Happy National Black Cat Appreciation Day

 

Eleanor spreads treats to the cats

This post isn't about black cats.

There are really no stories to tell from today.

We ate breakfast (you can guess where).

We went to a stadium to walk around their store and bought nothing. Their team is out of town so we won't be going to a game this week.

We sat at the house. Sean did computer stuff. I chilled.

We went out to dinner (you might be able to guess where).

We're back home.

More of the same tomorrow.

That's a lot of what life is like when we come to Fayetteville. As I've said before, it's comfort food. We're content and have fun even if we do the same stuff every year.

In fact, we were asked about South of the Border but we've already been for this trip.

But we just do our thing. We go to the stores we like and eat the food we like at the restaurants that we like and we laugh and we drive around and then we leave. 

It works. That's just us.

Do I miss New York or Connecticut? A little. Sure, we miss Rascal but we have plenty of cats to keep us company here. And, sure, we miss some people back at home. But my desire to get home will intensify on the final drive. 

Normally, that means when we hit New Jersey.

See, being here means people can randomly call you "darlin'" or other terms of affection. And by "random" I mean the waitress at Waffle House.

Southern hospitality is a real thing.

Yes, so are the politics of the south. That being said, I haven't encountered the "'Murica" that you would expect. The radio isn't boring for what it's worth.

But, for now, things are just fine in The Tar Heel State.

We're here for the right reasons and our last full day here is tomorrow.

Time flies.

Cats make things better

End of the Sweet Sixteenth

 

Yes, that's a cat. Why do you ask?

So, for those looking to impart snark about South of the Border, your words will be heard and ignored.

We slept great and had a good night. That's the purpose of lodging, correct?

The pool was warm and pleasant. It was also the first time I've been swimming in...well...a while. The bed was comfy and the lights were out in our room before 10 p.m. We reemerged from room 102 around nine this morning.

We checked out and that was that.

So, the question was what to do for breakfast. South of the Border has a few dining options to start the day but, oh who am I kidding, we all know where the car was going.

Waffle House. It might have taken three minutes because there was construction on US 301/501.

But, my goodness, it was wonderful. The eggs were right and the toast was crunchy and ham was hot and the hashbrowns were covered and the waffle was perfect.

Then we headed to a new roadside experience: Buc-ee's.

The gas station/country store with a beaver for a mascot has been around since 1982 and is known for having multiple gas pumps (such as 120 at their New Braunfels, TX location), super clean restrooms, and tasty BBQ.

They've opened a location in Florence, SC. Just a half-hour south of South of the Border, that was reason enough for us to investigate.

We both walked away impressed. We also walked away intrigued because we didn't spend a dime. We'll have to try the food another time.

We didn't walk every corner but we saw enough. The restrooms certainly deserve their praise because they were large and clean. In fact, everything was clean in the store. There was nice energy and friendly staff along with lots of things to consider.

Clothing? Yup. Camping supplies? Sure. Home goods? You bet. Candy, snacks, drinks, sandwiches, coffee, nuts, beer, souvenirs...

Yes. All of it.

Alas, nothing tempted us enough to buy, and we walked out empty-handed.

We drove back towards South of the Border and, eventually, into North Carolina. It was on to Fayetteville and, specifically, Stedman for the next three days.

Kristy, Hector, Evelyn, Eleanor, Isabel, Crow, Stache, Pancho, Chico, Muppett, and Speedy all awaited. Some of those are cats' names.

Our Rascal sits back in Connecticut, of course, so this is our own personal cat sanctuary.

I say that as the hyper-affectionate Pancho sits to my right (yes, that's him on the pizza box above).

This place has always been my comfort food and today was no different. Within minutes of arriving, we were right back in the car and driving onto the post at Fort Bragg as Hector needed to return something. We did a walk of the PX (the on-base shopping center) and didn't buy anything there either.

We hit Walmart (come on!), grabbed coffee (I was struggling to stay awake), and headed back to the house where we had dinner and are hanging out.

My tally for today was new windshield wipers and toothpaste. and I ordered something for when I get home. So, yay.

But now, the kids are all on devices and, honestly, so are the adults (hi!). The cats are being cats.

Once again, I look forward to sleep.

*****

While it's self-serving to mention this, it's still worth noting that we can mark the anniversary of opening this corner of my world. Post number one rolled off the computer on Aug 17, 2006 -- 16 years ago tomorrow. 

That computer was my old Dell monster. It went in the dump after years of service back in May. It was time. It was done.

I was nervous about starting a blog because I didn't want to do it and quickly flame out like I did with a podcast. However, "Exit 55" continues to be a blessing to me as I embraced a part of my soul that I always wondered about. I was told that I had the ability to write. But I had to actually try it. 

I did and here we are, for better or worse. It has created and enhanced relationships and probably hurt a few as well.

Aug 16 marks the day that both Elvis and Babe Ruth died. "The King of Rock and Roll" departed on this day in 1977 while the GOAT -- George Herman -- died in 1948.

Each had a large collection of hits and a few misses as well.

So, as we turn the page on beginning the 17th year of this madness, I once again thank all of you who have read, commented, and encouraged me. 

Pedro SEZ "Relax"

 

South Carolina welcomes us through the raindrops

Greetings from Hamer, South Carolina.

That is the census-designated place (CDP) where South of the Border is located.

Sean and I have parked our trusty car in the carport and we are in our motel room at the South of the Border Motor Inn.

Room 102, thank you very much.

The accommodations are literally exactly what I expected. It's basic and comfortable. There are two beds in our room and there's a front and back door, with the back door leading to a small sitting area on a patio. 

The TV gets lousy service*. There's a mini fridge and a functioning bathroom. Creature comforts, friends!

Given that it is currently storming here, there's no need for the outdoor pool. Instead, Sean and I jumped into the indoor pool inside what's known as "Pedro's Pleasure Dome."

It wasn't as creepy as that sounds.

*The storms have stopped so service is better. Minimal but sufficient.

In fact, everything has been comfortable. The bed is firm -- a reward for 650 miles over 12 hours since we left Greenwich this morning.

The thing about South of the Border is the same as it's been for a few years. It's fairly quiet here and, in the days leading up to this, people would tell me that they didn't know it was still open. But, yes, it's quite open and has been since 1949.

You have to come here with a sense of humor as well as a bit of a sense of adventure. 

This is the Super Bowl of tourist traps.

For me, it's years of memories stretching across generations.

A good place to end this first day.

Traffic was, in fact, as I predicted. The problems were in Virginia where we slowed up just south of Lorton (not far from Washington, D.C.). Overall, though, things were minimized. Rain peppered us most of the day, beginning with drops in New Jersey until we found a full thunderstorm here in SC.

We stopped frequently, mostly due to my struggling to stay awake at times. That being said, I only had two cups of coffee.

I'd have to say things went OK, even if the stops lengthened the day. But so be it. We made it and we're safe.

Sean was under his headphones most of the day while I listened to plenty of music and a few podcasts. 

And, while not in view, we're basically a long walk from a Waffle House on the NC/SC state line.

Basically, a two-minute car ride if I go slow.

There is much joy here. The All-Star Special awaits.

Primed for Pedro

The destination for Day 1

My bag is packed.

