Really Happy to Be Home

 

He's happy we're home. At least I think he is.

Let's start this post with a "Meet the Beatles" thought. I honestly loved today's show. I was inspired by what I thought was a foolish social media post from a few days back.

Look, I let a lot of stuff go. I even bit my tongue on a post about Vin Scully broadcasting the 1985 World Series.

Nope. He did not. He did the '85 NLCS on NBC but the '85 Fall Classic ran on ABC with Al Michaels in the play-by-play seat for Cardinals/Royals. Before you say, "Vinny did radio," that too would be incorrect. Jack Buck called the Series on CBS Radio.

Vin was probably home in Hidden Hills, CA with his beloved wife and family.

But, I let it go. Some people also can't handle...well...the truth, honestly.

I also don't feel the need to be that person. I see it all the time. The person who has to correct everything.

But when the same person erroneously spoke about John Lennon and his lack of emotion, well, I took that as inspiration for today's show.

John Lennon was an enormously complicated soul. He was a difficult man. He was also enormously good-hearted and deliriously funny. That didn't mean he was going to bear his soul while chatting. At least, not publicly.

That was reserved for his music.

I started with "In My Life." I included "Nowhere Man." I could have thrown in "Mother." I also used "Jealous Guy," "I'm a Loser," "Julia," "How?" "Watching the Wheels," and even "Help."

Oh, there was also "You've Got to Hide Your Love Away." Plus, I threw in George, Paul, and Ringo singing "Ain't She Sweet" from the Anthology sessions. The "Threetles," these "unfeeling types, sat together, singing and laughing and saying how wonderful it was to be together.

I mean, it was too easy. I added in things like "Eleanor Rigby" and "I Want to Tell You" and "Something" to show the sensitivity of Paul and George.

Oh, and then I went for Paul's "Here Today" and told the story of Paul and George holding hands as Harrison was ten days away from dying.

Honestly, the show should win an award. 

OK, maybe not an award but it's something I'm really proud of. I like that I gave it a lot of thought and, while there's always a spontaneous nature to my work, it came together so nicely. So fluidly.

Feel free to give it a listen.

There is no intended malice in this but there are those who are either too stubborn, stuck in their ways, or too arrogant. Sometimes it's nice to refute them a bit.

For the record, we're not talking about Toxic Positivity, whom I took the weekend off from. Yet he's still continuing to bloviate. If I go back in, expect shock and awe.

*****

OK, so I've really buried the lead here, but as the title implies, it's nice to be home. I bought a receiver for my old Sony amplifier to make it Bluetooth-compatible, thus bringing it into the 20th Century. As we speak, I'm playing a Sirius XM jazz channel though it off my phone.

Bliss, I tell you.

But I'm not kidding. I think I bought this amplifier (from Costco) in the late 90s. Probably around 1997. I added a turntable, cassette deck, and brought the TV and DVD/Blu-ray into it as well. It sounds pretty great through a pair of Polk Audio bookcase speakers that might date to the early 00s since I got them at Circuit City.

Yes. I'm that old.

But my two-plus weeks of baseball are over. As I wrote a few nights ago, that was (over*) 29 games of play-by-play. Now, three Renegades games on the public address have come to a close.

* I couldn't call a game but could see it from a field away, so I narrated that while calling the game I was at. I'm weird that way.

But I'm thrilled, relieved, and just happy to be done with everything for a moment. This was a grind, topped by a couple of stressful days and nights in the minor leagues. There were a lot of moving parts and it felt good to navigate all of it without incident.

Plus, if I may, there was supposed to be a producer in the booth both last night and today. But he was sick so that duty was left to me to do .... in addition to handling the PA announcing. It's no major hardship. It's just extra massaging of things, I suppose.

But I felt a good sense of achievement when it was over and, for the first time in a while, I'm home and can focus a bit on this place. I've hung just a few things, including the important spaghetti and meatballs recipe from my mother and my beloved Aunt Fay. One day I have to work up the guts to try to make it.

For tonight, the Adams boys had chili dogs. Tired after our day(s) at the stadium, we stopped at Wegmans and picked up dogs and rolls. Plus French fries.

And it was all delicious.

Now it's time for just relaxing, cooling down, hanging with The Cat, and getting myself ready for the week. For now, I only have Doubleheader on my mind. I will tell you that there is a pending play-by-play offer that is hanging around to be dealt with. I'm waiting to hear if we're approved to do it.

Otherwise, the equipment is all sitting in the living room a few feet from where I'm typing.

There are plenty of other things to be done, such as car work.

Oh, and back to the Bluetooth receiver. So, I ordered it on a whim yesterday (it was quite affordable) and set about my day. Later in the day, it struck me.

I had it delivered to Bruce Park. You know, as in the apartment we no longer live in.

Ah, oh well. Our old landlord would have shot me a text had he seen it, but it wasn't necessary. We ran over after stopping at Wegmans tonight and that was that.

I did love the grind of these two weeks. The hours were long and the toll was physical and mental. But I'm drained. I need ... something tonight, but for now, chili dogs and jazz will suffice.

I'll be back on the radio tomorrow.

Talking sports.

Which is what I do.

*****

I'm aware of the news of the day, with the President announcing he would step aside from running for reelection. It's sad that we simply can't discuss such things without rancor. Friendships get destroyed and blood pressures rise.

Thus, I think it's simply best for me to keep my thoughts on the topic to myself until the time I think I can compose anything coherent.

For now, I'll stay out of it except to say I worry about this great country.

You're Cordially Invited to My Mistake

 

The happy couple dance on the dugout

I went to a mascot wedding tonight.

"The first interspecies wedding," I believe it was called though my memory might be wrong.

I'm sure it was words like that.

But now, it's done, and I'm back home.

Rascal and Rosie are wedded and I got to see it.

No cake, at least not for us in the PA booth. No dancing, again, not for us. In fact, I didn't even wear a suit. What does one wear to a wedding of a raccoon and a skunk?

I gave that last question some thought before opting for a Renegades polo and shorts. After all, I wouldn't be on the field for the nuptials. I was in the booth, which I rarely move from once the game starts. I wasn't needed anywhere else. 

Plus, I was the combo platter of PA guy and booth producer again. With Mikey Clicks to my right on sounds and Anthony to my left on visuals, we need no one else.

I mean, we're a pretty effective team, especially when my guy DJ Fish is manning the field. He was a master tonight as always, and we played off each other well. We were a touch better than we were on Friday night.

Still, I goofed. I mean, I goofed a couple of times, but once I goofed big time.

There was something we weren't supposed to say. Oh, we all realize it's going to be said because old habits die hard. And I will say there has been a spirit of cooperation about it.

But, still. I hold myself to the usual high standard.

There was the game, motoring on as always. There was me, multitasking with myriad requests on the walkie-talkie that I wanted to deposit in the nearby Hudson River. I was dealing with 50/50 raffles and guest announcers (twice) and whatever else was being thrown at us.

And, what else? Oh, right, a skunk/raccoon wedding.

Anything else? Oh, yes, a baseball game (aka the reason we're all there in the first place).

And in the midst of that, I was prepared to toss things down to Fish for a segment. Except I didn't say "Fish." I said...

I can't say it. Oh, I can, but the story plays better this way.

