Comings and Goings

Is "Patriots" OK? Asking for a friend.

June 25th is in the books.

Tomorrow, my son will reach the finale of his high school years.

Tonight, his school honored seniors with a light show parade.

Well, they tried in these difficult times.

They flashed pictures of the students on the building and a DJ played tunes appropriate to the Class of 2020 as we drove through the John Jay parking lot.

It finished with rows of the seniors in their class pictures. Of course, I couldn't find Sean's picture.

They meant well, and Sean and I laughed through it as we drove. My son has become quite the funny one.

Hopefully, a chip off the old block, I guess.

There's always tomorrow when it all comes to an end.

And I guess we'll deal with that then.

June 25th also means it's Susan's birthday.

No, in truth, that's the first thing I think of. It's hardly an afterthought.

I'd write more but she wouldn't want that.

I'll say this: there's no better friend, journalist, editor, or person.

You'd be honored to have her in your life.

As I am.

I Guess It's Really Summer

Tonight was the last edition of "The Clubhouse" for the foreseeable future, as we take the summer off.

Goodbyes never come easy to me. Sure, it's probably time to recharge the battery, but I've also learned that there's no guarantees that we'll be back.

Not to say we won't. The plan -- COVID-willing -- is to be back in business in September, preferably from Grand Prix New York.

But, who knows?

We're all in such crazy times.

We went out on a great note tonight, with Andy Adler of WPIX and Jay Horwitz of the Mets.

Yes, I said the Mets.

Here's the thing about the Metropolitans: if they played in almost ANY other place, their history would stand out a lot more (Mets fan Dave Torromeo agrees with this point). But, they share a market with the most famous brand in the sports world.

One whose history dates to 1903.

But, Jay had great stories to share.

Each guest could have been an hour show.

Tonight was also HOPEning Night for the Renegades. The team (led by Morgan Rumpf) put together a roughly 75-minute virtual presentation, including a "game" called by a certain play-by-play announcer. Go to the teams' Facebook page to see the final product.

This week was also supposed to be the World Selects hockey tournament in Voorhees, NJ. Given their website and Twitter feeds have gone quiet, it's safe to say that everything is off.

We get closer.

Then we don't.

But, there's always hope.

So, for now, Wednesday nights are free again.

But, I look forward to us getting back together for some pizza, some wings, and a lot of laughs featuring TV theme songs, M*A*S*H references (Ah! Bach!) and Tossed Salad (the horse).

It Wasn't a Hate Crime

While some of the power of this image has changed, let it not
take away from what was a good moment for NASCAR.

I wrote about Bubba Wallace yesterday.

I spent probably 15 minutes of my show about him and the noose found at Talladega today.

And, it turned out, it was a pull rope in the garage. It had been there since last year.

Not a noose.

No hate crime has been committed against Wallace.

Look, I don't blame him. He was told it was there. He reacted.

He's not Jussie Smollett.

But, it allows the conspiracy theorists to think otherwise.

It makes the media -- and it makes me -- look bad. Like we're not doing our job.

I'm personally embarrassed -- not because I supported Wallace but because I made such impassioned speeches about the situation.

And it turned out to be a pull rope.

Of course, I don't regret thinking and saying we can all do better, because we can.

But, let's not misunderstand yesterday's race either. The support for Wallace was still deserved and served as a nice step in a sport steeped in good ol' (white) boy mentality.

While the "noose" story turned out to be nothing, the images were still powerful.

I still have a strong, healthy respect for Bubba Wallace. If that's the net result of a pull rope then so be it.

But, I'm sad that I thought the story was solid and wonder if I rushed to judgement.

And, clearly, I did.

I'm glad it's nothing.

But, I'm bummed as well.

And that probably makes no sense at all.

*****
Oh, and baseball is back. Training camps open in early July. Games in late July.

You don't like the number of games? Don't watch.

You think it's foolish and dangerous? Don't watch.

I wish there were more games. I wish we'd stop with a lot of what the game is doing.

But, I work in and around baseball, and sports.

I love baseball.

I'm going to watch.

Haters and pessimists can hate.

The Nonsense Rings Out

A happy broadcaster was (almost) where he belongs

Oh, it just continues.

One hot take after another.

God forbid, but I dared to mention that the Ken Griffey, Jr narrative about him being dissed at Yankee Stadium when he father played for the Bombers is old news to me.

Here's the deal: Junior is an all-world, all-time great. I'm glad he hated the Yankees and, for their part, the Yankees never seemed to really want him.

Junior got the best of New York in the '95 ALDS.

The Yankees won the World Series in '96, '98, 99, and '00.

I think it all turned out just fine.

As for the noose found in Bubba Wallace's stall at Talladega, I'm sure I made a mistake in posting anything about it last night, but I stand by my belief that it is, "Absolutely sickening and unacceptable."

I get that there have been recent stories saying that a "noose" turned out to be not that, but why should I even question the members of Wallace's team or NASCAR? I'm taking the story at face value but, to be sure, some on my Facebook page have gone for the "Jussie Smollett" card.

If it turns out to be nothing, then it will be addressed but, to me, I'm not dismissing it. I said I want to listen and you bet I'm going to walk that walk.

But, then again, I'm a member of the ... what was it? ... oh, yeah "insufferable Connecticut media." Of course, I'm also in New York. Hmmm ... which is it? Can I be both?

Is there a certificate?

In fact, I just watched the end of Wallace's race after weather shut it down yesterday. His post-race interview was nothing but class and grace.

Ryan Blaney won the race because fairy tales aren't always reality, but Bubba Wallace won also.

He won fans and stared down hatred.

He left his mask off so whoever did what they did could see his face.

Great stuff.

I got to be at Dutchess Stadium today for something they wanted me to record and, at the same time, do Doubleheader.

What a blast.

Really, that's all I wanted to say. It was just a blast.

And I'll be back.

Steve Gliner was my guest and it was great to talk about the business of MiLB.

He talked about the views. I'll finish with two pictures I took after the show.

Happy Father's Day

I'm sitting on the back porch with my feet up.

I have a cup of hot coffee sitting alongside of me (I'm weird) and it's 87 degrees here in Mahopac

(Still home of the Indians for now)

My son is sitting in his room, doing whatever he does on his mega computer.

My father is, hopefully, smiling somewhere.

Smiling. That, and his laugh, are probably the first things I think of when I think of him.

There are a lot of fathers who screw it up. It's not a difficult gig, to be honest. Be fair and compassionate. Listen to your kids, make them laugh a little, and help them grow to be better than you are.

Teach your children well.

Provide discipline when necessary.

I love being a father. Like, love love love love it.

I've tried to be whatever I could be for my nieces, nephews, great nieces and great nephews and those I've adopted in one form or another.

But there's only one Sean.

I tried to be what Robert Sr was to me for him.

I've provided, as best as possible, even if it meant I starved.

I've tried to give him experiences.

I've been there emotionally, even if he wasn't interested (and that's pretty much what Sean is like).

But, no, he's never been to Florida or whatever. I don't play the "Keeping Up with the..." game, even if they gave me the home version (not available in stores, some assembly is required).

