Baseball

 From left: Lou Gehrig, Joe Cronin, Bill Dickey, Joe DiMaggio, Charlie Gehringer, Jimmie Foxx, and Hank Greenberg. 

Check out that picture above. Look at them: Gehirg, Cronin, Dickey, DiMaggio, Gehringer, Foxx, Greenberg. Even non-baseball/sports fans know at least two of those names (Gehrig and Joe D., of course).

It was taken at the 1937 All-Star Game at Griffith Stadium in Washington. Look at that glorious NBC sign in the background. Incidentally, three radio networks broadcast that game (NBC, CBS, and Mutual).

You might not know that every one of those players is enshrined in the Baseball Hall of Fame. Yet they are. Those guys aren't scrubs. They're among the best to ever play the game of baseball. Naturally, I've written tons about The Iron Horse, and a few words about DiMaggio as well. Bill Dickey, by the way, is vastly overlooked.

For you non-fans, Jimmie Foxx was the loose model for Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own.

You probably know this, if you've read anything here, but I love this great game. My god, we've screwed it up incredibly over the years. The race issues were deplorable. The sport struggled with growth and competition from the NFL through the 70s (and it continues today). We've added playoff teams and dealt with drugs (steroids, greenies, cocaine, etc. Go on. Look it up.). We're worried about pace of play and bringing the inner city back.

We had Black Sox and a gambling Red (just put him in the Hall of Fame, please?).

We have the Babe. The one and only. The single greatest, most important athlete in the history of sports. Yes, I know, Jim Thorpe, Bo Jackson, and others might have been better true athletes, but given everything involved, there's Babe Ruth and everyone else.

We've sold our souls too many times. Baseball shouldn't open at night, but ESPN's money is too much to overlook.

Yet tomorrow, in the day, with the stands full and the records 0-0, the lines will be painted fresh. The grass will be gloriously green. I wish a band would play, and we could recreate some of the openings of seasons past, but a voice will intone the starting lineups, and they will gather on those freshly-painted baselines. The anthem will be sung. A ceremonial first pitch will be thrown. There might be a flyover or some other special effect.

Then, as there has been since 1869 (the generally agreed upon "first year" of Major League Baseball), a batter will step up to home plate. A pitcher - 60 feet, six inches away - will author a first pitch.

And there will be baseball. To me, for its history, grandeur, strategy - everything - it is the greatest game of them all.

Football is the national passion. Baseball is the National Pastime.

Give me 714. Give me .406. Sixty-one. Fifty-six. I wish we could have 1918 back, but time marches on. A fan knows what these numbers are.

Give me the billy goat. The Bambino. Curses real or imagined.

Give me those uniform numbers that we all know: four. Three. Seven. Five. Forty-two.

Give me The Mick. Jeet. Gabby. Dizzy. Daffy. Dazzy. Pudge. Yaz. Three-Finger. Blue Moon. Vida. Catfish. Bucky. Stan the Man.

Give me Willie, Mickey, and The Duke. Tinker to Evers to Chance.

Give me The Called Shot. The Homer in The Gloamin'. The Shot Heard Round the World. The Miracle of Coogan's Bluff. Those last two are the same thing.

Give me Ebbets Field. Forbes Field. Crosley Field. Now give me Camden Yards and Fenway and Wrigley. The Big A. Chavez Ravine.

Give me the corner of E. 161st Street and River Ave. The most famous address in sports history.

Give me the Royal Rooters and the Bleacher Creatures.

Give me 27 rings.

Give me those great quotes, from music to movies to TV and beyond.

Take Me Out to the Ball Game. "Luckiest Man."

“That's baseball, and it's my game. Y' know, you take your worries to the game, and you leave 'em there. You yell like crazy for your guys. It's good for your lungs, gives you a lift, and nobody calls the cops. Pretty girls, lots of 'em.”
―Humphrey Bogart

Give me Vincent Edward Scully. The man known as Vin. The man who learned at the side of Walter Lanier Barber, the Old Redhead himself sitting in the catbird seat, while the bases were FOB (full of Brooklyn).

Give me a Ballantine Blast. Tell me "It's Miller Time" or "This Bud's for you."

Give me Cooperstown (maybe in a little over a week from now).

I love this game. It energizes me. Engulfs me. Fills my heart, yet breaks it. It enraptured me for sure when I saw my first pro game in 1972 and a guy named Murcer doubled off another guy named Palmer. One is a hall of famer. The other doesn't need to be.

It made me cry when in 1996, my boyhood team won their first title in 18 years, and I couldn't share it with the one person I wanted to share it with.

Most of all, selfishly, give me a microphone so that I can broadcast it.

This is the beginning of my year. This is when I feel refreshed.

This is when I know that this horrible winter is over.

It's Opening Day.

Play ball.

I Can See Right Through That

In 1978, a budding superstar stepped to the plate in a tight baseball game and watched as a pitch hit the outside corner.

