Chico and Taylor: An Instagram Story

Either he needs to calm down or I do.

I stumbled up the stairs around 7 a.m.

"Purrow," was heard from the top.

Oh Chico, the large great mini-bear of a cat, who doesn't just meow, but combines purring and meowing into a strange brew.

"Purrow."

"Cheeks, you need to calm down," I grumbled.

Crap.

Now the song was was in my head.

Yeah. That song. The one by Taylor Swift.

* Please note that a young friend of mine is a huge-mega-monstrous Tay-Tay T-Swizzle fan. So we will not judge in these words today.

"Purrow."

I was out of my mind. He wanted wet food because he's spoiled. He doesn't need the wet food when there is a supply of dry food -- and water -- in his bowls. I even gave him a few treats.

But now the song was rolling around my skull.

"Uh oh uh oh uh oh! You need to calm down. You're being too loud."

"(BLEEP)."

"Purrow."

I was now going out of my mind. I shot video of Chico and began to create an Instagram story.

Thanks to some goofy Taylor Swift GIFs and the ability to use music in the story, I had some fun with it.

I started with a video of him purrowing as my breakfast ticked away in the nearby toaster oven. Taylor had her head explode in GIF form as the words "you need to calm down" appeared on the screen.

View this post on Instagram

My waffles are ticking away in the toaster over...and all I can think of is @ljshultz12 and @taylorswift as Chico meows. What has happened to me? #TheCat #catsofinstagram #catsagram #YouNeedToCalmDown #INeedToCalmDown

A post shared by Rob Adams (@dble5) on Sep 10, 2019 at 5:32am PDT

In the second segment, I used a still shot of Chico with the words "you're being too loud" on the screen.

View this post on Instagram

Part 2 of the Chico story from this morning.

A post shared by Rob Adams (@dble5) on Sep 10, 2019 at 5:47pm PDT

Chico moves in segment three, rubbing up against my leg with a GIF of Tay Tay doing a victorious dance appearing on him, and word "savage" (a nod to him being a cat, and the Savage Yankees) above him.

View this post on Instagram

Part 3 of the Chico story.

A post shared by Rob Adams (@dble5) on Sep 10, 2019 at 5:47pm PDT

(I can't embed the rest because I started using music)

Then another still shot with the words to "You Need to Calm Down" scrolling as the chorus plays.

Next is a still shot from behind, as I realize "this is what my life has come to." The word "King" is on Chico's body as he looks out the window.

Now, I jump in, with a selfie saying "Save me" on the screen as "Hip to be Square" by Huey Lewis and the News (of course).

Finally, we finish with a still shot of Chico, as "Help" (by The Beatles, naturally) plays. Above Chico's head, I wrote "Aaaaaaah" above him, as a way to express my relief, and "This was kind of fun" below him.

It was fun, and I realize describing it serves it no justice but I couldn't find a way to post everything on here, so head over to Instagram, where I've saved it as a highlight.

Otherwise, take my word for it. I was losing my mind.

But if it produced some laughs then that's all I can ask for.

September the Ninth

Scully interviews Koufax after Game 7 of the 1965 World Series:

It's September the ninth.

9/9.

On this date in history is...er...not a whole lot. Elvis appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show for the first time in 1956.

On this date in 1972, the United States lost to the Soviet Union in the hyper-controversial gold medal Olympic basketball game.

And on this date in nineteen-hundred-and-sixty-five Sandy Koufax pitched a perfect game.

He beat the Chicago Cubs 1-0, on an unearned run in front of 29.139 at Dodger Stadium.

Or, as Vin Scully said, "Twenty-nine thousand and a million butterflies."

Michelangelo painted the Sistine Chapel.

da Vinci had the Mona Lisa.

Van Gogh brought us a Starry Night.

Shakespeare wrote Hamlet.

Robert Frost wrote "The Road Less Traveled."

And Vincent Edward Scully, a product of The Bronx and Washington Heights, by way of Brooklyn and Los Angeles, spoke the words describing Sanford Koufax's perfect game against the Chicago Cubs on September the ninth, Nineteen-hundred-and-sixty-five.

There is, and will likely never be, no finer example of play-by-play -- in itself, a form of poetry -- than Scully's ninth inning call of the Koufax perfecto.

Where the heck does he come up with "a million butterflies?"

But, more than that, he resets and says, "The Dodgers defensively in this spine-tingling moment," before naming the nine on the diamond in that moment.

I beg -- plead -- young (and old) broadcasters to learn how to give details. Like this:

"And you can almost taste the pressure now. Koufax lifted his cap, ran his fingers through his black hair, then pulled the cap back down, fussing at the bill. Krug must feel it too as he backs out, heaves a sigh, took off his helmet, put it back on and steps back up to the plate."

Later: "One and one to Harvey Kuenn. Now he's ready: fastball, high, ball two. You can't blame a man for pushing just a little bit now. Sandy backs off, mops his forehead, runs his left index finger along his forehead, dries it off on his left pants leg. All the while Kuenn just waiting."

Even his cadence is just magnificent. Of course, you need to hear it, but when Vin says, "Torborg held the ball high in the air trying to convince Vargo but Eddie said nossir," you can feel it.

Read yesterday's post. Then read this: "A lot of people in the ballpark now are starting to see the pitches with their hearts." Bingo.

Ever the reporter -- the journalist, dammit! -- he reminds the listener that it's still just a 1-0 ballgame and that the tying run is omnipresent.

This line is just stunning: "I would think that the mound at Dodger Stadium right now is the loneliest place in the world."

Then, the denouement: "Two and 2 to Harvey Kuenn, one strike away. Sandy into his windup, here's the pitch: Swung on and missed, a perfect game!"

After nearly 40 seconds of silence, the master, calling the master, returns to finish with the flourish: "And Sandy Koufax, whose name will always remind you of strikeouts, did it with a flurry. He struck out the last six consecutive batters. So when he wrote his name in capital letters in the record books, that "K" stands out even more than the O-U-F-A-X."

There is no finer call. "Do You Believe in Miracles" is magical, no doubt. "The Giants win the pennant!" is bluster at its finest in its shock. There are so many other Vinny calls worthy of praise.

But this is the one that I implore every student to listen to.

You don't have to be Scully. Don't try. Be yourself. But learn to describe.

It exists purely because Scully asked an engineer to record it as a gift to Koufax. Otherwise, no video or audio of the game exists. He put the time stamps in, "It's 9:46 p.m.," so that Koufax could be reminded of the moment.

It exists in transcription form on Salon.

