Night two

 

The jumble of lineup cards

Time is very short to write a post tonight.

Time. There was plenty of that today.

I went on the air just before 10 am. I ended my day on the air at 10 pm. Some 26 innings of baseball, spread over four games, passed by.

I called every pitch. I handled analysis. I did all of it. 

Alone.

People scoff when I tell them I do this. "What? You call these tournaments solo?"

Quite often? Yes. It doesn't bother me unless I'm struggling.

Now, I'll be the first to admit, I was falling asleep during the third game -- Connecticut/New Hampshire -- as was basically the entire booth. It happens. That's a tough point in the life of a baseball tournament and the game itself dragged.

I rallied somehow and never did fall asleep.

I dig through things that might be of interest. I discussed the anniversary of the Pine Tar Game and how curious it is that we celebrate George Brett's meltdown even though he was going to physically assault an umpire. But, hey, cool, right?

I found other things. I kept an eye on the major league scoreboard, as well as the Renegades. I figured, I'm there, might as well promote that other gig, right?

Now we turn to a potentially stormy Sunday in which I'll keep plugging along. This is what I do. This is what I love to do.

I'm prepared for a delay. If we see any lightning, we'll be shut down, even temporarily.

We'll carry on tomorrow at 10...weather permitting.

Night one

Rhode Island and Connecticut kicked the day off

The first four games of the 2021 Babe Ruth New England Regional are over.

There were roughly 26 innings of baseball. Some 600 pitches were thrown. There were a lot of swings, misses, hits, errors, and runs.

And that was just in the booth.

Shawn Sailer was a godsend for me, serving as a companion when I felt like I was fried. Those are also the only games of the tournament he will be around for. He's going away tomorrow.

So now it's up to me starting tomorrow. I'll make it work.

My voice feels good and my spirit is OK. There were mostly positive comments. There was one game that got out of hand (a 10-0 New Hampshire win in game three) and the other games were pretty good.

The host team played well and won so my companions in the booth were happy.

I turned things off and walked out when it was all over. Then I made my way back to New York to write a Gades game story (they lost) and compose a quick post here.

I'm tired.

It's just the first night.

There is a lot more baseball to be played.

Back at it tomorrow. The first game is at 10 a.m.

It's not about you or me

 

Gades/IronBirds. Posted without comment.

It's a quiet Thursday night.

The Renegades are playing in extra innings and it's on my phone.

The Yankees are playing and it's on the TV.

Tomorrow, I begin calling a lot of baseball. It's an overwhelming thought in which I have to pace myself and just enjoy the ride.

But, and I can't stress this enough, it's not about me. I don't do this for the glory. I talk. I'm a conduit. Too many in our business now are all about themselves. I'd share the links but I'm sure you know where to look.

I do it because I love sharing the passion of telling stories. Anything beyond that is a bonus.

In many ways, I'm not the most socially comfortable person. So it's under the headset where I can let that happen.

Thus I'll tell the stories of the teams North Providence/Smithfield, New London, Pittsfield, Braintree, Skowhegan, Lamprey River, Three Corners, and Trumbull tomorrow at 10 a.m.

I make no predictions about posts beginning tomorrow but I'll do my best as always.

But there will also be Renegades game stories to write.

Oh yeah. It will be a fun couple of days.

Journey's end

 

8:43 a.m.: Snacktime in Stedman

Travel often astounds me.

You can start the day in one place and end it in another place. I know, that's how it works.

Still, I started the day in a little place called Stedman, North Carolina.

Nice place, no question. They love Jesus and America too. For what it's worth, it's also dry but there's a Food Lion grocery store that you can buy beer and wine in five minutes away. That's because the store is across the line in Fayetteville.

Some thirteen hours later, after over 628 miles of driving, I'm sitting back in Mahopac, NY.

But, back to Stedman. It's a place that Sean and I laugh about seeing the "downtown." Which takes maybe 30 seconds. Or a minute. It all depends on your speed on Clinton Road ("Old" NC 24). We joke about food options (minimal but not non-existent, especially if you're willing to drive a bit).

Still, I'm babbling. We departed my niece's house at 8:58 a.m. One of these days I need to tell you about Kristy but it's her story and I don't want to speak out of turn. But I'll say this: she's a tough soul and I remind her of that a lot.

Anyway, we departed the mostly quiet house just before 9 a.m. We stopped just under an hour later in Smithfield at Waffle House. You were expecting Panera?

We promised ourselves we would take it easy but the game plan changed quickly. I was going to stroll into an Under Armour outlet in Smithfield but discovered it didn't open until 11. So that axed that.

A glance at the Waze app told me there was lots of trouble ahead. There was construction towards the top of North Carolina. There were pockets of traffic troubles at the top of Virginia.

We were in for a long day.

12:01 p.m.: Garysburg, NC

So I danced around the construction near Roanoke Rapids, NC only to find more construction that had our side road shut down. 

We crossed into Virginia at 12:18 p.m.

The next stop was in Richmond. A conflicted town, River City can be. It's a taste of the "old South," which isn't necessarily a good thing. It's also a taste of the "progressive South," which is a good thing, of course.

1:21 p.m.: A hazy shade of Richmond

Start with where we exited, onto the road formerly known as just "Boulevard." It's now "Arthur Ashe Boulevard." Hell yeah.

We went to Sheetz on Broad St because we wanted to and that was lunch and we will not apologize. That's the thing about what Sean and I do: it's our thing and we're not hurting anyone. I know, I know: haha, our taste is so...whatever.

We were soon back on 95, and Waze was telling me of the danger ahead. They're building more HOV lanes near Fredericksburg. I was formulating in my mind to get to "Fred" town and jump on US 17 but the traffic began before that.

And so, the silicon chip inside my head was switched to overload. Should I take US 301? It's a good route, save for a roughly 40-mile stretch that is traffic light after traffic light. I hadn't taken that option in years (2009, to be exact).

I did it. We crossed the Nice Bridge just under an hour later, while the traffic light stretch took nearly 90 minutes to traverse.

I figured Sean would enjoy the Nice Bridge as well as the Chesapeake Bay Bridge (and I was right).

I enjoyed them also, along with the new US 301 toll road that has been built in Delaware. It was a good excuse to drive it.

5:41 p.m.: After Wawa, heading towards Wilmington

This was the most joyous portion of the drive. US 301 is open and comfortable through Maryland and across the Mason-Dixon Line (with Wawas to be found and stopped at).

That led us through Delaware to Wilmington, where I glanced towards Frawley Stadium, the home of the Wilmington Blue Rocks. The Renegades had been there last week and were 45 minutes down the road in Aberdeen, MD this week.

I thought of my road friends, who had just gathered for a road meet there last weekend (Gades game included).

7:26 p.m.: Home is this way

We carried on into Pennsylvania, through Philadelphia, and across the Delaware via I-95 into New Jersey where we had Wawa for dinner. As we walked out, I noted to Sean how I have this feeling of melancholy when we leave these places that we like, knowing that it's over and we won't be back for a while.

"Yeah, I agree," he said. "They're definitely treats."

I was hoping we could be home by 10 p.m.