"Z...," I said, before knowing there might be a swear jar put near me. I would immediately become the target of myriad taunts.

Embarrassed, I quickly said, "Fish," and shut up. At that point, I wanted to shrivel up and disappear.

I nearly texted GM Zach Betkowski to 1) apologize and 2) tell him I'd make the first donation to the jar, but I was too mortified. Anthony and Clicks watched me momentarily meltdown before laughing and making fun of myself.

Of all people to make the mistake.

I texted Sean in horror. He heard what I said and was completely supportive.

"Was bound to happen," he responded. "You worked with the guy for a friggin long time."

In this case, beyond what I'm writing, if you know you know. You know I let people tell their stories and we're not supposed to say more than I have here.

In fact, I've said nothing.

Except how red-faced I was.

The Renegades lost in extra innings and Sean and I treated ourselves to a couple of slices of pizza across the street. We decided we had earned it.

We have to go back again tomorrow to complete the homestand. I wasn't supposed to be the booth producer again tonight, as someone else had been assigned but called in sick. 

Clicks, Anthony, and I work pretty well as a unit. I'm sort of OK with running things again tomorrow.

"Meet the Beatles" starts my day at 9 am. on WGCH and Robcasting. Hope you join me for a more "sensitive" show.

Being a Rascal

 

Rascal Renegade, from when the scoreboard went out in 2021

I'm heading back to the Renegades tonight for the first time since July 4.

I might be doing public address announcing and producing the booth. I have to double-check. 

*checks notes*

Yes, that's the case.

When it works, it really works well. But working well means not getting 50 requests on the walkie-talkie system. Then we get accused of not responding because, well, I'm also multitasking as the public address announcer. Anyway, I think it works well and I'm decent at both.

Part of the reason it works well is because I like Mikey "Clicks" handle the sound effects and music and whether it's Jason or Anthony on Crossfire (the video board system) they just do their thing. I remind us all what the next element is and we work together.

It's called "trusting your people" and I'm pretty good at it. They also trust me.

Then we make fun of things and laugh.

It will hopefully be a good night and the start of a good weekend as I'm there for all three games against the Rome Emperors.

The first time back after a stretch away is always interesting. Sometimes you jump right back in like nothing is different and sometimes it's, well, weird. 

I suspect it will be different tonight.

But in *BREAKING NEWS* I will still be me and Sean will still be "Junior" (even if he's not a junior).

And Rascal -- cat and raccoon -- will both be themselves. Rascal The Cat won't be at the game though. Rascal the raccoon will and he's getting married this weekend.

Yes. That is correct. I don't think I am playing any role in the nuptials nor do I need any form of fancy dress. What does one wear to a raccoon/skunk wedding, as Rascal is marrying his beloved Rosie?

Ah, the mind churns.

It's still baseball and Sean is there and Clicks is there and so are Jason and Jason and Beats and Fish and Alli and Lori and Anthony and the others I've grown close to.

On the other hand, there are plenty who don't know me in the least or know me but don't have the first clue about me. It's a large group that works there on game nights.

I'll be one of them tonight. Tomorrow. Sunday.

I will not the raccoon.

But I'll always be a Rascal.

*****

Kyle Carr, Trent Sellers, and Hueston Morrill
(Photo: HV Renegades Facebook)

I just got home from a night at the stadium that I can only call surreal.

There are reasons why and, frankly, I can't get into them.

But the icing on this strange cake was that the Renegades used three pitchers to combine on a 1-0 shutout win. Kyle Carr, Trent Sellers and Hueston Morrill held the Rome Braves hitless and the Gades won it on a Roc Riggio home run to lead off the bottom of the ninth.

It's the third no-hitter in team history, with the first being thrown by Doug Waechter in 2000 against the Pittsfield Mets and the second being a seven-inning effort by Sean Boyle, Nick Ernst, and Derek Craft against the Brooklyn Cyclones in 2021.

I was on the call for that game.

Quite a night. 

End of Tournament

 

Winchester, MA poses for a team photo

The best thing, I suppose, is to just come home and move on.

It's not that it didn't happen but it's just best to move forward and enjoy the memories.

The Cal Ripken 11U New England Regional is over. Winchester, MA took the title over their in-state rival from Easton this afternoon in Oxford, CT.

The Sachems, as they're known, struck for four runs in the second inning and grabbed a 7-1 victory. They had outstanding pitching, defense, and timely hitting. I mean, that's baseball, isn't it...Suzyn?

And so the experience came to a quick end. It was very kind of Ken Smith, representing Cal Ripken baseball, to call me the "voice" of this event. It was also kind of the kids -- the athletes -- to cheer me. By name.

These experiences are wonderful and humbling. They're also quite sad when they're over.

There was a moment after I got off the air when I didn't know what to do. Were people going out to celebrate? Was everyone going home and collapsing? Should I just stay and hang out at the field?

Eventually, I started looking around and didn't see many familiar faces. The players were doing their thing and the families were just chatting.

As I was putting the equipment in my car, the Winchester coaches yelled their thank yous down to me and told me I'd be seeing them in Boston. They wanted to take me to a Yankees/Red Sox game, most likely so that I'd get shut down by the denizens of the Hub. In truth, I'd probably have a good time. I generally like Sox fans.

It's Queens that I might not survive.

But I appreciated the kind words and thoughts. After packing up, I walked back up near the snack shack before realizing it was probably time to go. I quietly stepped away, got in the car, and drove off.

A certain melancholy set in then. I've felt it after leaving Trumbull, North Providence, and Fredericksburg also.

The experience is over and who knows if such a thing will ever happen again? I truly struggle with the often temporary and/or transient nature of all of this. Have I mentioned I'd like to have a home base and then branch out from there? Not sure I've said that recently.

More to the point, as of now, my next call isn't until Sep 13, when Greenwich travels to West Haven. Thus, I feel sort of useless.

(Update: check the bottom of the post*)

As I wrote last night, I'm sort of worn out with the dangling carrots, none of which seem to be coming to fruition.

To that end, I saw the Pittsburgh Steelers officially hired Rob King as their new play-by-play announcer. I expected that all along, though I did throw my name in the ring. Honestly, it would have been nice to have at least earned an interview but it was not to be. I'll still be listening this fall, even if the rejection email I received today from "The Hiring Manager" was as cold as ice.

I don't blame the Steelers. It's just the nature of applying to something online.

So I made my way home with a hint of the blues following the conclusion of the game. It's just an empty feeling when it's all over. 

Thus, I came home and did laundry. I also continued to nibble away at setting up our apartment. We're getting closer.

I also set an appointment to visit Apple because, blast, my MacBook Air's USB ports aren't behaving. I'm sure that will be a reasonable price.

As of tomorrow, I have no games to call. Just games to do public address announcing on.

And it's time to probably start doing more depositions. And I'll be teaching a little at CSB.

I'd love for the fates to align for me to get a small vacation but that's not looking good. There's just too much to do. 

But let's not lose sight of what this is about. It's about thanking everyone who made their way to Oxford and who supported the kids as well as the broadcasts.

It starts with Brett Conner and then goes to Lou Fernandes and carries to all of the amazing people who fed me, brought me water, kept me on my toes, and made me laugh. Oxford Babe Ruth/Cal Ripken is a collection of amazing people.

