#NationalDogDay

One of the best ways to wake up.

Full disclosure: I've never really owned a dog.

That's largely true. My mom briefly owned one after my dad died. My niece, Laura, brought two dogs when she moved in with me for a stretch in 2009-10. She brought Grim (fairly bratty little thing that still freaks out Sean at the mention of his name) and Roxy.

Roxy. In my lifetime, I can think of two dogs who have ever had such an impact. Not to say there aren't other dogs I adore (cousin Kris and wife Lori have Bailey, who is super cool, for instance), but Roxy and my dearly-departed friend Scrappy (he of the Harold/Tracy/Cameron/Katie household) are the two.

Scrappy.

I wrote about Scrappy once. We (and I'm not part of their family, but I feel comfortable saying "we" when it comes to Scrappitydoo) lost the sweetest corgi in 2011. Hard to explain, since I was just a visitor, but man we had a friendship. That dog was always thrilled to see me, and vice versa. I'd think "nah, just a coincidence," but I realized I had to give myself a little credit. He always had to show me the toys and then play with me, and god forbid if I didn't. The barking would commence. He'd flop right down on his side for me to pet him every time.

Roxy, as she lived with me, is a whole different story. Sean and I have a running gag, that when we go to Fayetteville to visit her (oh yeah, and our human family also), she'll bark furiously at us, the realize who she's barking at.

"Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Oh, it's you."

"America's Dog," Roxy

Roxy has visited us for sleepovers and hogged the bed and faithfully snuggled, and laid on my feet as I worked, and walked and peed and pooped and barked and played and done a whole lot of dog activities.

We once made up a breed for her when someone asked: A Red Heeler Hippadooda. OK, Red Heeler's are real. Hippadooda's aren't.

Then there's Harry The Wonder Dog (The Wonder Dog part is mine, trademark circa 2014) who died (we're journalists, so passed away is a short story in our world) late last year. He's still very much missed by his family.

I only knew him by his bark, but he was a faithful, adorable dog.

So whether it's Mason, Max, Diggy, Daisy, Elmo, Gracie, or some other four-legged canine pal, Happy National Dog Day. A little extra Chuck Wagon is yours tonight.

A Moment of Bliss

North on I-95, preparing to cross the James into Richmond (My photo)

The photo above likely means nothing to you, unless you're a road nut.

To me, it represents sheer joy.

Let me explain.

We began the rather arduous drive home at the back end of another fun and fabulous time in Fayetteville (and Raleigh), North Carolina on Sunday. We left Raleigh at 7:30 that morning, with the stated goal of trying to reach Fishkill, NY by 6:00 to drop Sean off. My son, rising freshman, needed to be at Orientation at John Jay High School the following morning.

We coasted over to a Sheetz in Rocky Mount, NC for a break before hitting I-95. I promised Sean that this would be a long stretch without a break, though I tend to stick to breaking after approximately three hours. Yet I got on a roll, and had every intention of steamrolling past Washington, DC.

I did. We didn't stop until we hit Gettysburg, PA* on US 15 roughly four and a half hours later. Only the need for food and gasoline stopped me.

* Incidentally, we also stopped at Sheetz in Gettysburg for sandwiches. Don't get me wrong -- Sheetz is just fine and dandy -- but Wawa wins by a landslide.

North of Gettysburg (I took US 15 to get away from the coast and the beach bums heading home on Sunday), the ride became a quagmire of rain and slow cars. What looked like a possible 9.5 hour drive became 12.5 hours. I got Sean home just before 7:30 that night.

But back to the picture. My affection for Richmond, Virginia is quite obvious if you've read Exit 55 since the beginning. One of my closest friends, the great Jon (and Rebecca and their amazing daughters) live there, as do a few other friends. It's why I've long-considered it a place I would move to if the chance arose. It's comfortable.

Getting closer to the James River Bridge, with RVA in the background (My photo)

So now take that and add in the view beyond that sign. Crossing the James into downtown Richmond is truly one of my favorite entrances into any city. While it doesn't beat the WOW moment of emerging from the Fort Pitt Tunnel in Pittsburgh, there is something magnificent about how the city of Richmond just sits right in front of you.

Now cue the music. I still enjoy turning the dial to hear what local radio plays, and was doing just that when I found one of RVA's classic rock channels. While a lot of the usual stuff played, it was the sounds of "Come Together" by The Beatles that made this moment complete. It was the right groove for my 70 MPH drive through a favorite city, thinking about the friends I have there.

It was bliss.

That's rare.

(One last note: my road photos were used on a web page. Go here to see the work that Robert Malme put into making my pics of the Fayetteville Outer Loop look good.)

Fayetteville Market House - Then and Now

My thirst for history got me looking around he interwebs this morning, since it's only nephew-in-law Hector and I sitting at the kitchen table in Fayetteville while everyone else sleeps.

We went downtown yesterday to have a look at their Transportation and Local History Museum (the potential for road geeking -- and train geeking for Sean) was too much to pass up.

Well it wasn't entirely that, but it is still a museum that it is worth your time and effort (it's a quick visit). The people are wonderful and full of information, and the price is...well...perfect: free.

