I Can't Dance

Avert your eyes!

I promise to not reference the (arguably) most forgettable album (and era) in the long and glorious history of Genesis (the band, not the first book of The Bible) beyond the title of this post and picture.

Genesis, frankly, wasn't much of a danceable band, though I think you can cut the proverbial rug to almost anything.

But, then again, I'm extremely awkward. (Sort of like Sheldon Cooper, though not really)



Though I will tell you one dancing story. Sean and I would have this game we would play every time we went to Stew Leonard's in Danbury where we would race (without running, of course) to the button that would make the animatronic Miss Chiquita dance and sing. He found Miss Chiquita to be annoying and, most of the time, he'd find a way to run and beat me but, once in a while, I'd speed walk and beat him.

Then I'd break out into this rumba meets salsa meets cha-cha meets I don't know what the hell it was. But it mortified him and that made me love every minute of it.

Anyway, sorry. I digress.

Day 6: A song that makes you want to dance

This one baffled me.

Have I danced? Yes, though the last time I did and felt like I wasn't an idiot (non-Chiquita Banana Division) was probably 10 years ago (though I did do a few numbers at the wedding of Chris and Genna Erway -- different story).

I immediately thought of "I Saw Her Standing There" but I'm sure all 30 days of this challenge could be Beatles songs.

I thought of Huey Lewis also, because Huey Lewis. Of course. But he'll be showing up during this month for sure.

Then, it hit me. Not a song that makes ME want to dance, per se, but a song that REMINDS me of dancing, and maybe I would actually dance to it if I ever got over myself to not feel so awkward again.

Instead, it reminded me of the time a song came on and someone decided to get up and dance because they wanted to imitate someone.

And they danced in the style of Belinda Carlisle.

And it was gloriously awesome.

The thing is, I like the Go-Go's. Sure, they made pop, but they could also rock.

"Head Over Heels" was a perfectly fine pop song in 1984.

Check out Belinda's dance moves and smile.

"Head over heels...where should I go..."

I Don't Care What You Play, Just Play it LOUD!

We've reached day five of the 30-Day Song Challenge that is making the rounds on the socially-distant interwebs.

Day 5: A song that needs to be played loud.

Doesn't any good song -- I mean, really good song -- need some volume?

You know, like the amplifiers in This Is Spinal Tap: "These go to 11."

But I do suppose there are songs that have me looking for volumes that can't be achieved. There's a running gag about "Revolution" by the Beatles (Not "Revolution 1" and sure as hell not "Revolution 9"). If there's a dolt flapping their gums nearby, just let the guitars on "Revolution" drown them out. Works every time.

Certainly "Enter Sandman" does the job as well, and I'll be totally transparent and admit that it became a song to play even louder after it became the theme of one Billy Wag...nah, Mariano Rivera.

There are honestly just too many in this category, but I have to give you something.

For some reason, while thinking about this one tonight, I found myself reaching for Billy Joel. Now, not just any Billy Joel, though I will tell you there are many of his songs that work the volume knob ("You May Be Right" and "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant" both qualify) but "Miami 2017" is the winner.

And, yet, not the studio version. Oh, no. It has to be the magnificence of the one on Songs in the Attic.

From the whir of the siren as Joel's science fiction ode begins to the roar of the no doubt heavily stoned Madison Square Garden crowd in June of 1980, the song gives me need to be alone. Preferably in the car on an open road with a sound system that will not be good for the health of my ears.

The pace and beat are faster than the studio version, powered by the beat of Liberty DeVitto (please, Billy, would you guys make up?).

We won't get into whether or not Staten Island is not acknowledged, though I still say "island bridges" qualifies. 

"They sent a carrier out from Norfolk and picked the Yankees up for free (crowd roar)..."

Hmmm...A-Ha!

This is the one I've been dreading in the 30-Day Song Challenge.

Because, how do I write about this one at all?

Day 4: A song that reminds you of someone you'd rather forget

We all have those people. Chances are they are relationships (romantic/emotional ones) that have soured.

Musical taste often pays a price in that.

I'm trying to reconnect with Van Morrison, for instance. I've struggled with The Police and have a very on/off thing with U2 that's mostly "meh" right now.

Sometimes someone will come into your life that will help you rekindle that. But, often, it's a fatal connection.

I'm vacillating here.

The call here is "Take on Me" by A-Ha, and here's how I had it reach a point of tolerance.

You probably know that I'm divorced. It was (and sometimes still is) an emasculating experience that I could write a book on. "Take on Me" was her favorite song when I met her and, to be fair, I picked on it a lot.

Eventually, I let it pass but, obviously, it was a song I never wanted to hear again and, of course, it's a song that will never die, in the hell that is "Jack and Diane," "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" and "Old Time Rock and Roll."

Commercials use it. Stadiums use it for sing-alongs (a la "Living On a Prayer," which could also use a rocket launch).

Thankfully, Family Guy used it also, and that's where we reached a point of redemption.

"Daddy," Sean said to me years ago, "it's funny. Think of Chris Griffin."

That did it.

So, now, every time I hear it, I groan and then utter to myself in Chris Griffin's voice: "I DON'T KNOW."

Thanks, Sean.

A Reminder of Summer

Fred Howard Park -- Tarpon Springs, FL (2012)

In the 30-Day Song Challenge, this might be the easiest one yet:

Day 3: A song that remind you of summer

There are classics like Hot Fun in the Summertime, Summer in the City, Summer Wind, Cruel Summer along with (Love is Like a) Heat Wave and other songs that bring metaphors and images of hot weather, beaches, and BBQ's. But, for me, it's one song that immediately brings summer to mind.

It simply screams summer (sort of) in the 1980s. Don Henley. "The Boys of Summer."

I can see you. Your brown skin shining in the sun...



I had a longer post written. I deleted it.

As has been noted, people don't care about pandemic thoughts.  Go about your business.

Make sure you bang those pots and pans.

Song Challenge Day Two and Yacht Rock Musical Musings

(Sirius XM -- hey, have I mentioned you can hear "The Clubhouse" there, on channel 211? Not sure if I've said that ...)

It's Sunday.