It goes to the audience, which stretches from people who came from the "small world" category to new faces and friends. 

It goes to the umpires and other support people who facilitated the games and kept us on schedule, or close to it.

But it especially goes to the kids and coaches. There were kids who overwhelmed me by knowing that I was even there. A special note goes to Oliver Spear of Bethel, who waved to me every time he went to the plate, even after his team lost yesterday!

All of the games have been archived on the Robcasting showreel page on Mixlr and are downloadable at Archive.org

To an extent, it's easy to see why I'm a little bummed that it's over. But it's also easy to see what makes me keep doing these events. 

Also, I appreciate those who inquired about last night's post. It frankly makes me a little uncomfortable but I'm glad to know people care. That situation is, of course, unchanged, but so it goes. I chose to not respond to his stuff today.

Like so many other things, nothing will change. I exposed my soul last night in a moment of honesty and weakness and what for?

*Oh, and hang on. As I was writing, I had another request. We're just waiting for clearance to see if it's real but there might be something on the schedule next week. So, for now, we'll get back to the Renegades as we await more news. Check your local listings (my social media channels) for more.

So we'll hope for that next call and we'll hope for one of these situations to become true.

And we give profound thanks to Oxford for giving me a home for the week.

Congratulations to Winchester on the tournament championship.

Let's Move On

 

Visted Danbury today and saw that Newtown banner.
I called that state championship game in 2014

I admitted today on social media that a certain person and situation have been gnawing at me.

I tried to address it to a couple of friends last night and I'm not sure my message was received.

But this kind of stuff messes with my mental health and I felt I needed to say it.

Look, I'm in a weakened state because of nearly two solid weeks of baseball broadcasts with 28.5* since July 6th. Don't get me wrong. I've loved it but as I always say it's a grind.

Plus the move and stress of that, along with the complaining about the basement (which is currently calmed down).

*I should be calling number 30 tomorrow but the weather made officials decide to put one game at one field at Oxford and the other on the other field in the same park. They were both played at the same time. So, while I didn't do play-by-play of Hudson/Winchester, I stood maybe 500 feet from the field and described everything that I saw.

So this has been a grind of standing and sitting and having a sore back. Of setting up and breaking down every day.

It's been a grind of blazing sun and real feel temperatures of over 100. It's further been a grind of worrying about the weather and how it will impact the equipment.

It's been a mental grind. I don't just talk for 2-plus hours. I put my heart and soul into every pitch and every story.

I'm as prepared as anyone but I lament every mistake, getting frustrated when I stumble over words.

Beyond that, I'm exhausted with "opportunities." Perhaps I've mentioned but I have several carrots that have been dangled in front of me. Like a fool, I've engaged and pursued each one.

Then? Nothing. I have to figure out how to pay for this apartment and keep living a little bit of a life. In all likelihood, I'm not going away anytime soon and, yeah, that's very disappointing, considering my schedule will likely get nuts again in September.

I keep stupidly believing one of these gigs will come to be. Yet, I should know better. Fool me once, fool me twice, and so on.

I can't keep going like this much longer. I've asked for a home base. I've literally begged for some things to change.

And? Nothing.

So take this and add in the other stuff and it's a lot.

Anyway, this coming off like I'm whining and feeling sorry for myself.

I'm not.

I'm just reminding you to check on loved ones. Mental health is no joke.

The championship game of the Cal Ripken 11U New England Regional is tomorrow at 2pm between Easton and Winchester, MA. The winner tomorrow moves into ply in the World Series in Florence, AL.

I'm proud to be on the call.

It's Your Pitch!

 

I arrived at the ballpark today in plenty of time for today's two games.

The equipment got set up and I was just waiting for the lineups.

I spied a couple of boxes of baseballs and picked one up. I just held it for a moment as I stood there in the empty press box of Posypanko Park in Oxford, CT.

I was just standing there, waiting for lineups before the Quintown (NH)/Hudson (MA) game. The winner would advance to tomorrow's Cal Ripken 11U New England Regional.

That's when it hit me.

Think of Roy Hobbs, sitting in a hospital bed in The Natural, talking about how he wished his dad could see what he had accomplished before stopping himself.

In that moment, in the quiet of the booth, knowing I'd be standing outside calling baseball in a short time, I had a similar moment.

I looked out at the field.

"God, I love this game," I said.

I know, I know. How cheesy!

The screenwriters would no doubt feel nauseated.

And yet...

A short time later, I walked down from my perch to walk to the concession area.

Lou Fernandes, Oxford's coach and my contact for this experience was standing with Ken Smith from Babe Ruth/Cal Ripken baseball.

Lou called my name and spoke words that I don't think have ever been said to me.

They both asked me to throw out the first pitch before one of the two games. Ultimately, they both felt it should be before the West Hartford/Bethel game since those are Connecticut teams.

After making sure they were serious, I accepted. I tried to avoid 1) crying and 2) wondering if they had nobody else and had reached the bottom of the barrel.

Now if you know, you know. I just talk. I don't see myself as a celebrity or anything special. I'm just a guy. A dad. An uncle. A person.

Important people throw out first pitches. Sponsors. Volunteers. Not me.

Every kind word about my work means something. Every mean word challenges me.

But I tend to just do my job and leave.

So the first game went by in a flash and it was just a joy of a game to watch. Hudson beat Quintown 2-0 in a game that took just over an hour. 

In fact, there was then about an hour before the next game.

I spent the time wrapping up the first broadcast, making some notes, having a bite to eat, and doing everything to not think about the first pitch honor.

I don't know how other people do these things. I'm too emotional. Too sensitive.

Then Lou reached for a ball from the very boxes I was looking at a few hours before and tossed it to me. It had been used. It would be treasured.

I'd made the decision to open the broadcast and just leave the crowd mic open. Lou was on the PA system and I figured he could just fill the air time, along with natural sounds of music and crowd noise.

I went down to the field and had a perspective I never have.

I watched the players get introduced, standing near the Bethel dugout. I stood to the side, quietly, for the intros and the national anthem as well as the Babe Ruth code that is read before each game by a player.

Then Lou began to introduce me. 

I stepped through the Bethel players and coaches and heard polite applause.

I thought of -- but tried to not think too much of -- Mom, Dad, and the loved ones that I wished could be there with us. You can probably guess who would mean the most to share the moment with.

Ultimately, I reminded myself to stay humble and enjoy it.

I waved. Honestly, I don't know who I was waving to, but I waved.

I held the ball up as if to say, "OK, here comes whatever this is."

I reminded myself I didn't need to bring a fastball or anything fancy.

I just needed to reach the plate.

Before I threw, I thought of Derek Jeter, because shouldn't everyone? OK, honestly, I thought of him because of what he said to then-president Bush when he threw out the first pitch before the 2001 World Series.

Jeter told the president that he had to go out to the mound and throw the pitch. Then, because he's Derek Jeter, he added, "Don't bounce it. They'll boo you."

JUST a bit outside!

In my case, it wouldn't be 60 feet, six inches between the mound and the plate.

Bethel's catcher, Noah Burke, picked the short straw to earn the "honor" of catching me.

And it was time. As I've done so many times since I was a little kid, I kicked my leg and threw.

Then I felt it. My left foot --my plant foot -- slipped in the dirt of the mound.