As we walked, I kept reading references to the Market House, and came to understand that the building -- where Hay, Gillespie, Person and Green Streets come together -- also played a little role in road lore.

Indeed, this was once the intersection of US 15A (since deleted) and US 301 (since moved). So I trolled around online and came up with this image from NCSU Libraries:

Business-bannered US 301 shield at right (NCSU Library)

They're marking that picture as "circa 1955," but I don't think I agree, given the US 301 sign and some of the cars in the picture, but I suppose it's possible. I'll leave that to those smarter than I.

Anyway, it seemed nobody else in my traveling party took note of the references to the Market House, so after we left, I decided to drive around downtown Fayetteville. Sure enough -- and it didn't take long -- I found it.

Fayetteville Market House, 2016 (My photo)

Before we wrap up, here are a few other nuggets from our visit to the Transportation Museum. I found an old white North Carolina guide sign hanging in a window.

I turned the camera so it would look right on in the picture.

An old street sign blade.

Incidentally, the kind man in the museum couldn't answer Hector's question about when stop signs switched from yellow to red. I didn't have the exact answer (the gentleman mumbled something about "local laws" or something), but Richard C. Moeur's Manual of Traffic Signs has the answer (1954).

Pretty cool yellow STOP sign, pre-1954.

And a license plate with "55" in it. Just. Because.

Anyway, give Fayetteville some love, for a variety of reasons. Cool downtown museums (with minor league baseball on the way as early as next year, so I hear, per the Fayetteville Observer), Fort Bragg, some shopping, restaurants, and more. I've come to really like it here.

Exit 55 at 10

This is my place in Blogland, but this sign is from Robbie's in North Carolina.

So here we are. We've done 2241 posts over 10 years, with this being number 2242. It seems like just yesterday we began with a post about the beginning of the long goodbye to Yankee Stadium.

That was 10 years ago today: August 17, 2006.

We've talked about rubber bands, Paul McCartney (even if we weren't really talking about Macca), an ode to baseball, and had a drink at the Yankees Saloon.

We've talked about love. Life. Football. Politics. Roads. Music. Movies. Broadcasting. Vin (just Vin).

We've done a lot, yet I never felt like I've done enough. But I'm glad I've continued doing it.

It didn't make me famous. It never had a huge readership. But we made friends (Hi, Tim! Hi, Paul!) and enhanced other friendships.

We also ticked a few people off.

My life has changed immeasurably from that day. I'd love to go smack my 37 year-old self in the head but we can't change things, so why think about it?

Only one post hasn't been published, and still sits in my "draft" folder. A few others -- maybe 10 -- got deleted before I ever published them.

Too many stories. Too many memories.

I hope I'm a better writer than I was 10 years ago. I hope I'm a better person than I was 10 years ago.

I hope I'm a better father, friend, son, brother, uncle, and more.

I, like this blog, will always be a work in progress.

We've done this for 10 years, and I've mostly loved it.

I've wanted to open doors to conversations. Debates were always welcome, and still are.

I've felt nearly every emotion imaginable over the past decade. I pondered hanging the going out of business banner when I reached today. But there are still stories to tell and, as I type this from my nieces' house in North Carolina, I feel reenergized.

Thank you for reading and supporting. It's truly an honor.

Blog Best: Oniontown and the Big "Hit"-ters

It's right off NY Route 22, and they're content to be left alone.

It's the most-read post in the history of this effort. Posted on July 5, 2008, I examined a small enclave of Dover, NY called Oniontown. Sadly, a few idiots from my own hometown decided to go for a joyride in there and folks weren't too pleased.

I've long been content to let the town (and their residents simply be), but I did write the post, and indeed, Google "Oniontown" and there it is, just a few notes from the top. It continues to get hits everyday.

So there's that.

Incidentally, this piece from Vice referred to Mahopac as "wealthy." Huh. If that's the case, I've really been doing this wrong for a long time. A little research goes a long way.

Anyway, local radio station WRKI, "I-95" (no, Interstate 95 goes nowhere near it) did a bit on it, and there's a video embedded in there, so have at it. I'm sure they'll like the clicks.

Other posts that got the most hits were...

Basketball on TV (which was about my joining Tom Prizeman to call some hoops on local TV in Pleasantville, NY)

Red Barber and Harry Caray in the Same Post! (which, in my opinion, shouldn't happen)

Linda Cohn Plays Captain Obvious For Us (for the record, I like Linda a lot. We watched hockey together at Yankee Stadium)

Diane Schuler: The Continued Outrage (a story that still confounds and outrages. A story that grew into something national, and a spot that pass quite often on the Taconic State Parkway. A story that didn't need to be)

Yet these aren't the posts that a few (very few, mind you) people told me were the best of the best. We'll try to get to that tomorrow. Perhaps.

Thinking About 10 Years

I could have used Phil Rizzuto or Rick Cerone or Celerino Sanchez or Tony Kubek or Jim Zorn...

Next Wednesday, I will likely write from North Carolina to recognize the 10th anniversary of this little place in blog land. Here we are, still on Blogger (I work in WordPress a lot, but it seems like too much work to migrate the whole thing over to there - right or wrong?), and many (OK, all) of those who started blogs around the same time have stopped. They, however, were the ones who inspired me to start doing this.