The car is ready.

I know the route.

The adventure will begin.

Sean and I are off to the Carolinas once again.

This has been an annual rite since 2014 (save for 2020 thanks to COVID, of course). 

We'll start with a night at South of the Border, the famed tourist trap at the South Carolina border. Then it will be a couple of nights with Kristy and company near Fayetteville, NC before we finish things up for a few nights outside of Philadelphia.

The greatest battle to me is just allowing myself to enjoy the journey.

The route is pretty clear in my mind. Hang on for a moment and I'll list it.

Ready?

I-95.

That's it.

OK, that's not really it but it's mighty close.

Things will begin by driving under 95 and working a few back roads until I make the left onto I-95 south. But, a few minutes later, we'll head onto I-287 and go from there, reconnecting with 95 once in New Jersey and once again in Delaware.

But, of course, I'm agonizing over where the problems will be. 

I'm skipping New York City and the George Washington Bridge for this reason alone. But there will be other delays.

Near Philadelphia is possible. Same with Washington, DC. North Virginia will likely be a headache. Perhaps Richmond. I've also spied construction projects in Maryland and North Carolina.

So, yeah.

I've written many times that a road trip is like sports to me. I can strategize and make adjustments. 

It will feel different to hit the road leaving from Greenwich versus leaving from Mahopac. But within minutes, it will just be driving.

Breakfast will be the first topic. 

The mind games will begin after that.

Will I take the Garden State Parkway to the New Jersey Turnpike and will I tun the Turnpike the rest of the way? 

If I'm being honest, I tend to be a "shunpiker" in that I like avoiding tolls, such as the one in Delaware on 95 near the Maryland state line.

I can always use 295 to dance around some of the New Jersey Turnpike tolls also.

But these are decisions I'll make on the fly. If I'm rolling, I'll pay the dang toll. It's also part of the experience.

The idea of this is to continue to enjoy special times with Sean as well as family and friends. It doesn't last forever.

So I have to try to stay in the moment. I have to enjoy crossing the Delaware River and tunneling under Baltimore. I have to savor passing the clock tower in Richmond and the crossing of each state border.

While it's fine to be aware of what I might want to do miles ahead, there's nothing wrong with chilling out and simply enjoy the experience.

So I did laundry and packed it in my suitcase (OK, duffle bag). 

Tomorrow will begin with getting dressed and packing up the car.

Then it's making sure Sean is ready and hitting the road.

Then we hope we can keep a good pace.

I have no illusions that we'll make great time. I'm just hoping we make decent time so we can enjoy a little time in South Carolina.

So, I would guess we'll be talking to you from South Carolina tomorrow night.

Veteran of the Game

 

That's Ron's picture on the videoboard

I was handed a ticket tonight.

Me. At a Hudson Valley Renegades game. As a fan.

My cousin Ron was honored as Veteran of the Game tonight at Dutchess Stadium. It was an honor that he very much deserved.

So it was my pleasure to be there for his moment.

Many of us were whisked down to the field for his special moment. Rick Zolzer read a nice summary of Ron's military service as a couple of pictures of him flashed on the scoreboard.

Eventually, those of us on the field gathered for a group photo as the whole thing played on the big videoboard.

Ron received a wonderful standing overation.

It was a special moment.

Beyond that we had a nice night of family and laughs. Laura and Jake joined me for the ride to the stadium where we met with Sean in the parking lot for our own "pregame." Then Sean went off to work and we eventually worked our way in.

With me, holding a ticket.

If you don't know, I'km not good at being at an event at I think I should be broadcasting. Still, I felt useful and happy to be there.

Now, I'm back home, ready to head back to the ballpark tomorrow morning.

Then comes vacation.

O Captain! "The Captain!"

 

I'm going to take a leap here.

A huge one.

No, not really.

While maligned by many, I loved "The Captain."

I know. The critics said it's a Derek Jeter puff piece. A vanity project. Boring. Bland. Not very interesting.

I don't agree but, then again, I lived all of it.

"The Captain" tells Jeter's story from his youth in Michigan to walking away from the Miami Marlins in early 2022.

I found it to be anything but bland.

I felt like I learned some stuff. I learned about Hannah Jeter's health scare. I learned that Jeter loves being a father and how he was too self-involved regarding his career to become a father.

I learned about his battles with Alex Rodriguez and Brian Cashman.

I learned how he didn't really pause and enjoy the ride of his career while it was going on.

I felt like it dealt with everything.

The gift baskets.

The issues with his defense.

And everything else.

I enjoyed the insight from everyone, like A-Rod and Cashman and Mariano Rivera and Reggie Jackson and Joe Torre and Michael Jordan and so many others. 

But, for someone like me, it was a joyous ride remembering those halcyon nights of the late 90s all the way until Jeter's retirement in 2014.

It was back to "The Flip Play" and the Jeffrey Maier home run and the dive into the stands against the Red Sox and the home run to lead off Game 4 of the 2000 World Series.

But it was the joy of the detail of all of it. It was also the blunt honesty of Jeter himself, including language that we'd never heard from him.

Jeter loved being the underdog. He loved the doubters and proving them wrong. He'd take any opportunity for being slighted and use it to the advantage of the Yankees.

Some of the painful details were those awful, brutal nights in 2001 and 2004. The documentary -- directed by Randy Wilkins -- broke all of it down.

Oh, the agony of it all.

Ah, but the glory.

Of 1996 and 1998 and 1999 and 2000 and 2009.

Of 3,465 hits -- still sixth all-time.

Of the 200 postseason hits.

Of the winning.

Of the last game at Yankee Stadium, the clutch hits, the winning, the leadership, and (sorry, haters) the intangibles.

He's an all-time great, no matter how many ways you slice it.

Now, you'd like to see Jeter embrace his post-baseball life and get back to being part of the Yankees family somehow.

The critics thought seven parts were too many.

Whatever.

I loved it.

I Can See Clearly Now

 

I have new glasses tonight.

Well, three actually.

I picked up a pair I'll use basically every day, a backup pair that I'll likely wear at home, and a pair of sunglasses (they just came in and I'll go get them tomorrow).

Like everything with me, I was overdue to get them. I got my last pair of glasses in 2015 after my previous pair snapped on me.

I had to call three state championship hockey games taped up.

I knew it was time for new glasses but the Babe Ruth regional tourney a few weeks ago convinced me when the scoreboard in left center field became blurry. It was officially time.

But, as I watch the Field of Dreams Game from Iowa tonight, I'm reminded of a few things.

1) I suck at baseball.

2) I sucked only a little slightly less thanks to a pair of glasses and, eventually, contact lenses. But now, I'm back to glasses.

I was in my second year playing in the Mahopac Sports Association. I had acclimated well in my first year and all was well.

Year two didn't go well.

Like, awful.

I walked a bit. Sure, I had a good batting eye. Then again, it's easy to have a good batting eye when you're facing kids who are still trying to develop any accuracy.

But if a kid had good location combined with speed? I was a dead man, especially in that 1978 season on the Hudson Valley Beverage team. I wore uniform number four.

I don't even remember our record. Oh, I was a team player but this wasn't a playoff team.

I just remember, sadly, my batting average.

.000

Ouch.

