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Eleanor and I posed like this. I thought it made us look like tourists.
I spent the day in New York City.
Hector is in town for work, and with a free hotel room (even one that is the size of, well, a New York hotel room), Kristy brought the kids (her three, plus my goddaughter Emma, and a neighbor as well).
I was able to connect with her with my niece (Kristy's sister) Stephanie.
I promise. There will not be a test.
It was cold (it's February in New York).
We walked over five miles total, and my hip is in shambles. My back hurts. My feet hurt.
But I got time with family.
Look, we can't pick our family, as the saying goes, but when this family is around, I wind up in a happy place. So we breezed through Chinatown and saw the Brooklyn Bridge and rode the Staten Island Ferry and went to Grand Central Terminal and Times Square.
I got to play tour guide. Admittedly I'm not the most savvy New Yorker.
I mean a good pizza. Like Joe and Pat's on Staten Island or L&B Spumoni Garden in Brooklyn or Patsy's in Harlem. Or others.
So that didn't happen. But it didn't deter from an exhausting, yet successful day.
No stress. No trouble. Few problems. Just family. Laughing and enjoying time together.
So simple.
** Incidentally, the day started with a train delay in North White Plains. The minute I heard the announcement of a "situation" at the Hartsdale station on the Harlem line, I knew something was wrong. Indeed, we found out someone was hit by a train in Hartsdale. The speculation, of course, is suicide. We saw the scene when we came by some time later. My heart breaks for the persons' family, and while we make the best of circumstances, the inconvenience is nothing by comparison to a loss of life. Again, there is help.
So I leave simply with some pictures from today. I was encouraged to go. The joy of watching my great-nieces enjoy their first New York City experience like this was wonderful.
Quintessential New York. The black and white cookie.
Thanks to Stephanie for this one. I ran over to be silly. I stayed in the picture.
First subway ride for the girls.
Billy Joel said "...between you and me and the Staten Island ferry..."
Benvenuto in Mahopac (pic courtesy of Justdial.com)
I had dinner tonight with my mother, sister, one niece and one nephew.
Another niece is coming to New York City with four great-nieces. Oh yeah, and Hector is here for work. I have this funny feeling that most of you know Hector, so introductions probably aren't necessary. If they are, well get to know him. He's Kristy's husband and a frequent reader/listener.
Alas, this isn't about Hector, Kristy, or the myriad family members in New York City tonight.
Back to dinner. There was one simple question: how do we get it? Or more to the point: WHO'S going to get it?
Every Saturday night, so it seems, I leave the house and just go get dinner myself. If I'm out broadcasting a game (remember, I currently otherwise have no social life), the text inevitably hits my phone: "Do you just want to go pick up dinner?"
For the record, Benvenuto, pictured above, is the current go-to. It's a few minutes away and reasonably priced, with good quality and nice people. Plus it's always great to support the neighborhood.
There was once a video store in part of that building. Talk about a different lifetime.
If there's a self-service line when I'm shopping, I'm on it. Grocery store? Walmart? Target?
Yes. Yes. Yes. In each case, I'll see myself out, thank you very much. I realize that comes off a bit anti-social.
I'm the weirdo (yes, I admit it) who gets annoyed when I'm in New Jersey because they don't allow you to pump your own gas.
There are things I like about New Jersey. I swear. But the lack of choice to be able to pump gas isn't one of them.
I actually sit in the car, feeling uncomfortable, when I have to get gas in New Jersey. Or I just skip the state completely and gas up elsewhere.
Doesn't matter what the weather is. It's just how I'm wired (and, again, I'm weird).
So when the option is presented or dinner, it's basically accepted that I'll just go get it myself.
Lately, I find myself staying home (again, if I'm not working). I run myself pretty hard most days, so I welcome a day to catch up at home. The last thing I want to do is go out at all.
But there's also the factor of waiting for dinner (oh yeah, and tipping a driver when you're broke isn't exactly delightful).
So I normally subscribe to the notion of "If you want something done, you might as well do it yourself."
I've got my audio equipment, computer, rosters, and assorted other items that makes a broadcast come together.
But the stadium is completely locked. So I can't access the booth, even if I wanted to sit in there in the dark.
I'm often asked what time I want people to show up for a game. My answer, generally, is 90 minutes before game (or air) time. Certainly the earlier, the better.
That doesn't mean I can't pull off a broadcast in less. I'm not sure what the least amount of time is that I've thrown things together in. I'm willing to bet Shawn Sailer or Paul Silverfarb or Chris Erway knows.
So as I said, I'm not bothered by this. I would imagine, pretty soon, someone will start unlocking things and the lights will come to life.
I'll go into the booth, a cameraman will show up, and we'll do what we do.
So there's no need for panic or concern.
At least not yet.
(6:19 -- the lights are on. Time to see if I can get in. See? No need to panic.)
How about a bottle of wine, a nice dinner, and watch a movie at home? Is that too hard?
But I'm still an old softie. A romantic at heart.
Love -- and with it, respect -- aren't difficult. People have feelings. They have their hangups and idiosyncrasies. They exist for a reason, whatever that reason may be.
Now try to understand that and work with it.
Holy guacamole, but isn't that at the very foundation of life? Why is this so difficult?
Love today, and be loved. Or just love yourself and what you are.
Yet you might roll your eyes at it, and that's a shame.
It's February 13th, and it is World Radio Day.
Oh I know. Radio. Just audio. No pretty pictures.
The technology that emerged from the second half of the 19th Century, and to which we truly don't have an answer as to who invented it* was the dominant technology of the first half of the 20th Century.
*The accepted answer is Guglielmo Marconi, but Reginald Fessenden, Lee De Forest and others can claim a certain level of ownership.