No, really. I just checked. Despite the belief to the contrary, it's not just "a day." It's Sunday.

It's Jazz brunch day. It's Breakfast with The Beatles.

It's perfect for Yacht Rock.

But, hold that thought, as we dispense with the song challenge.

Day 2: A song you like with a number in the title.

One comes up nicely, stretching from U2 to Billy Joel (C'etait Toi --You Were The One) to even Huey Lewis (The Only One). I mean, we could do this all day. I could go with the pandemicesque (I'm creating words now) loneliness of "One" by Three Dog Night (written by Harry Nilsson, and you get two numbers in the process!).

But, I'm leaning to a guilty pleasure: the album Heart and Soul by Joe Jackson. The song I chose is of wanting love again but, hopefully, one that isn't complicated, set against a sheen of 80s production and wailing saxophone.

I was recently told even my guilty pleasures are cool and, while I appreciate that, I don't think so, but...this probably isn't. "Be My Number Two," for the second day of the challenge, is the call. For the record, "99" by Toto also hits the mark perfectly.

"And if you got something to say to me, don't try to lay your funny ways on me..."



Now, to Yacht Rock. First, I need a ruling and, after consulting with Susan, I'm reaching for the High Priestess of Yacht Rock herself, the one and only Kathy Dempsey. Is this song -- in her opinion -- Yacht Rock? I guess I'd like to know where they got the notion.



Now, to my next concern. Have you ever considered the story of "The Piña Colada Song?"

As in, these two are terrible people? Credit to Susan, as she and I have broken this down to basic dissertation levels. This is masters level, Rupert Holmes 401!

Think about it: they're a miserable couple and they're looking to cheat on each other! She places a personal ad. He responds!

And, of course, it just has to be at an Irish bar (O'Malley's) where they'll cut through all this red tape.

It isn't the cutesy, "Aw, it's you," that our protagonist jackwagon says. In truth, even that isn't so cute. "Aw, it's you?!" Sounds like the time I deadpanned "Oh, there you are" and have never heard the end of it to the point that even I find it funny. You can't go wrong with the classics.

But, beyond that, he's awful. Who, in their right mind, even in 1979, refers to his girlfriend/wife/partner as "My old lady?"

Yet, there's more. How did they get together in the first place? Sure, I forget things. I might forget a favorite flower or something like that. But, to forget that she likes piña coladas and getting caught in the rain but doesn't like yoga? Still, you forget that she has half a brain? And, trust me, if she's someone who likes making love at midnight in the dunes of the Cape, you will not forget her!

Shameful, dude. Like, ponderous.

They no doubt didn't last very long. Or, they were actually Jack and Diane all along.

Yet, somewhere, another part of me has just died as a DJ/computer hits "play" on that drivel.

And, I don't see that one lasting long each.

At least, I hope not.

Thirty-Day Song Chellenge

I'm a tough sell when it comes to trends.

I can jump on immediately -- if not before they become a trend. Or I can wait (or never participate).

I've resisted many of the various challenges, regardless of the pandemic.

But, for my own reasons, I've decided to do the 30-day song challenge that is going around.

I thought about sitting here and giving you one post with all 30 days but that felt like too much.

So we'll roll from here. We can start tonight and end it on May 31.

I'm not aware of rules about repeating artists or anything like that, so we'll do this "Rob Style," or even "Rob's Rules."

But, let's come back to that.

Day 1: A song you like with a color in the title.

While one can opt for Joni Mitchell "Blue" or Coldplay "Yellow" or Kermit the Frog "Bein' Green" this is me, of course, and maybe its because of yesterday's post (which I have since climbed down off the bridge and thank you for the inquiries -- and there were some either directly to me or to others about me), but I think I must once again give Sean some love.

Sean and I drove together a lot and we listened to a lot of music, especially in his preschool years. I would load him into his car seat and he'd put in his request. He has, you might know, a healthy love for The Beatles, I'm proud to say.

This is probably still his favorite. I love it more because of that.

You've probably figured it out, and I'll waste no more time on the buildup.

"In the town where I was born lived a man who sailed to sea..."


Oh, the "Rob's Rules" thing. Seems that, when backed into a corner in a debate, it's the thing to say that I have "rules."

Hmm. No. I have opinions. Easy mistake, I suppose.

See, if I think Babe Ruth is the greatest baseball player ever (and I do...duh) that's an opinion. Doesn't mean you have to agree. You might disagree. The beauty of it is you can respond to that with an opinion of your own. Then I can reply. That's called a "debate."

If you want to think it's Ken Griffy JR or Barry Bonds or Willie Mays, well, that's great. I don't agree.

So, if I say, oh, "Black is not a Mets color" and that I like the Mets in their classic uniforms, including the ones with the pinstripes, then that's an opinion. Scholars can explain this concept much better than I can.

See, I think the Mets putting pinstripes on their uniform in 1962 is sort of bad ass, in that they -- as the METROPOLITANS -- used not only Dodgers blue and Giants orange but they dared to add Yankees pinstripes. Get it? Metropolitan New York? It was a kick in the pants.

If the Mets want to go with black tops, which their lead radio voice Howie Rose decried, and bring back the non-pinstripe all white vanilla unis, then BRAVO! Have at it.

I also hate the Red Sox red batting practice tops and think they're borderline offensively criminal.

They're ugly, but that's my opinion!

Doesn't mean they have to do it. Doesn't mean I have to like it.

You do you.

Have we resolved this confusion or will we go through another round of insanity?

No rules. Just opinions.

SING! "We all live in a yellow submarine..."

Schools Are Done

Jay Jay High School -- Hopewell Jct, NY

I'm pissed.

New York schools officially closed for the rest of the 2019-2020 school year a few minutes ago, per Governor Andrew Cuomo. Connecticut is sure to follow.

And, frankly, at this moment, if your response is to tell me "It's the right thing to do" or "There was no other way," TAKE TODAY OFF.

IGNORE THIS POST.

I'm tired of the fighting I see over this. I had to watch a post of mine drop into political idiocy the other day. I've been rational about this whole thing. I've tried so hard.

Today, I'm not.

My son lost his senior year. So did a lot of others.