In return, he's given me the honor of being a dad.

Which is what I tried to give in return to my dad.

Sean owes me nothing today. Sure, I'd love to play golf or watch a ballgame (imagine that?) but he's happy.

I'm happy.

Somewhere, I hope my dad is happy.

Sean's grandfather, that is.

Elsewhere, I hope more dads are happy and recognize the gifts they have. I hope their children recognize the same.

And if your dad or child isn't with you, know that someone is thinking of you.

Take none of it for granted.

Be good to each other today (and everyday).

A Waffle Helps the Soul

I said I'd do it if I could, even in the middle of a pandemic.

Yes, I would take a road trip to Waffle House, and Father's Day weekend, combined with Sean's graduation week, made for the perfect reason to go.

Most people think I'm nuts but, to me, it's a small thing that is mostly harmless and good for me.

Oh, and yes. I'm nuts.

It gets us out of the house. It gets us a favorite meal. It gives us a road trip.

My trusty road trip partners (Mom and Sean) were up for a an early Saturday drive.

I'm often asked where the nearest Waffle House is. The answer is there are four:

- Bethlehem, PA (134 miles/2 hours, 7 minutes)
- Allentown, PA (141 miles/2 hours, 15 minutes)
- Clarks Summit, PA (130 miles/2 hours,4 minutes)
- Scranton, PA (128 miles, 2 hours, 1 minute)

(distances and times via Google Maps)

But, Clarks Summit and Scranton are both closed at the moment.

So, I opted for Allentown. It has the largest dining room (if open) and there are decent parking lots nearby if we chose to eat in the car. Lastly, I could still go to Bethlehem from there if Allentown didn't work out.

It worked just fine. I heard the dining rooms will open next week, but no matter. We ordered and enjoyed the food in the car. Socially distancing worked great with our waiter and we stayed in the parking lot.

We used our masks, following all of the guidelines (though the Wawa in Easton later on was pretty crowded). Still, we did as told, observing the rules.

I even shopped, stopping into the VF Outlet near Reading. Again, social distancing was the rule with a greeter sending a dollop of anti-bacterial lotion into my hands as I walked in. Sean was given the same treatment and we were told that fitting rooms were open and cleaned upon completion and that restrooms were closed (a bone of contention, given theirs might have been nicer than the nearby Wawa).

It had the feeling of a reentry into the world, even if it wasn't entirely. I've still driven a lot during the pandemic, but not this much. In some ways, I felt my mind and my driving skills readjusting to what it was like to be on the road again.

I drove across a fairly empty outbound George Washington Bridge just before 8 a.m. and scurried out I-80 towards Pennsylvania.

We in the road world always laugh at "Delaware Water Gap" as a control city (that is, cities and locations that you see on the big green signs). Stroudsburg or something else might make more sense but I like it as is.

Funny thing about I-80. It allows you to be reminded that there is to be beauty to be found in Jersey. The westbound view is quite pleasant heading towards Pennsylvania and, sure, there's something to be said for the farmland of South Jersey. Of course, I've always had kind words for the High Point area as well as Cape May.

(This is for all the people who think that I hate Jersey)

All of that being said, there's simply a relief when I've reached the end of my time in the Garden State because, in all likelihood, happier times lie down the road.

In this case, that road was I-80 to PA 209 to PA 33 to I-78 to Airport Road to a large yellow sign saying W-A-F-F-L-E...

To you, the day sounds silly. Frivolous. Maybe even dangerous or irresponsible.

But, it was us. The kind of thing that we've always liked.

And, it ended on a sweet note, allowing my mom to show Sean the first house she lived in. I made a surprise detour into Butler, NJ to let her see the place that my grandparents had before moving to Peekskill in the early 1940s.

"You mean, this is where they invented the wheel," Sean added.

All part of the rhetoric of a couple hundreds of miles and three happy appetites.

Just Sort of Thinking

Sean's 2020 yearbook

Sean is here tonight.

It's the last time he'll be with me as a high school student before he officially graduates next Friday.

Classes are over and this bizarre senior year is in the books.

I'm proud, nostalgic, pensive, and I suppose a little sad.

And I'll probably write some of these same things next week, though I'll try not to.

My little boy isn't quite as smiley and happy-go-lucky anymore and that's OK. He's a man and a good one at that.

He brought his yearbook here tonight and I perused it, reading all the things that go into it, and hearing how the Yearbook Committee gave themselves eight -- I think -- pages to pat themselves on the back.

Ah, the spoils.

I find myself reflecting on his high school years. Of course, I also worry about all the ways I failed him, though he says otherwise.

I'll always worry about how being a product of divorce impacted him and I really hated seeing him change schools, though Sean just rolls with the punches.

Still, I'm always going to worry.

It also got me thinking back on my own senior year and graduation.

To be clear, this is about him though. It's his time. It's his friends' time also, and while there were other names who wandered through, there were really his main two -- Chris and Will.

And, of course, I worry as they each head in their different directions in the fall. At least, if COVID allows them to do so.

But, he'll figure it out and I'll be here if he needs me. That's how it's always been.

Anyway, I'm just sort of thinking out loud ahead of what I'm sure will be a week filled with deep thoughts.

June 18

Ripken Stadium, 2009

This date has been on my radar for probably eight months.

Maybe longer.

June 18: Hudson Valley Renegades at Aberdeen Ironbirds

But the best laid plans often get laughed at.

Around this time (it's 2 p.m.) I should have been on the road to Maryland.

My focus should have been on my route. God, I hate paying the obscene New Jersey Turnpike tolls. So maybe I would have dealt with either the Garden State Parkway or the Turnpike until I could jump on 295 (it's free).

Same for the toll in Delaware near the Maryland border.

Maybe I would have just paid the tolls.

Baseball awaited.

I would have had a hotel -- motel? -- booked. I figured it was one night. I needed comfort and convenience. So, the Red Roof Inn seemed to have a reasonable price.

I also would have been thinking about the game. Was I comfortable with the players names? Have I learned enough about them? Would I do a pregame interview? I felt like I wanted the manager as an interview for at least the first game.

When would I write the blog post? Plus I'd have to write a game recap. Oh, I could do that back in the room. Then, tomorrow, I'd wake up and go to Waffle House before driving back to Connecticut to celebrate (what I hoped would be) a successful first night!

I would have had a trunk loaded with mixer(s), headsets, laptop(s), and more. Maybe some food and drinks in the vehicle.

I would have been ready. I know it. But, as I drove, I wouldn't have been confident that I was ready.

There's a point in Rudy where our hero is ready to run out onto the field at Notre Dame Stadium in uniform for the first time, and he utters a line that I've always remembered.

"I've been ready for this my whole life."

That was me. That is me.

It's not to be, of course.

The truth is I wasn't even supposed to call the game tonight. I wanted to do it. I felt it was important for the audience to hear the opening night game. I felt it was a chance for the audience and I to officially get acquainted before the home opener. Personally I wanted the road trip. It would be a treat for me. It would show the Gades how important it was.

It would also further prove that I'm nuts.