By the 1920's, radio was exploding in the United States, and the BBC (British Broadcasting Company) was founded in England in 1922.
For the record, sports broadcasting became a reality by 1921, with the first baseball game hitting the air on KDKA (Read my post "Thank You, Mr. Arlin" for more).
While TV would bubble through the 30's and begin nosing out radio after World War II, and movies gaining sound in the 20's, radio continued to soldier on.
Virtually everything prior to 1950 was found out via radio. All of World War II, FDR's presidency (and death), and countless radio shows (like "The Shadow") were heard on the radio.
Even now, it still can work in concert with TV (and the internet) to give us the information that we need.
Think about it: on the night of Superstorm Sandy, myriad Greenwich residents found themselves without power. Thus they fired up their battery-operated radios, set their AM dial to 1490, and listened to me, as well as Jim Campbell and Tony Savino.
The radio is what I reach for in the same spot.
Obviously, I can't watch a video in the car either while I drive.
The game has changed even more than ever, with satellite and the internet thrown into the mix.
The truth is the term "radio" has become as generic as all bandages being "Band Aids®." Pandora, Spotify, Apple, Tidal, and other streaming services will often use the term "radio," when in fact there's nothing "radio about them.
But we're still listening. News, music, sports, talk, weather, and traffic, are just part of the stew being served up every day on stations both terrestrial and otherwise.
My satellite radio service shut down last week after my subscription expired. While it's not exactly a "first world problem," it still opened up other doors for me. I'm climbing into the podcasting world a bit more, with the addition of the "Ron Burgundy Podcast" and "David Tennant Does a Podcast With..." among the things that are interesting me.
Soon, the sound of baseball will be heard from my radio, and you can be quite sure that if I decide to "mute" a game on YES, that John and Suzyn will be a possible backup plan.
I love TV. I love video. But there's still magic in audio.
The foundation of who I am as a broadcaster is in radio.
I'm still very "ga ga" for it (and listen to WGCH).
An early title image (taken in New Jersey in 2008)
We've hit our 45th consecutive day of posting (43 of them in 2019).
Combining the renewed focus on writing with the blog being born again (praise Marty Moose!), it was suggested that I explain our little effort here in this corner of the interwebs.
Blogs were quite the rage in the late-00's (lazy, hazy days, of course). I was just a suburban dad with a job, as well as a side gig calling sporting events. I had a four-year-old that I adored (and still do).
I was intrigued by the idea of starting a blog, but it had to be right.
My feeling was that I wasn't willing to do a blog unless I invested wholeheartedly. I didn't want to do it and then let it just languish.
A few friends began writing one, and that was the last straw. It was time to take the plunge. I opted for Blogger (and have never moved off of it, despite the temptation to run to WordPress or somewhere else), and decided it would be multifaceted. At no point did I want it to just be sports, or music, or roads, or movies, or politics, or anything else.
I wanted it to be about everything, and it has been.
There are things that I'm sure I've written that I regret, and there are others that I'm pretty proud of. For instance...
- What has become known as "The McCartney Post."
- After Yogi Berra died, I wrote about "The Yankees Saloon."
- I also wrote about the pure joy of the game of baseball ("Baseball").
The title of the blog was actually the thing I obsessed over the most, but I'm pleased with how it came together. It was very organic. I wanted something that fits me, and the combination of roads with my favorite number, and the metaphor of "exit" as a place to release my writing all worked.
It just hit me, and it's actually been a bit of an identifier for me. Just as "Robcasting" is becoming now.
I've evolved in many ways, but old Yankee Stadium still makes me very wistful.
Years ago (I think it was 1987), a college professor asked me to mentor a student about writing. It shocked me, as I never thought of myself in that way (I wasn't available to do so, sadly). Yet for years, I read the work of people like Mike Lupica, and I wondered if I could present my thoughts in a similar way.
I never thought I could get that on paper. Or the internet.
Yet the blog was a way to try. If I failed, then the investment was literally nothing.
Instead, it opened doors. I made friends and allowed the blog to be a way to peer inside. People began quoting the blog to me, and telling me about things that they read.
I was shocked. I'm still shocked.
I haven't told all of the stories. Oh no, not even close. Those who thought vague posts were about anyone were, more often than not, wrong.
That's what "Rule 55" was for, where I would use a video instead of firing away. It was Sean Kilkelly's idea, and it worked to perfection.
It's still a fine line, this blog. The "shi**y reporter" that I am, I choose words and phrasing carefully. Being that it's writing, I can utilize a delete key. I can't do that on radio or TV.
I found my writing voice. Then I thought I lost it.
This wasn't the game plan for tonight. I was going to write about something else.
But...sports.
I wanted to call some Greenwich High basketball, and decided tonight's game against Fairfield Warde was the right one.
I know both coaches. I know both schools.
It was great to be back in Greenwich High School, where I've called so many previous basketball games.
Paul Silverfarb joined me for the call, so I knew we'd have fun.
But the game was the star, and the two teams gave us a good one. It went to double overtime before Warde prevailed on a Matt Becker runner at the buzzer.
If you just want to listen to buzzer beater that gave the Mustangs a 68-66 win, here it is.
I'm home after a long day, with The Grammy's on TV.
Nope. I'll confine those thoughts to Twitter. (But really, J Lo doing Motown?)
I called wrestling with Chris Erway today, from the Stamford studios of Local Live, for the New Jersey Dual Meet Finals. What a blast.
Something happens around this time of year. During the winter, I go between hockey and basketball quite a bit, but sometimes I get rolling on one sport and start missing the other.
In other words, when I get on a stretch of calling basketball, I long to get back to hockey.
Well on Friday and Saturday, I got to do just that, calling back-to-back Brunswick hockey games.