So thanks to Sean Kilkelly, Matt Hamilton, even Mick the Great, and the others who gave me the drive to start Exit 55 (yes, that rhymed, but I'm hardly a poet).

Incidentally, want to know the back story of the name "Exit 55?" Go back in time, and forgive the MySpace reference! (Short version: I like to drive and my number is 55.)

Anyway, it got me wondering if there's a favorite post (or I guess even a least-favorite post). I guess what I'm saying is: what are your thoughts on the past 10 years? It could be about the blog, your life, our friendship, whatever.

A lot has changed in 10 years. Some things have stayed the same. I wish I could tell you every story, but I just can't. There are things that I truly chomp at the bit to write about. Some happy. Some not. Some infuriating.

For as much as I've revealed, you can bet there is plenty that I haven't.

When thinking about the posts, I recall Yankees Heaven, McCartney, the Taconic Parkway and a lot more.

I also found myself thinking today about a segment of the TV show Modern Family, in which Gloria, played by Sofia Vergara (must be said with the proper accent) tells her husband Jay (Ed O'Neill), essentially, that she's a bit of a fiery wildcard, and to suck it up (more or less) because they can work through anything. It made me smile. I'm a bit of wildcard myself.

I'm babbling. It feels good to write.

Scent of a Neighbohood

Just a boy in Christmas pajamas and a Santa hate with a white reindeer. In Florida. Move along. (1970)

It's a bright, sunny, still somewhat humid morning here in the 845.

I stepped outside just now, getting ready to do some stuff on this Sunday, and to stroll to the end of the driveway to pick up the newspaper.

Yes, some people still get a newspaper. Yes, some people still get a newspaper delivered to them.

And I'm really glad they do -- for myself and my friends. For people who still respect print, newspapers, and journalism.

I digress.

The reason I stopped at the computer to write before I go back out is that, as I got back near the garage door, a smell jumped into my nose. I can't describe it - maybe slightly floral, a combination of the humidity and who know? But it took me back to a long-ago address in a long-ago life.

It was the smell of my grandparents' house in Florida.

I can tell you the address -- 1611 Forest Hills Drive, Holiday, Florida -- but they don't live there anymore. In fact, the house isn't even at that address anymore. The town renamed the side streets and gave out new addresses years ago.

But I can tell you this: in that brief nanosecond, where I could smell their yard, and their house, and see them sitting in the Florida room, with my parents and my siblings, and maybe a cousin or two, life was pretty great.

The scent quickly disappeared, and that was that.

But it was sweet.

Son of Sam and #Journalism

Depending on who you talk to, I'm a journalist.

Anyway, that's what Paul Silverfarb and Susan Shultz and a few others tell me.

Regardless, it's not a secret that I'm passionate about media - not just radio. I love TV and newspapers and journalism, and how we cover big events. I've said - openly - that how we handle breaking news is shameful in today's world. The use of a breaking news slate (that static image you see on your TV screen that said "NBC News SPECIAL REPORT") and the dramatic music was jarring to your senses. It spoke to something BIG.

Now we use it if a Kardashian has liposuction.

Anyway, I read a story by Cady Drell in Rolling Stone this morning. The story: "How Son of Sam Changed America" - highlighted the crazy tabloid journalism that exploded in the summer of 1977. But it further suggested that, perhaps, it was the beginning of the movement to evolve towards something none of us knew in 1977: clickbait.

I remember that summer quite clearly. I remember the fear that the story struck around New York City. I read the papers - my father brought the New York Daily News and the Peekskill Evening Star home every night. I was a radio and TV nut. Even then, I was the budding media historian.

Plus the Yankees won a title that October. So there was that.


We were just a few years beyond the incredible work of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. Yet here we were, giving a whole new meaning to "ink-stained wretch." Because of my naive world view of an eight-year-old in 1977, I wasn't quite aware just how low the media went that summer.

This story highlights it.

Incidentally, #journalism (yes, that hashtag is there for a reason) still really matters, and there are great journalists doing remarkable work, on a local, national, and international basis. I've mentioned a few who deserve respect  (hello, Susan). Scott Pelley on CBS gives me reason to believe that the story is still the thing.

I digress.

The Rolling Stone piece is a worthy read. Worth a click for sure.

Dates

There are days in our lives (I used to watch that soap opera with my grandmother) that are significant. For better or worse, we know those dates. Sometimes we let them go because of changes over time. You probably don't keep track of a past flames' birthday, if you know what I mean.

But for me, dates like March 17, February 23, June 25, and I suppose even November 22 are significant. Each for better and/or for worse.

And today: July 31.

We have reasons for these days. July 31 is baseball's trade deadline. It speaks of promise and change. That's what July 31 means to me. It's exciting and promising.

If you have a passing interest in things around here, you know that I've been very quiet. I went through some changes over the past month, and I'm still figuring things out. I have a new show that I'm hosting, "Greenwich Sentinel's Doubleheader", currently with Paul Silverfarb, Andrew Frattaroli, and Andrew Mitchell. The Andrews will depart for college in August, leaving Paul and I on our own*.