I was prepared to do the same at Staten Island this weekend, if only for Susan and her SI family and friends. I suppose it made me feel a little like a big shot (you had to prove it to the crowd).

I'm sad. Sure. I'm not mad. I mean, that serves no purpose.

But, I'm also grateful. I've been given a wonderful opportunity and I've already been told that I'll be their "voice" in 2021, regardless of what happens.

Oh, but I was excited. I was going to get to Aberdeen, MD as soon as possible. I would check into my room, review notes and make sure I was prepared. Maybe take one last look at what I wanted to take into the ballpark. Then, I'd drive back over I-95 on Maryland Route 22 to make the right on Long Drive to Leidos Field at Ripken Stadium.

Maybe I'd stroll the grounds of the Ripken facility before entering the ballpark.

Somewhere along the line, Jon would join me from R-Va. My goodness, we just have the worst luck when it comes to getting together. We've been trying for years and for the second time in 2020, our plans have been scuttled.

I would have set the equipment up. Had some dinner. I would have tested the equipment, talked with Jon, gotten comfortable, done anything to calm my nerves.

They're healthy nerves and anyone telling you otherwise is nuts. It keeps you humble.

There would be one last moment where I probably would have stepped away -- into a corridor or a restroom -- and had that conversation with myself.

"You've earned this. You're the right person for this. You're due. PAST due."

And...then?

"I've been ready for this my whole life."

Around 6:50 p.m. the music would swell. I'd take a deep breath. I'd glance at Jon and he would smile.

And I'd start talking.

Choked up, no doubt.

Finally -- FINALLY -- that first pitch would happen.

And the first pitch of the 2020 season is...

Not happening tonight.

But, it's OK. I'm still grateful.

We'll get there. We will.

All good things to those who wait.

The best is yet to come and, babe (Ruth), won't it be fine.

Obsession

"Be still I will not accept defeat"

I just got off the air.

I finished up another fine edition of "The Clubhouse." We had former NY Rangers/LA Kings hockey player Tom Laidlaw on for the hour, along with Codey Medina of the Alzheimer's Association of the Hudson Valley and Frank Drucker of Yonkers Raceway.

Mark Jeffers was terrific.

So was Dave Torromeo.

Bob Small was Bob Small and I was fine. I laughed and enjoyed myself.

But, now, as I'm sitting here editing the show for playback on WON, 920 The Apple and WEAF, 940 The Liberty, I feel empty.

Something was up with the level of my microphone on the radio side (which is what I send back to WGCH).

At that point, I become immediately distracted.

My brain commences this call center of troubleshooting.

"Hi, my name is Rob. Can you describe the problem?"

My body and my voice continue. The show must go on!

But my brain is going wacky.

The frammasbracket is plugged into the watchamacallit! That HAS to be wrong.

I'm projecting my microphone too loudly. Maybe that's it.

No matter what, I can't fix it. It has to wait.

So, now, as I look at the finished product, I can see on my end that my microphone was too "hot" (that is, loud) but Bob says I sounded different at WGCH. Muffled. Soft. Then loud.

Internet issues? Bad computer?

Damned if I know.

This becomes my wicked witch and it will vex me for the next week until we do the show again.

And the week after that.

Then we're taking the balance of the summer off but there's still "Doubleheader" to deal with and I have no idea when 1) I'll be back in the WGCH studios or 2) when we'll all be together at Grand Prix NY to do "The Clubhouse" in person.

I carry this stuff with me. Each issue rolls around. Try again tomorrow.

But I'm already troubleshooting it now.

Or, I was before I started typing.

OK. Back to it.

By the way, "Obsession" by Animotion is 35 years old. You're welcome.

I could have gone with the perfume instead.

Bananas!

It was an eye-opening job title for sure.

Broadcast Entertainer.

No, not just a broadcaster. Not just a play-by-play announcer.

But an entertainer.

I kept waiting for the punchline. But, no, unless you consider the whole thing to be a joke.

The Savannah Bananas, a member of the summer collegiate Coastal Plain League, didn't just want a play-by-play announcer, but they wanted an entertainer.

From the job description:

In this role you will consider the normal guidelines for baseball play-by-play then do ... the exact ... opposite.

For example ...

* Instead of describing the game, you'll talk about the game as fans do. "Why in the heck is the number 9 hitter swinging on 3-and-oh with the bases loaded?!"

* Instead of cookie-cutter home run calls, they want CHEESE. The cheesier the better!

* Instead of interviewing only players and coaches, you might interview fans, kids, local business people and Bananas office staff.

* Instead of working with an ex-player as your analyst, you might work with rotating fan analysts or even players from the active roster!

* Other ideas include doing an inning of imitations of some of the famous broadcast calls of all time including, “Do You believe in Miracles?” Or you could be doing an inning of all movie quotes and famous song lyrics. You could possibly get suggestions from fans for a word of the night that you need to mix into your broadcast. You could also record unique interviews on the Banana Bus and showcase the players in unique environments.


They should have included that the Broadcast Entertainer should "know the game, we'll forget your name. And you won't be here in another year if you don't stay on the charts." Oh, sorry. I'm just paraphrasing Billy Joel.

So, the 'Nanas go for the wild and wacky. At no point did I (seriously) give this any thought for a variety of reasons -- like moving to Georgia and already having a play-by-play job in baseball. In short, it didn't really sound like me. But it felt like we knew who would get the job.

And, yet, no, after even talking with them on Twitter a year ago (and begging). Go figure. I see a lot of begging. Somehow, that doesn't seem like the best plan of action, but that's just me.

Besides, I'll just stick with my "cookie cutter" home run call. I like my cheese on my nachos, thanks so much.

But, is this the future of play-by-play? I don't think so. Everything evolves and this is what will work for them.

I appreciate their effort to reinvent the wheel and, sure, there are ways to liven a broadcast up. I look forward to seeing how Gades broadcasts will sound (one day) and I have my ideas to put a stamp on them.

I don't know a lot about the Savannah hire. I read his bio and I know he has some Hudson Valley ties so I'm interested to hear/see a broadcast. 

Whatever the case, these Bananas broadcasts sound like they'll be...

Wait for it...

Nuts.

*****

It's long stayed in my mind that my podcast, Tales From the Booth, sort of failed. In essence I gave up. I felt like it didn't find an audience and some of the criticism (speaking honestly) made me question why I was bothering to produce something that I worked my tail off creating.

I'd write a script, find audio, edit audio, record the read, and then edit the final product. It didn't seem worth it, so I tabled it and continued to think about it.

I have those moments -- with Doubleheader and this here bloggity-doo-da as well. I have a lot of "why do I bother" moments. So, as much as I wanted to continue, I just stopped.

But it's been in the back of my head and I think I've come up with a way to revive it.

I've asked Mike Hirn to help, and we'll be asking others also. I think that will get me back to being driven to do it. Setting a time to record and so on will get me on a schedule.

We'll try. That's the game plan.

Stay tuned.

*****

My post from yesterday was a favorite to write. I enjoyed the satire of it all, as social media often devolves into this sophomoric ridiculousness.