And, right now, this is my avenue to spew.

I need these feelings right now.

I'm mad.

Hurt.

Distressed.

Disgusted.

I'm not even sure who I'm furious at. Sure, I don't like the politicians. But that's easy pickings.

I'm doing what any parent would do -- defending my son and his friends and the many other seniors I've met and know.

In my world, when someone hurts, I rage for them, especially when they won't or don't.

So, why am I spouting?

Sean, just now: "I'm upset by this, yeah, but I can't get mad over it. There's really nothing I can do, so it just seems like a waste of energy."

He's a smart kid. So, I'll explode for him.

And, frankly, I've lost a large amount of income to this. Gone is literally all of my springs sports. No Mahopac, John Jay, Greenwich, Brunswick, Fairfield.

I drove by a store -- a store that is about back yards -- and they're OPEN. Like, I'm glad they're open, but HOW ARE THEY ESSENTIAL? (And don't suggest to me they're some kind of hardware store or whatever. Right now I'm not interested)

The messages have been mixed. One day positive. The next negative. Mostly, a ton of gloom and doom.

I don't dispute the numbers. I don't dispute the issues. I've talked to too many people.

But, still.

The prom --likely, gone. Graduation -- same. Memories -- changed. No overwrought farewell music concert that probably would have had me in tears.

Right now, I do not want to hear about silver linings. I'll see them AFTER I work through this.

Where, oh where, is the line? What's it going to take? See you in 2021? See you in 2022?

I'm mad. Just mad at the whole thing.

This is my outlet to get rid of it.

Let me rant.

Allow me -- and others -- to feel irrational and raw.

I'll come back down off the bridge, which I seem to do on a daily basis.

Then we'll move on.

A Whole Lot of Calls

Vin Scully (you were expecting someone else?)

A broadcaster named Jack Benjamin put together a collection of over 350 play-by-play calls as he begins the process to select The Greatest Play-by-Play Calls of the Last 50 Years.

Jack has divided everything up into different sports and different categories within those sports.

While there could be criticisms for the calls being selected, Jack has allowed space for suggestions, so kudos to him.

In fact, kudos to him for this whole project, which has me bleary eyed tonight.

I'm not going to sit here and criticize his effort because, again, he worked on selecting over 350 calls, with clips of each call included.

But, if I may, my only criticism is why not go back further? Play-by-play recordings exist back to 1927 with The Long Count of Gene Tunney and Jack Dempsey. Full baseball games date to 1934. By not including anything prior to 1970, we're missing on a lot.

Just think of the names, like Red Barber, Mel Allen, Foster Hewitt, Ray Scott, Bill Stern, Graham McNamee, Ted Husing, and so many others.

Plus you're missing 20 years in the career of Vin Scully which, granted, we all know that's unfair anyway.

But, seriously, you're then missing on the Koufax perfect game* and the Greatest Game Ever Played and Wilt's 100 point effort and Roger Maris and Don Larsen and The Shot Heard 'round the World. I haven't even touched on the '47 World Series and the Olympics and college football, and...

*I get tired of debating the Koufax perfect game as not being a "moment." It's an inning. OK, fine. It's the finest piece/segment of sports broadcast ever, but beyond that, let's just pick it up with two balls and two strikes on Harvey Kuenn. It's still utterly magnificent in Scully's ability to set the scene, stay measured, but still get excited. It's a master class. Thus, a perfect call of a perfect moment.

As we're essentially at the 100th anniversary of play-by-play (opinions vary; baseball began on KDKA in 1921) this then eliminates the first half-century.

Instead, the oldest call is of Bobby Orr's famous Stanley Cup Finals goal in 1970. Both calls (Dan Kelly and Fred Cusick) are in consideration and both got very high marks from me.

But it's Jack's project so, as I said, criticisms end there.

The process is simple: go through each call and determine if it is:

- Definitely one of the Greatest Play-by-Play Calls
- Worthy of Consideration as one of the Greatest
- Maybe/Maybe Not one of the Greatest
- Probably Not one of the Greatest Definitely
- Not one of the Greatest

They'll then be assembled into brackets and further discussion will ensue.

I'm a tough judge (I know -- no shock). If the analyst steps on a call, it loses points, or loses out completely. That's a huge problem, especially in basketball and local football broadcasts. Some Olympics also.

If the play-by-play announcer can't keep their voice under control (hi, Gus!) well, you know how that's going to end.

Not every Doc Emrick call is "definitely great" in the hockey category, but none of them are below "worthy" (and that's considering his masterful work of Mark Messier's three-goal night in Game 6 of the 1994 conference final isn't included, when Doc called the game for the opponent -- the New Jersey Devils).

Every Vin Scully call (and there aren't that many here) is "definitely great." When you're the master, well, that's too easy.

I'm doing football right now. To that end, here's Vin calling "The Catch."

That's about as loud as Vinny ever gets.

That's the thing: a great call needs excitement but it needs all the facts also. It needs the reporting. Losing your mind doesn't tell me what happened. It certainly doesn't tell my mother, for instance. The play-by-play announcer is still supposed to be a journalist. (Remember: Report, Inform, Educate, Entertain)

Simply screaming OHMYGODHECAUGHTTHEBALLANDHITTHESHOTANDDROVEINTHEWINNINGRUNNWHILESINKINGTHEPUTTLOCKITCOCKITROCKITRESTOCKITANDITSGARGANTUAN!
...does not suffice.

But, as we told by a well-placed troll, he had to teach Jenga to blind people or some such nonsense (that is to say he doesn't remotely care about this).

So that's enough. That's my night. Hope yours has been fine.

I'm heading back to breaking all of these calls down.

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

Earlier today a report on Twitter that said Minor League Baseball was all but finished for 2020 due to the pandemic.

BREAKING: Multiple agents receiving messaging today that there will NOT be a minor league season, rather, an MLB expanded roster and a developmental league playing out of ST facilities.

Huge.

— Joe (@JoeDoyleMiLB) April 29, 2020

Knowing I'd be asked and have several people tell me about the tweet (and story), I chose to get in front of it by tweeting it was just a report.

For now, it is just that -- a report.