* I'll have an opening for anyone who would like to co-host on Wednesdays. Inquire within.

Oh, and the show is on WGCH (1490 AM, Greenwich) and wgch.com weekdays from 3-4. It's what you would expect from me: loose. Fun. Firm. Wide-ranging. Unpredictable.

According to those I've spoken to, it's also a hit, and I'm pleased to hear it.

Anyway, change is daunting, as we know, and I'm the flipping Cowardly Lion.

The moves I've made certainly weren't easy, and some were made sort of on the fly (and are still on the fly). So we're adjusting as we keep moving forward.

The blog is frequently on my mind. I've lamented many times about not writing enough, and I try to remind myself to go easy and cut myself some slack. This isn't a paid gig, but I've always been grateful to each person that has taken the time to read, and so I believe in putting content out.

Yet, if you look, I've changed. On August 17th (another date of significance for me), we'll hit 10 years of Exit 55. I don't write as much as I used to, and I don't write the way that I used to.

There was a fearlessness here at one time. I wrote, hoping to inspire, and create conversation. Instead...I...just...don't...write. It seemed like this had become Exit to Scrutiny, and yes, when one uses a vague writing style, one opens themselves up to interpretation.

I never wanted this to simply be about the Yankees. Or the Steelers. Or Vin Scully. Or Huey Lewis. Or roads. I didn't want to write about just one topic.

I wanted to take a stab at seeing what I could write about. Did I have some Mike Lupica in me, or some other writers whose style (but maybe not their content) I've admired?

In some ways, I'm writing the 10th anniversary post now, though I hope maybe, come the 17th (I'll be on vacation then...at least I think so), I can put a few thoughts together.

I still have lots of thoughts, but sometimes there's a price to be paid, and I'm trying to decide how to pay that bill, or if it's worth it.

So we cycle back around to July 31st. The Yankees made a few trades earlier today -- sending Andrew Miller to the Indians might be a watershed moment for the franchise -- so there is promise for the future. It reminds me of a message I sent out once on July 31:

"You need to get out of there."

I'll always be glad I sent that.

Tomorrow we swing into August. The days are growing shorter. Football training camp is underway. Sean is roughly a month away from being a high schooler.

I'll call my first Greenwich Cardinals football game on September 10.

Times change. We all move on.

Promise. Excitement.

July 31.

A Pocket Protector

Yes, that's a pocket protector. It's on the windowsill in my mother's kitchen. Those are indeed pens and pencils in that pocket protector.

Not very highbrow stuff, is it? I mean, there is likely zero interest to any of you about a pocket protector and a few writing utensils.

*****
Some really bad stuff happened in the wee hours of this morning in a place full of joy and excess: Orlando, FL.

There is a club there called Pulse. It's billed as a gay club, and that's relevant, sadly. Early this morning, a man walked in and essentially executed 50 people.

Out of what is now being called the worst mass shooting in US history, we are getting the usual rhetoric. People are angry and, in this Presidential election year, going to social media to let loose.

To which I say no. Hell, no. Not today.

Oh I reacted also. I read things and then I sat down and wrote, quite honestly, one of the angriest posts in the nearly 10-year history of this blog.

Yet I keep coming back to the same thing: not today.

But I get it. I really do. You're mad and disgusted.

You're angry. Horrified.

Fifty. More injured.

It seems like it is a form of terrorism. Is it because it was a gay nightclub? ISIS? Some other group? Just random hatred? All of the above? None of the above?

At the moment, it's not important.

Again, fifty are dead. At least that's the report.

We know nothing, but we think we know it all.

We don't.

Fifty. At last count.

Leave politics out of it today. I don't care if you're proud you voted for Chris Murphy, if Trump sucks, if it's Obama's fault, if you're a Tea Party member, or if you want to somehow go back and lay it at the feet of George Washington.

Right now, I'm thinking that fifty families aren't concerned about the politics of it all .

Not yet. There will be plenty of time for that.

But. Not. Today.

Think of Mina Justice, whose son Eddie was there, and according to the Associated Press:

He told her he ran into a bathroom with other club patrons to hide. He then texted her: "He's coming." 

"The next text said: 'He has us, and he's in here with us,'" she said. "That was the last conversation."

I don't think politics are on her mind.

UPDATE: Per the list of victims from the City of Orlando website, Eddie Justice has died. He was 30 years old.

Friends (I'd like to believe I can call you that), today is not about you. It's about those in Pulse Nightclub in Florida.

A gay nightclub.

Where 50 people died this morning.

Fifty.

Focus on that.
*****

So we're back to the pocket protector. It's still not making any sense to you, is it? You see, that pocket protector was likely last used in early 1989. Those pencils and pens no doubt worked off some kind of paperwork from a plumbing supply company in Yonkers.

My mom put those out just recently. They belonged to my father.

I'd rather look at a dirty old pocket protector then think about politics or gun control right now.

It's a terribly sad day in our country, and I don't say that to be trite. We've seen bad things in recent years, and sadly we've become immune to it until we realize it's worse than normal. Then we go into either blatant phony outrage, or "thoughts and prayers."