I was close. We walked in at 10:04 and were immediately greeted by Rascal, who acted like nothing had changed. He didn't even seem troubled by the six cats (and one dog) that we had hung out with.

With that summary, I now have to turn my attention to writing the Renegades game story.

Then? Maybe -- just maybe -- some sleep.

Because I was in North Carolina this morning.

11:30 p.m.: Hanging with me while I type

Back on the microphone

 

One more delicious Waffle House breakfast awaits before we're back in NY

Greetings again from North Carolina.

It can be quiet here at times. Three of the four people in this room have headphones on. The animals are asleep. I'm typing.

Sean and I are driving home tomorrow.

When dawn breaks on Thursday we'll dive right back in.

I have a podcast to record and (perhaps) the only edition of "Doubleheader" on Thursday.

Then comes Babe Ruth Baseball on Friday.

With the Renegades away, I fill the time with various things, such as other game broadcasts, travel, and video depos.

In this case, it's the Babe Ruth 13-15 New England Regional at Trumbull High School. 

It will be at least my fifth regional championship that I've been involved in, to go along with the 2002 World Series call in Stamford.

In this case, it's 17 games over six days, with four games each on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

They are exhausting experiences with (sometimes) bad sightlines (Norwalk, 2018), excessive heat (Stamford, 2019), involved parents, and sore throats (all).

They're also incredibly fun with families often becoming friends.

As of now, I'll be alone for most of it, but the offer stands to have others join me. The Trumbull Eagles Network (TEN), anchored by Jeff Alterman, is supposed to be stepping in to say hello for part of it and even co-producing some. I'm hoping Jake Zimmer, Paul Silverfarb, and Shawn Sailer will also jump on board for some of the fun. Can a Dan Gardella sighting be too far behind? Or Kato?

NOTE: To that end, there is one game that I almost certainly can't do. That game is the tournament semifinal on Tuesday at 1p.m. The Renegades are back that night and I can't risk not being able to get from Trumbull to Dutchess Stadium in time for my duties there. I'll put Robcasting in your hands for that game. Inquire within.

Of course, weather can screw the whole thing up.

It's a huge labor of love for all parties involved and there are a lot of moving parts that make it all work.

At the same time, there will also be Little League Baseball down in Springdale and my friends there, led by Perry Pierce and Chris Kaelin (the aforementioned Kato), have expressed interest in having the Robcasting microphones around. Of course, there's the balance with the Renegades that creates havoc for me.

I appreciate everyone being so kind to what we try to do. We show up. We talk. We report. We try to entertain a little. We mostly try to stay out of the way.

Oh, and let me say it again: I'd love to have company for these Babe Ruth games and to actually hand the keys over for that game on Tuesday at 1pm. I'll start the computer. You call the game. You end the broadcast and (hopefully) leave the equipment set up right there. Easy peasy.

Please inquire within.

I'm a bad influence!

 

At Segra Stadium, Fayetteville

I had a video sent to me tonight.

"Thought you would appreciate this," came the attached message.

A little kid is playing catch. He's describing things as he plays.

"Who are you pretending to be?" an adult voice asks.

"Robbie," comes the reply.

Yes. He's pretending to be me.

What a fun, remarkable thing.

And I'm so sorry!

Look, I get it. It is a fun thing and, to many, it appears to be one of the great jobs.

It's certainly been a blessing to me but it also comes to be with politics and backstabbing and some other negative stuff.

I heard a story today of how someone is trying to undermine me (again).

Sadly, they've also built a reputation and the people involved called me immediately to discuss.

It's not the first time it's happened either.

Remember, be careful what bridge you burn and how you build relationships.

That's where word gets passed around as it's a very small community and an even smaller world.

To that end, I reached out to the voice of the Fayetteville Woodpeckers today just to say hello. Andrew Chapman and I follow each other on Twitter, like many fellow broadcasters, but we've never actually met. 

Andrew couldn't have been more receptive to my message and we wound up meeting for a few minutes outside of Segra Stadium today. 

These relationships in the world of play-by-play broadcasting are so important for myriad reasons and Andrew was happy to chat with the Adams boys. 

Andrew offered to welcome us (and the family) back for tomorrow night's game between the Woodpeckers and Kannapolis Cannon Ballers 

I look forward to doing so, as a way of wrapping up our visit to North Carolina.

Waiting on vacation

Tonight's dinner

 

This is a Rob problem.

It's 9:35 am outside of Fayetteville, NC.

I've been up since 6am.

Yesterday morning it was getting close to 11 before anyone -- Sean -- made his way to the living room where I sat (and am sitting again), phone in hand.

Well, wait. I had at least three cats hanging around. Plus a dog.

The point is when I'm away, I'm not good at just sitting in the house. I'll do it and, perhaps inevitably, fall asleep. 

I just like to go. I don't like sitting around when I'm on vacation. It's part of the reason I like to be out the door early in the morning on day one.

So, finally, Sean and I left everyone at home and went where we belonged: Waffle House.

Then we did a few things around Fayetteville, including a quick drive past the baseball stadium, home of the Woodpeckers. I decided to not visit the stadium. We're still here until Wednesday so there's time.

After some time, we went back to the house where everyone was indeed awake. I flopped down in a chair...

...and fell asleep...

Before I quickly rallied to take Kristy and Hector's daughters (and Sean) to that bastion of heaven, South of the Border!

So, yes, I made the most of the day.

And today was just as busy, with an over five-hour round trip drive to drop one of the girls off at a camp.

And tomorrow? It will be an earlier start.

Maybe.

The cutting room floor

The view from Sean's camera, as used by the YES Network

The YES Network visited Dutchess Stadium a few weeks ago for the show Homegrown: The Path to Pinstripes. The program highlights the minor league teams for the Yankees.

The camera and a microphone made their way into the booth during their visit where they recorded Spencer Pierce and me as we called the action. The Gades even scored a run while the YES microphone was right next to me.

It was very cool if not a little intimidating.

The show aired last night. Spencer texted me and I watched as I wound down for the night here in North Carolina.

So many familiar faces in the Renegades family were seen but Spencer and I were left out. I know Spencer was bummed and, sure, so was I but that's the nature of the beast. It's not the first time it's ever happened to me.

What did appear was some footage of Anthony Seigler hitting a game-winning grand slam on June 26 against Wilmington. That was taken from our broadcast, meaning that it's the work of Sam Eisenbaum directing and each of the crew working the cameras.

That means Sean Adams can say his work has been seen on the YES Network.

The important thing is that the team was the star. From the players to the front office to Sean and Sam, they all get to share in something very exciting.

I don't need the glory. I'm a part of that team.

So if you can find it, give the latest edition of Homegrown a look to learn about the inner workings of the Renegades.

I was proud as a dad and as a colleague to watch the whole thing. It's not about me.

I'm proud of the players and everyone involved!

A long drive

 

I hugged this display in the Food Lion

Greetings from North Carolina.

I wish I could say it was one of our better drives but that would be a lie.

With stops, it was over 12 hours of driving.

From New York to just south of Washington, DC it was just fine. The pace seemed good if not unspectacular.