Strike three.

The young stud athlete cried, vowing to never allowed that to happen again*. The backwards K (the scorecard indication for a called third strike in baseball) was another red mark in an otherwise stellar year. One that featured three donuts.

*My batting average was .000

Not long after, it was determined that my right eye - my lead batting eye - was weak. My father promised me a present for my first hit in the 1979 season.

I got glasses and I singled in my first at-bat. Pop and I went to Tom-Kat Sporting Goods in Mahopac and we mocked up a white T-shirt to look like a Yankees away jersey (number 55 on the back, of course).

I generally resisted my glasses (though insisted on having them on for my fourth grade picture). I'd wear them for my times at the plate in baseball, casting them away as soon as I reached first base on struck out (swinging).

For the record, I never did get caught looking again. I became a serious student of the strike zone, and knew how to work my way to a walk, though it stunned me when legendary coach Lou D'Aliso started batting me leadoff later in my illustrious career.

By 1984, I wanted glasses to be a backup, and worked my way into contact lenses, and oh what misadventures we had with losing them and breaking them.

In the early 90's, my left eye caught up my right and I was into wearing two contacts.

Within the last year, two things happened: 1) I ran out of contact lenses, and 2) I couldn't afford new contact lenses.

Then a little over a week ago, the trusty glasses that I had for roughly five years snapped on me. It was time for a change, and a reality check.

Yes. I'm 46, and my reading vision has deteriorated (I'm traditionally nearsighted). So it was time for a progressive bifocal lens. At the same time, it was time to shake it up and go to a plastic frame.

That's what you see above.

There might be some contact lenses again, but I've also had people tell me I look "better" in glasses.

Oh no. That's not supposed to be insulting at all.

Anyway, it will be nice to call a game with the proper vision again. Speaking of which, games begin ramping back up tomorrow. It's almost baseball season.

I can see clearly now.

The Egg and Cheese Sandwich

My phone rang a short time ago, with the news that teen sensation Sean Adams wanted "one of
Daddy's amazing" cheesy egg concoctions.

Let's not get into why that news was delivered via a phone call. It would waste valuable brain cells.

So I went upstairs, grabbed the frying pan, plopped some butter in in, whipped two eggs, lightly toasted some bread (we didn't have rolls or bagels), threw a piece of cheese on the toast, laid the eggs on top, and it was done. His majesty asked for a piece of ham on the side, and I complied. I put my ham on my sandwich (after heating it up, of course).

Sean raved. "You really are a great sandwich-maker. You get the right consistency of the cheese, without overpowering the eggs."

Yes. That's a quote.

Yet there is nothing special about it. To be honest, I think my egg and cheese creations are terrible. I think a few people have gagged them down at one time or another.

The eggs aren't fluffy enough. I've dabbled with different attempts at adding flavor and the results have been, at best, tepid.

Still Sean likes them.

Baffling.

This Post Will Be a Dinger (Sorry, AP)

From the notebook of Rob Adams, once and forever "sh*tty reporter":

Deadspin reports that the 2015 Associated Press Stylebook, the...er...Bible* of too many periodicals to count, is updating how sports stories are to be written.

* Yes, Bible is the correct term here. You would understand if you've ever been in a newsroom and heard some smarmy editor/reporter climb to the pulpit and, in their best "schoolmarm" voice say: "That is not proper AP style!" Incidentally, to be a proper schoolmarm (male or female, in this case, by the way), it is preferred that your rrrroll your "r" in "proper."

I've seen the performance. It's quite impressive. I too appreciate AP style. In my world, I would love all broadcasters to ascribe to the Barber/Scully stylebook, but to my knowledge, Gus Johnson is still employed.

OK, digressing here fantastically, let me return to the task at hand, since by now I've likely infuriated friends and colleagues, many of whom at this point either aren't getting the joke or are simply sarcasm-impaired.


Getting back on-point, I don't think I used the term "dinger" when I wrote baseball stories for Tim Murphy in the Wilton Bulletin (we, too, are adjusting style, so following along, I'm not italicizing publication titles anymore. Though I might. You never know.).

I tend to avoid too much slang (shockingly) when I wrote professionally because I thought, golly gee willickers, that it should be sort of "professional." Ergo, AP style!

I also don't think I've written "disaster" in regards to a loss, but I've abso-frickin-lutely used it on the radio. Because it is.

Then again, us sports radio "talking heads" are the lowest of the low. You know, at least a rung or two below a "sh*tty reporter."

I'm having fun with this, if you couldn't guess. It allows me to write with glowing snark and sarcasm, without unburdening the raging rapids of anger buried deep in the soul.