Looking back, I feel sorry for those stuck with me. I was that kid.

Eventually, my parents took me to the eye doctor. I think it was in the Baldwin Place Mall.

"You know why you can't hit?" the doctor said.

"Why?"

"You can't see the ball."

But, I could see. I'd never had any vision issues.

Except, I did. My right eye was weaker than my left. I'm a left-handed batter and the right eye is the dominant one.

I had a little hope for 1979. My father also offered me a gift for the first hit.

Getting a jersey wasn't the easiest thing in the world at the time (that would change a few years later) but he was willing to take me to Tom Kat in Mahopac and I could have a "jersey" created from a t-shirt with iron on letters.

Game one, 1979 season. Mahopac Falls School. 

The field is now gone. I'd say, roughly, it was located in what is now center field of the Mahopac varsity baseball field.

I got a straight fastball and I sent it right back up the middle. A line shot in the book. 

Most likely, it was a dribbler.

Either way, base hit. One-for-one wearing glasses. I actually could see the ball better now. It didn't make me a big star but it made me more serviceable.

Don't get me wrong. I had the heart for the sport. I was a leader. I liked you off the field and I liked you when you might be just chatting with me but I likely wanted to carve your heart out otherwise during the game. I wanted nothing other than the win. I'd have to say I was a decent teammate.

Oh, so the base hit.

Dad made good on the t-shirt a few days later.

NEW YORK on the front. Number 55 on the back. Of course.

And so, as I watch the Field of Dreams Game, I think that baseball has its own Winter Classic of the NHL on its hands. And, yet, somehow, they will screw it up with likely no game in 2023 due to construction at the Iowa site.

Baseball. Screwing up since, well, it's a baseball tradition.

But, let's dispose of that. More importantly, as I watch this game, I'm reminded of the movie.

I'm reminded of fathers and sons.

I'm reminded of my dad.

I'm reminded of how I'd like to take my own son to Iowa so we could have a catch on that now iconic field.

I have new glasses tonight. I can see the ball a lot better this evening.

And, just now, former Hall of Famer, Braves pitcher, and FOX broadcaster John Smoltz announced that his father died this morning.

He's calling the game tonight with Joe Davis. 

That certainly evokes a few memories of calling a game and honoring a commitment.

So.

Hey dad...

You wanna have a catch?

Taken as I was trying the glasses on today. Not a mugshot.

My Invisible Touch

 

I had pizza for lunch at a place I've been going to since 1987.

They finally changed their name after all these years and apparently have a second location a few minutes away.

Still, the guy running my credit card is one of the same faces I've seen since I was in college. So I'm guessing there were some retirements or splitting of assets or something.

Regardless, I had two slices of their pizza that is still among my favorites. Pretty remarkable given I've rarely had it fresh.

But that's not why I'm writing. Nor am I writing to say how I enjoyed a lovely drive up along the Hudson Rivera as I prepared to return my loaner car.

Oh, Fran, you shifty (not really) salesman. You knew that letting me drive that loaner would be a way to get me as a customer. But, the truth is, you already had me.

I told him that. 

For now, I got my own Nissan back and hit the road for Dutchess Stadium.

That is, I did after motoring along NY Route 100.

Then I hooked up with 9A.

No Taconic Parkway today because of road work that I saw the day before that reduced traffic to one lane.

And, well, I don't play nicely. I exited the TSP and used a few maneuvers. Not quite as suave as Han Solo, I suppose, but most people wouldn't know the sneaky little way I got around the traffic. Good old ancient bridges across the reservoir.

I'm all over the place. So, where was I?

Oh, that's right. Route 9A. Then US 9. Well, 9/6/202. Then, US 9 to NY 403 to 9D...

The towns flashed by. Ossining and Croton-on-Hudson and Peekskill (birthplace of a few of us) and Garrison and Cold Spring, then through the cool tunnel on the Putnam/Dutchess County under Breakneck Ridge.

Onto Beacon before I even passed Dutchess Stadium. So, we'd be back there.

I stopped for a much-needed beverage. Oh, yeah, remember the pizza? I didn't get a drink with the pizza. So, now I needed a coffee and a cold drink. A water would do.

Dunkin (sorry, they're still Donuts to me) to the rescue. Now, I'm not a big drive-thru guy. Just one of my quirks. So, I walked in and scooped up a waiting bottle of water from the fridge.

Then I stood at the register to order the coffee.

Oh, I heard voices.

I even saw faces.

Funny thing, though, they didn't see me.

Perhaps I'm invisible. 

Another man came in and stood on line behind me. He had a Yankees shirt on with a big white NY on the field of navy.

We waited. I cleared my throat. Sure, that'll show them. They'll hear me now!

Nothing. I could spy them glancing at their phones and giving beverage concoctions to the people at the drive-thru.

Yet they simply refused to look at the counter.

I even laughed out loud. To be honest, I was amused. Literally, nobody saw us.

Yes, despite my amusal and my willingness to wait this drama out, Mr. Yankes Shirt wasn't having it.

"Nobody's coming over?" he asked.

"No," I said with a laugh.

We hear about it all the time. Good help is hard to find. There are supply chain issues and so on.

He walked away, went to the opposite end of the counter, and bellowed into the back.

"Is anyone working at the counter? We've been waiting up here."

It wasn't rude. it was terse. Maybe even slightly disgusted. But it wasn't rude.

He just wanted his coffee and to get on his way.

I was just in no rush, but a nice lady walked over. Personally, I feared that she would spit in my hot coffee with cream and sugar. Alas, no issues.

At least I don't think so.

I paid, smiled, and laughed as I departed.

I went back to the road in my loaned Nissan. 

A few more wasted minutes with the sunroof and the excellent acceleration.

A little more time with the bells and whistles.

Then, back to the reality of my own car before going to the ballpark.

That had its own stories to tell but they can wait.

The water was quickly consumed. 

The coffee was soon gone also after a leisurely stroll.

Eventually, I returned home.

Game over.

Day over.

Night over.

And the Dunkin (Donuts) closed.

Their staff is home also.

More in-house customers to address tomorrow, I suppose.

Tuesday. That is All.

My wheels for the night. Sort of looks like what I currently have

So, yes, I wasted my breath last night.

With that, I should probably retire from political writing and never speak of politics again.

A post meant to be about peace and common sense had the impact of...well...it had no impact at all.

Nothing changed. Nothing. If anything, things got worse, I suppose.

We lack any ability to have civil discourse.

Therefore, I give up. Orange Man, bad. Biden, bad. Everything. Everyone. Bad.

Worst of all? Me. I'm bad because I try to be fair.

So, go on.

Keep posting your memes and other nonsense.

Keep hating.

No, I'm not surprised, to be clear.

It's just a bummer.

I try hard to be a rational, balanced voice of reason. I try to not offer any biases (and, yeah, some of you are going to say "Yankees" but so be it. I won't be able to change your mind.)

But it's disheartening.

I'll focus on the good of the day despite the insane heat.

It was 91 degrees in my apartment when I walked in.

Oh, and my electric bill went UP after I specifically backed OFF using electricity last month. If it is about the water heater, well, then I'm really failing because I took warm showers (at best), did laundry in cold water and washed dishes, shaved, etc, with a general aversion towards hot water.