I'm not saying I haven't been guilty in moments either but I found some inspiration and went with it.

I love to write and create parodies. It was at the very heart of why I loved things like Imus in the Morning and I put that creativity into things like our softball videos of the 90s/00s.

When two separate people tell you it's brilliant, well, I don't have the words for it. That's when it doesn't matter how many clicks it gets. It was a joy to create.

I'm not brilliant. I'm not sure what I am. But I appreciated the kind words.

I got a good laugh out of it. I hope you did also.

If you didn't read it, give it a look.

Facebook Junior High

I've just posted to Facebook.
What could my status be?
Please log in and acknowledge it
Because it is all about me!
- a portion of the alma mater, words by Bernie Taupin

It's another beautiful day at Facebook Junior High School.

I've picked out my best Capezio shoes (actually, they're from Kinney ... or is it Thom McAn?). Parachute pants would have been great but I opted for stonewash. Gotta look rad so the girls think I'm ... er ... "OK."

"He's not that bad," they say.

After homeroom, I went to metal shop where I'm working on a holder to house all of those hot takes! Gotta make sure it's reinforced because it might melt.

Friends are heading off to Intro to Narcissism, bringing with them the skills we learned at Instagram Elementary School.

Some went to Tik Tok Elementary while still others attended Snapchat. All fine institutions and the class -- "Narcy" for short! -- is an extension program. Working on those skills to pay it forward!

In social studies today (and, really, shouldn't that be every class here?) our teacher began a lesson about Black Live Matters when a student spoke up.

"But shouldn't all lives matter?," Grant asked.

"GO TO THE PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE," came the reply.

A voice snickered.

"Like Dr. Zuckerberg will do anything," said Donald, the school bully. "Well, I better head off to Russian class!"

"Didn't you take that already?," I asked.

"It's advanced. That other class was intro."

I ran into Robbie and Tony at gym today. They're still arguing.

"We can play hacky sack two days a week in exchange for one stick of gum," Robbie said.

"Four days a week and a pack of gum!," said Tony.

"One day and a half a piece."

"What?"

"You're lucky I didn't say it will be ABC."

Ew ... "Already Been Chewed."

Onto lunch where I got overwhelmed with the gluten-free/keto/no peanuts offerings. I would have had my peanut -- oops, no I wouldn't -- and I'm not having just "jelly."

I had a bag of potato chips before Karen, the monitor, yelled at me for eating unhealthy.

Then I was sitting in chemistry near Jose, Alex, and Carlos. We had a test and, for some reason, I kept hearing the banging of a garbage can in the hallway.

I noticed Aaron -- we call him "Your Honor" -- just shook his head.

Speaking of eyes, Alex (the other one, who wears red socks a lot) kept looking at my test.

It was all so strange.

Speaking of strange, I was walking to the bus when someone told me they were dropping me because I didn't pay any attention to them.

I mean, it wasn't true. It's just that I have other things to be studying up on. But I guess that means no more hanging out at the football stadium with them.

"Nobody's gonna go to the football games anyway," said the constantly pessimistic kid. "Maybe the season will get canceled."

"Nah," said the hyper kid from the student radio station. "We'll have a season! The GREATEST SEASON! SHOCK AND AWE WILL RAIN! In fact, it doesn't matter which sport it is. It will be AWESOME and I'll win every award there is!"

Sheesh. What about the actual games and the team? I just rolled my eyes.

With that, I got on the bus and began to head for home, passing Twitter High School on the way.

You don't want to know about that place.

The Admin

Preparing game notes and my scorebook last August at Dutchess Stadium

I've belonged to -- and grumbled about -- the Play-by-Play group on Facebook before.

Now I get a say in it.

Mike Hirn and I were both named admins today.

It has, frankly, gotten stale. Good conversations have mostly given way to promotions of talk shows and podcasts. In a lot of ways, the pandemic damaged the page as none of us had games to broadcast so topics dried up.

While self-promotion is against the group rules, I get it, and there are ways around it. But every post has become either that or "Hey! So (insert name here) says I'm the best broadcaster ever!" Obviously a lot of things fall under the heading of self-promotion.

I've even seen posts intended to get members to buy one thing or another, and frankly, some of them were useful (I mean, we'd all be happy with some well-priced equipment).

For the record, I have two talk shows, a (seldom done) podcast, a blog, and my own little radio channel. I have plenty of things to promote and never have. To each their own.

When I was named "voice" of the Renegades (I'm still getting used to that title), Mike posted it in the group. He'll back me up on this -- I had nothing to do with it. He did that.

In fact, I was a lurker in the group (as I am in most groups). I like to read and maybe chime in when necessary. Despite my love of roads and road photography, there are too many rules and I just don't feel like getting yelled at for crappy road snaps.

But Mike and I need to liven up the PBP group. Keep in mind the full name is "Play by Play Announcers, Sideline Reporters, Color Analysts, Studio Hosts." There's a lot of room for members and good conversations.

In my opinion, you need be nothing more than interested or dabbling in any of those to be admitted. I'll use Harold as an example. He's done color on -- maybe -- 25 games total in the 25 years I've known him. That's 26 more than enough for me.

We -- including Channing Ewing, who started the group -- just want people to talk.

To that end, we ask that you follow the rules, which aren't rocket science.

From there, I'd like to see it spiced up and prefer that I don't have to delete posts and get involved in sorting out nonsense.

Mike and I (and a few others) were having fun one day on a particular topic one day. There was no harsh criticism. In fact, it was pretty benign. I'll politely say a "holier than thou" type spanked the hands of those doing such.

No more. Criticism is fair game. I've seen countless "I hate Joe Buck" posts but having an open conversation about a broadcaster whose style has come under scrutiny isn't OK?

I'm going to allow it. If it turns personal then it will be dealt with.

It's supposed to be a community. It's supposed to be a place for understanding of styles and giving advice. Jeff Alterman is still new to the play-by-play world, for instance. He can use some support and advice.

Some history and philosophy of this craft would be welcome.

Hopefully, I won't have to play babysitter.

Welcome to the new members.

Incidentally, it's a sacred day around these parts, as the New York Rangers won the Stanley Cup on this day in 1994.

I watched it at Scott's house. It could have been a magical year, as the Knicks could have won the NBA Final a week later and the Yankees were denied by the MLB strike.

But, we have the Rangers. It has lasted a lifetime, hasn't it?


(Oh, by the way, looks like that Yankees stuff from yesterday was nothing. To paraphrase Elmer Fudd, "It's vewy vewy quiet for the Yankees hunters. Hahahahahaha")

Cheater! Cheater!

"So, Aaron, what system do you guys use?"

There's a report out today that the Yankees had their own sign stealing scandal.

OK. And?

The reaction from Astros/Red Sox/Mets fans and, literally, everyone else has been predictable.

I actually considered the old trusty popcorn eating GIF as I watched.


via PandaGIF

(I always laugh when I consider noted Mets fan Jerry Seinfield used the 90s Yankees as a catalyst in his legendary show. No, I'm not forgetting the Keith Hernandez/Roger McDowell elements.)