I hope no one is a wet blanket over this sockdollager. I'd bet a simeolean or even a sawbuck that the sap who came up with this malarkey is just a reuben or a rummy. But even the tomato I was just talking to says it's all on the up and up. All this hooey has me wanting some hooch. It's just that I need to be a little more hard-boiled, that's all. A fella needs a nice get-up to meet him a floorflusher. So come on, Daddy-o. Let's go have a whiz bang of a time and spend two bits to get a few ducats to watch the Babe hit a couple of whammers. It will be a hoot!

(Most, if not all of that jargon, came from this site. Fortunately the AP isn't giving me the bum's rush.)

A Wilton Disappointment

Wilton High School's field house

They aren't disappointed in Wilton. Oh goodness, no.

The Wilton High School girls basketball team - the Warriors - won a state championship last week.

I'm the one feeling the disappointment.

We had a fun day last Saturday. Thanks to the weather, a combination of Eric Gendron, Chris Kaelin, Jake Zimmer and I called three hockey games at venerable David S. Ingalls Rink in New Haven. It's quickly become one of my favorites places to work. Oh the press areas are small and I had to climb over the counter to get into it, and there can be the awful mix of raging egos of fellow reporters and broadcasters, but I overall like it. There are people I enjoy seeing as I try to earn my spot (after a mere 18 years) in the club of Connecticut media.

We wish congratulations to EO Smith/Tolland, Darien, and Suffield/Granby/Windsor Locks. Each hockey champion won fair and square.

There was, however, no basketball on our air. This is where you will find my disappointment.

In short, it involved contracts and rights and so on. Hopefully they get it sorted out because I wasn't thrilled to see the (at least) three other radio stations that were allowed to show up at Mohegan Sun, while we had to leave our mics at home.

I'm disappointed for Kato, John Kovach, Paul Silverfarb, and Nora Delaney. Each one was looking forward to calling a state championship game. I've called so many, and they're still a big honor, and a huge responsibility that I do not take lightly. Kato would have had the call for at least a couple of the hoops games. Those would have been his first championship play-by-play gigs.

They were simply not to be.

I'm disappointed because I wanted to see Wilton - those Warriors - attempt to win the Class LL title.

We had only just met a few days earlier. I was setting up for a boys game while they were on the floor, practicing, when they spontaneously broke into The Star-Spangled Banner. I stopped, respected the flag, then applauded. Of course I said "Play ball." Once an awkward idiot, always an awkward idiot.

As I walked past them, I said, "See you tomorrow night."

Then they went out and beat Stamford the next night. We followed them to their semi-final matchup against Mercy at Jonathan Law High School under a week later. They won 55-54, to advance to their first state championship game.

After it was over, I interviewed Eric Meyer, a Providence College-bound senior. As we ended the interview, I told her that we would see her at Mohegan Sun. I laughed and said the Warriors were 2-0 with HAN Radio in the room. Politely, with a laugh of her own, she said she wanted us there for the championship.

Then we found out we couldn't go.

What made me want to go? A number of things, but one of them was just how excited they were. As we know, girls athletics don't get the attention. They were pleased to see us (or at least they acted it). They came on with Paul Silverfarb and I on Nutmeg Sports two days after they won the title.

They also deserve that attention because they're a terrific basketball team, and the second best team in the state of Connecticut, regardless of school size.

I wanted to go because it was a story I wanted to tell. It's a team whose core grew up together, and now they were 32 minutes from being a state champion. I wanted to see Erica, and Haley, and Erin, and Makenna and their teammates play South Windsor.

They won, 73-45. John Miscioscla has more at the Wilton Bulletin.

They didn't need us there, to be honest. They can get the video from CPTV, and I'm sure it was a perfectly fine call. They'd likely never remember the polite radio people anyway.

That wasn't the point.

I wanted us to tell their story, along with those of St. Joseph, Notre Dame of Fairfield, Westhill, Fairfield Prep, and Bunnell (local schools, all).

Nobody will lose any sleep, of course.

That doesn't squash the disappointment.

Instead of going to Mohegan Sun Saturday night - instead of figuring out all of the logistics - we called our three hockey games.

I smiled as I reported the Warriors championship (along with St. Joe's, and congratulations to them).

Then I packed up and went home.

I'm sure the Warriors bus ride back from Uncasville was a far more exciting affair.

Respect

I grabbed my copy of the Darien Times Thursday morning, which featured an editorial by Susan Shultz, on the recent girls hockey game situation, along with overall thoughts about gender equality.

Before you roll your eyes, this isn't some kind of "I am woman, hear my roar bra-burning manifesto." Gloria Steinem is nowhere to be found. This is just a common-sense view of doing what's right.

I am so proud of this editorial, and how it looped into my overall vision for HAN Radio, that I hung it at my desk in Ridgefield. It's strong, powerful, and passionate.

I'm also honored to have inspired the editorial, but it is really more about the girls on those two hockey teams than it is about me. I'm a conduit, and nothing more.

It speaks of respect, a concept that will always drive me. I demand it - from others and from myself.