It's all about "me me me."

Blech.

Not today.

Reflect. Pause. Tell someone you love them. I just did, simply because we never know.

Think about those fifty people.

Or find a pocket protector that makes you smile.

Ali: The Self-Appointed Greatest

Before he was Ali, Cassius Clay met four British lads in Miami in 1964.

I wasn't going to write about Muhammad Ali. I just wasn't. Like Prince, I was just going to let it go.

You know Prince died, right? Not Elvis or John Lennon or McCartney or Dylan, but Prince. Huh. OK.

Anyway, that's my point, even if you liked the person who has passed (I had some regard for some of Prince's music, and liked Ali), you're a horrible person (and likely accused of being a racist) if you dare to show any warts. At least according to comedian and "radio personality" Jim Norton.

If Ali wasn't one of your heroes, you're probably an asshole. Forever grateful to have met him.#RIPMuhammadAli pic.twitter.com/jKjgPXqDIw

— Jim Norton (@JimNorton) June 4, 2016

Well thanks there, pal.

Then I read the most brilliant obituary in the Wall Street Journal by author Jonathan Eig. FULL DISCLOSURE! Jonathan has been on Nutmeg Sports with me and is a Facebook friend whom I've interacted with. We haven't had tea at the The Plaza. I've never met the man in person.

That being said, this obituary is so amazingly outstanding that it must be shared.

It allows us - the reader - to not simply think Ali was "The Greatest" but that he was mortal. Flawed.

So many people have taken to social media today to laud the great Ali, and deservedly so. Ali was a tremendous boxer, but I hasten to say he was the greatest ever. Sugar Ray Robinson and Joe Louis immediately spring to my mind. My dad, who enjoyed boxing (one of the last things I ever remember watching with him was a Mike Tyson fight) said he felt Rocky Marciano was the best.

I'm not saying Ali wasn't the greatest. I'm not saying he was either. I'd probably take Sugar Ray Robinson, but boxing is not my area of expertise.

Ali was The Greatest (see what I did there?). Why? Because he told you so. He was a brilliant marketing showman. He defined it. He was crazy quotable. The interwebs are littered with his quotes today. Heck, even baseball's poet laureate announced the news.

Vin Scully on 'The Greatest of All Time', Muhammad Ali.https://t.co/A8eH3SEM47

— Los Angeles Dodgers (@Dodgers) June 4, 2016

Oh but back to the work of Mr. Eig. You see, I was born around the time of Ali's conscientiously objecting to going into the Armed Services. I lived in a house with a father who wanted to serve his country in Korea and couldn't due to his debilitating arthritis. So we had the two-headed monster of recognizing Ali's brilliance as a boxer, but also the very-common feeling of him dumping on the country.

Amazing how time, the great equalizer, can soothe that. If any quote stunned me in Jonathan's obit, it was this one:

In a career full of seemingly magical feats, Ali’s greatest trick may have been his transformation—from one the nation’s most reviled characters to one of its most beloved. 

Bingo.

Read on and discover how Ali was critical of Dr. King. Can you imagine?

But Ali was the most gifted of people, in that he worked magic to make Americans of the 70s and 80s begin to forget his objecting and embrace him as a boxer, humanitarian, and personality. He was a nearly one-man PR crew, although he had plenty of people by his side (and no small assist handed in by a certain Mr. Howard Cosell, speaking of sports).

Indeed, with the exception of Michael Jordan, he's the most famous face in the history of Sports Illustrated. It's without question that he's one of the most famous people in the world.

Who was better to light the cauldron at the Olympics in Atlanta in '96?

But he was also very real. That attention he craved through his bombast carried into a personal life of failed marriages and myriad affairs.

That's why I love this obituary so much. It allows us to see Ali for all that he was. Civil Rights activist? Yes. Conscientious objector? You bet. Great boxer? Oh my yeah. Funny man? Hahaha, of course.

Flawed? Without question. The truth is, despite the politically-correct bluster of today, we are a nation who likes our heroes slightly flawed. Save for a Lou Gehrig (please read Eig's brilliant biography of him, Luckiest Man), we can generally find some warts in everyone (and Gehrig was habitually cheap, by the way).

Mickey Mantle once told Billy Crystal to be truthful when it came to portraying his story. Mickey told us all he was no role model. The end of his life, when he told us that, were his finest hours.

So rest in peace, champ. Thanks for the many moments of making a young boy laugh, but also for teaching me hard lessons about heroes at an early age.

No-Hitters

Jake Arrieta, working on his no-hitter in 2015 in LA. (Photo: Jayne Kamin-Oncea-USA TODAY Sports)

I just finished watching Jake Arrieta of the Cubs finish no-hitting the Reds.

I love love love love no-hitters. Of course, they're the less exclusive brothers of perfect games (295 vs. 23 as of tonight), but I love them both.

I've watched or listened to too many to count (both perfectos and no-no's).

David Cone. Dwight Gooden. Felix Hernandez. Johan Santana (what a farce). Dave Righetti. Jack Morris. The list goes on.