It's perfection -- on and off the field.

The "Bias" of Troy Aikman

(Photo by Frank Micelotta/PictureGroup)

I made the mistake of the watching the NFL today.

For one thing, my love of the league has faded severely. Yes I still love the Steelers, as I have for 40 years.

But there are myriad reasons that I'm struggling with the NFL. The game is wonderful, no question about it.

But the off the field nonsense (Antonio Brown, for instance) has just worn me down. The fact that the Super Bowl has become a glorified (bad) concert drives me nuts.

I'm not a fantasy sports guy either.

It's also a sport whose integrity I've truly come to question (again, Antonio Brown meet Tom Brady).

But still, I'm watching. I'm wearing my 1975 Terry Bradshaw throwback jersey.

I saw the Jets' debacle against the Bills. I saw the Redskins fall to the Eagles.

And, as I wait for the Steelers to (lose) play the Patriots, I'm watching the Giants get beaten up by the Cowboys.

Which is on FOX.

Which is being called by Joe Buck and Troy Aikman.

Do I need to say any more?

It's the usual...blah blah blah Joe Buck is terrible...blah blah blah Troy Aikman is biased.

There are very few biased announcers on a national level in any sport.

Doc Emrick isn't.
Bob Costas isn't.
Jim Nantz isn't.
Joe Buck isn't.
Al Michaels isn't.
Cris Collinsworth isn't.
John Smoltz isn't.

(I could go on)

And, for the love of God, Troy Aikman is not biased.

Troy is a Hall of Famer. He won three Super Bowls. He beat the Steelers in Super Bowl XXX. He's a Dallas Cowboys legend.

He actually checks off a lot of boxes for me to despise him.

If anyone could have a beef with him, it would be me.

I don't. He's not biased.

But when Troy Aikman calls a Cowboys game with Joe Buck on FOX, especially against the New York Giants, all hell breaks loose.

Because fans are fans, there is an immediate assumption that Aikman is kissing the backside of Jerry Jones and the blue star logo.

Given I probably watch (and listen) a lot differently than most do, I notice these things. I'd be thrilled to tell you that Troy Aikman is biased, but he is not.

I actually think he's a very good analyst.

I read in online how Eli was getting ripped by Troy. To be honest, when he was getting ripped, it was because he deserved it.

Later, Buck and Aikman were discussing the situation Eli is in as first round draftee Daniel Jones is poised to take his job.

Aikman: "I'm pulling for Eli."

Later, when Jones came on in garbage time: "This is not on Eli. He's not the reason the Giants lost. He actually played pretty well today."

Lastly, he added that the Giants are "actually a pretty good team and better than they showed today."

That's not a biased broadcaster.

A Green Bay Packers fan once brought a petition against the Buck/Aikman pairing. It didn't work.

"I don't know if there's Cowboys fan petitions, but I get it from Cowboys fans too, saying that I'm against their team," Aikman told the Dallas Morning News in 2017.

Those who work with a bias are the homers. The hometown broadcasters. Listen to almost any radio call in the NFL and you'll hear it. Gene Deckerhoff of the Tampa Bay Buccaneers has said "we" when describing the exploits of the Bucs for 30 years. To my knowledge, he's never suited up for the team.

Even Bill Hillgrove and Tunch Ilkin of the Steelers have shown a leaning and I know it.

The percentage of bias at the local level tends to be maybe 60-40 at the local level, but some stretch it. For the record, I think I have little to no bias, but your mileage may vary. I've been asked to not get excited when the other team scores, for instance.

I have no dog in the fight. I actually prefer the Giants over the Cowboys.

Heck I prefer almost anyone over the Cowboys.

But it's our job to put that bias away when in the booth.

Sorry, folks. The easy narrative would be for me to grab a pitchfork and join you.

I'm not doing it because I don't agree with you.

The Giants need a defense. That should be your concern. Not Troy Aikman (or Joe Buck).

Mute the TV and listen to Bob Papa on the Giants' radio call instead.

You're welcome to argue with me tomorrow at 3 p.m. on WGCH.

Background Baseball

From left: Mel Allen, Bob Elson, and Red Barber.
These are the first three Ford Frick Award winners.

Hi, my name is Rob. (Hi, Rob)

And I have an old broadcasting obsession.

I have an Alexa, or as it's formally known, an Amazon Echo.

I play Question of the Day basically every morning, and sometimes play Jeopardy. But I'd like to have a sports trivia game.

I still have yet to find one, but I found something else: Background Baseball.

As it's described, "Stream the background summer time sounds of old MLB radio broadcasts from 1933-1973."

Oh.

My.

God.

Look, I know they exist on YouTube, but there's something different about this. The idea of just saying, "Alexa, open Background Baseball" and letting the "skill" randomly pick a game? Just awesome.

I'm not sure there's a 1933 game, because as I've discussed on my soon-to-be returning podcast, "Tales From the Booth," it's seems well-documented that the oldest existing full broadcast is the 1934 All-Star Game.

Indeed, when I asked Alexa to start Background Baseball, the first game to come up was indeed the Midsummer's Classic from the Polo Grounds in 1934.

So I went with the random option instead. The first game that was picked for me was the 1935 All-Star Game from Cleveland. Bob Elson, the third recipient of the Ford C. Frick Award, called the action solo, save for pre- and post-game help from Ellis VanderPyl, a largely-forgotten early broadcaster for the Indians.

The American League won the '35 game, 4-1. Jimmie Foxx homered in the first inning. Of interest in the first game was how the A.L. actually changed their starting pitcher and catcher not long before the first pitch.

The game, along with many early broadcasts, was carried on multiple outlets. The '35 game broadcast that I listened to was on Mutual, but NBC and CBS were both on-hand also.

The next game on the agenda (and the one I'm currently listening to) is Game 4 of the 1943 World Series. By that time, the Series had an exclusive broadcaster, with Mutual being the selectee. Elson called the latter 4.5 innings, while the legendary Red Barber handled the first half of the ballgame between the Yankees and Cardinals in St. Louis.

Elson, it should be noted, was in the Navy by 1943, and received special leave from his military duty to call the Fall Classic. Thus Elson is the only person to call a World Series in uniform.

For more on Bob Elson, read this piece from SABR.

Barber should need no introduction. While Elson was the third to receive the Ford Frick Award, Red -- along with Mel Allen -- was the first (and second, as Red and Mel shared the award in 1978).

While Vin Scully was not a parrot of his mentor Red, it's fair to say that you can hear his influence.