There are sources. I don't doubt that. Not questioning any integrity here. However, the report was enough to get MiLB to respond.

👇 pic.twitter.com/nVVqulC9Mq

— Minor League Baseball (@MiLB) April 29, 2020

So, that's where we are for now. Hope continues to spring eternal.

JJ Cooper and others have done solid reporting on this.

I've been told Little League Baseball is still hoping to play.

I don't know about Babe Ruth Baseball or anyone else.

So, we'll keep hoping.

I know the reality and I know I'm prepared.

If and when there's news, I'll let you know on here and/or on my social media accounts.

But, for now, we keep waiting.

It's all we can do.

The Offer I Couldn't Refuse

Sonny looks on with disgust. (Silver Screen Collection/Getty Images)

A friend should always underestimate your virtues and an enemy overestimate your faults.

I have a friend that I call The Godfather.

It happened because I was set to broadcast a game involving his family. He hadn't met me and I was concerned that if his team lost I'd be "sleepin' wit duh fishes."

But, it turned out they won and, whether that mattered or not, he became a fan.

He wrote something today and was interested in my reading it, so he sent it to me.

Now, he doesn't know I'm writing this tonight, and I won't share what he wrote, but it was just a nice message about life.

I work my whole life, I don't apologize, to take care of my family.

It could easily be his version of a  "Luckiest Man" speech, a la Lou Gehrig.

Like anyone, he acknowledged how things aren't exactly splendid, but then he took the time to count his many blessings.

He has his health. He has his work. He has his beloved family.

A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.

We've survived so much, he surmised and he's seen a few things. Korea, the Red Scare, JFK, Vietnam, Nixon, Cold War, right on through to the Gulf War, Sep 11, and so on.

So, sure, he's lucky. In many ways, aren't we all?

There's no doubt there's fear and frustration at this time.

But, sometimes, we just need to see the forest for the trees.

One day, I'm hoping to call upon him to do a service for me.

And live to tell about it.

I want reliable people, people who aren't going to be carried away. I mean, we're not murderers, in spite of what this undertaker thinks...

The Stones

Not them.

"You Can't Always Get What You Want," I suppose.

That is to say, to maybe not be in pain.

I felt...something Friday night. Maybe it was back pain. Whatever it was, something was up as soon as I finished eating dinner.

OK, I'd sleep it off. No big deal.

But, Saturday arrived and I still felt pain in my back. Or, was it in...

No...please, God, no...

Was the pain in my kidneys?

F***...

I have experience with kidney stones. The first time was in 1997. It struck while I was Christmas shopping in White Plains with pain like I've never known in my life. Fearing all kinds of things, I made my way to Phelps Memorial Hospital in Sleepy Hollow (was it still North Tarrytown then? I don't remember).

The nurse looked at me. Then she spoke.

"Robert," she said, "now you have a vague idea of what childbirth is like."

It's like pushing an elephant through a straw.

I spent a chunk of that night in the hospital and stayed home from work the next day. I graduated from college that Sunday in, true to form, a completely forgettable ceremony and experience.

Thirteen years later, on the exact same weekend, I woke up in the middle of the night with intense pain. Again. I fought through the night, watching TV and sleeping just a little. My cousin came over to fix my brakes in the garage. I thought that would take my mind off of it.

He and my mother both knew I needed to go to the hospital. Again. It kept me away from going to see Christmas lights with Sean, whom I sent with the rest of the family as I drifted off thanks to Tylenol with codeine. Weeeeeeeeeeee...zzzzzzzzzzz...

I've had occasional pain ever since the first bout in '97 that immediately has me rushing to drink all of the water I can find.

This time was, thankfully, nothing like either of those. I cleaned the workroom on Saturday, mindful of not working too hard to avoid stress on my back. Again, I wasn't sure if it was back pain and I'm sparing you further details that had me questioning what was going on.

The pain persisted into Saturday night. On Sunday morning, well, all I can say is there's a certain sensation that tells you you've gotten rid of such a thing. Some times it's more, shall we say, pronounced.

There was a feeling of, "Oh. Yeah, I think that was it." Not pain. Definitely not pleasure. Just... "Oh."

And the pain was pretty much gone after.

So, yes, my money is on a small kidney stone, as I feel fine tonight.

This was, honestly, nothing, compared to the events of 1997 and 2010.

Which sort of felt like Kramer on Seinfield.

Which is what I think of every time I conjure the notion of passing a kidney stone.

YAH!

This time, I got...er..."Satisfaction."

The Loretta Swit Interview

Alan Alda, Wayne Rogers, Loretta Swit

I was preparing to go on the air at HAN one morning. I was gathering scores and writing my script. It was April 2016.

"We can interview Loretta Swit," Coffee Break anchor and my then-coworker Kate Czaplinski said.

While I was sports director or sports anchor or lead sports play-by-play voice or whatever my title was at that point, I knew this interview should be mine.

"I'll do it," I think I said.

Loretta Swit  -- once and forever Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan from M*A*S*H -- was coming to Bridgeport to perform in a one-woman show as Eleanor Roosevelt. Given my knowledge of M*A*S*H as well as the Roosevelt's I felt I was suited to conduct the interview.

Kate agreed.

The interview took place four years ago today. When Ms. Swit called us, we struggled to get her via our phone system (our fault, not hers). I asked if she would consider Skype and, while she had never used it like that before, she said would give it a try.

The interview went off without a hitch after that. She was polite and delightful and it was a highlight for me. In this case, the thing for an interviewer to always remember and understand is that Ms. Swit is coming on first and foremost to promote her current work. Thus Eleanor Roosevelt was at the top of my thought process. I'd only ask about M*A*S*H and other things when appropriate.

She's also a wonderful follow on Twitter and Instagram where she not only posts about her career but about her passions, including animals. Her Instagram feed is full of old pictures from M*A*S*H. She has done many other interviews, including appearing with fellow M*A*S*H cast members on Alan Alda's podcast some time back. I consider it a must-listen.

But, I also recommend you listen to this interview.

It's a favorite of mine.

One Person's Waste of Time...

You probably know I love to travel.