I'm honestly almost considering a shutdown of a lot of stuff to see if things change though I doubt that's possible.

So, what gives? (Serious replies only. No, really, No snark. OK thanks.)

Fran. The Man.

And my car is now in the shop but let's take that as a good thing because the great Fran Pomarico gave me a Nissan Altima to use tonight that brought me joy as I came home from Dutchess County. I could drive that all the way down to North Carolina next week. It drives so nicely.

I'm grateful for Fran, Danny, and the team at Poughkeepsie Nissan. 

It was also nice to be back at Dutchess Stadium tonight. I'm always happy to see Sean but also happy to laugh with my friends there. Yeah, I goofed up a few times and that annoyed me but I'll be better.

Oh, and the booth was savage with a couple of proper digs at yours truly but I'll keep those to myself. All in good fun and well-played.

I also snuck in a Vin Scully reference without anyone noticing. Going slightly off-script, I welcomed everyone by saying "a very pleasant good evening." I might try to thread that in more moving forward without it hopefully being hokey.

Just a tip of the microphone, I guess.

I'll think about it.

Also, a nod to Olivia Newton-John. She was more than Sandy. She was Physical and Magic and took us to our own Xanadu. When asking the question, "Have You Never Been Mellow?" the correct answer became yes, for sure. 

Because yesterday, we were all mellow with her passing. Literally, nobody ever said a bad word about her.

Her music became passé, I suppose because tastes change. The 80s ultimately did that to a lot of people. That doesn't mean there wasn't universal love for her.

Because there was. 

So, fear not. Nobody will play B-17 moving forward for sure.

Much respect to her and condolences to her loved ones.

Time to Repeat Myself

 

Seems Donald Trump is in some kind of trouble.

Again.

In this case, the FBI executed a search warrant at Mar-a-Lago.

And, as usual, tHe SmArT pEoPlE are posting about it.

This is how it works, right?

Well, I'm here to tell you that you're not helping things.

Democrats are supposedly the party that wants peace and love and yada yada so instead of posting tireless memes and wRiTiNg like that, maybe shut up and do something helpful.

Oh, the same goes for you, GOP. I'm very equal opportunity when it comes to this.

Trump is no longer president. I realize he's still in the news but, after a while, you can't but help think you have a bit of an obsession.

See, social media is supposed to be about pictures of our kids and reconnecting with old friends and making new friends, and so on.

It's not supposed to be about enabling idiots.

And, yet ...

The simple question is: who are you helping with the Trump posts?

Who are you helping with the anti-Biden stuff?

The president doesn't set gas prices. He doesn't raise him. He doesn't lower them. However, as Harry S. Truman once said, "The buck stops here." So, if you want to give President Biden credit for raising prices then you have to knock him when he lowers them.

It's called being fair (crazy concept, I know) but this is how it works.

Personally, I'd rather see him go after the corrupt oil execs who are inflating the prices (though they are currently on the decline) but what do I know?

Correct. I know nothing.

This is sadly a topic that I've written about before. Things happen in politics and idiots fan the flames. 

And enablers like the posts.

Oh, and I'll say it again: those of us in the media shouldn't be posting/retweeting such things. Perhaps that's a little "stay in your lane-ish" of me but it's how I feel. I mostly keep my thoughts (and prayers, ha) out of what I post. It sets one up to appear to have an agenda, even if they don't.

I don't think it's a good look. But, again, I know nothing.

As I've said before, we're a damaged lot lacking the ability to have civil discourse.

I've got news for you: this didn't start with DJ Trump. This is a snowball that's been building for years and any rational person with a brain can see it.

Yet, those who are so "peace-loving" just keep posting malevolent horse hockey every chance they get.

Just. Why?

Most of the memes aren't funny. They don't help.

The snide comments don't help.

None of it helps.

And those of you liking it aren't helping either.

I'm not one of those who buys into the "RT/Likes do not equal endorsements." While I get that it's a disclaimer, it's generally a fact that if I put my mouse behind something then I do support it. Thus, an endorsement.

But keep in mind it just feeds trolls. That's something else I've tried to say here for years.

I beg of you, friends. Please think about this stuff. Friendships are collapsing over these kinds of things. Families are being ripped apart. And we are continuing down a bad path as a country.

My father used to say do not discuss politics, religion, and money in certain circumstances and social settings. That seems like a pretty good rule of thumb, even all these years later.

I realize this post will be lightly read and mostly ignored.

So, cArRy On, I guess.

Sad.

The Upcoming Week

 

Might be driving under this in the near future

As I'm simply too hot and too burned out, I thought I'd just look into the future.

There are no broadcasts this week. Let's start there. I realize I'll be back at it in early September (or even late August)* but I'm seriously yearning for a game to call. Especially baseball.

* OK, a short time back I wrote about the fall plan for sports coverage. Well, a few things are unconfirmed and I'll be the first to admit that's got me a bit ticked off since a few teams would like my services for football. However, I think I'm OK to announce that I'll be back with Brunswick this fall for sure. This will be the sixth season (not counting 2020 though that would have been true) where I'll be the primary Bruins football broadcaster. I should also be able to lock in on some soccer as well. 

Last year, I made a deal for Greenwich High School games to be heard on Robcasting. We have to work that out still. I won't name any other teams for now but I'll say that it's nice to be wanted. I keep saying I (and Chris Erway) will go where I'm (we're) wanted.

I'll be at Dutchess Stadium a lot this week, including a few nights as the co-public address announcer with Rick Zolzer. I keep getting asked about being back with the Renegades so let me see if I can explain it again. Basically, Zolz does the on-field stuff and, when I'm there, I do the "booth" stuff, such as many of the sponsor reads along with the introductions of the players when they're at bat. 

I also play along a bit with Zolz. 

So, why, you ask? Well, first of all, the team asked. But Sean still works there, so I get time with him. Lori -- my cousin by marriage, I suppose -- is there also, and I get to see her. It can be a family affair as well as getting to be with friends and people I wouldn't normally see. Yes, the ride is a beast -- roughly 120 miles for each game total -- but it brings me back to the Hudson Valley and keeps me in baseball.

I see the positives. That's why I do it. I also know this won't stop the questions but I'm trying.

I'm getting some car work done this week. Oh, I realize you don't need to know that but you do need to know that I'm extremely particular about car stuff. I trust almost no one when it comes to cars (I've been burned many times) so trust me when I say that putting my faith in the hands of Fran Pomarico at Poughkeepsie Nissan is a huge deal. Fran is my friend who had my back for some stuff (like taking steps that virtually nobody else would take) and he told me to bring my car there. So, it will be there.

Yes, you can say that was an #ad except Fran doesn't even know that I was going to do this and he's never asked me to do this. I don't even know if he's aware of this blog thing.

Also this week, I might be sporting a new look as it was time to update my spectacles. While I hate wearing glasses they are simply a reality for me. I take mine off all the time (including now) but I know I need them. I wore contacts for years but heard "I look better in glasses" (apparently it's a "professor" look). I also moved into wearing progressive lenses.

But, yeah, if you ever noticed, I almost always take my glasses off when I get somewhere. Just a habit. Thus, I bought a couple of pairs.