Both broadcasters (Elson and Barber) provided vivid details of these games. There are no histrionics or cliches, save perhaps for Red calling himself "The Ol' Redhead."

However, to be fair, the broadcast is also lacking some personality. That would come along, with many colorful characters stepping behind the microphone, including baseball Hall of Famer Dizzy Dean, on TV in the 1950's.

This is straight reporting, with no pre-recorded commercials. In fact, the 1943 game makes it clear that Gillette is the sponsor, but there are no mentions of the sponsor during the game action. It is mentioned by Barber that part of the reason for it is that the shortwave operator knows when to mute the feed so that no sponsorships are heard on the relay of the broadcast to the troops overseas.

These are all marvelous time capsules. I can't stress enough that young broadcasters (and not so young) should listen to these to learn how to actually call a game. First and foremost, it's reporting that is important. As a radio broadcaster, detail is key. Elson and Barber are incredible at adding the flavor of what's going on. In the '35 game, Elson mentions a battle for a foul ball rolling down the line. He adds that a few "straw hats" fall off in the melee.

Again, there are no color commentators. No launch angles. Not over-regurgitating of stats.

That doesn't mean it's perfect. The fact that Bill Dickey is playing in a record-breaking game for the Yankees in the World Series is mentioned on several occasions, thus potentially beating the proverbial dead horse.

But there's also great info. Barber says that Yankees starting pitcher Marius Russo prefers to have his name pronounced as RUSS-oh, and not ROOS-oh. Elson, when taking over in the last of the fifth, says the latter and not the former. He eventually corrects himself without incident.

I can't recommend listening to these games enough, via Alexa, or on YouTube or anywhere else they can be found (I know they're on Archive.org, for instance).

As I finish the post, the Cleveland Indians and the Boston Braves are starting Game 1 of the 1948 World Series from Braves Field in Boston. Mel Allen and Jim Britt have the call of that one. If you don't like Native American nicknames, you would have hated Allen's opening.

That's a discussion for another time.

And This Is Why...

Maybe we need more Burgundy

I watch a lot of sports. Obviously.

I also listen to a lot of sports.

But there are a lot of games that I make it a point to not listen to.

The reason is simple: I don't want to critique or analyze the broadcasters, because I know I will.

I listened to very little on WGCH in the two years that I wasn't calling Greenwich football. I remember I tried listening once in the car to hear my friend Sean Kilkelly, and he wasn't on the call.

Same goes with HAN. I watched one full game after I left with the sound on. I watched another with the sound off. I watched a few segments of other games because AJ was on it, and he asked for a critique.

Otherwise, no. I just didn't want to know.

Generally speaking, things that I watch or listen are at the request of others. Someone might say to me, "You need to hear/watch this," and I will because they asked.

Mike Hirn might ask me to listen to something he did, or a call he's aware of from Ohio.

I get asked to critique things often, and I warn people to be ready.

Beyond that, I try to avoid it, mostly on principle.

And tonight was a reminder of why.

We've been through this before.

Look, I get it. Crews have bad nights. I have bad nights. I have so many nights when I feel like I should just quit.

So I understand it.

But now you can understand why I stay away.

*****
I never had a chance to really climb into the Antonio Brown story today on Doubleheader, but I think it's safe to say that Raiders are a dysfunctional mess, and they have been for years.

But if there's truth to AB referring to general manager Mike Mayock as a "cracker" (and it seems it is true), then it is unacceptable that he will play on Monday night in the season opener.

Certainly just for his behavior to his boss.

But yeah there's the elephant in the room, and there's hypocrisy to be found.

I can't stress enough how happy I am that AB is no longer with the Steelers.

So I'll just leave it at that.

Rodney Dangerfield Was Right

Dear week: I've had enough.

Remember what I said about broadcasting Mahopac football? Scratch that. The superintendent found two other people.

Never heard of them. Don't know if they're any good. Doesn't matter.

I was actually initially asked to do Trumbull football this Friday, but kept it open for Mahopac. Then Trumbull went away without discussion, and now Mahopac is gone.

Just the latest in a string of things in a lovely week. I'd love to list them all.

For 13 years on this blog, I've preached to "Keep moving forward," but when the insults pile up like dirty laundry, when is enough simply enough?

When are we allowed to snap?

Instead of moving forward, just stop.

When you're treated like discarded trash, you just wonder what's next.

Add in missing Sean on the first day of his senior year, and it seems like a good day to sit this one out, post a video, and go with "Rule 55."

I believe in respect and understanding. I'd like a little in return.

** This is one of those posts that I write while emotional, then step away. It's already been tweaked a few times. This has always been a live journal of sorts, and I let fly, up to a point. Shockingly, I don't say everything. I didn't name names or even tell scenarios. It's just not realistic. I also realize "better days are coming," and "keep your chin up," and other sayings are appropriate here. But, once in a while, we're allowed a moment. Some will call it a pity party. I call it a harsh reality.

When looking for dark, whiny, and moody, The Smiths provide a perfect "Rule 55" entry.

The Monster In This Post

 You turned the page! (Image: Sesame Street/Disney)

I fought through it, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to start writing this morning.

Around 3:15 a.m.

I think -- for most writers (of which I am not one) -- that some of the darkest and, perhaps, most profound material occurs during the loss of sleep. The mind is simply raging with minutiae.

Instead, I tossed and turned. I scanned my phone. I played Solitaire. I played WBGO radio on my Alexa. There's something to be said about jazz -- real jazz -- and it was a nice fit for that time of night.

It wasn't Charlie Parker beebop. It was well-curated jazz meant for the overnight.

It didn't put me back to sleep, but it did sort of cool me out.

I probably crashed again around 6 a.m. but I don't remember.

It's amazing how our habits change. There was a time when I would have immediately grabbed the remote and flipped the TV on. There's constant hurricane coverage on The Weather Channel, and have traditionally been a sucker for that.

Jim Cantore is where? What's the hurricane eye look like? There's a dangling traffic light on Tybee Island, GA? Count me in!

I decided to pass on summoning the energy to watch Cantore or whatever rerun was on late night TV. I also passed on reaching for my laptop, across the room on my desk.

So I stared off into space, looked at my phone, turned off the light, tossed and turned, and tried to find my zen place.

Or whatever. Namaste, I suppose.

I'd sort of drift off, then my body would shake back awake.

"Not yet, silly boy!"

There was no cat to talk to (or meow back at me), as Chico was upstairs, nestled into a box or something. I was tempted to go get him but, at what cost? To have him look at me, say, "Nah," and leave? That probably wouldn't have been good for the ego.