From the planning to the packing to the rest. Business trip. Pleasure trip. It matters but it doesn't.

Just look at San Francisco. I was there for business but I made every second count, including one of the best days I can remember (I would have preferred to not be alone but so it goes).

Trip=trip regardless of what and why and I (generally) love it all, even if I'm grumbling in the moment.

But, burying the lede, I'm not here to merely talk about traveling but to use this is a prologue.

I read a click bait piece about "Ten Overrated Landmarks..."

We all have these kinds of opinions and, yes, places like The Leaning Tower of Pisa, Plymouth Rock, and Stonehenge do seem a bit, er, unimpressive to a certain extent.

Another one on this list is the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I have personal experience with that one.

You may recall I was in San Diego for a few days in 2011 before heading to a spot north and west of Los Angeles for the rest of the trip. We didn't have a lot of time, but it was enough to see some things.

What to do...what to do?

People tried to talk me out of it but I felt like I had to see Hollywood. I'm pretty good at seeing things and leaving so a lot of time wouldn't be necessary.

Long story short? I saw the theater where the Oscars take place, checked out the hand and footprints in cement and looked at some of the stars. I saw the Beatles' stars and Terry Bradshaw's but didn't see Vin Scully's. So it goes. It felt like I was able to check it off my list.

It was every bit as seedy as I expected it to be. For my money, I would never recommend Times Square to someone coming to New York (it's not seedy enough anymore) but still, most people want to see it, if only to say "wow" and move on.

As someone who doesn't really gamble, never plays poker, and is generally out of place there, I'll recommend seeing Las Vegas forever. Because, again, just seeing it is an experience.

So, I guess the point is, if you want to see Plymouth Rock or Stonehenge, see it. You might find it a waste. You might find it something that you were glad to check off the list.

Like so much of life, it's a personal preference.

Who's Zooming Who?

We've come a long way. Who remembers this?

A month ago, I'm not sure if I knew was Zoom was.

Now, it's almost like I can't live without it.

I had two Zoom calls tonight.

We're conducting The Clubhouse on it.

I've recorded podcasts and had guests on Doubleheader via it.

Now, I've been pulled onto something called Houseparty. So, hey, feel free to connect with me over there, I guess.

Quite a time, this is.

I was talking about that with my son today -- in person!

We were marveling at modern conveniences, as well as talking with my mother to get her perspective as someone who is old enough to remember World War II. Obviously, there was no Zoom back then.

Oh, and if I didn't mention, it's my mom's birthday. Tough old bird, she is. Every time I think things are bad, well, she rallies. The first quarter of 2020 was a bear, for more reasons than coronavirus. Things turned upside-down a little over three months ago. Multiple facilities later, things are, well, I guess they're better.

Anyway, when people want to complain about boredom or anything else in this pandemic, I find myself thinking about how lucky we are, at least from a technology point of view.

World War II? Just the radio and newspaper. Telephone also (Call MA-8-1234). Yes, people could go out but there were also hours when you had to be home, as she was reminding me.

Those of us from "my generation" remember channels 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13. Cable? What's cable? Oh, you mean closed circuit or that Wometco Home Theater. My parents weren't going to PAY for TV?

Nah, MTV ruled. My friends had it. I went there to watch it until that glorious day in 1985 when my sister insisted on cable being installed. It was just before Live Aid. Awwwwww yeah.

So, we've clearly come a long way.

What we have today allows to stay in touch. I can see my new baby great nephew, whom I no doubt would have met by now if not for COVID-19. I can visit with family and friends from anywhere.

Mark Jeffers, Dave Torromeo, and I can have a virtual happy hour and plot our next edition of The Clubhouse (a BIG Connecticut-meets-NFL football show is on the horizon next week).

Now I've heard the naysayers about Zoom specifically. Security concerns and whatnot. Duly noted, and I'm paying attention to it for sure. But, so far, so good for now.

These are the ways to fend off the loneliness and other demons. I have family stretched from Massachusetts to New York to Pennsylvania to North Carolina and Florida and parts elsewhere.

We can talk. We can see each other.

We've got that going for us.

Which is nice.

You Meet the Strangest People

I meant to post this story last night. It's the anniversary of that picture.

My niece was having surgery. Kristy and Hector and their kids had just moved from their rented house to a new one about a half-hour away in North Carolina.

In fact, I helped them move into it, driving down for a long weekend with my mother and sister. I served as the driver of the U-Haul truck on a fairly warm (or even hot) March/April weekend.

But now, just three weeks later, it was time to make the drive again to North Carolina from New York.

My mother hadn't decided for sure if she was going. My job was to go back to NC and serve as babysitter for Evelyn, Eleanor, and Isabel for as long as needed, along with getting Kristy to and from the hospital, as she hadn't really made friends in the new neighborhood who could help out yet.

In a midweek conversation with my mother, I said, "The car leaves at 5:30 Saturday morning."

For the second trip in a row, Sean couldn't join me because he had school. But, this time, there was an extra wrinkle. Sean plays the saxophone, part of a dynamic band from John Jay High School. They've won awards at various competitions and, in this case, he would be taking part in one near Fredericksburg, Virginia.

Right on the path between Mahopac and Fayetteville.

Could I make it in time for the performance?

We were gone by 5:30. It was a quiet Saturday morning that allowed me to work my way out of New York with no traffic and no tolls. In fact, with a little creative driving, I "shunpiked" my way through New York, New Jersey, and Delaware without paying a toll until I drove through Baltimore.

The whole trip -- both ways -- cost $6.50 in tolls (if memory serves). That never happens.

I thought I would stop earlier to stretch my legs. I always push to make it at least to Delaware without stopping but the Nissan I was driving was getting great gas mileage. Plus my mother had fallen asleep and I was feeling good, so I just kept going.

Maybe we could actually get to the concert, at Courtland High School near Spotsylvania, VA but I kept feeling like I simply didn't leave earlier enough.

And then the traffic issues began.

The weather was rainy and, south of Baltimore, I found a line of brake lights.

Damn you, Baltimore-Washington Parkway. Damn you, Rob, for not just staying on Interstate 95.

I thought a Saturday morning wouldn't be problematic. There were no warnings.