Oh, and Costco gave me a deal. That doesn't mean I didn't have some sticker shock. Wow.

I still haven't figured out the electric bill issue but it's OK. In talking with people I know, they think something is still, pardon the pun, off (oh, heh, on, amirite?). Sure, so much of the apartment is electric but we'll figure it out over time. Or we won't. Either way, we're still pretty happy here and we'll make other adjustments (looking at you, Verizon, and your obscene TV prices).

So, yeah, I'll probably be fighting with Verizon and SiriusXM and insurance issues related to my late mother (they think she still has a car nearly two years later after I called and canceled it).

A travel plan is in place that is pure "Rob and Sean"

The week ahead will also bring on preparing to run away for a summer vacation finally. Cooperstown happened because I'd been yelled at about going for months. Then, the urge hit. Shame on me for hesitating. I worried about the car. I worried about the money.

Obviously, we had a great day.

I need to stop worrying. I need to stop waiting. Life is too short.

So, we'll go away, hitting South Carolina, North Carolina, (Richmond?), and Philadelphia before it's over. Sean is comfortable with this and that matters. It also matters that we can embrace doing this before he starts really doing stuff without me.

But I also have to be good to myself. I can't keep waiting. It might be time to carve my own path even if I don't want to.

To quote a song I once used for a eulogy: "There's too many places I've got to see."

I don't want to be a "Free Bird" necessarily. 

But the road -- the world -- awaits.

Summer will, in many ways, almost wrap up after we finish vacation. Sean will start college and I'll dig into football. The weather will remain warm but thoughts will turn to Oktoberfest and Halloween and even The Big E (it's been years).

Let's enjoy every last moment of summer, 2022, even despite the heat.

Life keeps moving pretty fast.

I don't want to miss it.

The Aura of Oniontown

 

Photo: Doug Kerr on Wikipedia

I don't get many comments about this blog on Blogger or WordPress. I do get comments on Facebook and, occasionally, Twitter.

But, once in a while, a Blogger comment can be found. Such as earlier today.

And it went back in time. Fourteen years, to be exact.

The most read post in the history of "Exit 55" by far is "Oniontown Ouch." In short, it was about the mysterious hamlet outside of Dover Plains, NY that I have known of since I was a little boy. It was further about a handful of knuckleheads from Mahopac (hanging my head in shame) who went to Oniontown looking for trouble. 

They found it, as they mocked residents. And the residents fought back.

"Oniontown Ouch" is also probably the most commented-on post in the history of the bloggity blog as well.

Oniontown has long baffled such urban mythbusters. The residents don't give interviews or even want any attention. In short, they want to live their lives, come and go as they please, and be left alone.

Huh. What a concept!

Googling Oniontown doesn't produce a lot other than people who spurt out a lot of rumors and nonsense. I'm not going to give any of them publicity. Sadly, I clicked on a couple of them because I'm an idiot and thought they might be something worth watching. Instead, no.

But I did read a thoughtful piece from the Albany "Times-Union" written by Tom Gogola earlier this year.

I also watched this video that I thought was very fair in its approach.

Additionally, there is this collection of stark photographs taken by Nadia Shira Cohen, to go along with this 2012 story from Aaron Lake Smith on Vice.

I submit each of those so you can look for yourself.

A look through the trees on New York Route 22 (Google Street View)

I was raised to respect Oniontown but heard the stories and rumors. My grandmother, aunt, and cousins lived basically within site of the small, wooded area across New York Route 22. You can almost see some of Oniontown from the state highway but, beyond that, traffic speeds by as it heads from its urban beginnings in The Bronx up to its terminus not far from the Canadian border. 

As such, the turnoff to Oniontown is just another road. It starts as a paved road before reaching a "No Trespassing" sign. At that point, what more is there to say?

Why bother those people? Because you can?

My family and others knew people back in there (keep in mind this was decades ago). They were described as exactly what I thought: hard-working and looking for peace.

And so that's what they'll get from here. They'll get respect.

Fourteen years later, after that first post, after those first idiots embarrassed my Putnam County hometown (not Westchester County, as described in the "Times-Union" story) Oniontown continues to fascinate.

Some mysteries should remain just that.

Leave the rest of it to the scriptwriters.

The Good Church of Baseball

 

I was pretty excited the first time I went to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum.

I dressed myself that morning.

I was five.

Now, I probably had no real concept of what the Hall of Fame was. I was becoming a baseball-mad kid having been to my first game in 1972 (Bobby Murcer homered. That bond was sealed) and another in '73 before the Yankees left The Bronx to play at Shea Stadium for two years.

The last part of that sentence still raises hives. Bobby Murcer's power disappears in cavernous Shea and he was a former Yankee that October. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

With Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford both being inducted to Cooperstown's hallowed gallery that summer, the time was ripe for Dad to take us all to central New York.

So, yeah, I dressed myself. I have no doubt my mother dutifully laid out clothes and lovingly told me to get ready to leave. In grand Adams style, we were on the road early, thus adding to the moment.

Sometime later, I was helped to the restroom when it was discovered that I put my clothes on ...

...

Over my pajamas.

Baseball pajamas, of course.

Oh, my day was further memorable because I wanted a mini baseball bat from the souvenir shop. But, specifically, I wanted a Yankees bat. So that's what was requested.

What was received was a National Baseball Hall of Fame mini bat with a small Yankees pennant. No mini Yankees bat existed in Cooperstown, NY in the summer of 1974.

I was initially crestfallen. Then, I got over it.

I've visited the Hall so many times since then, often proudly as a tour guide for friends and family and most proudly when I first took Sean there in May 2012.

Not sure if he would appreciate it or, worse, get bored, we apprehensively drove there before having an absolutely glorious day in a largely empty Cooperstown. The high season of the small village is from Memorial Day to Labor Day. On this Saturday, it was peaceful and bucolic.

Its baseball theme has grown over the years. Initially, it was established as a myth, and, to that end, it's now basically the honorary home of baseball. There were few baseball shops along Main St. in 1974 but that number grew over time.

In fact, lunch in '74 was at a coffee shop in a Woolworth-style five-and-dime store.

The Hall has expanded since then. I suppose we've all expanded and changed since then. 

But some things haven't changed, such as the arguments. Sure, it was Mays and Mantle or Ruth and Foxx at one time. Perhaps it was Bench and Munson in our 1971 Impala as we slogged along New York Route 28 out of Kingston.

We are we kidding? We were a Munson family, though my mom liked Johnny Bench.

In that regard, time stops. That's not a longing for the past. That's just meaning some things are timeless.

We can growl at the plaque of Harold Baines, a fine man and player who is in the Hall as a result of cronyism, just as easily as I can snarl at any one of a number of questionable choices.

But it's one of my favorite places. Period.

It's flawed. So flawed.

But it's my church.

*****

I wrote all of the above before I got in the car this morning, just in case I didn't have time in the evening. As I write now, I've just completed a 410 mile round trip drive to and from Cooperstown. 

For Sean, it was his second visit, making good on a promise we'd made some time ago. For me, it's somewhere around 13 trips though I'm not sure I've ever truly kept count.