Then came Virginia. When I-95 is closed south of DC on a Friday in summer, you have major problems. That led me to working my magic around the shutdown but that still involves myriad traffic lights and generally slow traffic.

Then there were the countless (well, it felt like it) slowdowns for construction.

What should have been a three-hour run through Virginia was nearly five.

Then there was the intense rain near Rocky Mount, NC that had me exit off 95 for a few miles because the ran was too intense.

And so here I sit, slowly falling asleep as I wait for the Renegades to finish playing their game in Wilmington so that I can publish a game story.

I don't know that I have much else to say. I'm completely wiped out.

There were moments that were total bliss. The traffic moved. The tunes were great. 

There were others that weren't much fun.

It's great to be back here. I wish I had more to offer tonight.

The 1904 Yankees

 

The New York Highlanders arrived on the scene in 1903 from Baltimore in the new American League. They finished fourth with a record of 72-62.

The following year, the Highlanders -- referred to as some in the media as the Yankees -- won 92 games. They were in a tight pennant race with Boston -- the Americans (Red Sox) -- until the last weekend of the season when Jack Chesbro launched a wild spitball that scored the go-ahead run. Chesbro won an astounding 41 games that year but Boston won the pennant.

There were a lot of other years of mediocrity and downright bad baseball until a kid arrived from Boston named Babe Ruth.

So, given mediocrity is to be celebrated, and that I love throwback jerseys, I think it's time for the Yankees to wear the jerseys of the 1904 team. 

I mean, hey, why not? They won 92 games and lost the pennant on a wild pitch!

One hundred years later they would have been at least a wild card team!

So, yes, I'm all in.

I mean, it's cool for the Mets, right?

(You had to know we were going to arrive here eventually)

Wear a jersey that celebrates a couple of playoff appearances and a World Series loss to the definition of the Hellmouth!

But, honestly, congrats Mets fans. You do you.

And I'm going to get to work on making #OldEnglishIsAYankeesFont a realty!

Traveling

 

Photo: Google Street View

After several false starts and two much smaller trips, I'm finally heading to North Carolina on Friday*.

*Conditions permitting of course.

Still, I don't such things flippantly. I think and (often) agonize over everything. The checklist either gets written or is in my brain.

- Laundry? Yes, I've done it already.
- Cat concerns? I got new wet food for him and changed his litter today.
- Packing? Shockingly, I'm sort of done but can adjust as needed.
- Last-minute concerns? I have to find a few items to take before I leave.
- Lawn mowed? Yes, I did most of it today. In the heat. Blech.

And so on. You get the idea.

As I'm, well, me, I'm also bummed if I don't start a road trip with a clean car. So, in the middle of everything today, I washed it, vacuumed it, Armour All'd it and did the windows. This feels like something I picked up from my parents, especially my father. However, I will say that my mom also made sure to take the car to get cleaned when we would travel in her later years.

Then there's that -- my mother's presence. Her ghost, if you will. This will be the first trip to see Kristy and Company (that will be the name of her sitcom) without Queen Nancy in the backseat (or the one time riding shotgun). Yes, Sean and I went to Pennsylvania without her in February but that was different.

The North Carolina trips began because Kristy and Hector moved there in 2012 from Alabama. I passed through the area before they moved but it occurred to me that maybe we could drive down. While 2012 and 2013 passed without a trip, I became convinced we could make it happen in 2014. We could use Mom's car and split the cost of gas and tolls and I would serve as her trusty chauffeur.

I admit I was nervous before the first trip. Would we all get along? Would my mother and I kill each other? What about Sean?

We went seven times from 2014-2019. We had one -- ONE -- moment that tested patience. It happened less than an hour into the first day of the first trip.

We started out and turned south onto the Taconic Parkway. Partway between our exit and the next one, Sean asked for his portable DVD player.

Me: You don't have it?
Him: No.
Me (now calculating the loss of time and what to do without panicking): Can you wait and we'll stop somewhere and buy you one? (Yes, I realize that sounded wasteful and stupid on my part.)
Him: No.
Me (in my brain): bleepingbleepedybleepblastingbleep.
Me: ok

I jumped off at the next exit and went to the nearby bagel place since we hadn't grabbed breakfast yet. Knowing it was a futile battle, I examined the bags in the rear of Mom's Toyota RAV 4. Nothing, at least at a quick glance.

We walked into the bagel shop and I was now steaming. Sean was, of course, being a 12-year-old. Mom -- bless her heart -- could never let things go and if any of my siblings, nieces or nephews are reading you know exactly what I'm talking about.

She made a snide comment. The exact words are lost to time but I can hear the bite and sarcasm regardless. It was something about being grumpy and "Is this how it's going to be?"

Wrong thing.

"Get me an egg and cheese on a plain bagel," I huffed and stormed out, leaving money behind.

I reexamined the car. Nothing.

It wasn't really Sean I was mad at, although I wanted him to be more responsible. I was now steamed at Mom, of course, for not letting things go. That was a Nancy trademark.

But, most of all, I was mad at me for not being on top of the bleeping DVD player, which had become a staple of traveling with Sean for a few years.

I said nothing and drove back to the house. Granted, it was only 10 minutes (20 roundtrip) but when I'm always checking our time, that was 20 minutes lost.

I walked in, grabbed it, went back to the car, handed it to him, and returned to the Taconic. Away we went.

After I've started driving, there are those points that I might realize something has been left behind. If it is something like shaving cream (for instance) well, they have Target and Wal-Mart and Food Lion and other such stores that have supplies. So it's that balance of what would make me turn around as opposed to just driving on. A DVD player, which could have upset the balance, was sufficient enough to lose 20 minutes over.

That's the closest we came in seven trips to North Carolina to a nuclear meltdown. We went other places as well and overall it always worked out just fine.

This will feel different of course.

Fingers crossed for everything going well this time without her. We know she'll be missed.

How?

 

Mark Jackson, Jeff Van Gundy, Mike Breen

Someone who wants to be in sports broadcasting recently reached out to me and asked if we could speak via phone. I made some time today and we chatted.

He had some good questions, besides the simple, "How do I get into the business?"

He has no experience at all. Thus my first suggestion was to get to a game -- any game -- and call it into his phone. Sure, he can practice off a TV at home (I've done that also) but getting the real flow of it all means being on-site.

I advised that he get reps. Lots of them. 

Of course, I suggested that he make friends because, as I've said many times, who he knows will be every bit as important as what he knows.

He says he'll be considering going to a school where a certain someone might wind up as one of his instructors but that's not happening anytime soon.

He asked about the downside of the business. I advised him about the politics and power struggles -- for the love of Mel Allen, can I speak to that? I told him about the entitlement that has become more prevalent than ever.

I told him that, so often, quality doesn't matter anymore.

He asked about who I studied. The truth is I never had a mentor so I paid attention to a collection of broadcasters who helped me grow. But, ultimately, I talked to him about Vin and how I learned the things that I believe -- on reporting, informing, educating, and enlightening before entertaining. I talked about integrity and that the game is the star. The athletes. The coaches. 

Literally, I talk.