Anyway, it seems the story has died, and the two teams won't play a rematch. That's too bad.

Respect is more than an Aretha Franklin song. It's also harder thing to achieve than at first glance. It should be easy. It's not.

Guess that's about all I've got.

Route 106

Route 106 didn't go that way in '89. It does now.

Connecticut Route 106 winds from its beginning at US 1 and Interstate 95 in Stamford (near the headquarters of WWE, for you wrestling fans) through New Canaan into Wilton, where it ends at route 53. You can learn more about it at Kurumi.com.

It's a route number that I've been on many times, especially the parts around Stamford and New Canaan. I don't use the stretch between New Canaan and Wilton as much, because I never had the need, but there was one day I specifically remember being on it.

March 17, 1989. St. Patrick's Day.

It was a Friday, and I needed to do some shopping for a birthday present for Sean's mother. After finishing work in Rye Brook, NY, I decided I would go to Danbury Fair Mall before picking her up. I felt like I had some time on my hands, so I could take one of my interesting drives.

I hit the Hutchinson River Parkway, which becomes the Merritt Parkway once you enter Connecticut. Then I decided to take 106 from the Merritt to US 7 in Wilton. I found how 106 twists and turns from one road to another (including parts of Wilton, such as Belden Hill Road, that it no longer uses).

Once I reached US 7, I went straight to Danbury, did my shopping, moved onto picking up Sean's mother and proceeding with the night. I kind of wanted a quiet night, but she wanted to go out and at least take a drive. I felt like I hadn't seen my dad in some time, and a night at home would be nice. She won.

I had last seen Pop on Wednesday morning, when I let Bandit, my cat, out. My father was eating his breakfast in the kitchen, leaning on the counter as he always did. We exchanged looks, not even a word, and I went back to bed.

Dinner was nothing special, after all I was 20 and working in a mail room for General Foods. So it was Denny's in Newburgh, NY. From there we took a drive down US 9W from Newburgh to the Bear Mountain Bridge and got back to her house around 11 or so. Her father - never one to meet us - told me to get home.

I thought it was my nearly 93-year-old grandfather in Florida. He would die six weeks later.

I came home to cars in the driveway and garage as normal, but an empty house. A phone call produced the answer: my father was dead at 59 of a heart attack.

I've told the stories before. So much of the events after are crystal clear. Making phone calls. Watching college basketball all night before getting an hour or two of sleep.

I've talked about him here. Soft. Caring. Hard. Flawed. Strong. Great-hearted. Determined. Stubborn. The greatest smile. All among the tons of descriptions.

I carry the hurt of 3/17/89 in my heart everyday. I wish I could figure out why. I wish I could figure out how to truly get past it. I stand at attention during every national anthem, not moving until the last note is over. He hated the disrespect shown. He didn't like those who began to move or applaud before the last note. Heck, I struggle to move when I need to adjust a commercial during a broadcast.

Do like Orioles or Darien fans do, and insert yourself into the song? Oh no. No, no, no.

I still subtly point to the sky after that last note every time. That's for him.

With his parents, 1957.

St. Patrick's Day is still a day of bittersweet feelings. I want to smile and laugh and celebrate. I want to do something good to honor it create happy memories. Some years it's easy or happenstance. I was in Disney World one year. I was driving to Stratford-upon-Avon, England another year. I was out laughing and enjoying a frosty beverage with friends on another. I had dinner in Little Italy with my cousin and Sean and extended family member Brittany for yet another (yes, Italian food. Funny.)

Yet that same year, I knew things were changing uptown, and indeed I would be in a whole different relationship status a few weeks later. So it goes.

I love keeping my father's memory alive. I tell stories and I'm sure I've made a few of you say "Oh please shut up about him" from time to time. Again, so it goes.

I love seeing that son has picked up those eyes and that smile. It's a wonderful thing handed from grandfather to father to son.

My would be 85 now.

With some goofy kid, early 1970's.

I've had the reason to drive that stretch of Connecticut Route 106 a few times recently due to working in both New Canaan and Wilton. Just last week, I had to use it to get to a basketball game at Wilton High School. Because I don't drive it frequently, and because it was early March, the memories of that night, and of my dad, flooded my brain.

It's just a road of course. Yet when one of the very foundations of the connection between father and son is roads, and the countless hours we spent driving between New York and Florida, along with multiple other trips, it can begin to make a little more sense.

I'll wear some green today. Perhaps I'll have a drink to toast a man who never drank an alcoholic beverage in my life. I'll broadcast a basketball game later, and that will make me happy.

Then it will be March 18. St. Patrick's Day will be over. The Quiet Man won't be on TV. The beer, bagels, and everything won't be green (at least not on purpose).

Another day will begin, Spring will be here soon, and Route 106 will be just that.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Sláinte.

Is It All a Test?