There are games, and it's rare, where I "feel it." It just all comes together. I see the field/rink/court differently. The rosters are ingrained in my cranium.
That was the case on Friday, as The Gunnery visited the Hartong Rink. Flying solo, I was able to string together a decent call of a 4-3 Bruins loss.
Still I'm not afraid to make fun of myself, like when I got tongue tied.
Check this out on Chirbit
On Saturday, the Bruins hosted Berkshire in the home finale. I made my way to Greenwich, fully expecting to grab food at a nearby deli.
Which was promptly closed. Due to "unforeseen circumstances."
A hungry broadcaster creates a tired broadcaster creates a not-quite-solid broadcast.
But the game didn't need Doc Emrick. It needed to be shepherded, because the Bruins and Bears gave us a good one. Down 4-1 after 2, the Bruins stormed back with four goals to win 5-4. There were 14 penalties and myriad chippy play, but it was an exciting game. It's worth listening to.
It was also senior day, and I send my congratulations to Henry Hill, Cooper Moore, Edward Glassmeyer, Charles Shaffer, Aaron Aboodi, Andy McBurney, and Dan Dachille. I wish I knew the athletes better than I do, but I've gotten a chance to know the parents more in recent years. Their feedback is just wonderful.
"I had to come meet you," one grandmother exclaimed. "You've explained the game to me more than anyone else. I wish your voice was pumped in here to the rink!"
"Welcome back," another person said. "You're the voice we want to see up there (on the balcony)."
Stuff like that is priceless. If only the right people could hear those recommendations.
As for basketball, don't worry. I'll be back at that, calling Brunswick twice this week (though I expect Tuesday will get snowed out), and Greenwich once (tomorrow against Fairfield Warde). I'll also be calling the FCIAC girls and boys basketball semis and finals for Local Live, as well as the FCIAC girls hockey final.
However, no boys hockey. I think I know why, but yeah. Anyway.
OK, back to The Grammy's. My head needs to explode.
As you probably know, I opened up about some of my challenges last week, in an effort to get the ball rolling on mental health. (Read part 1 here, Read part 2 here).
After having breakfast with a friend on Friday, I figured it was time to explain things. You see, I have often been a voice on the air, and I thought I walked the fine line between the radio/video and the blog.
What I found out is that nobody really knows me or what is going on. So...
- Don't be fooled by my writing and social media posts. I might be busy, but it's not generating the revenue to pay bills.
- I'm currently completely and undeniably unemployed. I freelance some for Local Live and a few other gigs that I get (such as the great Hunt Scanlon, who brings me on as moderator for their conferences).
- I don't work at WGCH full-time, and Doubleheader is nothing more than a passion project. I do it to keep me active and they're great in that it doesn't matter if I make it to the studio. But there's no money.
- I haven't worked at my last full-time position since mid-2017 (and stopped being used as a freelancer there in early-2018), and truth be told, they're the ones who owe me a significant amount of back pay for my work. Astoundingly, I can't even get a response to my requests for pay.
- Robcasting makes little to no money at all.
- I've built relationships with Greenwich High, Brunswick, Fairfield Warde and Fairfield Ludlowe, Fairfield Prep, Greens Farms Academy, and King School, along with Darien (including the Darien Athletic Foundation), the SCC and their commissioner Al Carbone, the FCIAC, Mahopac and Carmel High Schools and more. This is all great. Sadly, it's not come to fruition in terms of work to get "a life."
- I can teach. I teach pretty well. I've mentored a lot of people. However, Connecticut School of Broadcasting gets me some teaching gigs. It's not full-time.
- The state of New York harasses me about child support, and even Sean is counting down to when it's over because it bugs him. I saw more courtrooms in 2018 than I've ever seen in my life. As with everything else, I have little support. No lawyer. Nobody to stand up for me. So of course, I lost everything. I have no way to pay what I owe, and that's all I should say about that. For now.
- There are no magic answers to this. I need a job. A real job. One that helps me pay my bills. One that helps me get my life back. Any free time is spent at home. I don't go out or socialize much because I can't afford it.
- I'd like to stay in broadcasting. I'd like to help fill the void that was lost with the end of HAN, and I hope Local Live (with me) will be the answer to that. I'd like to see more games get covered, with a professional broadcaster. This goes for Connecticut, New York, or wherever I'm wanted. Our student-athletes deserve that.
- Yet the reality is that I will put 100% into any job. I have experience in marketing and database marketing and writing (hi!) and a lot more. I'm a sponge. I want any job that will allow me to use the myriad skills I have.
- Would I love to stay in broadcasting full-time? Of course, but I don't have to.
- I'm more than willing to make covering games as a second gig (but NOT as a hobby. Your athletes deserve better than that.)
- Oh, and I'm not a salesman. I. Can't. Make. That. Clear. Enough.
That pretty much sums it all up. I realize now that nobody quite knew my real story, and I gave off the impression that I was doing great.
Until I opened up.
I hope now you understand, and you'll help me brainstorm to reach the next phase of my life. I need connections, networking, and ultimately, a job.
Please let me first apologize for being in the middle lane on Interstate 95 south today in Stamford, CT. It was insensitive of me to be there, stuck in traffic, with the endless tree clearing that has been going on.
Then -- worse -- I let a truck come into our lane from the left lane. You see, I have this silly notion of being polite in such moments, and since my dad drove trucks, well I have a soft spot for them.
That's when you decided to go around me, via the right lane, where you cut me off.
Foolishly, I honked my horn, since it looked like we might crash. But you're right. I shouldn't have done that. It's your road, miss. You own it.
So you flipped me off as I drove past you. Not once. Not even twice. Ten times, maybe?
I've always wanted to be number one. What an honor!