Oh no. I'm going to fall, or uncork a wild pitch.

But something wonderful happened. Noah reached for it and grabbed it.

I walked in to him, gave him a fist bump and told him he did a nice job.

No, it wasn't a strike, but it felt like a dream.

Literally, I was a little boy, watching Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle and the countless others who I have watched throw ceremonial first pitches.

And I was a bit older, watching Vin Scully do the same.

I was on a field, in a place that felt so different to me.

The attention was so uncomfortable.

I heard kids cheering my name.

Even the umpires shook my hand and congratulated me, telling me how much they have enjoyed hearing me as they worked a game.

Humbled, honored, and emotional, I departed through the Bethel dugout, wishing them well. I waved to the West Hartford dugout but they didn't see me.

I floated back up to my spot and put the headset on.

I didn't have the words.

I couldn't have the words.

And the usual thing came to my brain

There was a game to call and it's not about me.

But this was a wonderful moment.

I've never been the best. Never the annual all-star. I'm not a Hall of Famer.

I'm just me. The grinder. 

I report with integrity and try to give a dignified effort while making the athletes feel like pros.

So to have this moment was a true honor.

And an emotional one.

Thank you to Lou, Ken, and Oxford Babe Ruth/Cal Ripken. Thank you to the listeners and supporters. Thank you to Brett Conner for asking me to do this tournament months ago.

And I hear other teams are looking for my contact info. That's an amazing compliment.

I still have three more games to call in this tournament.

Oh, for the record, I've thrown out a first pitch once before, as part of a four-man team on WGCH for a Bridgeport Bluefish game back in Aug 2002. 

I didn't bounce that one either.

Good Sports

 

The pitch came in.

And it hit the batter.

Batters get hit by a pitched ball on a daily basis.

My dad was an admirer of Don Baylor, the one-time Yankee who stood at home plate and didn't flinch when he got hit.

And thus, that's what I did. It was the "macho" thing to toss the bat away and run to first.

Save for the time Joe Porcelli hit me in the elbow. I ran to first, tried to convince myself I was fine...and then dropped to my knee at first base.

Damn. I left the game.

But I watched a player get hit today at the Cal Ripken NE Regional in Oxford. Keep in mind, these kids are basically 11 years old. 

I've seen several players get clipped and buzzed but this one was different.

Now, before we proceed, I want you to know this story turns out fine. The player got up and finished the game.

But, at first, this hit-by-pitch looked different.

In fact, I couldn't tell, but I thought the player got hit on the back of his neck.

As a broadcaster, I report the details up to a point of common sense. Explaining what's going on with an injured player, especially one that young, is very difficult.

He dropped to the dirt. The home plate umpire and a couple of his coaches came to his side. I heard one say, "It's OK to cry."

And he did. He cried due to pain. Maybe a little embarrassment over the attention. Maybe he wanted more from that at-bat. It doesn't matter why.

I stood above it on the landing outside of the press box. The air was hot. Humid. Disgusting.

I stood there mostly quiet before deciding to talk about something benign just to fill the air.

Somewhere, the player had loved ones who were listening. The last thing they needed was for me to describe this until I saw something to confirm he was OK.

As soon as it happened, the pitcher who threw the ball dropped to a knee. His reaction was as interesting to me as anything. He watched intently but stayed where he was.

Contrast this, in general, to MLB. I'm not saying players aren't concerned for their brethren on different teams but it's just different.

After a short time, the injured player sat up.

Then he was helped to his feet. Together, with his coaches, they walked to first base.

One of the coaches thanked the home plate umpire.

"I understand," the ump said. "I'm a father of two and a grandfather of five."

We all get it. These are young kids. They're learning. They're developing.

But, there's one last thing I want to highlight. As the player who had been hit by a pitch began to walk to first base, he was greeted with an outstretched hand.

It was from the pitcher who threw the ball. It's clear what happened really bothered him and he wanted to check on his opponent.

The injured player was receptive and following a quick handshake, the pitcher patted him on the back.

Sports, man, sports.

There was just something beautiful about that small moment.

It was the spirit of competition and sportsmanship. Yes, you'll do anything for a win. But when someone gets hurt, it's best to understand there are no hard feelings.

Twelve games are complete. Five reman.

I Appreciate the Kind Words

 

Photo by Brett Conner

We've made it through two days of pool play at the Cal Ripken regional at Oxford. These are the days that have four days each over three days. There are games at all hours throughout the day and in whatever weather.

Today, it was hot. It will only get worse tomorrow. Fortunately, I have an umbrella over me so I'm surviving. But I'm also overheating.

More to the point, so is some of the equipment. As we knew, the booth was overloaded with people and there would simply be no room for me.

Oh, but they're treating me amazingly well.

Need a water? Done.

Sandwich? Done.

And, for what it's worth, I get yelled at when I say no.

In short, I'm thrilled that everyone is happy with what I'm bringing to the tournament. Different audiences have different reactions. 

For instance, I'd rather forget lacrosse in New Jersey in June.

But, apparently, Robcasting is huge in Bethel, Oxford, and West Hartford, CT, and Winchester, MA.

Among other places, I hope.

I've debated how to address the compliment I received from a Winchester, MA parent today. 

I truly appreciate what people say. But I also feel unworthy and awkward about them. Like, who am I? I'm just a guy who talks.

But I've received raves and thank yous for doing these broadcasts. Well, I'm doing my best, and that's all I can do.

But the Winchester dad stood out because he came up to the booth to find me and say hello.

He gushed.

"Dude, you're awesome. I was listening to my son's game in Boston yesterday and it was like listening to WEEI."

It's sort of all I hope for. I want families to enjoy the broadcasts and the kids to savor them. I suppose that should be on business cards if I ever make them.

Beyond that, they're kind words that galvanize me. It keeps me going, especially when sweat is pouring off, and I think I sound like a stumbling foo. It tells me people like what we're doing and they want more. It's pretty great to know that the audience likely expects the broadcast to be terrible and they hopefully get a nice surprise.

Yet, it's not like I think the Yankees are randomly going to ask me to come work there. 

The words help. No question. 

But when today was over, I packed up and came home. Things were the same as always.

There was laundry to be done.

There will be five games remaining in the tournament after tomorrow, and it's supposed to be in the mid-90s.

Think good thoughts for me.

Day One of Regionals

 

Making it work

Time is extremely short tonight.

I thought I'd have four games called from the Cal Ripken 11U regional in Oxford and be home hours ago.

Except...rain.

And lots of it.

But we're fortunate in that the field drains extremely well so, after a delay of nearly five hours, the first pitch was thrown at 1:40 this afternoon.

Every pitch of all four games was thrown. And each one was described on Robcasting from the setup you see.

I needed the pod -- with just enough space -- to keep the rain off of the equipment.

Tomorrow, I might not use the pod because Oxford Babe Ruth put up that umbrella for me.

They really looked out for me, getting me drinks and food all day. It was like I became part of the family.

Still, their team lost tonight, and that always puts me in an awkward spot. I can't cheer for anyone and I have to report. So while I feel bad reporting Oxford losing to Easton, MA, I still have a job to do.

In the end, while they were disappointed in the game result, nobody seemed bothered by me.

Four more games await tomorrow and, after a 16-hour day, I'll get some rest.