The traffic slowed me up enough that I knew there was just no way to make the concert.

I eventually worked the car to the Capital Beltway, across the Potomac, and into Virginia.

Keep in mind I hadn't stopped since grabbing breakfast at a deli right near home.

Finally, after six hours, and deciding that we had missed the concert, I gave up and pulled off near Fredericksburg to gas up and stretch at Wawa.

A few minutes later, we were back in the car. We climbed back onto 95 south and the pull of being a father was too much.

"I think I'm going to take a stab at driving to that school," I said. Mom was fine with it, as she always is.

In classic Rob fashion, allow me to say I've never been anywhere near Courtland High School. I figured I'd find it. Of course, we're all armed with a GPS in this era anyway.

I used Exit 126 and took US Route 1. I turned right on Spotsylvania Pkwy.

I drove. I tried not to speed. No point in getting a ticket for nothing.

I found the school. Now, there had to be a simple way to drive in and find...something, right?

Nope. I had to find a place to turn around. Then sit at a traffic light.

Tick...tick...tick.

Finally, I found an entrance. I made my way in.

A moment later, I spotted a few buses that looked like they were from out-of-town. Some kids were congregating.

Across a parking lot, a solid football field or more away, I spotted a familiar shape.

Got him.

"That's my son," I said. "I know that body language from anywhere."

I pulled up closer.

"SEAN!" I yelled.

He trotted over.

"Wow," he said. "You made it."

I got out and stood with him for a few minutes. He said they played well and was confident they would get a trophy. But, now he was looking forward to getting to Kings Dominion for a day of amusement park fun before heading to dinner at Golden Corral (yes, he was in heaven) and staying at a hotel in Richmond.

I was so proud and so happy that missing the concert was almost irrelevant. Just the fact that I got to see him in this spot for even a few minutes meant the world to me and, shockingly, I could tell it meant something to him also.

It's the thought that counts and he knew I tried hard.

Our time together was short but I remembered to take my phone out.

"A selfie?" he asked.

You bet.

His band won the competition but he got on only one ride at Kings Dominion as basically everything closed down due to the rain. Still, he said they had a blast on the trip. It beat being home.

As much as I wanted to kidnap him and take him to North Carolina, I was thrilled to see him happy. That's all we can ask for our kids. I left with a bittersweet feeling but mostly overjoyed that I got to see him.

Mom and I had a lousy lunch south of Richmond before working out way to near Fayetteville, NC. The week -- surgery, babysitting, and everything else -- went off without a hitch. We were back in New York the following Sunday.

And that picture means the world to me.

Going Mad or Getting Mad

Tonight's edition of The Clubhouse featured (clockwise from top left) me,
Dave Torromeo, Mark Jeffers, David Tyree, Bob Small, Ann Liguori

Isolationgottagoout, Day 751.

*****
I'll say that tonight's edition of The Clubhouse, to be heard this weekend on SiriusXM's Dan Patrick Channel -- channel 211 -- was the highlight of the day. We had Ann Liquori and David Tyree on. In my mind, those names don't need an intro. If you'd like to hear a copy before it hits Sirius, go here.

*****
Like everyone, I'm reaching a breaking point.

I'm pretty fed up with the negativity. Reality? Sure, I'm a big supporter of that.

But the naysayers are wearing me out.

Don't do this! This isn't happening this year! We might not be back until 2022! The CDC says round two will be worse!

WE'RE DOOMED!

Enough.

You say you want a revolution, eh? Be careful what you wish for.

New York State is careening towards FIFTEEN THOUSAND DEATHS.

But, hey, let's celebrate, and de Blasio says we'll do fireworks on the Fourth of July, no matter what!

And that's all I have to say about that.

It's all Trump's fault, right?!

Or is it AOC's fault? Or Schumer's? I can't keep track anymore.

The government is locking us in and taking away our freedom!

Enough. No, seriously.

I haven't seen my son in almost a month because of fear.

I've tried to carry the water of positivity. I've tried.

At this point, I have no life. I realize I'm not alone, so there shall be no pity party.

I'm going out of my skull. I'm sure you are also. I'm struggling to find the positivity tonight. I've tried, but I'm getting worn down.

They're coming to take me away (with any luck).

Have Your Pencil and Scorecards Ready!

It's so. At least it was in 1917.

Matthew C. Wallace had an idea.

He posted on Twitter that he knew the public address announcer from the 1934 World Series between the Cardinals and Tigers was barely audible on the radio broadcast. He also knew it was the oldest World Series broadcast in existence.

Thus, he thought, what if various modern PA announcers and "voices" were to read the game one lineup from a World Series, starting in 1903. He'd create a series of videos to help pass the time.

The reaction was strong. So strong, that his series -- "The Lineups "-- ultimately stretched to the first 50 years of the World Series. That way, he could dedicate each video to a different state and their first responders.

I retweeted that it was a great idea, but didn't reach out to Matthew personally. I mean, who am I? I do a handful of PA gigs for Mahopac and Carmel and others when needed (fast fact: I was asked to events at Yale. I couldn't do the first one due to a conflict. Then I was asked to announce a graduation ceremony but, well, we know how that turned out).

But my retweet got Matt to reach out to me. Humbled, I said I'd do it. I offered it Eric Scholl, but he insisted I do it.

"You're the baseball historian!" he said.

Randomly, I was assigned the 1917 World Series between the then-New York Giants and the Chicago White Sox at Comiskey Park.

Matt's notes and directions were phenomenal. Get him a picture and what you want to represent (I chose Mahopac in this case). The script was pinpoint. So, I double-checked pronunciations and did a dry run (it's Eddie SEA-cot, by the way).

I had to decide on style. Mostly, I stayed true to me, but I also spoke in a staccato-style of the day. If you've heard me do PA announcing, then you know I'm not much for flare. Bob Sheppard is my...well, shepherd, I suppose.

So, I was comfortable with a straight style.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen," I read from the script. "Welcome to Comiskey Park."

I gave it a few tries until I was completely comfortable with it. Sure, I could have been "One Take Adams," but I had time, so why not?