I remember sitting in the parking lot at Stew Leonard's listening to Jon Miller cal the end of Tim Lincecum's in 2014.

I remember missing every pitch of David Wells' perfect game in 1998 (the first one by a Yankee since Don Larsen - of course - in 1956). I was at a convention in Las Vegas, and found out via TV, and literally yelled.

I caught Cone's in 1999 while in a friends' car, and refused to change the radio. That drive from Albany to Danbury was something to remember.

As social media began reporting tonight's gem, I began to pull myself together for where I would watch the event. Of course, I would also address the so-called "curse."*

* It's said that if anyone says the words "no-hitter" or "perfect game," it curses it. This includes fans, players, coaches, concessionaires, taxi cab drivers, clubhouse attendants, and kindly little old ladies.

And broadcasters. Most of all.

Yet there's this guy - name's Scully - and he's called 20 no-hitter and three perfect games. Somehow, he has said those dreadful words in just about all of them.

Just saying.

So whenever I watch one, I'm reminded of a rainy Saturday: September 4, 1993 at Yankee Stadium. I didn't think the game would be played, and there were only 27, 125 on hand at the glorious old House.

I was there, in the lower deck right field seats. Jim Abbott - born without a right hand - worked his way through a talented and upcoming Cleveland Indians lineup. A group that, in fact, would be in the World Series in both 1995 and 1997.

The rhythm of a perfect game or no-hitter carries is as such: You largely downplay the first couple of innings. In fact, you might not even know what's going on. Innings 4-6 are when things start getting real.

After the sixth inning, people know**. Now the nerves kick in.

** Except for some of the people I was with that day.

In the seventh inning, the buzz builds. The stomach begins to churn.

In the eighth inning, the knuckles get whiter. Get through the eighth, and it's probably time to text, call, or contact your friends via social media.

To the ninth inning. You're jumping at every pitch. You're growling at Kenny Lofton for trying to bunt (BUNT! You wuss!) his way on. To paraphrase Mr. Scully: you're seeing the game with your heart, and not your head.

Two outs to go. This is brutal.

One out to go. Just throw the damn ball.

Then it happens. The ball hangs in the air for an eternity. The umpire calls a third strike. Wade Boggs strikes out swinging.

It's over.

In the ballpark, you're high-fiving strangers, because you now share something that millions will say they were at, but only (in my case), 27, 000 were. You're glowing. You never want it to end.

Of course, assuming your team won.

I smiled all the way home that day, and watched it again on TV later. On the other hand, I glared at the screen when six (yes, SIX) Astros pitchers combined to no-hit the Yankees in 2003.

Interesting side note: the Yankees still have no been no-hit by one single pitcher since September 20, 1958, when Hoyt Wilhelm beat them 1-0.

For me, I'll always have Jim Abbott. Along with the scorecard.

The Final Opening Day for Vin Scully

There's a finality to today.

Vin Scully, the voice of 1000 Vin Scully Avenue (so dedicated yesterday), will ascend to the Vin Scully Press Box at Dodger Stadium in the City of the Angels, at Chavez Ravine, and begin calling his final opening day.

You think I talk about it too much. Write about it until it's over-the-top. Criticize, mock, and laugh at me. I embrace it all.

But we're never going to see his like again.

Ever.

Vin is second from left, and wife Sandi is third. (Photo: Rick Loomis/Los Angeles Times)

From the Duke and the Boys of Summer through Koufax and Drysdale to Garvey and Fernando to Gibson to Piazza to Kershaw. He's seen it all.

He told us the Dodgers were the world champions. Saw the greatest game ever pitched. Witnessed the year that had been improbable, when the impossible happened. Told us about 29,000 and a million butterflies.

We pulled up a chair for him.

We only have approximately 80 games left.

Savor it. First pitch is in about an hour.

Thoughts on the Lawn and The Boss

Yes, I mowed that...and I liked it!

I mowed the lawn today.

Between, essentially, May and the end of October, that would be standard operating procedure. But on April 10 (National Siblings Day, because Everything Must Have a Day), when it's only 46 degrees, and the ground is still sort of soft from the winter, it's a little unusual.

But that's me. Weird, I suppose.

I loved it.

I mean, the thing to understand is that I wanted to make sure the mower would start. It did (after I jumped it off my car), so I wanted it to run for a bit. So...I mowed. Some of the grass didn't go wrong from having it cut (including in that image above). The rest of the yard benefitted from having the twigs and tree branches mulched up.

Don't get me wrong. I won't enjoy it in the not-too-distant future. When it's 95 degrees and the grass is too high.

Yet that time is often my time, in that while my phone is omnipresent, I can still sort of zone out. Maybe I can listen to a ballgame of music (and, yes, good music). Many times, I just think. Which is dangerous.

Blog posts get written after I think.

I will dispel with the #Robcasting, thus sparing my thoughts on things like Bo Bice and Rob Thomas* (Jesus, can stores not play drivel that pounds a spike into your brain for hours after you listen to it?).

* More proof that looks matter with music.

Therefore, I will not climb back onto the American Idol soapbox (that's where ol' Bo comes in...I mean, who really likes him? Nickelback fans?). Oh believe me, I wasn't done the other night. That was the tame version.