I take no credit when an athlete does something great. I only hope they allow themselves to associate with me.

Ben Casparius -- who was a star at Staples High School -- was drafted over the weekend. His being drafted had nothing to do with the times I called games involving him on the HAN Network.

He told me he was a basketball fan and that Mike Breen was his guy. I said that was a great broadcaster to learn from but that he needed to be himself. Mike Breen already exists. You'll hear things related to Vin Scully in my broadcasts but I don't try to be Vin. 

I told him to study up on Marv Albert and, even more, Marty Glickman, who essentially created the terms that we use in broadcasting basketball. He sounded interested in that.

Did I stress that he needs reps? 

It was a productive, nice conversation and I wish him well. His openness to learning and his sense of integrity makes me root for him.

There needs to be more like him.

Not my night

 

All I wanted was a peaceful evening.

But I had a show to do at 4 p.m., so I did it from the confines of the WGCH studio for the first time in months. Honestly, I don't know how long it's been.

At the same time, I was working on setting up the station's new iPhone, which also serves as an internet hot spot when we're out remotely.

It was nice to have reliable phones and Kato called for a segment. 

At 5 p.m., I jumped into an empty office and did "Renegades Weekly," the podcast I host with Zach Neubauer. We talked about...stuff. It's hard to remember what. I think there was talk of beating the Cyclones, some stuff about upcoming promotions, and I explained what the broadcasts will be like while the team is away (quick version: in Wilmington, no MILB.tv; in Aberdeen, MILB.tv with no voices).

After that ended, I resumed setting up the phone. It was a bit of a struggle but I eventually figured out a different approach.

At that point, I figured my peaceful evening would begin. Nah. Bob Small wanted dinner and I haven't sat down with him in months, if not a year plus. So I went out.

Finally, the drive home began, through the raindrops along the roads of backcountry Greenwich.

Oh, did I mention I also saw the new press box at Cardinal Stadium with my own eyes?  I'm trying to cautiously assume I'll be in there in September or sooner.

I couldn't get any closer for a better look so I settled for what I saw from Route 1...which goes from, oh for the love of God, Rob, who cares?

I just wanted to get home. I wanted to see the silly cat, who I know prefers it when I'm around. Why? I don't know.

Finally, I walked in the door, but not after getting the mail. I could hear Rascal jump from wherever he was sleeping. The audible thump brought a smile to my face and he greeted me at the top of the stairs.

The night just wasn't meant to be. I'm not sure I cared a lot about the Home Run Derby anyway. I have a moderate interest at best, I suppose. I watched a few minutes on my phone and that was it.

Then I agonized over what to write and this is what I came up with. Staggering brilliance, isn't it?

As always, tomorrow's another day.

Halftime

 

We've hit the midway point.

Technically, the Renegades have played 59 games but they've played 30 at home.

Thus, we're halfway through the season. They'll play the 60th game on Tuesday in Wilmington, DE.

Sure, I have thoughts. I have thoughts about some things that could be better and other notes. I have critiques of myself for sure. Mostly, they're nitpicks.

It has been a blast.  I'll tell you that.

And, most nights, I hate to leave the stadium. When I do leave quickly, it's mostly due to Sean, who doesn't have the attachment that I do. Nor should he. So he gets me to leave.

But 30 games in I've made friends and have built whatever my reputation is. I've created fans and critics. I've had good calls and bad calls.

I've made mistakes for sure.

I've felt spoiled at times with walkoff hits and a no-hitter*.

* Why do people feel the need to say that a minor league no-hitter is "unofficial?" I saw that in a few places on social media today. For one thing, we know it is but that's not going to change how we view it in the stadium. Just relax and enjoy life. For a second thing, seven innings is the game length. It can't go nine even if we wanted to. Sooooo...

Now comes a two-week break while the Gades head to Wilmington and Aberdeen. As a broadcaster, I find it hard to have to break the rhythm while they play elsewhere. Sure, I'll watch and listen where and when I can but it's entirely different.

I'll do some traveling and call some Babe Ruth ball during the layoff before diving right back in later in July.

As the second half begins, the won/loss record will become a bigger deal. Will there be a championship series to broadcast? 

We'll find out.

Nope. No. Nada. Nothing.

 

The Renegades swept a doubleheader from the Brooklyn Cyclones tonight.

They won game one, 7-1. They won game two, 5-0.

In the first game, Ezequiel Duran homered, singled, doubled, and drove in three. He was a triple shy of the cycle, just as Josh Breaux was the night before.

In the second game, Breaux hit three home runs.

Oh and three pitchers -- Sean Boyle, Nick Ernst, and Derek Craft -- combined on a no-hitter.

Rob Manfred, the commissioner of baseball, feels that as a seven-inning game, it's not significant. It's not an official no-hitter. Thus I basically buried the lead in this post.

But it's still a no-hitter, and the team celebrated it as such.

And I called it like it mattered.

TEAM NO-HITTER!! pic.twitter.com/KSNTtp8xYN

— HV Renegades (@HVRenegades) July 11, 2021

Just wow.

I'm still sitting in the stadium.

I'm replaying it in my mind. 

I did everything that I believed in:

- It doesn't matter until after six innings.

- Do my due diligence (find out if it's official or not -- and it's not).

- Report it because there's no jinx, and I did in the top of the seventh.

 I was nervous. I needed to say it was a no-hitter and it's a bummer that it wasn't a nine-inning game. But it's still historic.

*****

I've finally made myself leave the stadium and go home. I still have some work to do before I go to bed and get ready for the last game of the series.

I honestly don't think I have the words to make any sense of tonight or what it meant.

By the way, that's Sean's camera work for the call of the final out.

Even he said to me, "I don't care if it's 'unofficial,' a no-hitter is pretty cool."

I'm dreaming.

This doesn't seem real.

Still streaking

 

It rained a lot. There was still baseball.

I thought I might have reached the end of the line. It's 11:04 and I'm in the stadium.

Rain soaked the dugouts and delayed our start. First pitch was just before 8 p.m.

Yet?

Here we are. I'm writing in the booth as the fireworks are lighting up the night.

I had a few characters outside the booth tonight, and one of them decided to imitate me. 

Ah. Whatever. There was nothing offensive about it and it didn't rattle me. I could hear them but I just carried on.

It's all part of the job.

You know what? I'm too happy anyway. I'm doing what I love to do and there are nearly 4,000 people at Dutchess Stadium tonight. Many more listened and watched on radio and online.

I'm pretty proud.

You know what they say...

Accept no imitations.

Rascal gets pelted with tennis balls

Cut him a break

 

John Sterling is 83 years old and has always been a lightning rod.

From his time in the late 60s and early 70s as a pioneering sports talk host to his play-by-play work for the Nets, Islanders, Hawks, Braves, and...where else?...oh yeah, Yankees, he has been a huge part of the sports scene for a long time.

Is he beloved? Yes. Is he criticized? To excess.

I've learned to accept John for what he is and I don't think he is as bad as he's often made out to be.

Last night, he committed a very honest mistake.