The 1917 World Series saw two of the early powerhouses of baseball contending for the title. The White Sox were, primarily, the same cast of characters whose hosiery would later turn black and become the subject of ridicule, books, and movies.

"Say it ain't so, Joe," the myth went to the great "Shoeless" Joe Jackson (who belongs in the Hall of Fame). And Joe Jackson was batting fourth for Chicago that afternoon. Also in the lineup were Chick Gandil, Oscar "Happy" Felsch, Buck Weaver (not John Cusack), Fred McMullin, as well as Eddie Cicotte. Each of those players were eventually suspended for their role in the 1919 World Series gambling schedule.

So, yes, even if you don't know baseball history, you might know Eight Men Out (sadly, very flawed, though good).

Hall of Famers in the series included manager John McGraw of New York, Ray Schalk, Red Farber, and Eddie Collins of Chicago, and umpires Bill Klem and Billy Evans.

There was no radio broadcast. That would not be attempted until 1921 at the Polo Grounds.

The public address announcer, working his megaphone down the line, was Pat Pieper, a legendary voice around Chicago.

In no way did I try to impersonate him. My goal was honor him and have fun.

For the record, I made no attempt to get a Yankees World Series, and I'm fine with it. I was honored to be a part of this, and it was fun to do something not involving the Yankees. Sure, reading the names of Ruth, Gehrig, Lazzeri, and later on DiMaggio, Ruffing, etc would have also been a blast, but there was something to be said about Heinie Zimmerman.

The Giants were making their first Fall Classic appearance since 1913 while the White Sox were in their first since 1906. New York would have more success in the 20s but, by then, their tenants in the Polo Grounds were also winning league titles -- the Yankees.

The White Sox won the series in six. Jim Thorpe was listed in the starting lineup for the Giants in Game 5 but did not play. So, technically, he's in the box score.

I'm beyond impressed with everything Matt did. I hope you'll enjoy it also. Please reward his work by liking the tweet and watching the video. You can also visit his website for more.

Now, climb in the time machine...

I Wonder What Vin Thinks

Red Barber, Connie Desmond, Vin Scully

Vin Scully, still sharp at the age of 92, has a lifetime of memories he can quickly convey.

One of them is about his mentor, Red Barber, who told him to not listen to other broadcasters and to be yourself in the booth.

Earlier today, STAA (Sportscasters Talent Agency of America) held a daylong summit, pulling together several great voices from the big leagues.

Bob Costas (for my money, the best active baseball play-by-play announcer), Kevin Harlan, Ian Eagle, Kevin Kugler, Beth Mowins, Pat Hughes, Chuck Swirsky, Tracy Wolfson, and -- Hello, friends -- Jim Nantz rounded out an incredible roster.

I didn't need to watch or participate and, given it's Monday, and as I play chauffeur as well as show host, I didn't have time.

Besides, I was getting missives sent to me all day via Twitter, text, and Facebook.

I don't doubt the advice was fantastic.

Costas advised sending work out all over.

Nantz cajoled attendees to believe they can achieve their goals and not give up.

The summit skewed younger, based on the amount of tweets I was reading and I was surprised at how many I knew.

The presenters showed their various spotting boards and the crowd oohed and aahed.

They took questions, and the questioners fell over themselves tweeting about it.

It was fun to watch from afar, and credit to John Chelesnik and company for making it happen.

So, back to Mr. Scully (and, by extension, Mr. Barber). I'm sure Vinny -- who rarely has a bad word to say, though he might not speak too kindly of the CBS folks from the early 80s -- would advise that attendees only pick up pieces of advice.

You see, the thing is truly to remain yourself on the air. As I've said before, we have Mike Lange or John Sterling or Vin Scully. Don't be them. Don't pick up habits -- especially the bad ones.

I truly think play-by-play is a wonderful skill, and one that applies to various parts of life. It's describing. It's reporting and informing and educating and entertaining (#RIEE>#LCRR).

It's storytelling, not number-crunching (I feel that's lazy).

"Mike Hirn is batting at .309. Hirn is from Putnam County, Ohio (Editor's note: he's not), one of several places in the United States named for Major General Israel Putnam, including a county in New York that one might be familiar with. Now Hirn waits and takes a fastball outside for ball one. General Putnam fought with distinction at the Battle of Bunker Hill as Hirn battles a curve ball and fouls it off, first base side, and it's one and one."

And, so on. Don't tell me how he's hitting .255 on a Monday in the middle of a pandemic with only two visible stars in the sky and a blah-blah-blah WAR and whatever else.

(Note: Nate Stdiham's average on Monday’s was better than Hirn's, and when he wore red socks he was three-for-four in stolen bases. See? These are the things you learn.)

While the spotting boards are lovely, my own advice (for what little it is worth) to younger broadcasters is to be prepared at the lower levels especially, where you won't have room for fancy spotting boards. I'll long-remember calling softball at Yale a year ago. I barely had room for my scorecard, measuring 8 1/2 by 11 inches. There was no room for my computer, so I utilized my iPad and my iPhone (in my lap) for anything else.

So, when folks talk about charts and graphs and colored pens, I chuckle to myself. That's great. Believe me, I would have loved to have mastered that, and I tried, but space just wouldn't allow it.

Instead I learned to improvise with a roster and a notebook. As wifi and smartphones became more common around booths (or I brought my own wifi), I leaned more there with a computer as well. I also trusted the best computer I have: the lump three feet above my...

Develop your style of notes, preparation, score card and delivery that works for you. Practice and self-evaluate. If the time off has allowed for anything, it's allowed for even more self-evaluation than I normally do, and I'm always tough on myself.

Also -- and I can't stress this enough -- young broadcasters need to climb from the depths. And they need to be bad and experience rejection. They need to drag equipment and have technical issues. That's why I like some of the things I see but I want to see more humility and the desire to be teachable. I fear that's going away with a sense of entitlement taking its place.

Then they need to ascend with their story. Everyone has a reason why they are where they are and, sadly, talent doesn't always win out. It just doesn't.

Building a network is beyond important, and don't look the gift horse in the mouth who was trying to be there for you when you were on the way up. You never know when you'll need that person again.