From Saturday in Stamford

Yesterday, I posted what I thought was a pretty strong column - via hanradio.com - about a girls ice hockey fiasco that I witnessed on Saturday. I thought for sure when I posted it on my Facebook page it would spark discussion.

That sound I heard was crickets.

The reason I'm bringing this up is because I posted the following a few hours ago.

Boom! So began likes and comments.

It's all fairly fascinating.

What I'm guessing is this is another example of Short Attention Span Theater (of the absurd). Or because today is Monday. I really don't know.

I have no quarrels with those who commenting and liked the above status, but it did sort of prove my point about social media, um, er, "enthusiasts."

Anyway, another rambling rant from here. Alas, we move on.

Just very curious.

The Ties That Bind: The CT Girls Hockey Mess

I called a terrific girls hockey game yesterday that ended in a tie after two overtimes. The overriding reason was that the boys FCIAC game was due to follow (at least that's the belief). Still, it left a very bitter taste in the mouths of many, including mine.

I wrote much more about the game in my column, From the Press Box, on hanradio.com.

Go here to read it, and thanks.

After Two Games

We called two hockey games on HAN Radio today: the Connecticut girls hockey championship and the FCIAC boys hockey crown.

The girls game ended, sadly, in a 2-2 tie after two overtimes.

Yep. You read that correctly. I'm still annoyed for those girls, none of which I know, from towns I don't know very well. Simsbury and the cop-op team of East Catholic/Glastonbury/South Windsor deserved a better fate.

In the second game, the Greenwich Cardinals fell to the Darien Blue Wave, 5-3.

That, friends, is eight periods of hockey. It doesn't make me a hero.

I walked into Terry Conners Rink in Stamford a little after 11:30 this morning. It's now past seven.

I'm not complaining, of course. I love calling games more than anything else I do.

But right now, I'm wiped out. Six games in the past week, a website to maintain, multiple radio shows to do, and lots more. Sometimes I just need a break.

Again, I'm not complaining, but I'd hope for a little slack if I fumble the ball.

It was good to see my old WGCH colleagues: Sean Kilkelly and John Spang. Great guys and great friends.

Anyway, in a confluence of events, the other guys on the crew today needed to leave for one reason or another, leaving me as the lone guy to pack up.

I'm packed, but I'm just too burned out to leave. Plus it feels good to sit down.

Anyway, I'm rambling. Many more games to call.

Just a Minute

I felt the need to stop in and say hi. You'd think I could do this once a day, but no.

I read of a Mahopac guy tonight who took his own life yesterday. I don't know anything more than that, but it serves as a fine reminder that there are people who will listen when things are hopeless. It doesn't mean they have the answers, but they'll try to help somehow.

That isn't always what one needs, but it's a start. Not all help has to be about money (and let's face it: that's the biggest stress, perhaps, of them all).

What little I know is that this person was from Mahopac and lived in Greenwich. I sort of know both places fairly well.

UPDATE: Jeff Pearlman has more on David Clingerman, MHS grad.

Regardless, I'm sad to see what I'm reading on social media. People are suffering.

There's a lot of suffering going on.

*****

I had a conversation with someone about religion tonight. Faith is supposed to bring us a certain sense of peace, thus the segue. My dad often preached (see what I did there?) that one shouldn't talk religion or politics, but it was a very nice conversation on a dangerous topic.

Minds don't get changed. That wasn't the purpose of the chat anyway. I'm glad I had it.

There's a thought now that we don't really need to be raised on religion. To each their own. I know those who have been impacted very negatively by organized religion. Others do it out of tradition. Others do it because they want to.

Again, your mileage may vary.

While I'm on the topic of such things, I'm going to post this story from the Darien Times about the passing of Cardinal Edward Egan. I have strong thoughts here, but I'll return to what my father believed. However, I will say that there is no defense when it comes to abuse of children.

None.

The reporting, however, is exquisite in its simplicity, because, to be honest, it's far more complex than you realize. Darien should realize how lucky they are, and they don't, to be blunt. They don't give "Editor of the Year" awards, and that's too bad.

Yet like talking about religion, I'll stop there.

*****

Lastly, Han Solo/Indiana Jones/Jack Ryan/Dr. Richard Kimble/Mr. Calista Flockhart appears to be just fine. For the love of a Wookie, he made the Kessel Run in less than 12 parsecs, survived carbonite freezing, got around the snakes, beat Hitler, and survived the godawful Temple of Doom with Short Round and the Crystal Skull. He can handle this. Hell, he survived Air Force One, right?

May the Force be with you, Harrison.

Like a Kid

I'm getting ready for two hockey games.

We will have the FCIAC girls ice hockey championship at 12:10 and the first round of the boys hockey tournament at 2:20.

Good luck to Darien and Ridgefield in game one, and St. Joseph and Ridgefield in game two.

But I was jumping up and down like a 12-year-old earlier, and I can't say why.

Just excited, I guess.