The impetus -- not surprising -- was Vin Scully passing on Tuesday night. As I watched the coverage Wednesday morning, I thought about ordering a Vin t-shirt from Baseballism, which has a line of Scully items. 

Wait, I thought. Why pay for shipping when there's a Baseballism store in Cooperstown?

Best laid plans.  They had none in the store. Literally.

"He strikes out swinging," Vin might have said. Or not.

In truth, I came home with no souvenirs at all. Sean chided me for hats ("you do have a lot" -- he's not wrong). I suppose that's a surprise but, then again, the memories of today will more than suffice.

Of breakfast here in Greenwich and the drive up the Taconic Parkway.

Of the two interviews -- one with Tony Savino on WGCH and one with "Melissa in the Morning" on WICC. 

Of the Taconic and routes 82 and 23 and 145 (and lots of 145) and 7 and 10 and 165 and 166 and some unique side roads.

Of the stores that were open and those that seem to be closed for good sadly.

Of the museum. The exhibits. The legends. The plaques.

Of a moment at the display for the Ford C. Frick Award where Vin is recognized. It was like pausing for a moment of silence before Sean allowed me to babble on about those announcers and why they matter.

Of a great lunch with wings and fries and a frosty beverage on a hot day for Dad. And toasting a great day.

Of the drive back and dodging rain storms along route 28 to I-88 to route 8 to 17 to 6 to 9 and 9A before getting back to the Taconic.

Of being home safely and deciding we should make it a Father's Day tradition moving forward.

Memories. Laughs. And even a loving pat on the back as we began to leave.

"It's OK," Sean said. "We can always come back."

Yes, we can. In truth, it was probably too crowded today anyway. But there were stolen moments, like at Doubleday Field, where I relived getting to broadcast a game on HAN back in 2015. It was, frankly, a bucket list day that I treasure.

"Everyone STOP and help me find the power strips!"
The quote that hangs over Cooperstown seven years later.

But we also drove to the parking lot of the famed Otesaga Hotel and laughed about the story of missing power strips from that same trip. Sean wasn't even there but we have laughed about it every since.

I can't possibly sum it all up but the joy of a day like this is the joy of sports.

Especially baseball. 

That little kid with his baseball pajamas hidden under his clothes on that August day in 1974 walked with his dad through that museum. 

Those same stories can be relayed through generations in the same place 48 years later.

Those stories stretch from 1974 to 1980, when I bought a Pirates hat with "Stargell Stars." I explained all of that to Sean today.

To 1983. To 1987 and 1988 and 1991. 

And more visits into the 21st century until it was Sean's turn to visit Cooperstown for that first time.

Then that last visit -- broadcast included -- in 2015.

Memories. Stories. Laughs. Baseball.

It's priceless.

The power of memory and our grand game.

The power of a father/son bond.

Please note that I wore a Bobby Murcer retro 1973 Yankees jersey, a blue t-shirt, and camouflage cargo shorts today. No pajama bottoms were present.

A Very Pleasant Thursday To You Wherever You May Be

 

NY Times photo

The next day.

I'm sitting on my balcony, sipping coffee, and enjoying a cool breeze before the hot temperature takes over.

The heat index has 100 marked for later.

But, for now, Metro-North strolls by on a 9:32 train bound for New Haven.

Traffic on I-95 whizzes past, heading towards New York, Philadelphia, DC, and beyond.

It's looking likely I'll soon do that drive also. I didn't think North Carolina was in the plan this year but life throws you curves.

Most of all, thoughts still flash to Mr. Scully. I know, of course, "Vin."

I didn't watch that much of the coverage. I saw a few things, like Michael Kay paraphrasing Vin to open the Yankees/Mariners game and the wonderful thoughts of Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez on the Mets broadcast.

I've read some things but then I also wind up being a fact checker, such as the story that said Vin was 23 when he called his first World Series (he was 25) or that he lived in Brooklyn growing up (it was Washington Heights, in Manhattan).

To some, it's "get over it" but I don't mind telling you yesterday was a profoundly sad day. To be clear, I was a fully functional, but sad, individual. Sean and I went out and grabbed lunch and life very much went on.

I know someone who would always say, "Why do people get upset over celebrities? They put their pants on the same way I do." Then again, there are myriad jealousy issues there.

He could never understand the outpouring of grief over John Lennon or Elvis. He certainly wouldn't understand it for "some broadcaster."

I'm sure many a colleague and student wanted me to shut up about Vin as well at one time or another. But I didn't and here we are.

On a personal note, I was touched by those who reached out and said to keep Vin's name aloft. To keep telling the stories, play the audio, and be a disciple of his school of broadcasting. I will do all of that.

I tried hard yesterday to not yell and scream about those who are an embarrassment to his memory. Instead, I took a road so high it gave me a bloody nose and leaned on a few people when I needed to vent.

I'll tell you this: Chris Erway should have to do a podcast episode soon with me. Tell him that yourself. It would be therapeutic for both of us.

But also thanks to Susan and Shawn and Mike and Marc and Harold and AJ and Jake and Eric and JK and Paul and others who propped me up, let me vent, and helped make something of the day.

And to Sean, who found out without me telling him (I couldn't bring myself to do so) and made sure to come check on me. That gives me hope.

Los Angeles City Hall lit up in Dodger Blue to honor Vin Scully
(Ted Sqoui Photo on Twitter)

Yesterday's "Doubleheader" went mostly as I had hoped, except for one thing: I had too much audio. 

Too many memories.

Too many thoughts.

I went to the WGCH studio with the hope of taking phone calls but, quickly, I knew I wouldn't have time.

Susan suggested a second part and, while I liked it, I might not get back on the radio again before Monday. I have an eye appointment today and a possible plan for tomorrow.

Then it hit me. This was the opportunity to do a podcast. One that I so needed.

So, if you'd be so kind as to listen, I took the audio of "Doubleheader" and dropped it into a file. I edited just a few things, such as a hiccup when I played something from the 1981 World Series and cleaned out the commercials. Heck, if I had it my way, yesterday's radio show would have been commercial-free.

But I also didn't say to Bob Small why I was in the studio or how the show was so important to me. If I'm being honest, I got a little embarrassed at times. I was grateful for Tony Savino asking me to come on WGCH yesterday morning but I also knew how raw I was. Tony later called it "powerful and heartfelt."

So I did a small cleaning on the radio audio. Then I pressed record and just started. I stopped at moments where I thought I could record better but, overall, what is heard in that show is as-is. Raw. Unrehearsed. Mostly unedited.

I didn't worry about quality or perfection, which seems counterintuitive from everything I learned from Vin and just how I am.

But I wanted it to be unpolished.

And it is.

And, overall, I'm not embarrassed about my emotions though I'm sure a few are mocking me.

Like you, I've known loss. Both parents. Friends. Relationships. Divorce. Family members. Loved ones. Some losses were deaths. They were physical losses. Others weren't.

Yesterday was a loss. Of a mentor. An icon. 

A good broadcaster makes you feel like you're part of the conversation. I've tried to do that in every booth I've ever been in. I want you to feel engaged in the game but I also want you to laugh and think and feel the action.

Maybe, sometimes, even strike a tear.