Whatever comes of it, expect scorched Earth from me when the item hits the air-blowing device.

If the Yankees are guilty of something more heinous, then OK. They must be punished and punished severely.

And if is just a regurgitation of the earlier item they had their hand slapped for, then I'd consider going into hiding.

The usual cast of characters couldn't wait to accost on this.

Bring it, I say. Whatever is in this letter should be unsealed.

The Astros still cheated and won a World Series. I further believe they got away with with some shady stuff in '19 as well.

And the Red Sox in '18? I stand firm on that one also.

The Yankees' cheating -- assuming there has been any beyond the Apple Watch thing that is already well-known -- produced what?

Zero World Series appearances. Zero titles.

As for the Mets fans, well, hmmm...well I'm sure you guys have always been clean. Sure. Given I just read a note about the Mets flashing signs that they picked up from a TV camera in the '86 World Series, I'm thinking you might want to step down.

I've been consistent through all of this.I haven't said to strip anyone of titles, despite people arguing with me on a daily basis (at the time). I continue to believe that.

I also said -- AT THE TIME -- that everyone is guilty to a certain degree. The Yankees had their wrists slapped. Now the question is if Rob Manfred covered up more. Let's find out, shall we?

I find it funny that habitual cheaters like Alex Bregman and Carlos Correa crawled out of their holes to mock today's news. Maybe sit this one, boys. Bregman has, in fact, already deleted his tweet.

There's plenty to go around. From there, it's a question of severity.

Oh, and for what it's worth, it's a nifty little news dump in the middle of a whiny, acrimonious dispute between players and owners.

Nice try, gang.

If they're guilty, I will explode.

If not, ditto.

Bring it on.

Doing Away With Dixie?

Can they "CGI" the car (no longer referred to by its name)?

"Modern" country act Lady Antebellum changed their name yesterday.

Understanding that the term "antebellum" (defined as: occurring or existing before a particular war, especially the American Civil War) has implications of slavery, they shortened it to Lady A. That, honestly, had always been a shorthand for the band.

It allowed them to generate some press and an appearance of doing "good." But, as some pointed out, the "A" will still, in theory, stand for antebellum.

But, wait just a tick, there's a blues singer in Seattle named...you guessed it!...Lady A (Rolling Stone).

We'll leave it to those folks to figure all of that out, but it does beg the question of where does this all stop?

It didn't take long before the sharks were circling another favorite: the Dixie Chicks. Are they next?

It reminded me that I had read a story about the Dixie Highway -- an early National Auto Trail originally planned in 1914 that ran from Chicago to Miami. The story from the Sun-Sentinel, indicates that there's a debate in place to remove the Dixie Highway name.

Indeed, efforts to the north have been successful, as the likes of Jefferson Davis Highway have been scrubbed in some places. Many of my fellow road enthusiasts, particularly those in the left-handed batters box, applauded the decision.

I find myself mostly apathetic; willing to just simply watch it all go away. Monument Ave in Richmond will look quite different in the future as well. Comments about "history" are always thrown into the racist bucket and we know conversation isn't welcome.

So, apathy it is.

But, it still begs the question of what's next?

It looks like "The Dukes of Hazzard," currently streaming on Amazon, might get the boot. I can't say I'm shocked at that one.

It got me thinking about "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" by The Band. Written by Robbie Robertson, it tells the story of a white man in the south during the Civil War. It mentions George Stoneman and, most notably, Robert E. Lee.

It's certainly not pro-south in any way, but more of a slice-of-life in the waning days of the Civil War of a man from Tennessee in

It's a slice of Americana, which is exactly what Robertson -- a Canadian -- had in mind when he wrote it. But he also had to go to the library in Woodstock, NY with the great Levon Helm to get a history lesson on the Civil War.

Still, no less a protestor than Joan Baez recorded a cover in 1971 that was a smash. Would she have taken on such a song thinking it was pro-south?

It's The Band's version that just does so much for my heart, led by Helm's Arkansas-soaked vocal and the harmonies of Rick Danko, Garth Hudson, and Richard Manuel. Plus it's the "B" side of the "Up On Cripple Creek" single, for what it's worth, and that's a pretty great duo.

So does this need to be eradicated? I realize this carries into "book burning" territory but, still, it feels like everything is fair game right now.

As we speak there is a debate over -- brace yourself -- Penny Lane in Liverpool because it's been suggested the street was named after slave merchant James Penny. However, there is no proof of that. Still, street signs have been defaced, including one signed by Paul McCartney.

So, now, should Penny Lane be in my ears and in my eyes?

I'm not looking for a debate. Purely wondering. In my own innocence/stupidity I played the "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down" today and was mesmerized by it.

Maybe I shouldn't be.

Dear Baseball

(I don't have proper credit for this photo but it's fantastic)

It's me. Again.

I realize I'm not very significant to you. Middle-aged, white, just trying to survive.

In some ways, our affair has been mostly one-sided.

You taught me to hurt when I learned my favorite player could be traded.

You cheated on me in '81 and left me in '94.

There were other times you lost focus.

Yet, after each betrayal, I took you back.

And now here you are again. Another dalliance.

I'll still come back. I always do. I'm part of the problem.

I've bought your tickets. I've sung your praises. I've cried the tears of the ups and downs.

I've played you. I've coached you. I've broadcast you.

I've stood and watched you on a Saturday night at a little league game when the only person I knew was an umpire.

I've sat in bleachers and watched a Cape Cod League game, not knowing the first thing about either team.

I've strolled into a college summer league booth and called games for free when I could have been at home.

I've driven to visit your artifacts and buildings like pilgrimages to some kind of holy grail.

I went and saw the remnants of a makeshift stadium that you had at Fort Bragg in North Carolina in 2016. I'm serious -- remnants -- and I was like a little kid.

In some ways, you are me and, yet, you're not.

Telling people I got a job broadcasting minor league baseball -- at the age of 50 -- was not far off from announcing that I was going to be a father. The joy was that profound.

And I've supported your MLB teams. That's where people have it wrong.

The Yankees could disappear. I loved their history and (mostly) everything associated with them.

But you -- the game -- is what has kept my heart.

I've treated Yankee Stadium like my own church. I've done the same with the plaque gallery at the Hall of Fame.

Sacred ground, I always tell first-timers.

You're blowing it, grand old game. Well, the Major Leaguers are.

The worst part is you don't seem to care.

As I've tried to educate and make non-believers appreciate baseball, you -- hell, WE -- had a huge chance to own the sports landscape. Make whatever financial considerations you have to make and get to wherever you were going to play the games.

Take your time -- sure! Let's be safe with this COVID-19. But if we could back to games by July 4, great!

And now that's not happening. Not due to coronavirus but due to the same nonsense of 1981, 1994, and so on and so on and so on...

I thought you'd learned. I really did.

The problem was that I didn't learn.

It doesn't matter who is right or wrong. Manfred? Clark? Irrelevant. In their completely tone-deaf way, they've forgotten that nobody cares in the midst of a pandemic and social unrest. They just want you.

They want baseball.