I'm blathering. On the air shortly.

Happy Birthday, George Harrison

George Harrison would have been 73 today. We lost him over 13 years ago. Far too young, of course.

In honor of his birthday, I'm digging into the Exit 55 archive to present a lost guitar solo from "Here Comes the Sun."

The full song is posted below, with the extended solo. It's quite amazing.



I recently gave a friend an entire catalog of Beatles music, along with some George. But as much you can lead the horse to water, you just can't make them drink. I hope one day, more people will discover how absolutely brilliant George Harrison was.

My Drive

Patriots Place/Gillette Stadium, Foxborough (wink wink), Ma.

If you're not new around here, you know I'm fairly fond of roads. I love a good road trip.

That being said, if you've ever gone with me, then you might know that I have a tendency to switch things up.

I went to Boston this weekend for the annual NENPA convention. It was a somewhat subdued weekend for me, not because I wasn't happy to be there, but because I dealt with some kind of sickness that made my Saturday a little lethargic.

Regarding the awards at the convention banquet, congrats to the winners, including Paul Silverfarb and my friends from the Darien Times among them, along with Aaron Marsh of the New Canaan Advertiser. Good, hardworking colleagues. Great journalists and editors.

Anyway, as I prepared to leave Boston, I decided that I wanted to shunpike my way home. In other words, I didn't want to give the Massachusetts Turnpike a dime (in part because I needed to update my credit card number on my EZ Pass account).

So I hit the road...heading south. Oh I could do 93 to 95 to 9 to 66 to 691 to 84. I could do 93 to 95 to 6 to 384 to 84. I could do 93 to 95 to 287 to the Taconic. I could do 93 to 95 to...

You get the idea.

Here's what I actually did.

I started on I-93 and took it to its very end at I-95 at the south end of what almost makes up a beltway around Boston. Then I took I-95 south, stopping off for gas and a quick visit to the home of the New England Cheatr...oops...the Super Bowl CHAMPION New England Patriots.

Very nice facility, by the way.

I stayed on US 1 and jumped on I-495 before going back to 95 long enough to exit 295 and enter Rhode Island (Destination: Quahog! GIGGIDY!).

I exited 295 at RI route 146, which crossed me BACK into Massachusetts. This is where I really got creative. I looked at my phone, examining different route options and decided to exit at MA route 16. I proceeded west on 16, passing through towns small and not-too-small. I passed the impossible-to-pronounce Lake Lake Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg (you call it corn, but I call it maize). According to Wikipedia, some call it Webster Lake, or Lake Chaubunagungamaug.

That led me to Webster and MA 12 for a short jaunt before proceeding onto MA 197, which took me into Connecticut. I stayed on CT 197 until I connected with CT 171, before finally pulling onto CT 190, which connected with Interstate 84. I behaved and drove the rest of the "real" way home.

Some consider me nuts. I am. But it was still nice to have a little fun. It's why I love to drive.

I Don't Care Anymore

My mind goes to strange places.

I don't like ambivalence, least of all in myself. I've been one who - even when I say I don't care about anything - always cares.

And yet...

I've been sitting around thinking otherwise, and that leads me back to Phil Collins.



It got me wondering: is that the greatest ambivalence song?

I will always remember having this song suggested to me as I went through a life event. This isn't about not caring. It's about something completely different.



That memory makes me smile. Sort of. Somebody was looking out for me.

Anyway are there other songs that present such ambivalence? Come Exit 55 cul-de-sac (we certainly don't have a "nation" here)! What other songs am I missing? Is Phil Collins the perfect one?

Just random thoughts.

A Scene Worth Watching

I was thinking about the scene in the embedded video below today.

You want romance? You want star power? This will do quite nicely.



The Philadelphia Story came out in 1940 and remains a classic.

The Gift

Thirteen years ago I was graced with a son.

Let me restate that: I was graced with a child. Sure, I wanted a son because I wanted the last name to carry on, but I wanted a healthy and happy baby.

His mother and I got that and so much more. Along came this beautiful little boy, with eyes that are reminiscent of my dad's, and a smile to match.

What I'm trying to say is that he was a great baby. We were truly blessed.

Thirteen. A teenager. Unreal. Where does the time go? Cliched, I know, but true.

We know the deal by now. He's not a sports fan. Yes, he has pictures of the Yankees and Steelers and Rangers in his room. He's met some athletes, but he couldn't pick them out of a lineup. It's fine. I like that he is himself.

I've loved the moments of talking about Pokemon, Transformers, Minecraft, and Doctor Who. I've loved watching Star Wars with him. I've loved our own things: trains and Waffle House and other silliness.

He's made mistakes. Good. He can learn from them.

But he's also made people laugh. He's shown class, grace, and dignity. He's learned from good people all around him: his grandparents, aunts and uncles,cousins, teachers, friends, and his mother. Hopefully he's picked up a thing or two from his father also.