So what's rolling around in my skull, you ask? I suppose the easiest answer (and cop-out) is to say everything was.

My life. My car. My finances. My lack of a confirmed fall schedule. Thinking about being prepared for going to San Francisco in three weeks (yes, I've already partially packed). Prepping for Greenwich/Brunswick/Mahopac football (at least I hope so). The tooth that has bothered me for three months. My heart. My blood pressure. My weight. My diet. Blah blah blah.

Too many variables and no answers.

In the light of day, things can be bitten in small bites. Apply for that job, make that payment, send that email.

In the dark of night, it grows into a beast. Not one under the bed or in a closet. It's right there, on the bed, grabbing a bucket of popcorn to watch you suffer. Extra butter, please.

It's Shrek, lacking any charm or Mike Myers' voice.

This would have been a more nuanced post at three or four in the morning.

Now it's after 10 and it just sounds whiny. Everyone has problems.

So off we go with another day. Doubleheader at four.

Be safe in the hurricane-affected areas.

The Picky Eater

[Photograph: Vicky Wasik, seriouseats.com) 

I am a picky eater.

I've been one for most of my life.

I've been mocked for it and embarrassed about it for as long as I can remember.

So it was that I read with horror the story of a 17-year-old near Bristol in England who has reportedly gone blind due to his diet.

The linked story from the BBC reports that the unnamed teen, "...had been eating only French fries, Pringles and white bread, as well as an occasional slice of ham or a sausage.

"Tests revealed he had severe vitamin deficiencies and malnutrition damage."

Yes, efforts were made to give the teen B-12 injections, as well as improve his diet, but he did improve. His diet stayed the same and he stopped taking the injections.

It's a horrible story, but one that could also be avoided.

The key takeaway from the BBC story is this quote from Dr Denize Atan of the Bristol Eye Hospital: "He explained this as an aversion to certain textures of food that he really could not tolerate, and so chips and crisps were really the only types of food that he wanted and felt that he could eat."

I appreciate literally everything that is said in that statement. Texture -- every bit as much as taste -- has been my problem for probably 45 years or more.

So to an extent, I sympathize, but again, the youth did have efforts made to improve the situation, including vitamin injections.

Still, it's a sad story.

It's a cautionary tale.

This young man will never drive and supposedly can't read a book or watch TV. He'll have peripheral vision, but that's about it.

Sad.

But, again, I get it to a point. My eating has improved over the years, but I know the scourge of having a meal put in front of you that will, at best, only be able to gag down.

I've been known to create little piles of chunks from tomato sauce, for instance, hoping no one will notice. I still enjoy the meal, but that's my compromise.

I realize that I'm my own worst enemy, and deserve no sympathy.

So, I guess I'm babbling.

I hope that young man can improve to the point where he can still have a life of some kind.

But the next time you come across a picky eater, go easy on them.

It's not as easy to fix as you might think.

The Fire is Still There

At the controls, posing for a timed picture, 1991

The clock ticked. A new day was approaching.

Midnight came and went with barely a ripple, save for the sound of an R&B song on the radio.

Was it James Ingram? Probably.

Another song followed. Then maybe one more. Beyond that, the silence was deafening.

Trembling. Hands wet and shaky. Mouth dry.

It was 12:09 a.m. on Sunday, Sep 2, 1990 as the last song faded.

"Jude Cole, time for letting go here on Majic 105," I said. "Good morning, everyone, this is Robbie Adams..."

My dream of being on the radio had been achieved.

In those painful nine minutes after I took the controls, I debated with myself. I've since told the story countless times: keep pressing play on the CD player until six in the morning? Run and never work in radio again? Turn the mic on and talk?

I obviously chose option three.

I'd been to college, though was nowhere near graduating by that point, and it would take some time to finish. In between, to rebuild my confidence after my dad passed, I went to the Connecticut School of Broadcasting.

It worked. I then painstakingly worked on a radio audition tape (yes, an actual cassette). WMJV (Majic 105), an FM station at 105.5 (see the 55 in there?) located near Patterson, NY often took in CSB grads and they took a shot on me.

It was a nice place to learn with a horrible music format. A couple of things that worked in our favor back then was that, 1) they were live 24/7 and 2) they weren't completely hung up on their playlist. There was actually a little bit of leeway where a DJ could actually play something that wasn't on the log.

I played "The Heart of Rock and Roll" by Huey Lewis and the News to help settle my nerves a little.

Then I began to trust myself a little more, and the skills that I knew I had began to work. I was good at talking up a song. I never faked my voice. I just brought my own personality. It was a perfect training ground.

The sound was perfect as the music and my voice rolled through the Koss headphones I'd just bought the day before at the Service Merchandise in the Jefferson Valley Mall. Truth? I still have them, though they've obviously seen better days.

The guy who trained me a few nights before my debut became a close friend, and I'm grateful to him all these years later. He allowed me to do a sports report just after 6 a.m. on his show.

I'd fall prey to radio politics about a year later, and it was over. I defended a friend, got caught in the crossfire, and paid the price. I might play it a little differently if I had to do it again, but the theme would remain the same.

The DJ on before me was the first person I pissed off in broadcasting. Obviously, he hasn't been the last.

"John," the DJ who trained me, is still my close friend, and he got me my next opportunity. After working my way through college (and actually working a day job), I found myself largely out of radio. I played with the idea of going away to college, for instance. But "John" (I still respect not revealing his real name) declined a job offer at WREF.

He knew who would be interested, and I quickly threw together another audition tape in my home studio.

I became a fill-in DJ and football board-op for a few Ridgefield High School games at WREF in 1996. But by early 1997, WREF was a memory, with me turning out the lights.

There are much longer stories in here.

Friends at WREF said they'd mention my name at the place that they part-timed to keep me in the business, and by March, 1997 I was on my way to WGCH.

I've never left.

I've done some music, show hosting, news, engineering, writing, producing, board-op'ing, reporting, and a lot more.

And sports.

My father was terrified when I told him what I wanted to do with my life. After he died, a friend of his reinforced that fact to me. Others questioned my sanity of attending CSB or going to Syracuse for a "sportscasting camp."

I've done it my way. I've made choices to stay around New York and Connecticut and I have no regrets.

My DJ'ing days are mostly over, though I've often thought I'd love to go back into music on a smaller basis.

I've done a lot in my career. Writing for a newspaper, marketing analyst, finance, ice cream deliveries, temp work, spreadsheets.

But I'm a broadcaster. I've done TV and video. I've done streaming.

I've done radio for 29 years.