Aaron Judge hit a majestic home run in the second inning for the Yankees against the Mariners in Seattle. As Judge came up to hit again, Sterling looked at his monitor as he called the game.

That's a key fact here: Sterling -- and Suzyn Waldman -- are calling the games remotely off monitors.

John described the action as he watched Yusei Kikuchi deliver to Judge.

"Now here's Judge, and the breaking ball is hit in the air to deep left...that ball is high! It is far! It is GONE!"

No more than a second passed.

"Unfortunately that was a replay of the home run. But it was a good replay.

"I...I...I'm sorry. It's on the monitors."

Waldman: "This is a great way..."

Sterling: "What am I supposed to do?"

Waldman: "This is a great way to do a game, isn't it?"

They're correct. Look, I can see getting on John if he was in the ballpark, but he's not. Even then, I truly would enjoy watching "critics" try doing what John, Suzyn, me, Mike Hirn, or anyone else does. I used to really minimize this, thinking it wasn't much of a skill.

It's still not surgery but it's a skill.

John doesn't deserve the grief that Twitter is delivering today at all. I get that he's an easy target for a variety of reasons but this one isn't fair.

Broadcasters need to be back on the road with their teams and, blatantly, Waldman is essentially calling out her employers with her comment. She has been bluntly at the forefront of the movement to travel again.

The criticism of penny-pinching is deserved. Most team broadcasters are trusting sources to begin with. They become a part of the traveling party and, especially with RSN's (Regional Sports Networks) criticism is deftly handled. Like it or not, the RSN controls the message to an extent since it's their product.

I know and understand that as an employee of a team. It's a very fine line.

And, make no mistake, my employers have been outstanding. On the topic of traveling, they know I'm up for road games, even if it's a handful that I drive myself to. As it is, I'll be driving through Aberdeen, MD soon and guess who the Ironbirds will be playing? The Renegades!

Oh, have I mentioned Aberdeen doesn't have a broadcaster? Wouldn't they like the so-called "Voice of the Renegades" for a game or six, just as they had Cyclones' voice, Keith Raad, last week?

Anyway, I'm getting off-topic. Slowly, I think some are beginning to believe that voices need to get back on the road. We can't do our jobs effectively without the ability without access to players and coaches (and Zoom calls aren't enough). There's a general "feel" that we get from being nearby.

I'll go a step farther -- few interviews ever give me that much. It's chatting with people on the sidelines and just watching and -- more -- listening. Being a fly on the wall during batting practice or warmups lets me listen and learn. There are obvious things to keep off the record but there are things of note that can be useful at the strangest moments.

That's what you get from traveling and being "present" with a team.

We're missing that in the current construct.

In the long run -- I don't care what anyone says -- the cost savings isn't that big. In fact, I'll offer that you're costing yourself more by having sub-par broadcasts. That being said, I've mentioned quality doesn't matter and it hasn't for years. I have too many examples to offer (even in the last 24 hours) but I've curbed my wicked ways.

Getting on John Sterling is the lowest of hanging fruit. It's too easy. He's the bombastic Yankees radio broadcaster whose trademark calls and heard and, often, mocked. Yankees haters detest him. Some Yankees fans don't like him either. And let's face it, the Yankees are a joy for many to hate.

But this one wasn't fair. While it was a mistake, sure, it was honest. Some in the industry are coming to his defense today and you can count me as one.

I'm happy to offer criticism but I'm not going to do that here.

Long day done

 

(Photo: Jim Campbell)

There were a lot of parts to today, capped off by a good game between the Renegades and Brooklyn Cyclones.

It started with Rascal (the Squeaky cat) waking me up by knocking over my Amazon Echo View (Alexa with a screen that serves as my alarm clock) at 5:45 am.

It ended with baseball -- 10 innings of such -- before I came home to write, finish the game story, watch the Lightning win the Stanley Cup, and check in on the Yankees.

I'm grateful for friends who came to the stadium because I was there and those who listened.

Soon there will be sleep (hopefully) and lots of it.

Tomorrow, it's back to the ballpark (weather permitting).

A busy day.

Not a bad day.

That's really all there is to say.

Be more than "just a kid"

 

You'll be better for all of it

Taking a break from game-prepping for tonight when Brooklyn comes to Dutchess Stadium for the first time.

Bouncing off last night's post, I found myself thinking about the number of young broadcasters trying to wedge their way into the crowded world. There are those who have the "leg up" of the broadcast schools of prestige (Syracuse, Fordham, AZ State, and Mizzou all come to mind) and the grunts who will try their luck in the smaller outlets.

I think we've actually done these students (and now former students) a disservice by treating them with...ahem...kid gloves.

When anyone -- regardless of age -- interns with me or asks me for advice or mentorship, they get the full treatment. Whether it was Matt Hamilton as a kid or Chris Kaelin as a man or anyone else, I broke their work down. I was hard on them, critiqued them, and I'd like to think I helped make them better in the long run.

Yet, for some reason, if there's criticism, it falls into the category of being "just a kid."

Why? 

The criticism -- which sucks -- made me better, and nobody is a harsher critic of my work than I am. At this point, I sort of laugh at it because I'm probably ten miles ahead in terms of already criticizing myself.

Several weeks ago, I saw a broadcaster in Connecticut get criticized for the use of a term. We'll circle back to that. A Twitter user jumped in to call out the critic not long after because the young broadcaster was working on their craft.

That point was both fair and unfair. If they're getting things blatantly wrong (left field versus right field, the score, the wrong batter -- hi! -- then it can be corrected, albeit politely).

I've coached students to always be sly in making those corrections. For instance, if calling someone the wrong name, the other person in the booth can simply use the correct name immediately. Most -- me included -- will pick up on the mistake and move along.

There's also the old write it on a piece of paper and show it to the person, or point to something on the roster. When that all fails, mute the mics and get it right. But never embarrass each other.

These young broadcasters should welcome the criticism, as they should believe in getting it right. More importantly, some of them aren't new anymore.

Plus, as I alluded to last night, the wolves will be out as soon as high school is over. College professors, fans, social media jerks, and others will now be on you.

It can't all be just praise. I received a ton for the Renegades work so far, and the comments on the FCIAC baseball championship call meant the world to me. But...as far as I was concerned...I was terrible in the last Gades broadcast. I have to call it as I see it, and get back to doing better tonight.

In the process, because I was honest and open, people were supportive and understanding. Now we move on.

However, the criticism that I alluded to above -- regarding the choice of a term -- was completely wrong.

A quick review of the critic's Twitter page spoke like a manual for a person that you probably wouldn't want to be around -- especially where women's sports are involved.

She had a problem with the use of the word "faceoff" during a girls lacrosse game. Now, to be totally fair, women's lacrosse is a different game for sure from men's. And, yes, "draw" is the correct term, however, other than this...er...individual, faceoff is not a fatal mistake.

I realize this is a sticky subject. Don't use anything other than "circle" when talking about a pitcher's location in softball, for instance.

In hockey, of course, the terms faceoff and draw are used interchangeably. I should know, given I've called a few hockey games.

In fact, a quick Google search indicates that some do use both terms in women's lacrosse.