I'm proud to be his father. Unless you're new around here, you know that.

The days ahead are scary. He's a teenager, and that comes with a whole new set of speed bumps. I just want him to stay grounded and level. I cherish  everything with him so much because it changes in a heartbeat. He still likes to have that moment when he is with me and he's going to bed. It's our moment. It won't always last.

My son, so named because we decided "Sam" wouldn't fly (um...Sam...ADAMS?) and given the middle name to honor his grandfather (thus Sean Robert), is a wonderful young man.

Thirteen years ago today, he came into the world.

He's a teenager.

Oscar

I love the Oscars.

I've watched countless Academy Awards ceremonies because I'm a movie buff and a history guy. I love the random nuggets, the montages, the conversation.

I love going on Radio Arts and Leisure, Fridays at one at hanradio.com to talk about movies when I can.

Yes, I can do without the red carpet stuff. I frankly don't care what you're wearing (I have a pair of Calvin Klein "lounge" pants and a Pittsburgh Steelers AFC Champions t-shirt on, if you're wondering). With all due respect, I don't miss Joan Rivers tonight or her daughter (much respect and RIP to Ms. Rivers, of course). I don't remotely care about Robin Roberts, Lara Spencer, Michael Strahan, etc.

Again, no disrespect, but this isn't why I watch. I'm not into the pretty people. I like when they have great performances worth discussing.

So I dig the show itself. I'm one of the few who enjoyed David Letterman and Seth McFarlane in the years they hosted. I love the honoring of the past, fused with the present.

Yet.

We're 43 minutes in as I'm writing, and I'm bored out of my skull. I'm not interested in live-tweeting, blogging, or anything else. It's just not doing it for me so far.

Maybe it will get better.

I'm flipping to hockey. The Rangers are winning.

Carry on.

Love and Music

George Harrison...of course.

I watched the Grammy's the other night, and it crystalized for me how generally out of touch (Hall and Oates, 1984) I am with current music.

Sure I've heard of some of the names, and maybe even some of the songs, but overall, I'm lost. I'm not the target demo.

Quick side notes: Kanye West made an ass of himself, and in no way should Paul McCartney ever be a backup singer for Kanye or Rhianna.

Anyway, I found myself thinking about music. I still love it in the way that I love baseball. It's one of the passions of my life, whether I'm out of touch or not.

I'm often overwhelmed by my collection (numbering roughly 20,000 songs) so I sometimes don't know what to play, or play the same things occasionally. But I love the power of a song (and the Power of Love, 1985), and those who have read this blog (I hate that term, but it is what it is) know this.

Music takes me places. It reminds me of things. There's a song in my head every morning. It's the secret thing I would have done had I not screwed up my life by going into radio.*

* I didn't really screw up my life by going into radio. Well, maybe.

Of course, it can remind me of bad things also. Jon from R-Va gave me a Bruce Springsteen album in late 2007. I decided, given what was occurring in my life at that time, to give it one play and then shelve it until that era was over. For whatever reason, that's the only time I've ever played that album.

I go through phases. Since the late 2000's, I've largely not listened to U2, The Police, or the Eagles. I have my reasons, and they make sense. It's just the way it goes.

I mentioned love in the title of this post. I suppose I don't mean love in the traditional sense (so let's not overanalyze this). What I mean is loving to share music with people. When somebody tells me that they really don't know The Black Keys or George Harrison, I'm all about sharing that. I think that's exciting. Maybe it's the educator in me. I don't really know.

I love jumping into a spirited debate about music (or sports and so on). I recently had one regarding one mans list ranking every Billy Joel song. It's a fun exercise.

To his credit, Christopher Bonanos didn't select "Piano Man" as number one, though I'll let you read it for yourself. I thought he gave gems such as "She's Right on Time" no love, and that's the beauty of it. It's subjective.

Chris Kaelin detests Bruce Springsteen (yes, that's the proper spelling). To me, it's further proof that he's nuts, but opinions are valid. Some don't like The Beatles (blasphemy!) but that's their thing. By comparison, I'd be torn as to what I'd rather do: listen to "Shake it Off" on replay or anything by JC Mellancamp. Or just be water tortured.

I don't worship Michael Jackson or Lionel Richie. At the same time, I recognize talent. That's where I suppose the debate takes a turn. At least understand that there's talent. You might not get it, and that's fine. Just understand that some became popular for a reason. I'll never understand New Kids on the Block or Justin Bieber, for instance, but more power to them, I guess.

Yet as time goes by (you must remember this...) opinions change. Tastes change. Many songs in the 80s that I didn't like are remembered fondly now. Though some things never change ("shooting at the walls of heartache" lead me to want to shoot myself).

And there are great "guilty pleasures." You may go for Barry Manilow, while I cranked "Don't Pull Your Love" by Hamilton, Joe Frank, and Reynolds (1971) last night. We all have our thing. A verrrrrrry singable song for me.