I smiled a lot as I buzzed around the yard. My hands were cold, but the smell was that of spring. Of summer. I could smell the cut grass, albeit mixed with the exhaust of the machine, but after it was over it smelled of warm, sunny days.

Of lots of catches with footballs and baseballs.

Of my comfy folding chair with the little tray that pops up to hold a cold beverage and a book.

Of taking a walk or riding a bike.

Of kids playing (even if they're all playing a video game. Sean included).

Despite the thoughts of wanting to write about things that grind my gears, I enjoyed being outside as the daylights faded and the evening grew even cooler.

Sunday nights aren't always my favorite anyway (Sean has gone back to his mother by then), so it was nice to just do something that perhaps seemed strange to others.

*****
A final thing, and this has been percolating in my mind for about 48 hours: Bruce Springsteen can do what he wants. I know he's socially and politically active (yeah, go play another Dem fundraiser). All well and good. Part of what puts him in that line of Woodie Guthrie to Bob Dylan.

But...

Deciding to bail on a concert in North Carolina 48 hours before showtime just isn't cool. Some kid in Greensboro has never seen you before. Some family has booked a hotel or plane tickets to get to this show. Let's be real: if you were a nobody trying to make it, you'd play the show. But because you have more money than you know what to do with, you can afford to be socially conscious.

I get it, Boss. You're the man of the people and you care about human rights. But try telling people that when they can't afford to plunk down $200 to go to one of your shows.

You and I weren't on the best of terms recently, for multiple reasons. I feel like you've lost touch. Something has been ruined for me. As I've said before, maybe it's because I couldn't afford to see you more than that one time, thus rendering me a terrible fan**.

** Yes, there are people who really think this way.

Let's be clear: the North Carolina "bathroom law" isn't cool, but it isn't entirely what meets the eye either.

This isn't a "shut up and sing" thing. It's a "make good on your commitment to your fans" thing. A little more lead time to cancel it, and I'd likely think nothing of it. Forty-eight hours before the gig? No.

We'll make up eventually, I suppose. But let it known that I never had such issues with Mssrs. McCartney, Lennon, Starr, and Harrison. Or a Mr. Lewis of Marin County, California.

You were born to run, Bruce. Back to the mansion on the hill. But don't look for Crazy Janie. She's with Rosalita, trying to get the machine that's a dud, out stuck in the mud, somewhere in the swamps of Jersey.

You left her there.

Adios, "Idol"

I'm going to try to be polite about this.

Apparently, "American Idol" ends tonight. The short version is, I have never - ever - ever multiple times - cared about that show.

But since I'm writing about it, I suppose I'm guilty of caring tangentially. So hey, where's Dunkleman?

I care about quality, and am pretty damn passionate about music. I have long believed that American Idol played a role in the death of popular music. Ot at least in the damaging of it.

Let's let Dave Grohl speak:

“When I think about kids watching a TV show like American Idol or The Voice, then they think, ‘Oh, OK, that’s how you become a musician, you stand in line for eight f*cking hours with 800 people at a convention center and… then you sing your heart out for someone and then they tell you it’s not f*ckin’ good enough.’ Can you imagine? It’s destroying the next generation of musicians! Musicians should go to a yard sale and buy and old f*cking drum set and get in their garage and just suck. And get their friends to come in and they’ll suck, too. And then they’ll f*cking start playing and they’ll have the best time they’ve ever had in their lives and then all of a sudden they’ll become Nirvana. Because that’s exactly what happened with Nirvana. Just a bunch of guys that had some sh*tty old instruments and they got together and started playing some noisy-ass shit, and they became the biggest band in the world. That can happen again! You don’t need a f*cking computer or the internet or The Voice or American Idol.”

Indeed.

Here's the thing: talent is talent. If you want to believe Kelly Clarkson or Carrie Underwood are talented (they are, but I don't think much separates them from what's currently out there), then they would have gotten discovered, just as Dave Grohl implied. Because at the end of the day, the public has a way of deciding. I mean, hey, it didn't quite go for all of the winners, right?

Don't get me started on Adam Lambert (it still sickens me that Queen went on tour with him). Not an "Idol" winner, but he was still part of the circus.

It takes good material and talent to make it. From there, it's fairly hit or miss. The public does occasionally make mistakes, or get caught up in a fad. Then we all wake up and say, "What the heck were we thinking?"

When it came to "Idol," I was never in.  The same goes for The Voice and anything else. As you can imagine, I was no fan of any effort to have a sports broadcasting talent show. I mean, ESPN's "Dream Job?" Really?

Then again, I can't imagine you'd like it if, after years of studying and toiling to succeed in your job, a talent competition came along to find you a colleague/replacement.

Anyway, I'm in the minority. I get that. While the rest of the world fell for Simon, William Hung, Paula, Randy (DAWG!), Justin, Kelly, Carrie, the Soul Patrol, Ryan-freaking-Seacrest, and whatever other godforsaken stuff that went on for 14 years, I stayed vaguely aware of it all.

But virtually never watched.