We can't have college ball. We can't have little league. We can't have American Legion. We can have smaller versions of all.

MLB should be back. Shut the pessimists up.

I don't care if you only play 70 games. I'd prefer more but pick a fair number and let's go.

Make a deal.

You should own things right now.

And you don't.

You lost a lot in '94. You stand to lose a lot here.

Fix it. Now.

Looking Ahead

It's a spring rite of passage.

The schedules are out!

For me, every year since 2000, that means dissecting where I will spend approximately 10 days for Greenwich football broadcasts.

My head always begins to spin. Who do I need to talk to? Will we encounter any issues with road games? Will we have space in the booths on the road? Will we have space in the home booth? Are there any other broadcasts we have to contend with?

Believe me, it's a process.

This year presents a whole different concern called COVID-19. Will any of these games get played? Will the schedule get changed?

I actually think we'll have a season. But there might be some unique challenges. From there, I wonder if Chris Erway and I will be welcomed in any press boxes this year. We've been deemed as (basically) essential, which doesn't thrill everyone, but we're the ones who will pass the word of what's going on, hopefully along with a video broadcast.

Of course, I'll still have my eye open for Brunswick, Mahopac, and any other schools that Local Live wants me at.

I hope.

I've probably never been more worried about job security, simply because of budgets and -- well -- the unknown.

But, if it all goes well, then I'll be at J Walter Kennedy Stadium in Stamford around 11:00 a.m. on September 12.

(Assuming there isn't a Renegades game also -- this is all so confusing)

Ridgefield helps open the '20 season at Cardinal Stadium. Ah, yes. We're all counting the days until the improvements begin.

But the schedule presents challenges as well. We've never worked a game at Shelton High School so what will that be like? I've heard dicey things about cell signals and internet. That worries me, of course.

Fairfield Prep comes calling to Greenwich, and given I have a relationship with them, that pleases me.

Then back to back trips to Trumbull, once on a Saturday to St. Joe's, where I haven't called a game in several years (and even longer since I called one on their upper field) and the following Friday night at Trumbull High, where Jeff Alterman will take good care of the WGCH crew. We're hoping, in fact, to co-produce with Jeff's TEN (Trumbull Eagles Network) for that one.

I'm also hoping to help Jeff out with other games as I desperately need to get back on the mic. Trumbull's opener is at Staples and it would be fun to see Marce Petroccio go back to coach against his old team in Westport.

New Canaan comes to GHS next (the Marinelli bowl era is officially over!), followed by another long trip for the Cardinals -- to Danbury. That, of course, is probably the closest FCIAC school to me (only Ridgefield comes close).

The season ends with home games against Stamford and Staples.

We have three months to figure all of this out.

And hopefully some baseball between now and then.

What Do I Know?

There are actually wrestling references in here. I can smell what The Rock is cooking!

I'm nobody.

I'm not going to get asked to do a InstaZoomaBook thing to tell my stories because, well, I'm (again) a nobody. I'm not going to be asked to be on American's Next Broadcaster That Nobody Will Remember or whatever

I know that. But I've seen a thing or a thousand over 30 years in broadcasting and I can build a damn good announcer. I have advice and stories worth listening to.

(And we'll come back to that, but first allow me to bury the lede)

Every now and then I'll get asked why I'm not "further along." Trust me, it's a lovely thought but I'm (mostly) OK because, to quote Sinatra, "I did it my way."

I didn't have the encouragement of being financially stable. It just wasn't a reality. My father was a very hardworking blue collar soul. We were always comfortable but careful. There were very few frivolities and we learned the value of a dollar.

So when it came time for college I wasn't encouraged to go to Syracuse or Fordham or any well-known broadcasting school. I felt that Westchester Community College would suit me.

I went to the Connecticut School of Broadcasting as well as a sportscasting camp at Syracuse but, if I'm being honest, I think most in my world thought I was crazy to do so.

This isn't like today. I'll leave it at that.

There's a much longer story in there of how I got where I am. In the long run, I chose family and, eventually, raising a son. Thus I never wound up in a minor league town. I stayed in the Hudson Valley and, specifically, in Mahopac/Carmel. I've had two zip codes and one county.

So, for whatever talent I have and why I didn't go "farther" I'm a product of decisions and a lot of hard work. None of it was handed to me, even to this day where I feel a certain level of disrespect from places that I should never feel that.

Anyway. We now return you to Rob's Wasted Advice, Driven By Jeep.

I want to talk about something I saw without calling anyone out. Believe me, some days I want to explode. I want to say to (insert name here),"You are a product of privilege and you lack the first f****** clue of how good you've got it so stop acting like an obnoxious ass since everyone is talking about you behind your back. TRY being humble."

But no. They'll learn.

They're reading it now and saying, "Wow, whoever it is, I hope they wake up" without realizing it's about THEM.

To that same end is talking about politics, etc on our big ol' fancy world wide social interwebs.

Look, even I dabbled in discussing Mr. 45 last week and delivered a bit of criticism. I actually expected my friends in the left-handed batters box to break into the conga line in "Baseball Bugs."

But in our profession, politics can be a dangerous leap to take. That's part of why there are so many vanilla broadcasters today.

You never -- literally, ever -- know who is reading, watching, listening. Hiring managers will see you bashing away on your Twitter account about the president and get scared away.

Given that you, sort of, er, beg everyone to look at your stuff, it's a dangerous paradigm.

(I'd prefer "suck up" to "beg" but we're talking semantics at this point)

This could all be the same person I'm talking about.

Or not.

Or it could be an amalgam of characters. Happens in movies all the time.

Take it from your old Uncle Robbie: I make mistakes but I've walked these lines for years.

Sometimes that means not talking at all. Other times it means you leayeth the smack down.

Or is it "smacketh?" The interwebs didn't have a consensus.

(Bygod, did I just say that? What is wrong with me?)

And, still other times, as much as I hate it, you vague tweet/write/book. You invent characters. You get it out of your system without saying it.

You're begging for attention.

Sometimes that can bring the wrong attention.

Buyer beware.

I Miss Things

Love is the Fort McHenry Tunnel in Baltimore at 7 a.m. (8/20/2019)

I don't mean to be tone-deaf.

Yes, we're in a pandemic.

We're still *checks CNN* protesting in the streets.

So, I guess I run the risk of being told I'm "privileged" when I say I miss some stuff.

I miss the solitude of setting up and breaking down a broadcast.

I miss sitting in an empty facility, maybe alone in my thoughts or just talking to someone.

I miss a 2-2 curveball with runners at the corners and two out (deuces wild, of course).

I miss sitting in "the catbird seat" (Google it) and relaying every last bit of it.

I miss watching Greenwich football play while talking about something nonsensical with Chris Erway.

I miss the New Jersey Turnpike at five in the morning while roaring south towards Delaware.

Next stop? North Carolina.

I miss basically everywhere.

I miss the open road.

I miss road food (one All-Star Special, please).

I miss the Hartong Rink with the buzz of students.

I miss the gym. Greenwich, Trumbull, Brunswick. Any gym. Last possession. Two-point game.