What made the criticism so harsh was how it was delivered.

Gee. She seems like joy, doesn't she?

It was sent to nine accounts, including the broadcaster and several media outlets, as well as the school. That's where the person calling out the critic was completely correct because it was harsh and unnecessary, especially in such a public forum.

There is legit criticism that should be given. Saying you're going to do a game and not showing up, especially because you decided to go to the Yankees game or something else? Yeah, that should be called out.

Shoddy work by an analyst stepping all over the play-by-play call? Yes. I've seen it, heard it, and experienced it. I had it happen just a few weeks ago.

But it's also in how it's delivered.

I still remember the baseball game I did alone -- probably 2015 -- where a St. Joseph student didn't like my call and posted it on Twitter. Instead of running, I wrote back and wondered if he'd like to specifically tell me what he didn't like.

The tweet was deleted seconds later.

I have no doubt most of the broadcasters will be better at what they do for dealing with this stuff in the long run.

Let the criticism -- polite, legitimate criticism -- be heard. Remember: in broadcasting, unless it's on tape, there's no delete key. Most of my print, multi-media peers have the ability to edit. We don't when it's live.

Let the kids be kids, of course.

But keep it real.

On "passion"

 

Greenwich Skating Club, Dec 28, 2019, 6:30 a.m.
Meaning I've been awake for probably two hours at that point.

passion [ pash-uhn ]

noun

any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or hate.

What is passion? 

"I love your passion," they say.

Passion is showing up every time.

Not bailing out because of some lame answer -- or no answer at all. You fulfill the promises you've made and posted online

Passion is making the commitment and also honoring the commitment, even under the worst of circumstances.

Yes, stuff happens. I've missed broadcasts due to a funeral and a hospital visit. Even then, I considered ways to go.

Passion can often be confused with obsession and some of us in the broadcasting world understand what I'm saying.

Passion means going to the stadium on your off day to sweep the booth out and prepare things.

It means going hours before you're expected to clean the booth for the opposing broadcaster. This falls under the heading of passion because you care about how the team will be viewed and you're dedicated to professionalism.

Passion means you don't give up until you've exhausted every option. You can't get on the air? Keep trying. A piece of equipment isn't working? Find other equipment. That's why I carry an insane amount of stuff. That's why I make adjustments, like carrying a Pelican case or a small tent to keep weather conditions away from the equipment.

Passion is calling the game off a phone because all other options have been attempted.

Passion is also the emotion felt after a good or bad broadcast. It's whatever emotion that you're processing.

It drives you to do as many broadcasts as you can, wherever you can.

It drives you to run to Shelton to help a friend with a broadcast then fly to New Canaan to do the broadcast you're actually getting paid to do.

It drives you to cover youth broadcasts and underclass broadcasts with the same intensity that you'd bring to a varsity or professional game. Because the athletes and their families and fans deserve that.

They don't deserve to have you bail on it because -- essentially -- you think you're too good for it.

A few years ago, I was asked to call the junior varsity hockey game in Greenwich's Winter Classic on Local Live. I wasn't invited to call either varsity game and it would have been easy to let a bruised ego stop me.

So, what did I do? I called the JV game -- alone -- with the same (yep) passion that I did when I called the girls and boys varsity games on Robcasting later in the day.

That's passion. You treat everyone as if they matter.

That's the reason people say, "Your broadcasts sound like they belong on (insert respected network/channel here).

Passion is leaving the house at an ungodly hour, on minimal sleep.

Passion is 19 Thanksgiving Day games in a row, hitting the road before 6:00 a.m.

Passion is often making sacrifices. Sorry, I can't to go whatever social gathering or event because I've committed to a game. Oh, I had tickets to the ALCS. I also have a Greenwich football broadcast. I sold the tickets.

Passion is calling four or five games a day and not making a dime because you're trying to build a brand and a reputation.

Passion is calling games at 8, 10, 2, 5, and 7. Then sleeping. Then doing it again.

Passion is buying your own equipment, trying to acquire equipment where you can, and doing anything to improve. 

Passion is paying it forward.

Passion is not burning bridges. but building them. It's about making sure the crew gets recognition and respect.

Passion is listening to those you could have learned from and respecting them.

Passion is exhaustion and emotion -- good and bad.

Passion is peeling off a suit in the back of the car because of some ridiculous notion that we'd look/sound better. So you change -- in your car -- into shorts when it's over because the suit is soaked.

And, sometimes, you sleep in that car. Or on the floor of a radio station. Or make arrangements to stay at a friends' house.

Passion is driving to Cooperstown to make sure that the game you're planning to broadcast can, indeed, be broadcast. So you go three hours before anyone else to check the facilities and the cell phone signals.

Passion isn't false bragging and goals. It's staying humbled and overwhelmed as you achieve the things that you achieve. It's staying wide-eyed.

Passion is what drives you.

Passion is never being satisfied, even after all of the attention in the world. 

You'll learn. Oh, will you learn.

You think you have passion? 

Buckle up.

You've seen nothing yet.

Musings on 'Murica's Birthday

 July 4th produces oodles of pride in our grand ol' nation.

There will be hot dogs galore and picnics and potato salad and burgers and whatever else you desire.

And I've celebrated right along with you over the years. Today, frankly, it's just another day as I sit in the living room. There are no picnics. No invitations.

Oh, and no baseball, since the Gades are in Lakewood, NJ to play Jersey Shore.

To be blunt, I have little interest in what the Yankees are up to. I hate interleague play, I detest the Subway Series, and the Yankees are awful. 

So Sean and I are likely heading out to lunch/dinner and we'll listen to idiots around us setting off fireworks, which scare animals, except for our trusty Rascal.

Last night -- since it was July 3rd and why not set them off anyway? -- our squeaky cat sat wide-eyed at times before curling up near my feet and sleeping. He'll run whenever he hears a car door or a strange voice but thunder? Fireworks? No biggie.

In my usual style of burying the lead, July 4th makes me also think of a few things, some that I post about every year...

- Dave Righetti. Maybe you didn't see that one coming. The lefthander did something on July 4th, 1983 that hadn't happened for the Yankees since Oct 8, 1956. 

He pitched a no-hitter, beating the Red Sox at Yankee Stadium, 4-0. As was the thing in those days, we had some kind of a picnic (probably just because). Back then, we didn't have cable, and the game was on Sportschannel (with Mel Allen on the call). 

Now, it wouldn't have been out of the norm for me to rig up some kind of radio but for whatever reason, it didn't happen on this day. A few hours after first pitch, I made my way to a stereo that I had down in the basement.

I turned it on and heard Frank Messer relay the news on the post-game show: no-hitter. Much as I would in Las Vegas when I discovered that I had missed David Wells' perfect game (pre-smartphone, of course), I stood in shock, slightly sickened over missing it.

This is what it sounded like on radio, with Messer's call. Frank, in my opinion, is still vastly underrated and was the first broadcaster to teach me how to call a game. He was the "pro" of the booth, since Bill White and Phil Rizzuto were both former players. I couldn't find Allen's call.

Some of my friends did watch it, which only added to my grief if you will. It would take two more years before my parents got cable -- almost in time for Live Aid.