And I still love it.

Thank you. Thank you for listening, supporting, criticizing. Thank you.

See you tomorrow at 3 p.m. on Doubleheader to start the 30th year.

Thoughts While Mowing the Lawn

The Black Keys (Photo: Alysse Gafkjen)

I'm sure I'm not unique in the fact that I come up with great ideas -- for the blog and elsewhere -- when I'm away from my computer or pertinent device.

The point being, by the time I get to said device, the whole tenor of whatever I want to do has changed.

I was considering a whole breakdown of how modern music has (clearly) passed me by. I'll add to that by saying that's also not a unique phenomenon.

But let's give it a try.

My dad made an effort to connect with us teenagers in the '80s by watching MTV. He was in his 50s by then.

I'd say popular music officially jumped my shark (which just sounds wrong) around 2013 or so.

I was 45. Ugh.

While sitting with a friend recently, they noted a popular artist, and they knew who it was because of kids.

I sat there stunned. I had not the first clue who the artist was.

I felt the same about the recent MTV Video Music Awards.

I watched a highlight package from the show and found myself thinking it was all about choreography and flash, as opposed to, you know, music.

But I realize it's not a new thought either.

Of course, I mocked a particular Super Bowl halftime show earlier this year (shout out to John Nash, as we still chide each other over that).

As I've essentially concluded refurbishing my music collection, I've discovered that I own virtually nothing from 2019. Other than The Black Keys and a Seattle-based band called Hotels, there isn't much "modern" in my collection.

I accept all responsibility for this. There are avenues to find new music, and I hope that I can embrace that. It would be nice to discover what's out there. It doesn't need to be popular (and, at this point, shouldn't be).

At the same time, my son has zero interest in the current popular sounds either. Ask him about...er...and...um...and he scoffs.

I feel a level of responsibility for that also, but I also know he's an independent guy.

So I enjoyed The Black Keys as I mowed the lawn and forgot my ideas.

*****
I went to the 26th annual "Jimmy Buffet Party" at my friend Scott's house. It was great to see friends from Mahopac High.

Of note is the fact that I have a "tradition" of showing up after dark. That fact probably needs to change. Even a few hours earlier would be better.

Some friends were missed, while others announced good news. We were able to formally toast Scott and Monica's engagement.

At the same time, we also toasted those turning "the magic number," and those who already have. That would be me, as we figured out I'm the old man of the group.

But I also laughed willingly with my friends and that was nice.

I've missed two of those 26. I'll be back next year.

A "Memorable" Mahopac Scrimmage

I stopped by my old high school today to watch the Mahopac Indians go through a multi-team scrimmage against Somers, Our Lady of Lourdes, Nyack, and the co-op known as Yonkers Force.

Yonkers Brave (another co-op, whom Mahopac will play in their opener next Friday night) had equipment issues and couldn't participate.

Just as with calling baseball, it was a surreal thing. This is the patch of land I graduated from high school on (it was grass then; it's turf now).

I played pickup football on that field (much to the dismay of, you know, the actual football teams).

I've walked that track and rode my bike on the track (back when you could do that).

Our senior "color day" pictures were taken there, including a group shot in the old wooden bleachers (they're metal now).

I've even called two games from there: sectional finals football games featuring Rye and Harrison (when WGCH cared about such things...ah, memories).

Those games, sadly, do not exist because 'GCH used cassettes for recording back then (it was 2004). True story: we had no cassettes.

We went digital in 2005. Thankfully.

I had not been back to Mahopac for any football activity since then, until today.

I enjoyed watching the teams compete while looking the facility over, including the press box (which is also new from the last time I was there).

I spoke with Pac head football coach Dominick DeMatteo after the game and even ran into him and his son Anthony as I grabbed a sandwich a few minutes later. I'm happy to report they're fans of Robcasting and of my work, and we're very hopeful that we can link up with Local Live to make me the...er...Mahopac football broadcaster for a number of games. In fact, if it works out, I'll call the famed Mahopac/Carmel football rivalry for the first time, having called it in baseball and hockey.

Quick side note about Coach DeMatteo: he totally gets it. Along with Athletic Director (and former baseball coach when I was at MHS) Frank Miele, he's getting the word out about Mahopac athletics and supporting all of the teams. That's how he came to know me because he listened to me calling Pac baseball.

I've called Rye/Harrison and Darien/New Canaan several times. Calling Mahopac/Carmel would be special indeed.

We're also going to look into putting the audio on Robcasting.

I was glad to go today to not only meet Coach DeMatteo, who frankly comes from high school football royalty in New York. But I'm also thrilled to get some of the nostalgia out of my system. The memories obviously flooded me as I walked around.

First base is where that high grass is. I played there a few times.

Nearby, next to adjacent Mahopac Middle School, is the former varsity baseball field.

It's also the field that I played a lot of games on in the Mahopac Sports Association. It matters not even a little (though it does to me), but I won two championships on that field, in 1984 and 1986.

It's not something you'll find in any newspaper, but those details are embedded in my mind. I also recognize it's as relevant as Al Bundy remembering throwing four touchdown passes in a single game for Polk High against Andrew Johnson on Married with Children.

So I'll spare you those details.

Touched home plate to win a title here in '86.
Please note that Mahopac varsity baseball has played down the hill at Mahopac Falls School for over 30 years.

It was nice to just walk around, enjoy the day, and watch football for the second day in a row, just as I did yesterday at Greenwich High, where I saw the Cardinals and Bruins -- two teams whose games I expect to be calling again in 2019.

So I'm anxious.

Mahopac starts next Friday. GHS and 'Wick start after that.

I'm ready. Now we have to nail down the schedule.

Another Era Ends

His first day of Kindergarten, 2007

Sean left today to return to his mother.

In essence, that means summer is over.

Oh, I know what the calendar says, but our full weeks together have once again come to an end.

He returns to John Jay High School next Thursday where he'll begin his senior year.

There are pictures all over of kids starting their first day of school. They're holding message boards and hand-drawn signs announcing the new beginnings.

Others just pose at the bus stop or in their living room or on their front porch.

And they should.

There will, however, likely be no picture of Sean. Or if there is, I won't see it without begging.

But of note is the fact that he doesn't want one taken anyway. My son, who normally takes pictures willingly, isn't interested.

Last Saturday, with Taco

I suppose the bigger thing I'm driving at is that, for the last eight years (nine next week), I've not seen him get on the bus that first day. I wasn't there to force him to get his picture taken (too bad, I'm the dad, and I don't play that card often).