I know you didn't like it when you saw me take the above photo, as you stuck your phone out the window in apparent retaliation, not realizing that I was taking a picture (while we were stopped, of course) of such a wonderful person.
I mean, you have to be famous since it's your road!
My concern is, why are you so mad? It's bad for your blood pressure. The delightful soul in your passenger seat seemed to laugh at all of it, just as I did.
Perhaps we could meet for a latte in Greenwich sometime? Maybe we could talk it all out? I mean, we should all be so lucky to be on your road!
I'll be more sensitive next time.
Go home tonight and hug someone. Maybe listen to some Pharrell Williams or something.
Take a walk. Read a book.
Life's too short.
The road and your rage will still be there tomorrow.
Among the questions I'm often asked is, "Why don't you apply for ESPN/NBC/Insert Outlet Here?"
Been there. Done that.
I'm fairly realistic, and have a pretty good gauge for the "no-brainer" jobs.
I've poked around several places, including those where I have friends.
No dice.
Still when I saw the creation of a broadcasting job for the Fayetteville Woodpeckers baseball team in North Carolina, I thought I'd throw my hat in the ring.
See, I know Fayetteville. I know that market. I have family that has lived in Fayetteville, and still lives just outside of the city. I also have family near Raleigh who are constantly in Fayetteville.
I can tell you with detail about Skibo Road, NC 24, Rayford Road, Hay St, and Bragg Blvd. About Cape Fear High School and Jack Britt. About restaurants and museums.
I read the Fayetteville Observer consistently, and was obsessive with the newspaper and WFNC radio (640 am and wfnc640am.com) during their recent hurricanes.
I've visited there six times since 2014. In fact, I tried to get the Woodpeckers on Doubleheader, and messaged them about hosting the show in Fayetteville last summer. I got no response.
I also made a trip downtown to look at the progress of the new stadium.
I think I've made my point.
Oh, and I sort of know a thing or 1200 about broadcasting a baseball game, given the years of the Renegades, high school, and so on.
So with no fanfare, except to tell a few close friends, I filled out an application, and waited for the inevitable.
I got that this morning. Thanks, but no thanks.
Am I mad? No. Surprised? Not at all.
Maybe I'm not that good. I certainly recognize that.
Get ready for the announcement of some 22-year-old out of Alabaster State College for the Perpetually Entitled as the new hire. I wish that person well.
You see, a lot of teams don't want a 50-year-old with over 20 years experience. Instead of seeing Roy Hobbs -- the veteran guy who got sidetracked and just wants a chance -- they see dollar signs. The fresh out of college kid doesn't look for a big salary.
So it was with an eye roll that I saw the email.
Then I told my family. You know, the people who would have actually bought tickets if their uncle had moved to North Carolina.
Am I a little demoralized? Sure, but for more reasons than that.
Right now, everyone with a checkbook thinks they can be a broadcaster. They don't train. They don't practice and stink and try to learn.
It's a hobby to them. They don't care if they're bad. They don't drag bags of equipment and exhaust themselves and take it personally when their audio doesn't actually make it to air because of a some technical issue.
There is some hope though. I see the kids at Greens Farms Academy who created GSPN, for instance. They are at games, knowing they need practice, and remaining completely wide eyed. There's no entitlement, and they want the criticism to help them get better.
I see that at WWPT (Staples). I see it at Danbury. Trumbull. I see it elsewhere. I love that.
But I don't see it everywhere. They feel their birthright is attending Syracuse and will be on CBS in a few years. They know they're the next Jim Nantz.
Anyway, I realize this comes off as sounding bitter, and I get that. I'm actually not.
I expected it. It's a sad reality for broadcasters like me.
It's why I put a lot of thought to just walking away.
Me, in sunglasses and Yankees hat, in the Mahopac High School 1987 yearbook. Hopefully nothing sketchy there.
"That's a crooked tree. We'll send him to Washington."
— Bob Ross, From "The Joy of Painting"
I had something completely different written for tonight.
But...well...no.
I'll stick to happy things.
Like broadcasting a basketball game at Brunswick. The Bruins picked up a big FAA win against Hopkins. This is what the game sounded like:
Babe Ruth (Picture found on CBSSports.com)
Babe Ruth would have turned 124 today. He is -- simply -- the GOAT of all GOATs.
He's the man. He was a mythical beast from Baltimore. Except most of it was real. Or had a sliver of being real.
He called his shot in the 1932 World Series. Yet to what degree did he really call it?
But this post isn't about him though.
Maybe it should be, but others have written more eloquently about him than I likely ever will.
His number three should be retired across baseball. Just saying.
He changed sports. I stand by that.
From 2016: Photo of All Season Movers - Kearny, NJ
The Yankees are well on their way to spring training.
Well, at least their equipment is. Though I've heard a few players are starting to straggle in before things really get going with pitchers and catchers next week.
While it's a tease, it's also happy.
Yet we still have Bryce Harper and Manny Machado unsigned. We're heading for baseball anarchy of some kind.
Baseball is also pondering somewhat sweeping (and likely foolish) rules changes (USA Today).
We'll see what comes of it.
Who doesn't love Bob Ross? Just posting this in case you didn't get the post title.
Not sure we can be friends if you don't like Doc Emrick. Nah, that's not true. But it's definitely a demerit.
I'm watching him call Bruins/Rangers on NBCSN. My goodness. Just brilliantly fun and joyous.
Here's just a small sample of his brilliance from another time.
#Project365 co-conspirator John Nash gave me food for thought today.
He wrote the following on Facebook: "The hatred in this world, especially over the littlest things that don’t matter, just staggers me."
He's right, and I'm guilty. I also told him that.
I ripped away in my usual live-tweeting of the Super Bowl (next up: the Grammy's!), having fun dispensing vitriol at the ghastly (sorry, I can't stop) s*** show known as Maroon 5 last night.