Vin Scully did that and, often in the loneliness of youth or adulthood, while sitting in my bedroom in Mahopac or driving through the dark roads of Somers, he'd keep me company with a story about Pearl Harbor or Babe Ruth or Jackie Robinson or The Beatles.

Then he'd slide back to talking about Andre Ethier or Fernando or Steve Finley or Yasmani Grandal.

I had Sirius XM just so I could have those precious three innings when he was simulcast. Paul Silverfarb gave me access to the MLB package so I could listen and watch games and I added a Google Chromecast so I could project them off my iPad and onto my TV.

Yeah. He put his pants on the same as me. But, like Bruce Dickinson in the famous "More Cowbell" sketch, Vin made gold.

And we all enjoyed it.

If you're here and you enjoy it, well, more memories and stories will flow. If not, I get it.

I wish you all a very pleasant good afternoon.

The GOAT

 

After his friend, John Wooden, died, 2010

I knew this day was coming.

Heck, I knew it a few weeks back at the All-Star Game. It was obvious. The silence was too deafening.

Much like they do in news, writing obituaries before a celebrity has passed, I had considered pre-recording an episode of "Doubleheader" to prepare for this day. 

We've lost, simply, the greatest to ever do it.

Vincent Edward Scully has died at the age of 94.

*****

It was just yesterday that I was talking about him. Oh, come on, I talked about him every day. Greatness permeates in that way. I was teaching my students at Connecticut School of Broadcasting about his brilliance. 

"Listen to that crowd noise," I told them, talking about Al Michaels's "Miracle" call of the 1980 Olympics. "Al was a disciple of Vin Scully."

And then all I could do was play Kirk Gibson's 1988 World Series home run.

"High fly ball into right field," Scully intoned in that sing-song way of his. "She is...GONE!"

Then? He said nothing. 

The roar of the crowd filled the air. That roar that he learned to love while sitting under the giant radio in his family's Washington Heights apartment in New York.

He loved that crowd noise. He let Harry Coyle's incredible direction take care as Gibson rounded the bases. The shots of the Dodger Stadium bedlam. Even the brake lights of the car driving out of the parking lot.

The bewildered look on the faces of the Oakland Athletics players who had just lost.

And then, the poet -- born in the Bronx, raised in Manhattan -- spoke:

"In a year that has been so improbable, the IMPOSSIBLE has happened."

Perfect. That was Vin.

*****

Oh, perfection. That was part of the story.

Twenty-seven up. Twenty-seven down.

That was Sandy Koufax.

But that was Vin, who had the smarts to have his engineer start recording the ninth inning of a ballgame on Sept 9, 1965.

Dodgers 1, Cubs 0.

And Koufax, in his "spine-tingling moment" was working on his fourth no-hitter. Except now it had been 24 consecutive batters retired.

Three to go.

And, again, there was poetry.

Vin reset by giving the defense. Then, he gave the attendance.

"And there's 29,000 people in the ballpark and a million butterflies." He took a beat. "Twenty-nine thousand, one hundred and thirty-nine paid."

I've spoken so many words about this night. A night that was only on radio. Only a few still photos exist. No TV. A night in which Scully asked for the recording to be able to give it to Koufax should Sandy complete the perfect game.

That's why he gave the time throughout.

"It's 9:46 p.m. Two and two to Harvey Kuenn. One strike away. Sandy into his windup. Here's the pitch."

Koufax delivered immortality.

"Swung on and missed a perfect game!"

As with Gibson, that was about as high as Scully would go in his register. He didn't need to scream. He didn't need to break out some witty pop culture reference. He didn't need to exaggerate.

He needed to report. Inform. Elaborate. And, perhaps, entertain.

But in this moment, nothing further was needed. Koufax was perfect. 

So was Vin.

Literally, every student of mine has had to listen to those eight minutes and thirty-four seconds.

To understand that's how you do it.

*****

He understood the majesty and magnitude of every moment.

Three versions of Hank Aaron's 715th home run exist. Milo Hamilton -- who had it written in his contract that he had to be on mic for Aaron's record-breaking shot -- on the Braves broadcast. Curt Gowdy, there doing TV with NBC on the national broadcast.

And Vin, on the Dodgers radio network.

Vin, of course, schooled them all.

Not forgotten in the fuss of the moment was how Vin reminded listeners that Aaron was the tying run in the game. The game. Always remember the game.

Al Downing, pitching for the Dodgers, delivered a low pitch and the crowd booed.

"Al has to ignore the sound effects," Vin said. "And stay a professional and pitch his game."

Who has the presence of mind to say such a thing?

And then?

"One ball and no strikes. Aaron waiting. The outfield deep and straight away. Fastball..."

Aaron swung.

"Ther's a high drive into deep left center field. Buckner goes back...to the fence...it is gone."

He's just called -- arguably -- the most important home run in history. Certainly the most important socially. And yet? Instead of yelling and making it about him, he actually changed his tenor. 

Almost as if he wanted to just disappear along with the ball, recognizing the moment wasn't about him.

In fact, he did disappear, going a getting a drink of water.

Why? 

Crowd noise.

Then?

"What a marvelous moment for baseball. What a marvelous moment for Atlanta and the state of Georgia. What a marvelous moment for the country and the world. A black man is getting a standing ovation in the Deep South for breaking a record of an all-time baseball idol. And it is a great moment for all of us, and particularly for Henry Aaron, who was met at home plate, not only by every member of the Braves, but by his father and mother."

Nobody else -- not Hamilton nor Gowdy -- had that presence.

Vin.

*****

GOAT. We simply overuse that term.

But Susan had never heard it before. I used it to her talking about -- who else? -- Scully.

He's "The GOAT," I said.

I'm sure, somewhere, she wondered what that meant. Was that some kind of broadcasting term? Do broadcasters make noises like a goat?

"Oh, sorry. 'Greatest of All Time.'"

She got it. Why?

Vin.

*****

My phone and social media have buzzed all night.

It was best that I didn't know.

Yet, I couldn't sleep for some reason.

I knew. 

And I wouldn't have slept at all had I learned, with the news breaking literally just after I went to sleep.

Of course, I had posted a random Vin call just last night.

White Sox/Yankees, 8/2/85 at Yankee Stadium. Carlton Fisk tagged two players out within seconds on the same play.

But that's not what I wanted to post. Instead, I posted a Dave Winfield 10th-inning home run that tied this wacky game.

Why? The mellifluous call.

"High drive into deep left field. Back goes Nichols. Gone!"

Then? what else? 

Crowd noise.

It's obvious that this is my hero. Hero as in my dad. My mom. Athletes. Other "voices."

He could never be "Mr. Scully." He wouldn't allow it.

He was Vin.

This is a deep loss.

This is one of the few interviews I would have ever cared about doing and it was never meant to be.

So these thoughts are the first things that have come to my mind after learning the news and moving to the living room to watch some of the MLB Network coverage.

I'm simply overwhelmed.

He did football. Tennis. Golf. He hosted the Rose Bowl Parade. He had a talk show. He had a game show.

He called more no-hitters and perfect games than anyone and he's why I tell every broadcaster to spurn the notion of superstitions. A no-hitter is going on. It's our job to report it.

We're journalists. We're not the game. We're the conduit.

