laughter ensues. It's deja vu all over again.