Have I mentioned Maroon 5 is awful? Not sure I said that.
Of course, it's an opinion, and it's something I work in on a daily basis about certain topics, with sports and entertainment being in the forefront.
But John is right in that it doesn't matter.
I'm smart enough (all things being relative) to know that Maroon 5, Nickelback, John Mellencamp and others have achieved popularity somehow. They obviously must be talented because they play instruments and, er, sing.
They've sold millions of records and still sell our venues of various sizes.
There are plenty who dislike The Beatles, and I'm very aware of that.
Again. Opinions.
But to John's better point, it doesn't really matter at the end of the day if Maroon 5 was dreadfully awful last night or if Tom Brady is the G.O.A.T. or if the Super Bowl was boring.
It doesn't.
Maybe it speaks to my own shallow brain. Maybe it's the little things that got me through a fairly pedestrian Super Bowl night (the 42nd one that I've watched).
That being said, I'm the primary entertainment (or snark leader) for my friend Mike Genaro, so I have to be on my game for the Grammy's.
Still, John's right. To be clear, John wasn't specifically talking about me.
It certainly made me think.
It likely won't change me.
Maroon 5 still...no. I can't. I won't.
They're just not my style.
They... ... ... hey, why not listen to us call tonight's King School/Greens Farms Academy boys basketball tilt?
LONDON - MARCH 25: Buddy Holly And The The Crickets, (L-R) Joe B Mauldin, Buddy Holly (with Fender Stratocaster guitar) and Jerry Allison, pose for a group shot on the set of the BBC television show 'Off The Record' during their UK tour. (Photo by John Rodgers/Redferns)
It's February 3.
This will always be "The Day The Music Died."
It was late on the night of Feb 2, 1959 that Charles Hardin Holley decided he'd had enough of the freezing temperatures, dirty clothes, rickety school buses, and a zig-zagging tour that General Artist Corp. had organized.
He wanted a warm bed and looked into chartering a plane to get him out of Clear Lake, IA.
Their destination was Fargo, ND en route to a show in Moorhead, MN where the next show was to be played.
Of course, the plane never made it.
The crash site, Clear Lake, IA (Edward Fink, courtesy Google Street View)
Holly (his given surname had an "e"), JP Richardson (known as "The Big Bopper"), and Richard Valenzuela (better known as Ritchie Valens), along with pilot Roger Peterson all died shortly after 1:00 a.m. on Feb 3 when the Beechcraft Bonanza airplane crashed not long after takeoff.
Holly was 22. The Big Bopper was 28. Valens was 17. Peterson was 21.
All gone.
The weather and "the pilot's unwise decision" to fly that night were blamed. Peterson appeared to lack the experience to command a flight that required instrument flying skills.
They died a mere 6.4 miles (per Google maps) from the Surf ballroom, where they last played.
Near the crash site, (J Dolezal, courtesy Google Street View)
The tour, shockingly, continued for a stretch because these shows were often caravans featuring a "cavalcade of stars."
There are countless other facts about the three lost stars, the tour, the night, the famous coin flip that put Valens on the ill-fated plane, and so on.
But as I sit here listening to Holly's music, I think of the incredible influence he's had on, well, everybody.
You see, in 1959, this 22-year-old who mixed rock, "Tex-Mex," Country (and Western), and Gospel already had a remarkable impact on music. He wrote and recorded his own music, which was unheard of.
Holly, Elvis, Carl Perkins, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Billy Haley* (and His Comets) were a supernova that had taken everything listed above, thrown a hint of jazz and bluegrass into the mix and whipped up Rock and Roll.
(*My father once told me he drank with Bill Haley in Atlantic City. I wish I had more details on this tidbit, but it was sort of an "Oh yeah" story that he told me when we heard Haley had died in 1981. Sadly, all lost to memory.)
Taking note in England were four Liverpudlians, a couple of whom were messing around with a style of music called skiffle. One of them, a Mr. John Winston Lennon (along with former bandmate Stu Sutcliffe), decided that his band should evolve from The Quarrymen to take a name in honor of Holly and his band, The Crickets.
After a few different iterations, including "Silver Beetles" and "Beatals," the band became, simply, "The Beatles." Holly's influence, along with those of others, was obvious. Plus The Beatles covered Holly's music early on.
Incidentally, Paul McCartney is the steward of Holly's musical legacy, as he owns the publishing rights.
Just one example of how Holly lives on. The Rolling Stones, Eric Clapton, and Elton John are just some others.
The Big Bopper -- fair or unfair -- was seen as a novelty act, while he was successful as a songwriter and even a disc jockey (on KTRM). His biggest hit, "Chantilly Lace," went to number 6, and was more of a fun song than the serious fare that Holly made.
Richardson was said to be looking into buying a radio station and building a recording studio, which gives credence to the notion that perhaps he saw his future from behind different microphones. Fun fact: depending on who you believe, Richardson created the first music video and is even said to have coined the phrase. With more, let's head to NPR.
Valens was a fascinating case. Only eight months into his recording career, he found a way to mold Mexican music into the Chicano style. "La Bamba" was the most famous example of this, while "Donna," was a pure love song. One can only wonder what his career would have been like, and Carlos Santana is a prominent example of his influence.
Don McLean, of course, sang of "The Day The Music Died," though he has since said the song isn't specifically about the three deceased artists, though the day is used as a jumping off point for a song that, he says, is about America.
Thus, "American Pie." Truth is, if you review the lyrics, I always thought that seemed pretty obvious. February 3, 1959 is the base of the song, with plenty of other references sprinkled throughout, such as "And while Lennon read a book on Marx." Yes. That Lennon.