Thus, I'm keeping the post short.

Tomorrow, I hope, will be more like today was supposed to be and I'll have dinner at home.

There was other news today. Big news. National news. Worldwide news.

Too many people have already had something to say about it.

I have nothing to add.

My Baseball Friday

The teams gather on the field at Oxford

"I love it when a plan comes together." -- John "Hannibal" Smith, The A-Team

There was no way I could still call the final game of the 13U state Babe Ruth tournament in Trumbull. I had resigned myself to that fate.

I'd agreed to serve as MC for the Cal Ripken 11U tournament opening ceremony at Oxford. I figured there was no way to get to both places.

Oh, you know me. I'm a completist.

But even I couldn't morph between the two. So, no way.

Well, I've likely given away the end of the story. You know I got to both.

Dan Orlovsky -- Shelton's own, now working at ESPN -- 
addressed the crowd

Oxford set their ceremony and subsequent skills competition at 2:45 p.m. Game two -- the championship game -- between Stamford and Easton was set for 7 p.m. in Trumbull.

The two are no more than a half-hour apart.

The Oxford ceremony was well organized. I had a script and I followed that. The parade of teams, speeches, and opening ceremony were brief. The skills competition took a little longer.

All the while, I broadcast it on Robcasting. I figured it would make a good test broadcast to see if everything worked. It did. Everyone appeared happy.

It was also cool to do play-by-play on a home run derby. While I'm no Chris Berman, it was still fun to try that.

Home run derby competitors chat

The weather will be dicey tomorrow for the first game at 9 a.m. but I'll be ready as best as I can be. Of concern to me is the outside platform that I'm supposed to call the games from. I'm not sure either of my pods will fit up there but we'll find out. I think they might be too big. 

While I certainly would prefer to stay dry and not get overheated, the equipment is my first concern. So finding cover will be important. 

At worst, I might have to pick up a small tent but we'll cross that bridge.

Though I was invited to join everyone at a gathering for dinner in Oxford after the skills competition, I jumped in the car and hit the road for Trumbull.

Oh, I also fielded a call about the basement at the apartment but we'll hope that topic has been settled. There was frankly enough drama lingering around that made the day exhausting. I didn't need that.

Trumbull. The final frontier

I made it to Trumbull in plenty of time for the championship between Easton and Stamford. Easton/Redding as they're formally known struck for five runs in the first inning and I thought we might have a stinker on our hands.

But baseball gives you seven tries at this level and Stamford nibbled away. Easton tacked on another run in the second to get to 6-1.

Stamford continued to hang in there and finally connected for four in the bottom of the sixth. Three outs later, they were the Connecticut state champions, winning 8-6.

Once again, Trumbull served as a wonderful home for my baseball sojourn, part one. But the transition to part two has already begun and we move on to Oxford tomorrow morning.

If the weather is agreeable, first pitch will be at 9 a.m. Every pitch of the tournament will air on Robcasting at robcasting.mixlr.com. Please listen along and keep me company. As I've mentioned, it's a grind but it's generally one that I love.

Congratulations to Stamford for winning the 13U and best of luck at the regionals in Massachusetts. If anyone wants to hire me for that, they know where to find me.

And now, it's time to find out who wins 11U in Cal Ripken to go to the World Series in Florence, AL.

That journey begins early tomorrow.

When Perfection Isn't Attained

 

Consider this another in a long line of posts that could be called "It Happens."

Last night, I called an epic 13-inning game between Stamford and Waterford. The two teams of 13-year-old boys scratched and clawed for every hit, stolen base, defensive wizardry, and so on.

Over 30 strikeouts were amassed by the pitchers as the night went on.

Over three hours of baseball flew by.

In the end, unfortunately, it was an error that brought home the game-winner, and Stamford prevailed 4-3.

In the booth, I worked alone for the first five innings or so, with Shawn Sailer joining me later on.

But, all week, I've noticed that my MacBook Air -- the very computer I'm typing on right now -- had a USB port that was being grumpy. I use both USB ports on the computer. One serves to keep things charged up and the other serves as the conduit for the Zoom PodTrak P4 mixer and a connection to the iPhone that serves as our hotspot.

In this case, I struggled to keep the computer charged but I had a power brick that was actually working.

So, we survived.

Until last night.

Silly me, I thought a full charge on the computer would be fine. We'd survive.

Except...

Then the game spun past seven innings. Into the 8th. Into the 9th...

And I watched the battery drifting lower.

As it got close to 10%, I decided to plug in the brick. That would fix things, right?

Wrong. Like, really wrong.

First, it caused me to disconnect the mixer accidentally. Thus the mixer went dead and we were, by definition, off the air. But not really.

So I reconnected and tried to plug the power brick into the other USB slot, which had worked before. Except, tonight, it wasn't working.

Storm, meet perfection.

As I got the mixer reconnected and back on the air, I made a huge error.

This is on me. It's called Robcasting, after all.

Shawn checked that we were on the air. Yes, we were.

Except...

Now we were broadcasting through the microphone on the computer, and not the mixer. The headsets we wore weren't accomplishing anything.

This meant any background noise in the booth was being picked up. This meant the sound quality was unacceptable to my standards.

And it was my fault. Had I checked on my computer, or held my phone up to my ear, I would have known.

I grumbled as I drove home, exacerbated by the completely stopped traffic on I-95 near Darien. I uploaded the audio to the archive -- it's better than nothing, I suppose -- but I always feel like I've let the audience down by giving them an inferior product.

And to have it happen during a great game is just really unfortunate.

But it's all out there in some form.

Pitching that allowed seven runs, 14 hits, 11 walks, and 33 strikeouts. Pitching that also wiggled out of jams. A special note to Stamford's Jake Thielen who worked seven no-hit innings while striking out 14 in relief.

Hitting that struggled to find the big hit from the fourth inning until the very end.

Defense that most of the plays and some pretty spectacular ones. Stamford's Matt Coppola made a tumbling catch off of a backhand grab in right field on a sinking fly ball. Zach Rende, Michael Zinicola, and Owen Hodson turned a 4-6-3 double play like they were in the majors. 

Waterford's Jake Nenna struck out seven over five innings. So did teammate Christian O'Conner.

In the audience, we had members of Owen Hodson's family tuning in from Kentucky and Minnesota. They appeared to be enthralled.

I also received a note from a Waterford dad who couldn't make the games due to back issues. He said our broadcasts were "saving him."

So, despite whatever technical issues, it seems like the audience didn't really notice. Still, I'll stay true to my standards.

To that end, I came home, put it all behind me, and went to bed.

This morning, I sat at my desk, read about the USB ports, and did a suggested restart.

It worked.

With fingers crossed, we'll proceed tonight and onto the balance of these two weeks.

For the record, I have myriad backup plans if things don't work. Other computers, iPads, and even my phone would be involved.

So, yeah, it happened.

Onto tonight's game.

No Celebration Necessary

 

While worth nothing, I'm here to point out that I'm going to broadcast my 1,900th game tonight.

Yeehaw.

Waterford and Stamford take the field in the Babe Ruth 13U state tournament tonight at 7 p.m. As of now, I'm flying solo for the call.

Such numbers are notable, of course. It's an achievement. But it's not about me.