I'll text him, and we'll talk, but I otherwise have no involvement.

I certainly am not looking for pity here. It is, as they say, what it is, and it comes with the territory.

But this is the last full summer. It's the last "first day" of school for him.

He'll be a senior.

He'll graduate next year.

And time, of course, will march on.

Dear Vin

Vin Scully
c/o Los Angeles Dodgers
1000 Vin Scully Ave.
Los Angeles, CA

Dear Vin:

I hope it's a very pleasant day wherever you may be.

I saw in my memories on social media (what you probably call, "The Facebook") that it was four years ago today that you suspected 2016 would be your last year.

We're heading into the tail end of our third year without you behind the microphone for the Dodgers, and baseball misses you desperately.

Oh, it's not your problem to save our great game. That goes up to people who are more "heck bent" on destroying it. Not that you'd ever say that.

No, I feel like we need your grace in a booth somewhere. The Dodgers are doing just fine, with Joe Davis doing a marvelous job. He's been a breath of fresh air, and we get to hear him around the country doing national games as well.

But your spirit is missing. Many try to be you or emulate you, but there's only one you.

I know better, mind you. I learned the lessons that Red Barber taught you and you passed on to the many in the School of Scully.

"Be yourself," Red told you. I've tried to be, and goodness knows that's what I am. I try to honor you, but I probably get too excited and too loud. I'm nowhere near the poet that you are.

So, in conclusion, I'm me.

But we need you somehow.

I know you won't call anything that you're offered because you wouldn't feel prepared (ugh, that word) and you wouldn't want to show anyone up. But good grief, Vin, you'd be the best broadcaster in sports as soon as you stepped into any booth.

There's too much bad in the booth these days. Sure, Joe Davis is great, and there are plenty of others who are simply OK but think back to a time when you and Red and Mel Allen and Ernie Harwell and Al Helfer and Curt Gowdy and Bob Prince and Harry Caray were all active. That's around, say, 1960 or so, right?

And I'm just throwing a handful of baseball names out there. There are so many others.

Look, I don't want to get into naming names, but we have a ton of games on now with completely substandard "me first" types. I know those have existed for years, but I feel like there's an epidemic of hyperbolic GARGANTUAN broadcasters.

You always said you don't watch (or listen to) other announcers, and you'd never criticize them anyway, but I can't help to wonder what you think these days. Here's a sample of what's going on:

- Fake voices are in play. A lot.
- The aforementioned hyperbole.
- Out of control egos on kids who have accomplished very little.
- Screaming. Lots and lots of screaming.
- Inaccuracy.
- Less storytelling and more statistics.

Everybody seems to have a catchphrase. I think there's one guy who says, "My oh my! Watch it fly!" after every home run. Another guy has to do his wacky comparisons.

"That batter is hotter than the skillet I mistakenly put my hand on while I was home in my studio apartment." Or something like that.

I know Mel said, "Going going GONE!" but he was original. This stuff isn't.

Santa Maria, Vin, but it's exhausting. There's an awful entitlement these days, especially from students who assume everything is on a platter for them.

You didn't have parents that got you everything. There was no fancy broadcasting school.

As you know, when you left Fordham, after helping start WFUV, you spent a summer at WTOP in Washington (and a nice gig that must have been), but nothing was handed to you. Your talent got you that first (and, really, only) opportunity with Red Barber.

Within a few years, you were the best in the business and, soon, the best ever.

But you did it all with grace and eloquence. Oh, I know there were moments of ego, such as how furious you must have been at not getting the Super Bowl job that went to Pat Summerall on CBS. But their loss was OUR gain since you moved to NBC and further cemented your legacy.

It's not all bad, of course, but it's certainly frustrating. More than ever, I mute the games that I watch. You see, like you, I'm different in that the broadcaster impacts the game for me. So in a lot of cases, I don't watch or hit the mute button.

By doing so, it keeps me from becoming the huge broadcasting stickler and critic that I am. I suppose I'm more like Red in that regard. My goodness, he really didn't like Russ Hodges' "Giants win the pennant" call.

Oh, how I'd love to pick your brain about Red and a hundred other topics. While I'm not you and do try to be you, I look to honor you and the others who have impacted me.

I wish that same impact could be felt more consistently around our wonderful business.

Of course, you should be enjoying life away from baseball with your wonderful family. I'm happy for you.

But, like millions, I miss hearing you. We're so fortunate to have the large collection of audio and video that is available to us.

I know you can't come back, and you shouldn't. But I wanted you to know that you're missed and that the lessons you taught me won't be forgotten.

I try to teach them to my students.

I wish others would do the same.

My best to you, your wife, and your family.

Best wishes,
Rob

What About "Bob?"

My given name, not surprisingly, is Robert. I'm named for my father, who was known by both Don/Donald (his middle name) and Bob.

I remember hearing him say his name was Bob to people he'd meet outside of the family. His coworkers also called him that as well. In more formal circumstances, he was known as Robert.

It got confusing, and it sounded weird.

As for me, I was never Donald. I was, however, Robbie (spelled that way, and don't you forget it). To this day, I still happily answer to that, though almost nobody calls me it anymore.

I was Robert when I was in trouble or being called to do something.

I actually didn't become Rob until I was in junior high school. I can still remember my dad seeing that I used it in the yearbook.

"Rob," he said. "Hmmm."

And that was it.

I used Robbie when I first got into broadcasting because it was 1990 and I was still raw after my dads passing. By 1996, I shortened it when I was at WREF. In the rest of my world, I was now Rob.

Still, Robbie makes me smile.

I bring this all up because there's often an assumption of calling people by the shortened version of their name. My son doesn't have an issue, because Sean is Sean. Anything beyond that is a nickname, and there are plenty of those.

But Robert can get murky. Robert, of course, is too formal. Rob is what I answer to, though I've said Robbie is also fine.

But Bob? No. Like, seriously, no.

Oh, there were always exceptions, like random people of authority. Correcting them seemed disrespectful so I normally let it go.

Not everyone wants the shortened version.

Not every Susan is Sue. Not ever William is Bill (or Billy) or Will. Not every Thomas is Tom.

Not every Richard is...well...not Rick at at least.

And not every Robert is Bob.

Especially me.

I Did My Best

The handshake line forms following the victory tonight

I'm back from the second night of my two-game stint with the Hudson Valley Renegades.

Where I felt I was off last night, I felt much better tonight.

From there, it's in the eye of the beholder, and your mileage may vary.

But I felt more coherent. More cohesive. There was a better rhythm to my play-by-play description.