So as I sit here processing the thoughts of the morning (and I wish I could say they are all good), and not thinking about the Super Bowl or the godawful halftime show (an offense to Buddy Holly, that's for sure), it was nice to remember the pure, but intricate works of Holly, Valens, and Richardson.
Before we dive into the second month of 2019 (I realize it's February 2), I want to hit a few things:
- First, I'm touched by the number of responses to the two-part post on mental health (Part 1 and Part 2). I received several texts and private messages as Thursday turned to Friday. I'm actually hoping to sit down with one person and just talk. This all gives me hope, which can often be a dangerous thing. Plus I heard from a recruiter.
The bigger note is that, while the post highlighted me, it wasn't meant to be about me, and that embarrasses me. I wanted it the posts to be a conversation starter, so I opened up. That's all.
- Second, a huge shout out to John Nash, who is the primary reason that I'm cranking out one post per day. As he writes, John "...had half-jokingly challenged to join me in this Project 365 undertaking and he surprisingly accepted."
Yes. Yes he did, and here I am. I'm a Yankees fan. He's a Sox fan. We get along just fine.
As I've said before, I'd let this blog languish. I had been close so many times to either announcing the end, or just letting it go, like many others do. I got into writing a blog in 2006 with the promise that I would fully commit. Up until 2013, I mostly adhered to that.
I suppose, not coincidentally, 2013 was when I joined Hersam Acorn Newspapers, with Hersam Acorn Radio, HAN Radio (dot com) and HAN Network to follow. My writing priorities had changed, as had my confidence as a writer, to be honest.
I felt like everything I'd known -- punctuation, grammar, tense, my own inner-voice -- was shattered. There were reasons. As I writer, I became afraid.
I still suck when it comes to "affect vs. effect," but I've always sucked at that.
With this post, I'm three away from tying the amount I wrote last year. Total.
So thanks to John, as well as Susan, Shawn, Paul, Mick, Mike Hirn, Harold, Jon, AJ, and everyone else who keep me cranking this thing out.
Share it as you wish and let's get people talking with good, respectful conversations and debates.
- Last thing. A quick note of sadness for the Turk family on the passing of Patti, sister of Betty, Mary, and Harold. There are the things we always say (gone too soon, too young, etc), and those are all accurate. Yet I don't think I have words. I thought of Patti as the real deal: a free spirit (in a family of real deal people, to be sure) who loved the Penguins of Pittsburgh.
The YES Network has Game 6 of the 1977 World Series on right now. The Yankees lead the Fall Classic three games to two heading into the game.
As always, it's easy to say how much the game has changed.
Yes, pitchers work faster.
Yes, batters step up to the plate without adjusting myriad equipment (Mike Hargrove aside, and he's not involved in this game).
Yes, umpires call the strike zone and are very much in control.
But it's more.
In a game that featured four Dodgers pitchers, it still only takes 2:18 to play it.
The Yankees trailed 2-0 before even stepping to the plate, again, leading three games to two. Yet that doesn't stop Billy Martin from having Dick Tidrow up in the Bombers' bullpen.
Tidrow, in fact, would be up three times in the early going.
He also would not appear in the game.
Mike Torrez went the distance for New York, allowing nine hits and four runs (two earned). That -- literally -- would not happen today.
The game was carried on ABC TV, at a time in which the alphabet network and NBC alternated. This would go from 1976 to 1989.
NBC used Joe Garagiola and Tony Kubek as their primary team in the late 70s, while ABC used Keith Jackson and Howard Cosell. However, Al Michaels jumped into the ABC booth if Keith was needed for college football. (as in 1979).
On NBC, from 1952-1976, a local announcer would be used either as the primary team (such as Mel Allen and Red Barber, representing the Yankees and Dodgers) or a local "voice" would call some of the home action with Curt Gowdy, who was NBC's lead.
I'm getting off the path here.
For 1977, the locals moved into serving as pregame hosts, and in the case of Bill White, the locker room interviewer after Game 6.
In the booth, Jackson and Seaver were joined by Tom Seaver, by that point a member of the Cincinnati Reds. Still, it had to pain the fans across town to see the pitcher Mets fans referred to as "The Franchise" regaling in the exploits of the hated Yankees (He'd repeat in in 1978 on NBC -- another Yankees triumph).
Cosell is often lauded as being such a pioneer. Controversial, bombastic, and so on, I can only sum him up this way: He. Would. Have. Driven. Me. Nuts.
And he did as a kid. He had an incredible habit of stepping on the play-by-play.
Take Reggie Jackson's home run in the fourth:
Keith Jackson: Long drive, right field.
Cosell: (Says something. I'm honestly not sure what)
KJ: It is...
Cosell: GOOD BYE.
KJ: Gone.
This is just one example of how Cosell tended to overrun a booth -- any booth.
Seaver, while very good, is also guilty, but that's the risk you take by throwing a then-active player in the booth.
But I can't let Keith off the hook either. Look, I love Keith Jackson, especially on college football, where "Oh Nelly!" was as much a part of my youth as anyone.
Yet I never felt Keith loved baseball, and I thought I remembered him saying that. It always seemed like he viewed it as a job, as opposed to college football or even the NFL (he also did basketball).
Or maybe he was miserable working with Howard Cosell.
Cosell, for his part, had stated in recent years that baseball was dull, thus not pleasing MLB commissioner Bowie Kuhn.
Still, the broadcast is much less cluttered. There are no reaction shots of George Steinbrenner or any member of the O'Malley family (owners of the Dodgers). A few familiar faces show up, including Lillian Carter, the mother of President Jimmy Carter, who was then the Commander-in-Chief.
There are minimal graphics, save for the gold score board that occasionally appears, or the individual player stats.
Obviously, nothing is in hi-def.