I know someone in the business who was all in on noting his reaching 900 broadcasts. I applaud him. It took over 40 years to get there but we all have our stories and our reasons. In my case, I'd prefer to have much more than 1,900 since I started counting in 1999.

I'll note when 2,000 gets here, just as I did upon reaching 1,000 seven years ago.

But, especially with age and wisdom, I know hope the number -- however many it is -- has included quality broadcasts. I'm hoping they were all quality, in fact. I'm not here to be a broadcast factory. I want each game to sound nuanced and professional. So the number is just a nice feather in the cap.

The other thing to keep in mind when crowing about quantity is that there will always be the person who wants to one-up. There are also the people who will count basically any time they walk into a stadium. Now, when counting, I don't include working the PA for the Renegades, for instance. It's a totally different skill set. 

So, yes, everyone has their own system of counting. But say you've done 100 games for 2024 and immediately someone will be saying how they've done 200 or whatever. It's all such a weird and egotistical thing.

I do marvel at 1,900 games because it's been a grind. I've worked with wonderful people and have watched amazing athletes. I love that I've been able to be the one to document the games.

It took years to finally get my professional play-by-play career off the ground and there have been some really dry spots along the way. But through hard work, I've been on the call for over 1,200 games in a little over a decade. 

Again, it feels like it should be more, but it's better than nothing.

As this Babe Ruth experience gets closer to the end, I am beginning to gear up for the Cal Ripken New England Regional coming this weekend in Oxford.

That means there will be more games, new experiences, and new stories to tell.

And more athletes who will be the stars.

That's why 1,900 isn't really that big of a deal.

No cakes are needed. No banners. 

I like cheesecake, for what that's worth.

Regardless of teasing a couple of people about this "milestone," the truth is my milestone is always the next one.

So bring on 1,901 tomorrow and so on.

I'll pause and raise a glass for 2,000 to take a moment to salute the many great people I've worked with.

But we'll deal with that when it arrives, hopefully in 2025.

Store This

 

My phone rang between games on Sunday.

Generally, my rule is I don't pick up if I don't know who it is. But I had a feeling who it was and what it was about. And I knew if I answered it, my mood would turn very sour.

We've been in our new apartment for eight days.

Eight.

Yet I knew -- I just knew -- that loading the storage area in the basement would be a sticking point. Especially if we didn't do it appropriately.

I harped on that as we moved in but, with time being short, the basement became a spot to leave stuff.

Thus, I knew that when my phone rang on Sunday, followed by subsequent texts as I drove home, that I was about to get grief about the basement.

Yep.

My response was exactly what you might expect. 

We -- all of us -- busted our tails to complete that move. Literally every part of me (and Sean) ached for days after.

So I admit that I'm a bit grumpy about the basement, considering we were willing to move in on Saturday and Sunday, the 29th and 30th.

But! Harrumph harrumph! The apartment must be cleaned! Painted! Fumigated!

(Narrator: None of that happened)

Thus, as you know, the move didn't begin until 5 a.m. on Monday, July 1. I know for a fact the apartment sat empty on Sunday, June 30th.

The point is, had we been able to start moving in on the 29th and 30th, we could have organized things much better. We would have had more time with our moving team.

Oh, I had some other gripes ready just in case playing that game was really necessary but I noticed things calmed down.

Anyway, Sean and I went down to the basement this morning and went through everything. We moved and carried and dumped. We took some things upstairs into the apartment. We worked our hard.

When it was done, we both felt good. 

Even if we're both exhausted and in pain again.

My thinking is that should be the last of this topic. I would frankly prefer that (and recommend it).

I will say there is some audio equipment and older toys that are available. Ask if interested. We'd love to see things go to a good home.

Tonight's baseball broadcasts ought to be interesting. The first game is at 5:30 on Robcasting.

Also, this beats writing in a rest area on the Merritt Parkway at 11:45 p.m.

Did I mention we've just moved in?

Truly In the Booth

 

Greetings from the Unity Park press box. I am currently typing away while on the air.

Yes. That is correct.

Waterford has already beaten Trumbull tonight and Wolcott and Ridgefield are two hours into a goofy game that has the score at 15-10 in the bottom of the sixth.

Again, that is correct.

It is now heading into the seventh inning. Incidentally, this is the eighth game of the tournament and the scoreboard just started working. Why? Because Mike Buswell's son Bryce grabbed the remote control and pressed the power button.

Yes. It has been that kind of night.

Maybe it's the ghost of Babe Ruth.

OK, I'm now off the air and sitting in a rest area at the side of the Merritt Parkway.

Or CT State Route 15. 

Your call.

Ridgefield won that game and they will play Waterford tomorrow at 5:30, followed by Easton and Stamford at 8 pm.

The second broadcast tonight was admittedly goofy and had a bite to it. Apologies to those who caught strays from me as I was having fun.

It was mostly harmless. 

The danger in such a thing is that it becomes too much of "inside jokes" though I do try to explain things as possible.

Anyway, it was all in good fun tonight because that's what sports broadcasting should be.

Of course, there are still games to report and we did that.

Mission accomplished.

Now, I'm going home.

At the End of Six

 

Stamford's excellent pinstripe uniforms

The longer days of tournament games are always the toughest and, yet, the most rewarding.

Six games (a total of 42 innings) have gone by since Saturday morning.

It's mentally taxing to come up with things to talk about and still be engaging, especially in the games that aren't as competitive. Lopsided scores have to be treated with respect because, especially in youth sports, a happy face needs to be put on it. I can't -- I won't -- dump on young athletes.

Yet my voice still feels good and, while grateful to only have three games each day, I know I could have done more.

Certainly a big tip of the cap to Shawn Sailer for riding shotgun and to everyone who stopped by to say hello. Whether offering encouragement or not, each person served as a pick me up to keep going.

I alluded to how I didn't think I was great last night but I'd like to believe I still gave accurate and appropriate broadcasts that people were proud to listen to. I loved hearing from coaches and others who said they kept up on the tournament by tuning into us when they were away from the field.

The audiences have been mixed at times and that's OK. I don't judge the success of the broadcasts off that. The larger number is certainly great to see but it's the determining factor.

What works for me is that I'm still excited to do it.

And this is just the beginning for the month.

Of course, the day can't go on without the real world still existing. With that said, there's always some way for a phone call, text, or some other communication to upset things.

We'll figure that out and keep it offline for the moment.

On the other hand, I received an alert to a notification on Facebook on a picture from a group of Mahopac memories. There were two very familiar faces.

The man in the Sinatra hat with the blue jacket is my father. My mother is just to his right.

The wonder of this is that I've never seen the picture. According to our friend Carol, who posted the snap, it was taken at a Mahopac football game in Oct 1970. 

I just love how they showed up in this in a very natural way. There's nothing posted about it. I can't read anything into their body language or faces. The whole thing is wonderful.

I mentioned it briefly while calling one of the games and that was it. Broadcasts really aren't about me but I do like being able to thread that quick mention in, thus bringing my parents into my work.

It makes me feel like they're listening.

From here, it will be two days of two games each, heading into the night. By Wednesday, it will be time for single evening games. I'll have time in the day to do some other stuff. Sean and I have a project we need to address.

Remember, we just moved in a week ago.

Familiar Territory

 

Unity Park in Trumbull

It had almost been a month since I had called a game.