The game certainly helped. It was a well-pitched, well-played, tidy 3-0 win for the Gades over the Connecticut Tigers.

My three innings produced the games first run on a groundout.

For the second night in a row, when my play-by-play innings were over, my body sagged as adrenaline just flowed out of me.

The ride of a sports broadcaster -- well, this broadcaster -- is a nasty roller coaster. The highs. The lows.

But in my case, I almost never get too high. I just refuse.

I felt dejected after last night. A little deflated, I suppose.

So, tonight, I simply walked out of Dutchess Stadium, watched the traffic, and repeated my mantra: "I did my best."

It's all I can do.

On and off, I've been around the Gades since they first took the field in 1994. I've been an (occasional) broadcaster since 2001.

Will I do anything with the Renegades in 2020? I guess only time will tell.

Back With The Gades

 

I was back on the microphone tonight, calling three innings of minor league baseball as the Hudson Valley Renegades hosted the Connecticut Tigers.

It had been 33 days since my last game.

It's not really like riding a bike. I was raw and nervous. Plus, and I've said this before, I'm never comfortable in someone else's booth.

It's Josh Caray's booth. So he called six innings of action and I stayed quiet, just doing my scorecard.

But the middle three -- the fourth, fifth, and sixth -- were mine.

I gave it what I had. When I found a rhythm, it was OK. When I didn't, well, I'm a tough judge.

There were errors, for sure. I'd like to believe nothing was major or fatal.

I suppose I need to "put away the violins," as I was once told. I'm sure various and sundry people can understand that.

I'm back at it tomorrow, as I grabbed a little two-game stretch to call the Gades.

It was nice to have some family in the ballpark tonight, and there will be friends there tomorrow.

Plus I had a few loved ones listening.

I'm grateful for that support.

Anyway, these are important games to me (but then again, they're all important).

The games air on HVRenegades.com (or on TuneIn Radio) and I'd be pleased to have you tune in (bad pun) tomorrow night. The game is also on milb.com. Game time is 7 p.m.

Back Home

What, you mean you don't have a Waffle House menu hanging on your wall?

We're back in Mahopac.

Vacations and, in general, traveling, comes and goes.

It was a long ride that stretched from 7:44 this morning until I turned the engine off for the last time in Mahopac at 4:45 p.m.

The total day, without breaks, was 7:25. Now add in the 3:38 of yesterday and our 650.8 mile odyssey took 11:03.

The southbound trip, using a much more basic approach (all I-95, all the time) and it took 622.4 miles over 11:04.

If you're keeping score, the northbound trek was 28.4 miles long and one minute shorter. Traffic is a fickle beast indeed.

The trip home was more involved, even more experimental. While I rolled out of Stedman a little differently, getting on 95 at Exit 55 (yes), the trip was otherwise standard-issue, save for the several miles where I got creative because there was a report of bad traffic near the Dunn, NC area. Otherwise, despite more heavy rain, it was a lot of 95 to our Ashland, VA hotel.

Today? I got nutty.

But first, we started with a final Waffle House breakfast, served by the delightful JoAnn, who is also a fellow New Yorker. She graced us with two menus as keepsakes.

So I stayed on 95 through northern Virginia, but the thing is, I kept going. So when 95 turned at Springfield towards Baltimore, I stayed straight right into Washington.

Traffic was reasonable, making for a close-up glance at the Washington Monument and other sites of the District.

Via I-695, I slipped onto DC Route 295, which becomes the Baltimore-Washington Parkway at the Maryland line.

If you know the B-W Parkway, you know it's annoying.

And it was. I bailed at Maryland route 197, connecting with 198, which got me back in 95.

But our Interstate 95 love story soon ended, as I grabbed the Baltimore Beltway (I-695) and rolled up tn northbound Interstate 83, which got us to a necessary break at a Sheetz in York, PA on US 30.

And the coffee, bluntly, was awful.

Once off US 30 in Lancaster, we worked our way up US 222 before a lane reduction due to construction slowed things to a crawl. Here's the thing about that: it's not that difficult. Using a "zipper" method, cars alternate their way in and traffic keeps moving.

But that's not reality, thus it was chaos, and only a truck doing God's work could stop the carnage, as he blocked those who wanted to run up the left lane and stuff themselves into the line at the last minute.

The (former) VF Outlet Center. It didn't look like this a few years ago

I thought I'd pop in and say hello to our old friend: the VF Outlet in Reading (actually, Wyomissing), PA. Major renovations have changed the entire site from what it was, and unless you've been there before, it's hard to explain just how stunning the difference was from the last time we were there. It's now known as The Knitting Mills.

Had time been on our side, there could have been some deep bargains, but I felt that would be best for another time.

That, and the 17-year-old who walked in with me out of curiosity, hoping that I would not really shop. So I didn't.

Back on the roads, we made one last Wawa stop for snacks and a drink. Of course, I didn't realize that I had a Wawa reward (membership has its privileges), so Sean's drink that could have been free was not.

We got on U.S. 222 and went to I-78, took that into New Jersey to I-287 to I-87 (in New York now) to local roads before using US 202 and the Palisades Parkway to get to the Bear Mountain Bridge. A combination of roads saw us reach the finish line.

Bear Mountain Bridge, NY

The budget turned out to be very reasonable. It's just having the right vehicle to make it all happen.

And we're back. No Doubleheader tomorrow or Tuesday as I'll be visiting Dutchess Stadium for two Connecticut Tigers/Hudson Valley Renegades games.

Then back to yelling about ugly uniforms, bad baseball, bad broadcasting, high school sports, and whatever else.

Oh, and congratulations go to master pie maker Susan for her Two Crust Bacon/Fireball Apple Pie! It came in first at the Cannon Grange Fair in Wilton. She's an amazing cook and baker and pie maker.

See you all tomorrow.

The Last Night

Those are two New York Yankees. Yes, really.

Ashland, VA -- From the desk of the Holiday Inn Express and Suites

I got into another kerfuffle about sports today. This time, the topic was the universally-despised Players Weekend uniforms.

Universal, save for one person. Of course. Hence, the kerfuffle.

The players -- you know, the people who actually have to wear them on the weekend named for them -- dislike these abominations -- don't like them either. The Cubs wore their regular hats, for instance.

The Dodgers asked if they could wear their regular uniforms against the Yankees this weekend. They were denied.

Can you imagine two of the best uniforms in baseball wearing embarrassingly awful black and white uniforms?

No need. It actually happened, and MLB commissioner Rob Manfred -- the many who is responsible for continuing to try to destroy the game -- signed off on the denial of the Dodgers' request.