Peace out, "Idol". Rock on.



The Simpsons Judge American Idol by sir-roddick

It Matters

I was looking at something a moment ago when I let out a big sigh.

It is well known that I sigh. A lot. Some of the sighs are exasperation of one form or another. Others are just a result of my breathing pattern.

This, indeed, was exasperation.

In the midst of video games, The Big Bang Theory, Vin Scully talk, dinner and other home activities, Sean paused to check on his old man.

Yes. He thinks I'm old. He reminds me of it frequently.

Sean: "Daddy? What was that sigh for? Are you OK?"

Me: "Yep" (as I sighed again).

Sean: "You don't sound it."

Me: "It doesn't matter."

Sean: "Yes it does. It always matters, and you sounded upset."

Me: "I'm fine. Just foolishness."

He's becoming a bit of a "teenager." Yep, it happens. But he still cares a great deal about his dad, and I'm thankful for that.

Holy cow. I love that kid.

And a Very Good Evening To You

Our friend Mr. Scully is beginning the swan song of 67 years of magic in the broadcast booth. The Dodgers can say they're not replacing him, and believe me, they can't. If they think what they've hired or have in mind or currently have on staff will suffice, they're nuts.

There are people (present company included) who will care about the Dodgers only because of Vin. Next year, they go right back to the being the hated Dodgers. Once a bum, always a bum indeed.

But for now, let's enjoy the approximately 87 games that the master will give us in 2016. He met the media yesterday for the first time in spring training before calling his first spring game. The gremlins at MLB.com (or here at the Exit 55 Rest Area) won't allow me to embed the video.

Vin and Joe, circa 1984. Yes, I want those jackets. Photo courtesy Getty Images

Also worth watching is this wonderful tribute to Vin's Game of the Week partner, Joe Garagiola.  Here are Vin and Joe, calling a 1987 weeknight game on NBC as the Royals (and George Brett, again) beat the Yankees.

There was a reason why I hated George Brett. He devoured the Yankees.

27 Years

My dad's picture book, ca. 1940

I had a post written this morning, and it somehow got deleted. I'm not going to try to repeat it. Somehow I feel like someone is saying to me, "Dude. Get over it."

My dad's been gone for 27 years.

I've written words and words and words. I still feel the loss everyday.

I looked at picture I posted of him and I this morning and said, "Was he real? Did he ever really exist?"

I don't know if that makes sense. I know he was real. I can still hear his voice and his laugh.

Anyway, so ends another St. Patrick's Day. 

Follow this link to see how you write about loss, by the way. 

An Update

A few minutes ago, I posted the update to a post called Award Winner, now renamed Award Winner (Not Really).

It was also referenced in this post.

Anyway, as I wrote in the award post, Susan and I were not the winners of the NENPA award for Multimedia, as we originally thought. Our colleagues Maureen, Jenny, and Mario were the winners and through a series of mistakes, I wound up going to Boston and accepting the award that I thought Susan and I had earned. They should have been the ones heading to Massachusetts instead of me.

I think I can still talk for Susan when I say we're both incredibly proud of our work. The crew that accompanied me on the broadcasts related to the 2015 Connecticut Girls Ice Hockey Championship game and subsequent interviews helped create memorable audio that was heard around the world. Susan was inspired by us to write a stunning editorial.

It would have been remarkable to share the award with a person whose work I greatly admire (I mean, read this - a gorgeous poem about loss - and get back to me).

The stars were the teams and coaches (Simsbury, East Catholic, Glastonbury, South Windsor). They showed the greatest grace of all.

Hopefully we called attention to what was a confusing situation in 2015.

That confusion rolled into 2016.

Incidentally, a worthy watch (since we're talking about girls ice hockey) is Anya Battaglino's appearance earlier this week on Nutmeg Sports. Pretty cool. A great reminder that athletes are athletes, regardless of gender.

Bud Collins

Dick Enberg and Bud Collins, 1982. Photo by Art Seitz/NBC/NBCU

The news broke yesterday that Bud Collins -- as strong a voice in the media as tennis has ever had -- died at the age of 86.

Ah, the memories of watching Breakfast at Wimbledon on NBC with Dick Enberg and Bud. Dick's "Oh my!" combined with Bud's encyclopedic knowledge, good guy rapport, and sense of humor (not to mention the trademark pans), made for some appointment TV through the 80s and 90s.

Tennis is weaker today. Certainly sadder. Oh the sport will be just fine, but something was lost for me. Heck, something was lost for me when Enberg and Collins split up.

I met Mr. Collins in the late 90s, when I was at Flushing Meadows. Yes, do not be fooled by the fact I was in the shadow of Shea Stadium. Heck, the Beatles played there, as did the Yankees in 1974 and 1975.

Anyway, I was there having won tickets to watch the Imus in the Morning show at the US Open. Bud, a frequent guest of the I-Man, was there with his wife, Anita. I was able to say hello to both of them at one point, as they left the court on which the show was being broadcast from. They were both very gracious and kind to spend the briefest of moments saying hello.

Truly, it was a passing thing.

Thanks, Bud. I hope more people read up on what an important man you were for sports, tennis, and media.