It had been even longer since I called baseball.

Both were taken care of today. I did 21 innings over three games with countless errors, walks, hit batters, and so on. It's 13-year-old baseball so that's bound to be the case.

By the time it was over, Stamford, Trumbull, and Easton had beaten Wolcott, Nonnewaug, and Waterford.

It started with heavy rain, thunder, and lightning. As I drove, it seemed apparent we'd have a delay. And, yet, the delay wasn't very long. We called all three games and were done by 8 p.m.

I battled traffic and came home.

I've mentioned that I'm familiar with this rhythm. Call game, fight hunger, exhaustion, and thirst. Monitor energy and the need to stand up. Make it all happen.

A tradition unlike any other indeed.

Did I think we were great? Shawn Sailer was. I felt rusty or still a little bothered by the stink of the lacrosse experience in New Jersey in my last outing. But that's OK. Those kinds of challenges keep me humble. They allow me to take the praise with a grain of salt and not turn into some kind of social media manifesto.

Oh, there was praise. I heard it. Some of it wasn't even said directly to me. Some of it was.

The first day of a tournament is always a challenge as rosters and pronunciations are all new to us. So we're getting acquainted with each team and their fans. But, the audience numbers were good so we're ready for the next day. Plus you don't know where you're welcome to be and how many side eyes you get from people who don't understand what you do and who you are. 

However, I'm fortunate to have friends in Trumbull and we're welcome there.

In any event, I think we'll be better tomorrow.

With that, I think I'll call it a night.

"Meet the Beatles" should be lined up and ready to go tomorrow at 9 a.m. Tune into our game broadcasts after that is over.

A Crazy Friday Night

 

Rascal watches things while I record

It's a quiet and steamy night here in the new Presidential Suite.*

*You know, Adams father and son. Just go with it.

Sean is away tonight at a friend's so it's party time for me and The Cat.

In other words, I'm listening to the Yankees/Red Sox game, finishing up editing "Meet the Beatles," and writing.

I'm getting back on the air tomorrow for the Connecticut Babe Ruth state baseball tournament in Trumbull. The first broadcast will begin at 9:55 a.m. on Robcasting.

Realizing I also have a game on Sunday morning, I felt it was best to just record a show. I've been very diligent about not running any repeats yet. Oh, it's going to happen eventually, but I really want to create a reservoir of shows before repeating anything.

That being said, I know Bob Small used an episode for filler as we set up our coverage of the Greenwich Town Party back in May.

I admit I was in quite the mood on "Doubleheader" today so I apologize to everyone. You know, just because.

But, yes, there's baseball to call tomorrow. Stamford and Wolcott are up first at 10 a.m., followed by Trumbull and Nonnewaug at 1 p.m. and Easton/Waterford at 4 p.m.

The three-game schedule is manageable, meaning we're not rolling in early and stumbling out late. I'll be home at a reasonable hour for dinner and, of course, to write the post.

Shawn and I have nearly found us locked in at Unity Park so I'm pretty content to avoid that. We have spent many hours there between Babe Ruth and Little League baseball.

I admit that unfortunately, I'm going in a bit blind. I said I'd call this tournament months ago but we didn't lock it all in for sure until this morning. But, you know me, I'm excited to do it and I'll be ready.

Shawn Sailer says he'll be joining me for some, even if just to hang out, and I love that. We always have a good time when we do this. 

And it's my happy place.

As for this happy place, I'm reminding myself to not worry about things here. We'll get everything set up as time goes on. There is space to walk and, slowly, things continue to get put away or hung up.

I was able to put a small studio together to record "Meet the Beatles" so I call that a win. I'll have to do the same thing next week due to the Cal Ripken Tournament in Oxford that I'll be calling.

Yes, it's time to break out the water and cough drops! I've got to manage my voice through this as I always do.

I've mentioned before that tournaments are a grind and they certainly are. You have to manage energy as the games go along. Yet, I've come to love it as they piled up over nearly a decade. I'm honored to be the go-to for various leagues stretching from Greenwich to Stamford to Norwalk to Trumbull and Oxford.

And, of course, North Providence, RI, and Fredericksburg, VA.

Have headset! Will travel! And love doing it!

Thus, we'll hit the road tomorrow morning, coffee and breakfast in hand for that first call.

We'll begin collecting the lineups and learn the names. Coaches and families will help fill in some blanks.

And I'll call the play-by-play, making these young ballplayers feel like a big deal.

It's a thrill. 

I hope everyone enjoys it.

The Annual Reminder

 

It's July 4.

If you're keeping track, our little ol' US of A is 248 years old. Huzzah.

It's also the 85th anniversary of Lou Gehrig's speech. I've spoken so many times about what Gehrig has meant to me. He was a man of dignity, grace, power, and strength. He was fiercely loyal to his teammates, his parents, and his beloved wife Eleanor. He was everything that was great about athletes in that you loved him on and off the field.

Yet faced with the greatest battle of all -- knowing he was going to die of the disease that was ravaging his body -- the shy 36-year-old stepped to the microphone on "Lou Gehrig Day" against his better wishes. Eleanor had helped him initially with some thoughts in case he decided to speak. However, he had no desire to as the ceremony went on and he sobbed as he was presented with gifts throughout.

Eventually, Yankees manager Joe McCarthy nudged his former star to the mic. An announced crowd of 61,808 leaned forward. Scribes did the same in the press box.

Finally, Gehrig spoke. And he spoke those words...

"For the past two weeks, you have been reading about the bad break.

"Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth."

How does one have that grace? How, then, does he conjure this to wrap up?

"...that I may have been given a bad break, but I have an awful lot to live for. Thank you."

We were lucky if we saw you or lived during your time, Lou. We're still lucky to tell your stories and know you were real.

*****

As I wrote yesterday, this great American holiday will consist of lots of burgers, dogs, beverages, gatherings, a baseball game or so, and loud noises tonight.

In fact, I'll be handling PA duties as well as producing the booth for tonight's Cyclones/Renegades game in Wappingers Falls. As I've mentioned, fireworks become a little less of a thing when you work in minor league baseball because you see them so often. Oh, don't get me wrong. It's for the fans and they love it.

It's especially for the kids and that's exactly what baseball needs to cultivate. We need the younger generation to become galvanized by the game.

Fireworks in my family weren't a big thing. Once in a while, someone would have a pack that they bought in South Carolina or Pennsylvania or whatever state would allow them. They'd get shot off on the street in front of the house and that would be that.

But, for my dad, they always came with the warning, "You be DAMN careful."

As you can see from that yellowed newspaper clipping, my father, known as "Donald" to many but always introduced himself as "Bob," dealt with the obvious bad side of fireworks when handled improperly. Based on his age (six) in this paper, I figured it had to have happened in 1936. Either way, it obviously made him very nervous around fireworks for the rest of his life.

So when I see clowns hung up on posting memes and I know they'll post something about Jason Pierre-Paul, the former Giants defensive end, I just roll my eyes. Pierre-Paul lost a finger in a fireworks mishap in 2015. 

Sorry. I have a sense of humor but maybe some dead horses need to be let go.

Or maybe I just have a problem with the person posting the memes. 

And the people who enable him.

Constantly.

The point is, be safe tonight. Have fun.