Pre-STAA we had the wonderful Call of the Game board where guys like Joe Block, Robert Ford, and Adam Amin were hanging out with...um...the likes of me.

I wish I could chat with teenage Rob to make sure he was comfortable with his decisions. Same with 20-something Rob, who elected to stay in a corporate job as he thought he had his life there, and broadcasting would be a side gig that could blossom.

Part of that turned out to be true. But, I appreciate my successes far more in the path that I took. That's why I still feel wonder when I see or hear anything regarding my work. It's never taken for granted.

I wish I could say that about many others.

Getting to the top doesn't necessarily mean you're truly successful. I was able to have my son grow up with me around. He was able to follow me to so many games and events and, while he's not going to be a sports broadcaster (or a broadcaster at all), he still speaks fondly of what I took him to, and the precious time we spent together.

I think there are still hard lessons to be learned. I hope the summit included that also.

But, hey, who am I?

All Things Must Pass

I love the smell of freshly-cut grass.

It signifies warmth to me and BBQs and longer stretches of daylight.

It also means I've mowed the lawn and I'm finished.

That happened for the first time in 2020 today. It doesn't mean that I did the whole yard. Only the part that grows the most needed it.

So while my back hurts from pushing the mower, my pride is satisfied.

Plus it's another day -- and another sign -- that we're getting closer.

Perhaps most of all, the smell of freshly-cut grass reminds me of baseball. Five years ago, I was in Cooperstown at Doubleday Field with (then) HAN Radio.

I was tour guide in my home state, leading a group of cars to our hotel 45 minutes away in Herkimer. (Truth: I'd never been to Herkimer, save for passing by on the New York State Thruway. This fact is making at least a few of you smile).

Five years ago today, we called the game at Doubleday between Norwalk and Brien McMahon. As I listened back to the little part that exists in my archive, I can hear how excited I am. I was probably talking too much though.

It's also the last game Paul Silverfarb and I called together at HAN.

There's a much-longer story to all of this, but I will tell you my son will occasionally halt a conversation and say, "Everybody STOP. Where are the extension cords?!?"

It's an homage to this very weekend, when it appeared (correctly) we didn't have any power cords. That happened at the end of the long weekend of power outages and heavy rain.

Truth: Sean wasn't even there that weekend, but my telling of the story stayed with him.

I was the first to get to Cooperstown and the last to leave.

Such is the power of stories and memories. Happy memories. Some of the happiest of my time working at the HAN Network.

I was thinking about this song today. We're getting there. Slowly. Believe it. In the darkness, just remember to face another day.

I'm Outta Here

Like you, I've had it.

In some ways, my quarantine began on March 6, before I knew any better.

It began for real on March 12, after my last broadcast.

Yes, I've had to go out quite a bit, so it hasn't been a "real" quarantine. But, I've had enough of this rat race.

So, as "co-conspirator" John Nash did, I'm going away. Virtually.

John wrote a fantastic series of posts where he flew to San Francisco with a famous friend and visited Alcatraz on a special tour. To be honest, save for "virtual" in the title, it was (almost) plausible.

I often find myself about thinking about traveling. I want to go back to London (and, truth be told, I am scheduled to later this year) and Edinburgh, and see more of San Francisco, and Florida (always, especially Tampa Bay) and New Orleans and North Carolina and Richmond and Maine and finally see Seattle and Vancouver and...

But, sometimes, it can be as simple as a little over three hours away in the car.

Yup, I'm gone. Off to a place that is both real and mythical because, in theory, it shouldn't have become what it is.

I'm going to sit in the stands at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown, NY. The Mills Commission said this was the birthplace of baseball and that was very much exposed as a fraud years later. They were desperate to make baseball "the All-American game" as opposed to what it really is: a game that was concocted from Europe and brought to the United States.

It became all-American but was not solely created here.

Anyway, I'm using my TARDIS to help me get there. Just to transport me to, say, 1939.

I'll be in the stands, on a platform behind home plate. I've grabbed my overcoat and a fedora, with a press pass, of course.

And I've been placed in front of an NBC Radio microphone. I think Columbia and Mutual are both here as well, bless their hearts.

In front of me, on grass so green that I want to throw out a blanket with a picnic basket are great ballplayers past and present. They're going to play a game and I'm going to paint the word picture.

But, before the game, here comes George. Or, as you call him, "Babe." We'll have a little chat about those days with the Yankees and if his records will ever be broken. He's smarter than people realize. That's all I'll say. I bet this guy could hit 800 homers in any era against any competition.

We'd love to have his old pal The Iron Horse here. Lou Gehrig isn't well unfortunately. They call it amyotrophic something or other. I'll just describe it as Lou Gehrig's disease. Sadly.

There's Ty Cobb and Honus Wagner and Walter Johnson, "The Big Train" himself. Jeez, if only Matty had lived long enough. Finest gentleman the game has seen. Christy Mathewson. Shame what that mustard gas did.

Such a fine collection of those in uniform.

There are great smells in the air of this picturesque village, with the ballpark just a long fly ball behind a row of stores on Main Street.

"The boys will play a game today," I say to the millions huddled near their Philcos and Crosleys.

It's just perfect here in the middle of New York, despite the raging of war across the Atlantic.

Here, it's just balls, strikes, outs. I hope The Babe can wallop one! Boy, the fans will get a roar out of that! Of course, George is 44 now, so who knows what is left in that swing of his.

All of that is, in fact, immaterial. He could strike out three times. It's just a beautiful day (the overcoat isn't really necessary, but felt period-perfect) with full stands and laughter in the air. It's pure joy.

Something that I'm not sure exists elsewhere.

In truth, the greats of the game could leave. Bring on school kids. Heck, make it two teams from Norwalk, CT! Brien McMahon and Norwalk High! Let them play here. I'll broadcast THAT!

It could happen. Couldn't it? Maybe in 76 years or so?

Maybe we could even find the full broadcast again one day, as opposed to just a highlight reel.

Oh well.

No matter. For now, the sun is shining. The breeze is blowing out to right. The crowd is buzzing. There's joy in the air.

It's my own utopia.

I don't care if I never get back.