- Lou Gehrig. The Iron Horse is prominent in my mind on July 4th for his gut-wrenching speech in front of a packed Yankee Stadium in 1939. The words still ache: "For the past two weeks, you've been reading about a bad break. Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."

He sort of knew what he was facing, though his wife Eleanor kept some of the details from him. Still, he knew he'd never play again. His mostly off-the-cuff speech still sits high among the greatest speeches in American history, let alone sports.

It was brave and emotional. We've reviewed the details many times here but I can't let July 4th go by without thinking about Lou.

1936

- Little Donald Adams. That would be my dad, of course, who had a firecracker explode in his mouth at the age of six. Dad was paranoid about fireworks for the rest of his life. To his credit, he never stopped us from having them but they always came with the patented warning:

"You be DAMN careful!"

Thus when one went off in my hand one night as I did a full windup, it reminded me that 1) He'd flip his lid if I got hurt and 2) I'm a bleeping idiot for not just flinging it.

I was fine, shockingly. There was a brief sting in my hand but other than a yelp of shock from me, nothing came of it.

Every July 4th, I feel the need to share this.

So be careful tonight.

DAMN careful.

Happy birthday, America.

The Beach Boys and...?

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

I'm watching what is almost definitely Marv Albert's last broadcast. The Bucks are crushing the Hawks in Game 6 of the Eastern Conference Finals and Marv is set to retire. 

Yes, I know, Marv did this and that back in the 90s and it was deviant and awful. I'm not sweeping it under the rug -- oof, that's an awkward way to put it considering Marv's famous toupee. 

Anyway, I'm opening with a nod to an all-time great broadcaster. That doesn't mean he is the best guy in the world. Oh and I'm aware of the tweet the likened tonight to Vin Scully's last broadcast. Trust me. I laughed.

Oh, yeah, none of that had to do with the title of this post. A site that I often read called Ultimate Classic Rock ranked the top 50 American Bands. We've done this dance before and, at the time, I was fairly certain that I thought the Beach Boys was the correct choice. UCR agrees with me on that.

The full list is here and, of course, I don't remotely agree with a lot of it but that's the nature of this stuff.

Now they take a cop-out in my opinion, eschewing solo acts (OK, so no Billy Joel, Prince, etc) but others tended to work quite a bit with a...er...band. Like, BAND was the extended name of the act.

Put it this way: despite making solo albums, it wasn't just Tom Petty. It was Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers (who, for what it's worth, was listed at number two). 

So the Top 10 is this:

1) The Beach Boys
2) Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
3) Van Halen
4) Credence Clearwater Revival
5) Aerosmith
6) The Doors
7) Talking Heads
8) R.E.M.
9) Eagles
10) Simon and Garfunkel (er...a band?)

How Nirvana or The Ramones, for instance, aren't in the top ten is a matter of taste, I suppose, and I'd willingly drop Talking Heads and Aerosmith out to make room. That's an example.

This, of course, is all flawed and subjective. My head nearly exploded when I saw the likes of Bon Jovi (45), Boston (42), Journey (41), and Cheap Trick (40), and Kiss (25). And The Flaming Lips (49)? Oh, dear. How edgy. How inspiring. 

How insipid.

Those left out are plentiful, of course, and you don't need to be a genius to figure out some of the ones I'm thinking of.

A little ol' act from north of San Francisco...Start spreading the NEWS...

But how about some love for The Monkees or Earth Wind and Fire or The Go Go's?

Of course, there's the gray area of "American Band" so does that take The Monkees out because Davy Jones was English or The Band because they were mixed Canadian/American?

So, yeah, it's quite imperfect.

As always, the goal is clicks and they've achieved that. It creates conversation and they've certainly done that also.

I look forward to reading your thoughts.

The Bucks have just won. Marv's career has indeed come to an end. From a broadcasting perspective, I tip my headset.

100 years ago

 

Major J. Andrew White

History is messy. Never have we been more clear about that than now.

So let's deal with what we think we know.

One hundred years ago today, Jack Dempsey fought Georges Carpentier at an arena that was thrown together in Jersey City, NJ. Dempsey, the legendary boxer, was cast as a bit of a villain, having been seen as a draft dodger (truth: he was classified 4-F). On the other hand, Carpentier did fight in World War I for the French Army.

The bout took place at Boyle's Thirty Acres, a wooden arena concocted by Dempsey's promoter Tex Rickard, known as the man behind the New York Rangers hockey team (Tex's Rangers).

We know that Dempsey won the fight in the fourth round and retained the Heavyweight championship. 

We also know -- and this is the big point -- that radio played a huge role in relaying the fight and helped usher in a whole new era of sports coverage.

Things get dicey after this. There were apparently other attempts to broadcast sports, with reports of a football game in 1919 and a fight on a smaller scale on KDKA in Pittsburgh earlier in 1921.

So is this really the first play-by-play? I suppose it depends and we'll truly never know.

Either way, this was different. For one thing, a temporary station -- WJY -- was established explicitly for the fight.

Still, there were hiccups. WJY needed a transmitted and those in charge of the broadcast found one built by RCA for use by the Navy. A deal was worked out with the Secretary of the Navy -- a chap named Franklin D. Roosevelt -- to have it shipped from Schenectady, NY.

But a ruse was also created.

Major J. Andrew White (a key name in early radio) was supposed to be the play-by-play announcer. And, to a degree, he was. However, AT&T wouldn't allow a telephone line to be connected to the transmitter. So, a relay system was created, in which White called the action via telephone and a high-speed telegraph operator would relay the information to J Owen Smith, who even had a bell.

Listeners wouldn't know what White's voice sounded like anyway. So White called it -- for the telegraph operator. But the audience -- some 350,000 strong (the largest at that time) -- heard Smith.

So who is the godfather of play-by-play? White, certainly, as well as Harold Arlin on KDKA and, later on, Graham McNamee and Ted Husing (who was mentored by White) and a few others.

Still, with that, whether it was the "first" or not, sports play-by-play was officially off the ground.

A month later, on Aug 5 -- the date I'm really looking forward to honoring -- Arlin went to Forbes Field and called the first baseball broadcast.

It's a shame more isn't being done to honor this momentous occasion in broadcasting history but I'm trying to do my own small part.

Incidentally, I don't have a broadcast as of now on Aug 5 (the Renegades are in Brooklyn) and I do hope to find one. If not, we'll honor the moment in another way.

You know me. I'll work it in somehow.

Topics and reader engagement

 

The current version of the home office

I'm currently working on a video depo. I've done a bunch of these when I said I'd take the bullet and do one starting at night.

That means I have gone to bed as late as 4:45 a.m. (if my memory serves). To be clear, the exhaustion isn't pleasant but the money is.

So I'm sitting here pondering what to write tonight. It's funny what grabs readers and what doesn't. I realize a picture can be a pull and it's a hit or miss process as to what I'll use as an image to front a post.

I totally saw last night's post getting the crickets treatment. I knew that waiting on a thunderstorm (that never happened) wasn't exactly riveting and I don't think I did anything in the text to pull you in.