On a different topic, I've begun to wonder if my concert-attending days are over. I don't have anyone to go with, for one thing, though that's not an end-all, be-all, but I've always believed that, as sacred as I hold music, it's something I want to share with a significant other. I love Paul Silverfarb, for instance. He's a great friend. But he's also happily married to Beth, and should go to shows with her. If I have someone, then OK, we can double date.

I want to share Huey Lewis, or Bruce, or McCartney, with someone. MY someone. Don't you want somebody to love? (Jefferson Airplane)

But there's more. Tickets have become overpriced (I just looked at attending a show by former Yankees outfielder Bernie Williams: $69.50!). Parking is obnoxious. Or transportation in general. I guess what I'm saying is a lot of factors go into it.

Would I like to go see Billy Joel again? Sure. With whom, and will I need a mortgage?

Sometimes I also wonder if, as sad as it is, was my ONE Springsteen show enough? I can't afford the tickets (that's been established) and maybe it's just as well to walk away when I caught him in '99. I didn't deal with Patti Scialfa hatred (yes, it's real) or disgust that Gary US Bonds, Tom Morello, Bruce's political stuff or some other factor out of my control sullied a potentially great night.

Maybe I'm just happy at this point seeing the smaller venues, and supporting people who are just trying. It's nice to see the cover band who is doing their best in a dimly lit bar and the guy who is playing his original stuff trying to get noticed.

Plus so few shows are just about, you know, the music. There are too many examples to cite. I'm a big show up and play type of guy. You play. I'll sing, wobble (I can't dance - Genesis), and hold my love. It works.

I went to great shows. Bruce in '99. Huey in '87 at MSG. Macca in '09 at Citi Field. The Eagles in '94 at Giants Stadium. I didn't go to that many shows (for various reasons) and I'm left to feel I'm not a real fan because I wasn't willing to put myself into a deeper poor house, but I cherish those I went to.

Of course, when you say you're a Bruce fan, you're overall mocked if you dare to say you've seen less than 20. That's a cross for me to deal with. I have my 10 HLN shows and I'm just fine with that. Just see them once, folks. Nobody is every disappointed.

I also went to a few dogs: Sting at Jones Beach and U2 (yep) at MSG in '05. They both had their reasons for being blech, but so it goes.

None of this deters me from loving music. Maybe I'll get back to attending shows. Who knows?

But it won't change. There's magic in the night.

I still love making a mix tape (though now it's a playlist for your iPhone). I'm always reminded of the fabulous book, Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield, and I will never be able to recommend that enough. Though I bought it for someone else at a different time in my life, I remember it hitting on so many pertinent things for me. It's basically the story of his time with someone he loved so dearly.

There are quotes from that book that have stayed with me. These are some good ones:

"It’s the same with people who say, ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.’ Even people who say this must realize that the exact opposite is true. What doesn’t kill you maims you, cripples you, leaves you weak, makes you whiny and full of yourself at the same time. The more pain, the more pompous you get. Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you incredibly annoying."

"Unlike me, Renee was not shy; she was a real people-pleaser. She worried way too much what people thought of her, wore her heart on her sleeve, expected too much from people, and got hurt too easily. She kept other people's secrets like a champ, but told her own too fast. She expected the world not to cheat her and was always surprised when it did."

"I know people for whom music is just background noise. They don’t listen to it. They just consume it. These people have never made a mix-tape for anyone. These people are not my friends. These people have no soul.”

For me, this is probably the money quote:

“I realize that I will never fully understand the millions of bizarre ways that music brings people together.” 

So as we glance towards Valentine's Day, the much-loathed and overrated clusterbleep that it is, let us pause to remember the role that music plays in love, in life, in good, and bad times.

I leave you with Frank Sinatra, and arguably one of the greatest pieces of music ever written, as performed by the master of interpretation. These feelings are so known. So relevant. So real. We've probably all had them.

"I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near. In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night that repeats in my ear: Don't you know, you fool? You never can win. Use your mentality. Wake up to reality. But each time I do, just the thought of you, makes me stop before I begin. 'Cause I've got you under my skin."

Perfection, with the Count Basie Orchestra in 1965.

A Quote From Vin

I sent a Vin Scully quote along last night and it was greeted with a chorus of crickets, which is a fine metaphor for a summers night, listening to the master.

I'm posting one here, before pitchers and catchers report.

“Football is to baseball as blackjack is to bridge. One is the quick jolt. The other the deliberate, slow-paced game of skill, but never was a sport more ideally suited to television than baseball.”

I love football. Love hockey. Love basketball.

Baseball has always been my life.

This winter has just been terrible. Late March can't get here soon enough. I don't have high hopes for the Yankees again, and that's fine (though not really), but the idea of warmer weather and the game that has always fueled me makes me believe maybe there's a light peering through the very back end of this bad tunnel.