Look, I also hold Joe Torre, Jim Leyland, and Tony La Russa responsible for this s--- show. They're behind the pitch clocks and other nonsense that is being tried out, at the behest of Manfred, who doesn't remotely care about the game of baseball.

And remember, Bud "What, me worry?" Selig is in the Hall of Fame for turning a blind eye to steroid abuse.

Umpires are acting ridiculous (as always). Home runs are flying at an absurd rate. The game is evolving.

But don't worry. Those blue and pink unis and these disasters are still around. Dollar signs win!

Incidentally, I'll hear "get off my lawn" as a retort, which is just fine. I'm used to it, but it's a lazy rejoinder, to be blunt.

*****
Andrew Luck? Retired? A few minutes ago, he was booed as he left the field in Indianapolis.

I've said numerous times that I don't like booing. I don't like it in this case, either. But I sort of get it. Fans are emotional. They feel like he "quit."

I wouldn't boo him, and I'd be angry at my fellow fans if they did so.

It's a shame, and there's a much deeper story that's going to come out of this eventually.

*****

I'm heading to bed. Then leaving here and making my way home. Reality (and a large cat) awaits.

He is 10

According to Timehop, this is all I said 10 years ago today.

Sean and I were walking through the Mexico Shop West gift shop last night at South of the Border when it hit me.

"I've never really processed it," I said.

We were talking about my great-nephew (and Sean's second cousin) Gabriel, who died at birth 10 years ago today in Alabama.

We've timed our trips to North Carolina just right so that we can be with Kristy, Hector, Evelyn, Eleanor, and Isabel to honor the memory of the little boy we never got to know. With Laura, Kelly, and Emma (and sometimes Mary and Kendall) we're all able to gather in a pseudo group hug.

We don't quite do the touchy-feely.

But we'll raise a glass to him tonight.

I looked back at what I wrote 10 years ago this week. Apparently, I did a "Rule 55": "Much to say from yesterday...good and bad...but I'll offer none here."

No, I've never processed it. And I hasten to say any of that because it's not about me, of course. Oh yeah, this is my little piece of real estate and all, but it is really what Kristy and Hector went through that awful morning in Fort Payne.

He was the second child and the first after Evelyn.

I was in Virginia when my cell rang. As it was my brother's birthday, I didn't expect him to be calling me. Doug is Kristy's father and, thus, Gabriel was his grandson.

I answered it with my usual greeting to him, saying something probably obnoxious.

The mood was immediately dark and he gave me the news.

I drove home from in a fog. Doug, Debbie, and Stephanie would go to Alabama. Do I drive to New York, grab my mom and go? Like, how do we handle this? How do we grieve?

I think we ultimately decided to not go because there feels like there's a point where the number of people can feel overwhelming. I can tell you that 10 years later, I would likely feel differently. I might have also needed to be home for Sean, though some of the memories are foggy.

Just like that drive.

Kristy and Hector sent pictures of Gabriel. My mother handed me the envelope. I looked at it.

Once.

I've never opened it since. Just too hard to see.

There's a picture of him roughly 15 feet from where I'm sitting. Emma -- goddaughter, great-niece, and all-around "Holy Child" -- is sitting on a couch just near it. She's playing something on her cell phone and hanging out.

The house is otherwise quiet as Sean sits next to me doing Sean things and Isabel watches TV. Kristy, more today than any other day, is resting. A dog barks outside, and five silly cats are bouncing around.

Gabriel is swaddled in a blanket in the picture. There are a few shelves of trinkets with it, including a red toy car that somehow was brought about by a dream my mother had about my father and the baby.

My dad. Always my dad.

The items had been in a curio cabinet that had a light shining in it. Kristy decided it was too formal.

More than my grief is how Kristy and Hector have processed theirs. On the occasion of his birthday in 2016, I pulled us all together for a toast and asked Hector to speak. He was wonderfully eloquent in his words.

Tough people, both he and his wife.

I can only imagine how their faith has been shattered, but this group tends to not be much for religion. The irony, of course, is Stedman is not only a "dry" town but there's a Pentecostal church only a few minutes away, with other houses of worship nearby. Kristy was visited by people of faith upon moving to town and politely declined all invitations.

In my case, it only increases my questions with faith.

Yet, if -- and we know what the "if" is -- then I hope he's dominating on a soccer team, honoring his father's love of "The Beautiful Game." I'm sure he would tell me how boring baseball is and I'd try to have him watch a game with me. I'd want to believe he'd watch USC football with his dad and maybe even support his Dallas Cowboys. Don't worry, I've already corrupted younger sister Eleanor to at least say her favorite team is the Steelers, even if she can't name a player.

But "if" then I hope he's hanging with those who've left us and watching over his family. I hope he and his great grandfather are taking a ride in that red car.

We'll raise a glass to his memory but will likely soldier on. Maudlin isn't our thing.

We're surrounded by great young women in the North Carolina portion of our family.

I wish I could have truly known this little boy.

So, forgive me.

This is my chance to grieve.

A North Carolina Edition of 'I've Got Nothing'

Stedman, N.C. -- This has been a different kind of trip.

Normally, I'm on the go. Up early, out early. Breakfast, then do this and that and go here and there and maybe come back to the home base along the way before dinner.

Today, some of that was true, but we spent a large chunk at said home base.

And it's the third day in a row that we've done that.

Tomorrow might not be like that, and I can't stress enough that I'm not complaining. Oh, sure, I had a little bout of boredom, but that had as much to do with exhaustion as it did anything else.

I woke up around 3:30 this morning. I tossed, turned, then turned again. I checked my phone, looked out at the world, and eventually sat on the stairs and petted a cat as my great-nieces slept down below.

It was just one of those nights of the snowball feeling, in which everything just becomes awful.

It happens.

I grabbed another hour of sleep before moving on with the day.

But tonight, the members of my traveling party pushed for a visit to Pedro, so we went to South of the Border. I know, it's a tourist trap but, as with Waffle House and other things I enjoy, it is what it is.

It also holds a connection to my youth, from the days that I had my family read each billboard to me. It was a highlight, whether we stopped or not. So to go back, and now to take my own son (who wants to go every time we're here) is fairly priceless.

We walk together and laugh and talk.

So I get that it's not a place for everyone. I get that it's got certain connotations. But it's still a good place for me.

I opted for the older road, mostly using U.S. 301 back as opposed to trusty Interstate 95.

We made it back to here and are beginning to settle in for the night.

Tomorrow will be a busy day.