The night before, writing about interstates received very kind comments but not particularly big click numbers. I knew that one was coming.

The thing is, it's a double-edged sword. I started this thing almost 15 years ago and decided to just write. But, eventually, I see the numbers and wonder why I bother. Then I remind myself who cares who is reading? The exercise is to do this as an outlet.

Yet I took on this post-per-day/night commitment and there are those moments when I drift back into the "why do I bother?" lane.

So, yes, I'm just babbling tonight.

When I decided to do this, I believed that I didn't want to be a one-trick pony. So it wasn't going to be just a Yankees blog or travel or roads or music or movies. It was going to be whatever was on my brain and I've stuck to that.

That means I've written things that, if I were to go back, I'd probably like to delete or restate. I'm not entirely the same as I was in 2006 and, you know what? I'm really proud of that. I've evolved and I have basically my entire life. 

Repeat: I'm babbling and this is probably a post I should save for August when the blog officially hits 15.

I could drone on about things that grind my gears, like the continued use of the words "we" and "us" as fans when fans aren't on the field, nor are broadcasters. I struggle to use either of those words even in the office of the Renegades and I'm a small part of the organization.

It was drilled in my brain as a no-no by professionals. It was also drilled in my brain that, while cutesy little superstitions are nice, we're reporters first and foremost and our job is to say when one is a no-hitter or whatever.

Once more, I'm babbling and I will now stop before my head explodes.

And the job is done. Time for bed.

It's like thunder...and lightning

 

Kevin Skow/NOAA Photo Library

I was terrified of thunderstorms when I was little. That changed somewhere along the line.

Now, generally, bring 'em on. Although be careful what you wish for.

So I'm sitting here, typing away, as things turn progressively dark outside.

To be fair, it's 8:48 p.m. as I type, so of course, it's supposed to get dark, but it's also getting close to storming here. The weather apps all say we're under a thunderstorm watch.

So, I await some flashing and house-shaking. Wait, that sounds bad, but let's go with it.

My favorite time is right before it starts. I thought we were actually close before. The wind had picked up and I was all-in. I went and stood on the back porch, basking in the breeze as the trees waved.

That wind. Oh heck-to-the-yes. I'll stand outside and marvel at it, even as the rain begins to soak me.

Still, no thunder, lightning, or rain at the moment.

This in no way means that I don't respect the power of weather. I surely do and have seen many a crazed weather event in person and on TV as I'm a bit of a Weather Channel watcher.

No, I really am. It's one of the few reasons I continue to have Verizon Fios, and I continue to think about dumping it all the time.

But back to respecting the weather. There's an outlet in the basement of my parent's house that has a smoke mark on it from when lightning came close enough that it impacted us, circa 1980. 

So, while fascinating, I know the power of weather in all fashions.

And it does fascinate me. I feel fortunate to have not experienced some of the absolute worst that often has me riveted to the TV as Jim Cantore brings the details into my living room.

Does it thrill me when a lightning strike wakes me up in the middle of the night? No, but I can't help but also be enthralled by it a little bit.

Am I a fan of storms while calling a sporting event, especially baseball? Not at all. It brings on delays, and lightning will stop any sport/event that I'm broadcasting.

Of course, I don't relish a power outage either although I feel like that can be a good thing once in a while. However, it's never exactly ideal.

Still, bring it on tonight.

"If the rain comes they run and hide their heads..."

So I sit here. Waiting.

Happy birthday, Interstate Highways

 

It was June 29, 1956, and the paperwork just needed a signature. President Dwight D. Eisenhower put his name on it and it was official.

The Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956 was real.

What that meant was the creation of the Interstate Highway System.

To some, it means nothing. You wouldn't necessarily know the difference between an interstate route, US route, state route, county road, farm road, and so on. They're just numbers and I understand that.

Expressways -- freeways, tollways, even parkways -- had existed prior to 1956. Now they fell under this new umbrella.

It's a far deeper explanation as to how interstate numbers are assigned that I'll leave up to my road friends because that's really not why I'm here.

There are nuances in each state as well and, yet, not really. But really. Like I said, we're not digging in that deep tonight.

I live within 20 minutes of an interstate highway, with both Interstate 84 and 684 close by. I've driven many of them, from the two I mentioned to 287 to 87 to "the five" and "the 15" to the ends of Interstate 80 in New Jersey and California and Interstate 10 in Florida and Cali.

I've been on hidden interstates (878) and interstates that are glorified exit ramps (175, 375) and have been past those that drive the road community into different camps (97, 99, and others).

When I was younger, there's no question I loved the interstate because it was the fastest way. I've come to appreciate the slower roads as I've gotten older and I guess that's only natural.

But I haven't mentioned my own personal favorite, which comes as no surprise if you know me. Yes, we've all cursed it. I've cursed it in almost every state I've driven it. I've almost driven the whole thing, but not quite. But no interstate screams the happiest days of road trips to me like Interstate 95.

I know. You hate it. You hate it especially in Connecticut and New York and probably New Jersey along with a few other states.

But I've seen its undulating hills in Maine (just not to the very end, which remains a goal) and its urban-to-rural landscape of Virginia and the southern end in Florida.

I've driven it in every condition possible and have sat in myriad delays. The Capital Beltway still gives me fits.

But I also love it. In the road world, the stretch in North Carolina is always maligned as boring among other things. I love that stretch. I find the swampy low country of South Carolina to be more mindboggling, personally.

I've got memories to fill a trunk of Howard Johnson's and state welcome centers and South of the Border billboards.

Memories of the tolls that weren't so annoying as a kid (especially when I could throw the money in the basket) and the tunnels of Baltimore and a brief view of DC from the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and the bend around Main Street Station in Richmond and the view of Lower Manhattan and the crossing of the George Washington Bridge or the view via Lake Marion.

Memories of the joy of each border crossing, where things just immediately felt different (I'm weird). The happiest crossing, of course, was Georgia to Florida, until it set in that there were still four hours left until we reached the Tampa Bay area.

Interstate 95 represents the reminder of the culture of the Holiday Inn "Great Sign" and of Stuckey's Pecan Logs and the gas stations that promised clean restrooms and maps (WOOHOO!) and of the other lost brands and roadside icons of a lifetime ago.

Now it's the beginning of Waffle House in Elkton, Maryland, and the nearest Wawa or Sheetz.

I've got near and dear memories to my heart of just us and a few trucks as the radio played in the still of a South Carolina early morning. My dad would explain to me why he flashed his lights to a truck and their flashing lights back were to thank him for a road maneuver -- a thing I do to this day.

That's exactly why I love traveling in the dead of the night because I can still hear those echoes of a wayward AM radio station and being able to count the number of cars on the road with me. I can hear my family, even when we weren't saying a word.

In that darkness, I might look for a sign with Pedro, telling me another non-politically correct joke and the exact number of miles to the land of T-shrits and coffee mugs.

Someone will nitpick this (or generally ignore it) and I get it. But there's joy in writing about this for me. The details might be fuzzy but the feeling is real.

Happy birthday, you flawed system of brilliance. I look forward to driving you once again.