This is what he learned from Red Barber, the father figure who brought him to Brooklyn and molded him.

*****

While I never met him, I had a sense of him.

I can't say I knew him but it felt like I did.

And so, I say this with full confidence:

He'd hate this attention. But, he earned it, just as he did upon his retirement in 2016.

If I may, his retirement was like losing a friend. I watched and listened and got people who'd never watch and listen to such a thing, to join in.

We'll be talking about him forever, despite his notion that he'd just fade away.

We have the audio. At least, as much as we can. Sadly, his debut and how he closed the 1955 World Series are lost forever.

But we have the rest of it. The Dwight Clark "catch." The Don Larsen perfect game. The Rick Monday save of the American flag. The "little roller up along first." The moments from the LA Coliseum, when he taught Southern California about baseball.

Oh, that last part seems like an exaggeration (something he hated) but it's a fact. A further fact? He's the greatest sports hero in the history of Los Angeles.

The greatest.

The GOAT.

In every hall of fame, though I suppose Canton would be wise to recognize him for his football work.

I've sat here and rambled through these thoughts off the top of my brain.

I will finish simply with this.

I never had a mentor in broadcasting, though I've tried to be that for many.

Vin Scully, the plucky kid from Washington Heights who dazzled Brooklyn and became a cultural institution a coast away. The greatest sports broadcaster ever. A man of words and simplicity. 

Vin Scully.

He was my mentor.

I finish, sad. Devastated. 

And grateful.

"I would imagine the mound at Dodger Stadium is the loneliest place in the world," he said during Koufax's 1965 magnificence.

Vin, that might not be true.

Today, every broadcast booth is the loneliest place in the world.

Still Thinking of Thurman

 

More than 1,000 people (including members of the Yankees) waited outside of the Canton Civic Center on Aug. 6, 1979 in Canton, Ohio to pay their respects to Thurman Munson after Munson's funeral attended by more than 500 people including his family and the entire New York Yankees' team and many of their wives. Bobby Murcer, Lou Piniella, and George Steinbrenner are easy to spot. (New York Daily News)

Forty-three years have passed since we lost Thurman Munson.

Yankees fans -- and fans who have a heart -- still mourn this day as we do the anniversary of Roberto Clemente or, in a non-baseball sense, Kobe Bryant.

Still, with Thurman, it was different. Like Darryl Kyle, Lyman Bostock, and Jose Fernandez, his death happened during the season. Each one of those players was legit stars and bright lights in the baseball world.

Munson, however, was the captain of the Yankees -- the first one (however honorary the title is) since Lou Gehrig in 1939.  Munson was in the middle of a possible Hall of Fame career.

Munson was a true superstar, no worse than the third-best catcher in baseball at the time of his death. He, Carlton Fisk, and Johnny Bench were the clear big three with Bob Boone and Ted Simmons right there.

That takes nothing away from any of those other players but Munson had been on the postseason stage the previous three years.

Now, August 2, 1979, he was gone. Dead in an airplane crash.

His own airplane.

One that -- even if he had lived -- it's pretty clear he would not have walked out of thanks to the very nature of his injuries. It is in fact those injuries that led to his two passengers in the plane that day having to leave him. They could not get him out of his seat as the plane filled with smoke and flames.

Unimaginable.

Only 32 years old.

There are so many "what ifs" with Thurman.

Would he have gone to Cleveland after 1979, as had been rumored?

Would he come back to the Yankees in 1980?

Was he done as a catcher?

Could he still be a good hitter, given injuries were a factor?

Would he move to first base? His last game was at first base, in fact.

Would he be a designated hitter?

How would all of this impact the Yankees?

The Yankees weren't going to catch the Orioles in 1979. They were the clear best team in the American League that year.

But, what about 1980?

Or after?

How much longer does he play?

Instead, as death tends to do, everything is frozen.

Munson remains 32. His facial hair -- often grown to mess with George Steinbrenner -- is stuck in time, There's no gray to be found.

You can't help but think about Diana, his wonderful widow who has remained the face of the Munson family. You wonder how her life -- and the lives of their kids -- would have changed.

But, no. We're always left with the "what ifs" and the still profound sadness that older fans like me still feel.

I was 10 when it happened, gleefully flying around Longview Drive on my red and black Huffy bicycle and playing baseball in my yard. I was taking my swings on the side of the house day after day, targeting the swamp and empty lot across the street.

It felt like we were forced to grow up with this news.

In reality, that wasn't true but it was still a harsh reality.

For years, the Yankees would play a highlight montage of Thurman, with this sad guitar music underneath it. I could swear they continued to play that into the late 90s though perhaps not as often as they had years earlier.

The Stadium would grow extremely quiet as grown men and women gulped back tears. Then polite applause would rise until a crescendo of appreciation for number 15 sounded out.

He was our 70s captain, the one who wasn't supposed to be. The role of captain had been retired with the death of Lou Gehrig but that didn't stop George Steinbrenner. Munson, Graig Nettles, Ron Guidry, Willie Randolph, Don Mattingly, and of course, Derek Jeter have had the "job" since then.

Forty-three years later, we still mourn that dark day and that awful weekend, capped by the funeral and "The Bobby Murcer Game" that Monday night.

We still remember our Tugboat.

Our catcher.

Our champion and MVP.

Our number 15 forever.

The Champ and the Chump

 

On the day after Bill Russell died, we're learning the fate of Deshaun Watson.

One is clearly an all-time great man and athlete. A champion in every way, including for civil and human rights. A man of dignity. A force of will. A gentleman with a resourceful nature and a brilliant laugh.

He did nothing but win as a player, coach, and humanitarian.

The other is currently a quarterback for the Cleveland Browns who is accused of sexual misconduct by (at least) 25 women. In truth, how many others (answer: definitely more)?

Russell died and the world weeps.

Watson got suspended for six games and I've grabbed popcorn to watch the reaction.

Look, where there's smoke there's fire. Twenty-five women? That's a difficult thing to get past. Still, there is the old "innocent until proven guilty" just as has happened with others, including Ben Roethlisberger, who key parties in Georgia, in that case, said, in short, there wasn't enough to proceed with pressing charges.

No charges. Big Ben still got six games (later reduced) for violating the National Football League's personal conduct policy. It is arbitrary, to say the least.

We can add Kobe Bryant and even Pete Rose, whose name keeps coming up today. Charges were never pressed in Pete's case because the statute of limitations had expired. There was also never any proof on Pete (but it didn't look good).

Let's be clear: I am in no way defending Watson. Twenty-five is a large number. A terrible number. Should he get more games? Yes. Will the NFL pursue more games via appeal? Perhaps, unless they just want it to go away.

To be further clear, Watson didn't play last year. But he was paid. I'm just throwing all of the facts out for you.

What's fun is watching the virtue signaling and mansplaining, each dear soul trying to outdo the other in furthering their cause, having zero to do with the victims.

I realize so many of them tweet and retweet their little hearts out as white knight males in the hope that they're seen as heroes for women when, in fact, they're hoping their glass houses have tinted windows.

That way, you can't see how they chased nearly every female in their office, creating a rather awkward situation.

But, nah, play hero.

So, yeah, six games for Deshaun Watson.

For now.

Discuss.