While it's not the work of the brilliant director Harry Coyle on NBC, it's still a solid Roone Arledge-led broadcast. The camerawork includes a helicopter shot overhead the magnificent edifice in The Bronx. This was also the series in which Cosell and Jackson discussed a large abandoned apartment fire, however Cosell never said, "The Bronx is Burning."
In the ballpark, there is no walkup music, other than the great Eddie Layton tickling the ivories on the organ. Legendary Bob Sheppard intones on the public address system in the style that used from 1951 until 2007.
Torrez is allowed to go the distance, even though he gets in trouble in the ninth.
Complete bedlam broke out after Torrez snagged Lee Lacy's pop up bunt for the last out at 10:43 p.m.. But before that, idiocy comes in the stands, as fans begin to pop firecrackers and try to get on the field. It's not New York's best moment, but the excitement of the first Yankees title in 15 years is palatable.
Picture taken off my TV. I love creeping Dan Shaughnessy in the background.
After the game, the insanity continues in the clubhouse, as White conducts the interviews. The thing I love is that it's not staged.
In fact, White pushes a guy out of the way at one point.
On a personal note, it was the first time the Yankees won a championship in my lifetime. I was allowed to stay up late to watch it (I turned nine that November), and had to stay quiet when they won because my father was already in bed (he had to get up early every morning).
So with yesterday being Bell Let's Talk day, I decided to open the conversation about mental health by discussing some of what rolls around in my own head.
It was a ledge that I was very nervous about, and actually talked myself out of posting it at one point, before I got a vote of confidence.
Yet unless those conversations were with crickets, the reaction was otherwise a large thud.
That's not to say that I didn't hear from a few people, and I'm grateful.
But I guess I thought there would be more of a reaction.
More of a discussion.
I asked for help. I bled a bit last night.
I didn't want pity, though I certainly want answers.
But I hoped for some sharing.
As writers (and broadcasters), we have no perfect formula for what strikes a nerve.
I've written things that I thought would unquestionably hit the mark. I've pressed the "publish" button and metaphorically buckled up.
Then nothing.
Conversely, I've posted things that I thought were just sort of no big deal, and watched it blow up.
I worked my way through stages today. Befuddled, down, resigned.
Had I written this a few hours ago, the theme would have been different. Maybe angrier.
Now I'm just, well, disappointed. Or maybe astoundedd
I wrote more words about this than I expected to tonight.
Created by Bell Canada, the telecom company pledges to donate $.05 to what they call "mental health initiatives” for each social media interaction that uses #BellLetsTalk.
While the money goes to Canadian mental health initiatives, it helps keep an important conversation moving forward worldwide.
It needs to be said again: depression is real. Mental health is a real problem.
There is no shame in discussing it.
I'm not ashamed to say that I've battled dark moments.
There are many reasons for this.
Money. Loss of time with my son. Fearing that I've wasted my life. Worrying about my friends and family.
Not enough work. Lost work.
Lack of health insurance, thus worrying about my health.
When the clouds are dark, it all becomes magnified. Bad.
In those bad moments, I become the worst broadcaster ever. I become the worst father. I become a profound failure.
The loneliness creeps in. The despair becomes tangible.
My kind of wall: the original Yankee Stadium on the final day in 1973. (Found here)
When you try to write a blog post every day, you know that you're going to hit a wall.
Well here we are.
For the love of God, not THAT wall. Not the one that is -- literally -- dividing a nation.
Oh I suppose I have topics. But there's also a certain level of "not feeling it."
I could wax about the Patriots and Tom Brady and the Super Bowl and blah blah blah.
Nah.
I'll feel the Super Bowl vibe sometime Sunday, and likely not a second before.
I find that I'm talking baseball more than anything else right now.
That is, other than hockey and basketball, which I'll broadcast tomorrow when Greens Farms Academy visits Brunswick at 4:30 p.m. (find the broadcast here)
I've also got King and Brunswick on Friday. Basketball again.
I haven't called nearly enough hockey for my taste, but I'm just glad to be calling games.
It's what I do.
It's what I've trained, studied, and practiced to do.
I care about the quality. I care if I'm not good (and I normally think I'm not good). I agonize over it.
I don't try to be Vin Scully or Mel Allen or Mike Breen or Doc Emrick.
That's a year with a particular sting to it, along the lines of 1980. But worse.
I saw Julius Campbell died today (courtesy PennLive). Julius played for the Titans of T.C. Williams High School and won a state championship in 1971.
Remember the Titans, indeed. Strong side, left side.
Look, the movie is pure Disney fantasy (I still try to maintain a sort of family blog so I'll watch my language), and not even in the same zip code of what really happened, but most football fans love it (I'm guilty).
You. Blitz. All. Night.
The Challenger explosion happened 33 years ago today. My dad was home and saw it live. I was in high school, and found out in seventh period history. We seem to always remember that date, but never the date of the Columbia disaster.
February 1, 2003. I raced to WGCH to anchor our coverage.
The overall theme? Don't claim to be something you're not. Especially when there are others who have done it much longer.
Weather permitting, I'll be back on the air tomorrow for basketball in Trumbull, as they host Greenwich.
Oh, and one more thing. I've hesitated to write this for whatever reason, but please offer your best (whatever it might be) to Paul Silverfarb, his mom, brother Sam and sister Rachel. Dad Howard died last week after fighting ALS (yes, Lou Gehrig's Disease). Mr. Silverfarb was a very good man. A very brave man. His obituary hits the highlights of a remarkable life.
You probably know I'm not a "thoughts and prayers" guy. Honestly, I detest "T&P." I have my reasons. So do whatever is best for you. They're a great family.
OK, this is really my last thought. I don't know these people at all, but Susan does, and that's enough for me. Their story is awful, caused by a selfish driver. The pictures of their car are astounding (story via SILive). There's a GoFundMe that has been established. The gentleman who is fighting for his life took Susan and her friend to her first Air Supply concert.