I miss Yankee Stadium. Yes, the much-maligned "new" one. I miss the old one in perpetuity.

I miss having a cold beverage with my friends. Or a hot beverage.

To quote Red in The Shawshank Redemption: "I guess I just miss my friend(s)."

I miss walking through (insert store here) for heck of it.

I miss sitting in (insert dining establishment).

I miss the idea of believing I'll have a life and a future.

Sadly, I've given up.

I should be 10 days away from going to Aberdeen, MD for the beginning of a great journey, 20 years in the making.

That will wait.

Be patient, I know.

There will be no further thought on whether we should reopen or not, because we're not completely open and there's nothing I can do about it.

Besides, I'm a little tapped out with arguing.

I'm babbling. That's just how I'm feeling tonight.

Tomorrow will be better.

I'm sure.

It's a Beautiful Day

Today: Not as warm as yesterday. Sunshine will mix with some clouds. The high will be 73 degrees. Humidity will be low (Source: AccuWeather)

As it has been with all of you I'm sure, the tension, anger, and frustration has reached its boiling point.

I've generally shut down. I'm tired of only one opinion being welcomed at the table.

I've moved onto ignoring.

And I'm watching a country that is marching in the streets daily with, dare I say, relaxed social distancing protocols. So if "the numbers" on COVID-19 go back up, that will be cool, right?

See, I don't view COVID as a hoax. I know it was and is very real.

But the term "flatten the curve" seems so ... hmmm ... April?

Enough.

Enough of all of it.

I'm going out today.

A total shut down? No, not at all. Given my life involves staying on top of things, I'll glance towards the big world but I'll mostly be checked out.

This doesn't mean I don't care about Black Lives Matter or George Floyd or anything else. It just means that two solid weeks of unrest, along with 13 weeks of Pandemic Paradise, has worn me down.

And, now, Elmer Fudd is trending. I'm completely serious.

Elmer Fudd. Check Twitter. And, just be prepared.

It's so pleasant out. Go hug ... oops ... elbow bump someone.

Be kind.

Peace out, y'all.

Remembering D-Day

I had a different opening written that somehow got deleted.

Doesn't matter.

Simply put, I'm tapped out and wish to pause from literally everything tonight.

I mean no disrespect with that statement.

Instead I'm here to simply honor those who fought in Operation Overloard, more commonly known as D-Day.

There were over 10,000 Allied casualties and 4,414 deaths.

I apologize if it's somehow insensitive or incorrect to thank them for their sacrifice but those are the words I'm choosing.

I also wish to acknowledge those journalists who were present -- whether with the troops or helping the deliver the news back at home. I greatly admire all of them, including my electronic brethren.

Thank you, all.

For more on the radio coverage of D-Day, visit this page from the Miller Center at UVA.

The Miller Center at UVA · NBC Radio announces the invasion of France 6 June 1944

A Cat Picture (Or Two)

Hang in there, Chico!

Once again, I've been reminded that we can't have conversations. We're incapable.

Be it mascot name changes, monuments in my beloved Richmond, VA or obviously even far more-pressing concerns (and less-pressing as well), we're incapable of talking.

Debates aren't possible without name-calling and ad hominem attacks.

Drew Brees says something ill-timed? He's a racist.

Grant Napear (play-by-play voice of the Sacramento Kings)? The same.

You get mocked and criticized for humor, even if laughter is the best medicine for the soul, in my opinion.

Oh, right. My opinion doesn't matter.

Tony Savino asked me this morning in our Friday chat on WGCH about conducting a talk show through this time. I told him that every word has made me nervous.

Posting about the likelihood of changing the name of the mascot at Western Connecticut State University (my alma mater) made me nervous, and rightfully so. They were the Colonials and they won't be much longer. It's, essentially, been determined to be a barbaric term.

I haven't posted anything about Richmond preparing to take down their Civil War monuments. Not because I support the monuments or what they stand for (come on, folks, I hope you know me by now).

I hate being nervous to speak on my show or here on this stupid blog or anywhere else.

To be quite clear: NOBODY SHOULD BE AFRAID TO TALK.

Instead, I just retreat and say nothing.

Virtue signaling wins.

And thus I'll post a cat picture and call it a day.

And won't dare to laugh about it.

No Enchantment Under the Sea

Maybe Sean can get a DeLorean and go back in time

Tonight would have been Sean's senior prom.

I wasn't big on attending dances in school and I'm pretty sure he wasn't either.

It was a different story when it came to the prom. I went to both of mine and two others as well.

You needed a prom date? Sure, I'd go!

I wasn't sure if Sean would go to his but suggested he and his friends go stag and have a blast. I gather others told him the same.

He was convinced.

Now, thanks to COVID-19, he gets nothing.

It's a first world problem and I understand that.

Still, I feel bad for him, even if he's low-key about it.

He won't get that chance to gather with his class and dance to whatever they play.

He won't have the opportunity to mock those classmates who think they're so special. My God but that can be priceless.

There's the one who thinks they're too cool or too popular or too ... whatever.

It's rare to be able to dress in such a way and enjoy it.

It's a rite of passage.

The rubber chicken. The limos (if you get one -- I never had one). The pictures!

And it's not happening.

As it is, it looks like he'll have a two-part graduation that includes a drive-through parade and an appointed time to receive his diploma. Those details are still coming together.

So, while he's sitting upstairs, talking online to friends and dutifully doing his e-learning during the day, it's his dad that feels what he is losing.

Because I know what it was like for me and I wanted him to appreciate that.

He'll be a better man for these experiences.

Mighty Casey

The Disney version Casey (D23.com)

Casey at the Bat was born today.

We don't know who Casey really was. We never learned his last name or what his WAR was.

No clue about his OPS.

Casey -- Mighty Casey -- or, should we say Casey at the Bat: A Ballad of the Republic Sung in the Year 1888 was first published on this day The Daily Examiner of San Francisco.

Written by Earnest L. Thayer, it tells the story of the Mudville Nine, trailing an unnamed team 4-2 as they entered the bottom of the ninth inning.

Mudville is a scrappy team with a superstar -- the Mighty Casey himself. But he's do up fifth in the ninth (though it's said to be the "last inning" we'll figure it's the ninth).

Indeed, Cooney and Barrows produce outs while weaker hitters Flynn and Blake, each expected to make the last out of the game, come up with hits. Flynn singles and Blake doubles.

Now it's up to Casey, in front of a crowd numbering 5,000.

Talented and cocky, Casey lets the first two go by (somewhat reminiscent of Babe Ruth and his "called shot" in 1932). But, where Ruth succeeded, Casey did not.

He struck out. Game over.

No word on if the broadcaster called it "gargantuan" or if his swing produced a greater wind than the bearded girl down at the nickelodeon waiting to join Mr. Barnum's circus or whatever. Oh, wait. Baseball broadcasting was still roughly 35 years away. I'm digressing wildly.

The poem isn't exactly the work of Dickinson or Cummings (or cummings) or Frost or Whitman.

It's not even Homer (given there is no...homer). Yeah, that's a bad joke.

But it's so important to the culture of baseball and is as celebrated as any written word.