Thinking Forwards and Backwards

 

L-R: My mother's mother, my mother, and father
picnicking in the 1950s

In the midst of address changes and other minutiae of the day, I found myself talking about July 4 on "Doubleheader."

It's always been a favorite day of mine, harkening back to years of great BBQs and gatherings with cousins, friends, and other loved ones.

Oh, do I long for the days of Wiffle ball games, softball, kickball, badminton, volleyball, and even the occasional football game. Or just riding bicycles around the neighborhood. Oh, I know, fireworks were supposed to be the highlight but it was the games, burgers, dogs, and ice cream that stood out to me.

Plus Dave Righetti's no-hitter in 1983 against the Red Sox.

Those were good days. Days like July 4 and Memorial Day and Labor Day.

Plus everyone seemed to get along.

Happy days, indeed.

Oh, and for what it's worth, despite the division and moaning about this country, I'll still take this as my home. 

*****

Settling in will continue to be a day-to-day thing. In breaking news, we can all rest easy knowing that the Verizon remote controls were found.

Where, you ask? Do you need me to further enhance the notion that I'm a senile clown?

OK, well, they were in the very bag that I brought all of the Verizon equipment in. Then I took them out as I assembled things on Monday. I put them on a shelf out of site as I tried setting up.

And that's where they stayed until I discovered them this morning.

So, yay, except the TV still doesn't work. A call to Verizon will happen eventually.

Beyond that, I moved some things around, beginning to put the living room in a certain amount of how I wanted it to go. I also got the kitchen to the point where I could eat both breakfast and lunch at the table.

And  -- wait! There's more! -- we took the remainder of the Bruce Park items that we picked up last night and took them to the Holly Hill facility (aka "the dump). With an assist from the staff there, we stopped at the proper places to leave old appliances and other things. 

Including a cat tower. Destructocat finally killed it.

We're considering starting a GoFundMe for a new one.

But, seriously, that's an achievement. There were things that had been sitting for years and, with an assist, we were able to go to Holly Hill and take care of it.

Otherwise, tonight is a night to just lay low. Last night opened my eyes to not push it so I'm sitting in my room watching the (moribund) Yankees play the Reds.

I've never forgiven the Reds for 1976 though I've mostly gotten over it.

Probably best to not get me started. Not only do the Yankees stink right now but MLB just continues to prove it needs new leadership that understands the fans as well as the players. I realize jerseys are a whole aesthetic that some don't care about but others do. 

Including me.

In a sport where it's nice and easy to have players wear their own uniforms for the Midsummer Classic, MLB and the overlords at Nike in their infinite wisdom (and pursuit of the almighty dollar) push these abominations on us.

Blech.

Back to the Renegades tomorrow.

Lots of fireworks to be had.

Boom.

The Wall

 

I don't need no frustrating evenings

This was bound to happen.

I'm sunburned and have pain in my calves, back, and now my neck. A stiff neck is not exactly what I needed.

But I have an engine that doesn't shut down easily. I'm more likely to pace or occupy myself in other ways instead of just stopping.

So after a day of being on the phone with Verizon for internet service (partially resolved), going to Walmart for a few needs (a new bat mat, etc), hosting "Doubleheader," going back to Bruce Park to clean and pack up things to take the dump, and a trip to Home Depot, I returned to the new digs.

Sean went upstairs. I went to the kitchen and started unpacking.

And eventually, I slammed into the wall.

I was trying to hang something up and it didn't go well.

I felt like I was running out of cabinets for what I was putting away.

I was just, generally, burned out.

On the plus side, the cat is adjusting well and is currently at my feet as I type.

But the rage that began to build in me was vintage Robert Sr. At that point it's definitely time to stop.

Let me not portray to you that my father was a violent man. He was not. But he got frustrated and his volume would get elevated.

I was getting there.

I suppose some of this was sitting in me all day, going back to the Verizon call.

Verizon was quite helpful during the moving process and assured me that it would simply take plugging my current equipment in to get online.

Internet, for the record, isn't the end all but it's enormously important for what I do. I used my cell phone data to post last night's post.

But I need it to work from home.

Anyway, I plugged in and hoped for the best. I saw promising signs but, well, it didn't work.

So I called this morning. It took a while and I was passed through a few different people.

The internet now works and that's exactly how I'm writing tonight.

But the TV isn't working, in part because we can't...find...the remote... controls.

Yup. That.

So I was patient. Even if I now appear to have not been. I've poured through bags and boxes and it just has not turned up.

Is it here? Yes. I'm positive of that.

Will I find it? I'm certain I will eventually.

And so I have to just keep grinding and stay calm.

And recognize when I've pushed myself too hard.

Like tonight.

Moving Out

(After using a Taylor Swift reference yesterday, Sean chided me for not going with Billy Joe. "It's right there," he said. Even though I've used it before, I'll use it again.)

Four in the morning.

Not for a conference. Not for vacation.

But after anxiousness and impatience climbing out of my skin, it was finally time to move.

I thought maybe I'd get up at 4:30 and start breaking down the last of what was left. But my body had other plans.

Then Rascal decided he wanted to eat. Sleep was over.

I was under the impression that the keys -- the infamous, blasted keys -- were waiting for me in what would soon be my mailbox.

So I pulled some things together and decided I would go investigate. Honestly, I wanted to do it last night but I followed the (apparent) rules of the situation.

And so I walked in at 5 a.m. The keys were indeed in the box and the door was unlocked. I must note that the place was not painted and/or cleaned, despite being told myriad times that it would be a hangup.

I also set about bringing the things that were in my car.

Then I went home where Sean was still asleep.

But Kris and Danny, and eventually Steven and Ethan, would be down to round out our moving team.

We were officially off and running a little after 7. It took three loads in Kris's trailer, plus three vehicles.

They all left around 5. It was painful and sweaty and grueling and all of the things that moving is. 

But it's over.

Mission accomplished, and we couldn't be more grateful.

There was, however, one more thing to get. Poor Rascal. He was terrified, mostly hiding in my closet all day.

Trying to settle into his new home.

Now, before any pet lovers overreact, he has emerged here and is investigating things. He jumped up on my bed at one point, which was a very normal sign.

We're on the right path.

There are still a few things back in Bruce Park, plus we need to turn the keys in, but we'll go back tomorrow and clean that all up.

And there's absolutely no question there's a lot to do. For one, the internet isn't working so I'll have to call Verizon tomorrow and hope to avoid a visit.

With a hopefully pleasant night of sleep ahead, I'm hoping some of the pain I'm in will fade. While I was vigilant about hydrating all day, I had a really hard time with cramps later on. I felt it in my arms and legs and I wasn't a fan.

And my back, as expected. Ouch.

But I stayed aggressive, eventually getting some Gatorade and I'm looking forward to settling down soon.

Once the laundry is done.

Many thanks to everyone for the kind comments and support throughout this process. I was touched by the reaction to my picture with the keys from this morning.

I could do without the number of spam accounts that tried to lure me into whatever but so it goes.

Gideon Fountain -- realtor and radio station boos -- will forever be a hero to me for his assistance through this process. I can't recommend him enough.

Kris, Danny, Ethan, Steven, and Sean (of course) were all rock stars in what was a long day of packing, moving, and maneuvering.

We're in our new home. 

Long may we stay.