Which meant so much to her that she's still telling the story.
BRONX, NY - 1980: Bobby Murcer #2 of the New York Yankees swings at the pitch during a 1980 season game at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, New York. (Photo by Rich Pilling/MLB Photos via Getty Images)
I'm reading a book tonight in preparation for a radio interview.
Called Phinally! The Phillies, the Royals and the 1980 Baseball Season That Almost Wasn't, author J. Daniel (on Twitter: @JDaniel2033) goes back to the year Bobby Murcer hit .269 with 13 homers and 57 RBIs.
Besides being the dawn of the greatest decade ever (other than the lack of a World Series title for the Bombers), 1980 was the year in which an 11-year-old future broadcaster went to a baseball card show at the Baldwin Place Mall (sort of RIP, since it's now Somers Commons and isn't anything like the mall that was there) and began assembling his treasured Bobby Murcer baseball card collection.
I still have it, and last added to it in Cooperstown a few years ago. Who knew I didn't have every card?
This was also during the years in which, despite being an insane baseball fan, I was lucky to get to a game per year. I found myself reminiscing about it on "Doubleheader" last Friday.
So I began to remember: A Sunday at the Stadium. April 20. Sat downstairs on the first base line. Brewers/Yankees. Bombers won, 9-5. They hit four home runs: Reggie, Eric Soderholm, Rick Cerone, and I couldn't remember the fourth. Rob Guidry was the starting pitcher, and Ron Davis (Ike's dad) had an at-bat in the game (an absolute rarity at that time).
I remember a guy sitting near us yelling to Cerone to "hit one for New Jersey." Since, you know, Cerone was a Jersey guy.
I, of course, said, "Hit one for New York!"
He did.
I went with Patrick Urell (a blog reader!) and his father.
That year was right at the back end of a great six season run for the Yankees that spoiled me. With their World Series appearance in 1976 (and subsequent loss to the Cincinnati Reds; I still haven't forgiven them) and championship in 1977, I began to think it would be a rite of passage.
Another title came in '78 before the decline in '79 (the Orioles were too good, and Thurman Munson died).
The Yankees of 1980 were supposed to get back to their winning ways, and get my man Murcer to his first World Series.
After winning 103 games, they flopped in a three-game playoff sweep to the Kansas City Royals.
They'd make the Series in the strike-shortened '81 season, but lost to the Dodgers in six.
After that, the dark days began. '82-'93 were, at best, a roller coaster of mediocrity. The Mets won in '86, and I was stuck rooting for the Red Sox (imagine that?).
The strike wiped out the chance at a title in '94. They reached the playoffs in '95, and the earth was put back on its axis in '96.
But I can still see that 1980 season. I can still see almost meeting Yogi Berra (I looked him right in the eye) before a guard turned us away. I can still see Bobby Murcer shagging fly balls with Lou Piniella in the outfield, but otherwise being anchored on the bench that April day.
I can still see them winning the first game of a doubleheader on Saturday to win the American League East on the big TV in the living room (on WPIX, of course).
I darted out into the yard to hit Wiffle balls before we went to the Crompond Diner (RIP).
There were no problems in life. That summer felt like an explosion of real life for me, as life tends to hit right around that age sometimes.
By 1981, I'd be an uncle ("Uncle").
In 1980 there was still innocence, and baseball was still king (in my life, though football was really creeping in).
I'm excited for that interview. Listen Monday at 3pm on WGCH.
A screen grab of Vin Scully during the 1956 World Series (Courtesy USA Today)
The internet can certainly be the Wild Wild West.
In the nearly 13 years that I've written this little slice of heaven, I've used countless photos and links that I hoped would enhance your reading and viewing experience. Many of photos have been taken by me.
In the case of other photos, I've always made the effort to give attribution. Many -- if not most -- of the links have also received a nod to who produced that work.
It's not a perfect system, but when you've been brought through the ranks to do things "the right way," you do "the right thing."
If I screwed up, it was an oversight and I've always been happy to correct it. In fact, a friend in the road world caught a time that I used his picture, not knowing it was his. Truth is, I googled it, and saw that picture. It had no attribution. The minute he told me (and he said, "All you had to do was ask"), I made sure to note that it was his work.
He was cool about it, and that was it.
So it was that in the past 24 hours, I've had two cases of this. The first was completely minor -- I saw a post of mine on social media was used in an "Instastory" and I wasn't mentioned at all.
In fact, I laughed when I saw it. No big deal, and I truly believe it was an oversight.
The second one? No, but I'm not going to get crazy over it.
Probably the most popular file is a collection of Vin Scully sounds that I created a bunch of years ago. It spans from his call of Jackie Robinson stealing home plate agains the Yankees in 1955 (Yogi Berra said he was out; the umpire disagreed) to the final out of the 1996 World Series.
Never mind that Vinny worked for 20 more years, so I actually need to update it one day.
I've seen that file embedded in other blogs and professional websites. While I'd love a mention ("posted by Vin Scully historian Rob Adams" will suffice, though that's actually a bit much), my thinking has always been that there are copyright issues and such, so I don't pretend to "own" the works. I just edited them for individual enjoyment.
But...look below the play button. There's a price -- $0.65 -- to BUY THE FILE TO DOWNLOAD IT!
Dude is trying to monetize this. Which just seems wrong in myriad ways.
Again, it is what it is. He's not going to get rich, and I'm not going to lose sleep over that money.
But isn't this, you know, just a bit...er...unethical?
The page has a large group of different sound files that he has cultivated from a variety of sources and sites. Still, to try to get people to pay -- even for just sixty-five cents-- just seems wrong.