The poem hit the zeitgeist of early sound recordings once an actor named DeWolf Hopper got hold of it. Hopper first did a dramatic reading of it on August 14, 1888 and would do it thousands of times (said to be possibly 40,000) by the time he died in 1935.

Hopper also recorded it several times, including a famous version in 1906. Russell Hunting, described by some as "the most popular pre-1900 recording artist" did the first of the Casey recordings, in 1893.

By the way, Hopper's version is said to be the third most popular recording of 1906!

It has since been interpreted numerous times in print, animated shorts, and audio. Arguably the most famous episode of The Simpsons was called "Homer at the Bat."

My son has a copy of a latter printing, and it obviously brought me great joy to read it to him as a bedtime story.

Culturally, many have uttered the terms "no joy in Mudville" and "Mighty Casey has struck out" without ever knowing where it came from.

Such is the power of the poem that originated on this day in 1888.

It's never quite been determined who it was about. The poem predates Babe Ruth professionally by nearly 30 years. Some have suggested that it was based on early superstar "King" Kelly though there's never been any basis to that.

The great Vincent Price recorded Casey during his legendary career. Admittedly, if you've never heard the Hopper versions, I'll warn you that they're a bit over-the-top. So we'll post Mr. Price's version for your listening pleasure.

And wish Casey well in his next game.

What Are YOU Prepared to Do?

Be more than a photo op. (Genesee County Sheriff Chris Swanson walks with marchers --
photo by Jake May/The Flint Journal, MLive.com/TNS)

You're mad, aren't you?

But, what are you mad at?

Are you mad at the violence in the streets? Are you mad at the looting? Are you mad at those who don't remotely care about George Floyd but are just there to be seen and cause trouble?

Are you mad the president? Are you mad at local leaders? Cops?

All of the above?

So am I. I'm mad at all of that, and more.

But, start with Derek Chuavin. Add in fellow Minneapolis police officers Tou Thao, J. Alexander Kueng, and Thomas K. Lane.

Be mad at them.

Recognize that they are the reason we're here today. They're what popped the cork on the bottom of racism that has been bubbling. Go read about Rodney King and 1992 Los Angeles.

Remember George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery and the myriad other names. Don't let others tell you what to think.

Don't listen to rumors -- like the one that had Antifa working through Putnam County last night.

Don't listen to Don Lemon preach.

Read. Think.

Start there.

Don't go for virtue signaling. My oh my how it's everywhere. More often than not, they're empty gestures.

Posting a black square is nice.

But, to quote James Malone, as played by Sean Connery in The Untouchables: "What are you prepared to do?"

I'm going to listen and understand. Seems simple and, yet, it's not.

Blacks, browns -- minorities of all shapes and sizes -- should be heard. They're trying to be heard.

I'll listen.

Empathy. Understanding. Compassion. Respect. They're beautiful things.

The message gets muted for myriad reasons. Don't allow it.

I'm listening. I'm hearing why Black Lives Matters is a good thing and how it needs to be on the table. I realize I was wrong. It wasn't about being the only voice, but it was about being an equal voice.

We continue to fail to have conversations and, trust me, each word I type comes with that impending doom of "But...but...but...Trump..."

Spare me the constant tweets and the memes (oh, golly, you're just so funny except, you're not).

Your Trump obsession is dangerous (good or bad). You know why he could lose in November? This. Right now. This.

It's how your voice can be heard if you want it to be.

Right now, nobody impresses me. The likelihood of me voting for a presidential candidate is low.

We're begging for leadership. Dying for it.

I'm saddened at our government; that no one had the brains to corral this nonsense. I believed in the checks and balances and, instead, I saw people get sprayed so he can hold a Bible aloft for a picture.

It's not exactly Washington crossing the Delaware.

Why hasn't he been heard from? Help settle this country down.

For that matter, where the hell are each of the sports franchises I've dedicated so much time to? Derek Jeter and Michael Jordan -- both known for being apolitical -- have spoken. Where are the Yankees and the Steelers and the Knicks and the Rangers? (Yes, I know the Knicks and Rangers had a memo leaked saying they're remaining quiet. My point stands.)

*Note: The Yankees posted something just after I finished this post. Some still don't find it acceptable. I find it better than nothing, though no team is required to do a thing. (Additional note, 6/3/20: The Steelers have also released a statement)

My words mean nothing, and I know that. You all might have the answers. I don't.

I'm no hero.

Most of your tweets and Facebook posts and Instagram stories and posts and Tick Tok or whatever else go into a void.

I know better.

I'm one voice who talks into a microphone.

And that voice WILL do a show today to continue to try to have a conversation.

And I'll LISTEN if YOU want to talk.

And if you want an opinion or advice, then I'll offer it.

I can't do much but I'm willing to work together.

Monday, Monday

Raise your hand! Who has a case of the Mondays? (Office Space)

It's just another manic Monday (The Bangles).

Wait. the music challenge is over and has been handed off seamlessly to John Nash without my even offering or challenging.

I'm probably punchy (aka, dumber than usual) due to another night of no...what is it we're supposed to do?...ah, right, sleep.

Chico, the large gray cat, was at my side for most, if not all, of the proceedings. The only difference was I didn't turn on the TV to see more awful images of American cities in peril.

And, to be honest, those images aren't telling us everything. Yes, we see things -- the actual videos -- with our own eyes but everything before and after the camera is turned on is up for discussion.

Also, we are shown one part of a story. We (the blasted, much-maligned, awful media) can't be everywhere.

And there are plenty of J. Jonah Jameson's who want clicks and more dirty laundry!

And so, here we are. Should we go back to thinking about the pandemic? Remember that thing?

COVID-19 is so May 24.

It's almost fetch! (If "fetch" was happening, which it isn't)

Yet, right now, looking out of my lonely room ("Day After Day," Badfinger -- sorry, the music is still churning) all I see is a sunny morning. All I hear is my own typing and the birds chirping.

I'll do "Doubleheader" later (4 p.m., WGCH and Robcasting*) but I can't say I'm driven to talk sports, despite Major League Baseball players handing a new proposal (which will get shot down) to the owners.

*I'm very much pondering a Robcasting furlough. Sadly, it's not a free operation.

I keep believing. I keep trying to hang in there and be optimistic.

But, after the past couple of months, it's hard to be optimistic.

On everything. Literally everything.

Once again, words mean nothing.

Spoken to help nobody but you (Sorry, that's from "Words" by The Monkees. I really have a problem).

So, once again, we'll all drag ourselves to our appointed places.

Dialysis. The grocery store. The office (for those who are allowed). In front of the TV. Out to the rail trail. The construction job. The garbage truck. In front of a microphone.

The hot takes will all continue. I hate it. All of it.

I've never let this stuff ruin friendships and I really don't drop people because of it.

Shockingly, I respect all takes. I gather that's hard to believe.

But I'm close to a breakdown. Which means more steamy content for you. All praise clicks!

Somewhere, off in the distance, a dog is barking.

Nearby, the large gray cat is purring.

I don't like Mondays. (Boomtown Rats. I'll stop)