100 years ago

 

Major J. Andrew White

History is messy. Never have we been more clear about that than now.

So let's deal with what we think we know.

One hundred years ago today, Jack Dempsey fought Georges Carpentier at an arena that was thrown together in Jersey City, NJ. Dempsey, the legendary boxer, was cast as a bit of a villain, having been seen as a draft dodger (truth: he was classified 4-F). On the other hand, Carpentier did fight in World War I for the French Army.

The bout took place at Boyle's Thirty Acres, a wooden arena concocted by Dempsey's promoter Tex Rickard, known as the man behind the New York Rangers hockey team (Tex's Rangers).

We know that Dempsey won the fight in the fourth round and retained the Heavyweight championship. 

We also know -- and this is the big point -- that radio played a huge role in relaying the fight and helped usher in a whole new era of sports coverage.

Things get dicey after this. There were apparently other attempts to broadcast sports, with reports of a football game in 1919 and a fight on a smaller scale on KDKA in Pittsburgh earlier in 1921.

So is this really the first play-by-play? I suppose it depends and we'll truly never know.

Either way, this was different. For one thing, a temporary station -- WJY -- was established explicitly for the fight.

Still, there were hiccups. WJY needed a transmitted and those in charge of the broadcast found one built by RCA for use by the Navy. A deal was worked out with the Secretary of the Navy -- a chap named Franklin D. Roosevelt -- to have it shipped from Schenectady, NY.

But a ruse was also created.

Major J. Andrew White (a key name in early radio) was supposed to be the play-by-play announcer. And, to a degree, he was. However, AT&T wouldn't allow a telephone line to be connected to the transmitter. So, a relay system was created, in which White called the action via telephone and a high-speed telegraph operator would relay the information to J Owen Smith, who even had a bell.

Listeners wouldn't know what White's voice sounded like anyway. So White called it -- for the telegraph operator. But the audience -- some 350,000 strong (the largest at that time) -- heard Smith.

So who is the godfather of play-by-play? White, certainly, as well as Harold Arlin on KDKA and, later on, Graham McNamee and Ted Husing (who was mentored by White) and a few others.

Still, with that, whether it was the "first" or not, sports play-by-play was officially off the ground.

A month later, on Aug 5 -- the date I'm really looking forward to honoring -- Arlin went to Forbes Field and called the first baseball broadcast.

It's a shame more isn't being done to honor this momentous occasion in broadcasting history but I'm trying to do my own small part.

Incidentally, I don't have a broadcast as of now on Aug 5 (the Renegades are in Brooklyn) and I do hope to find one. If not, we'll honor the moment in another way.

You know me. I'll work it in somehow.

Topics and reader engagement

 

The current version of the home office

I'm currently working on a video depo. I've done a bunch of these when I said I'd take the bullet and do one starting at night.

That means I have gone to bed as late as 4:45 a.m. (if my memory serves). To be clear, the exhaustion isn't pleasant but the money is.

So I'm sitting here pondering what to write tonight. It's funny what grabs readers and what doesn't. I realize a picture can be a pull and it's a hit or miss process as to what I'll use as an image to front a post.

I totally saw last night's post getting the crickets treatment. I knew that waiting on a thunderstorm (that never happened) wasn't exactly riveting and I don't think I did anything in the text to pull you in.

The night before, writing about interstates received very kind comments but not particularly big click numbers. I knew that one was coming.

The thing is, it's a double-edged sword. I started this thing almost 15 years ago and decided to just write. But, eventually, I see the numbers and wonder why I bother. Then I remind myself who cares who is reading? The exercise is to do this as an outlet.

Yet I took on this post-per-day/night commitment and there are those moments when I drift back into the "why do I bother?" lane.

So, yes, I'm just babbling tonight.

When I decided to do this, I believed that I didn't want to be a one-trick pony. So it wasn't going to be just a Yankees blog or travel or roads or music or movies. It was going to be whatever was on my brain and I've stuck to that.

That means I've written things that, if I were to go back, I'd probably like to delete or restate. I'm not entirely the same as I was in 2006 and, you know what? I'm really proud of that. I've evolved and I have basically my entire life. 

Repeat: I'm babbling and this is probably a post I should save for August when the blog officially hits 15.

I could drone on about things that grind my gears, like the continued use of the words "we" and "us" as fans when fans aren't on the field, nor are broadcasters. I struggle to use either of those words even in the office of the Renegades and I'm a small part of the organization.

It was drilled in my brain as a no-no by professionals. It was also drilled in my brain that, while cutesy little superstitions are nice, we're reporters first and foremost and our job is to say when one is a no-hitter or whatever.

Once more, I'm babbling and I will now stop before my head explodes.

And the job is done. Time for bed.

It's like thunder...and lightning

 

Kevin Skow/NOAA Photo Library

I was terrified of thunderstorms when I was little. That changed somewhere along the line.

Now, generally, bring 'em on. Although be careful what you wish for.

So I'm sitting here, typing away, as things turn progressively dark outside.

To be fair, it's 8:48 p.m. as I type, so of course, it's supposed to get dark, but it's also getting close to storming here. The weather apps all say we're under a thunderstorm watch.

So, I await some flashing and house-shaking. Wait, that sounds bad, but let's go with it.

My favorite time is right before it starts. I thought we were actually close before. The wind had picked up and I was all-in. I went and stood on the back porch, basking in the breeze as the trees waved.

That wind. Oh heck-to-the-yes. I'll stand outside and marvel at it, even as the rain begins to soak me.

Still, no thunder, lightning, or rain at the moment.

This in no way means that I don't respect the power of weather. I surely do and have seen many a crazed weather event in person and on TV as I'm a bit of a Weather Channel watcher.

No, I really am. It's one of the few reasons I continue to have Verizon Fios, and I continue to think about dumping it all the time.

But back to respecting the weather. There's an outlet in the basement of my parent's house that has a smoke mark on it from when lightning came close enough that it impacted us, circa 1980. 

So, while fascinating, I know the power of weather in all fashions.

And it does fascinate me. I feel fortunate to have not experienced some of the absolute worst that often has me riveted to the TV as Jim Cantore brings the details into my living room.

Does it thrill me when a lightning strike wakes me up in the middle of the night? No, but I can't help but also be enthralled by it a little bit.

Am I a fan of storms while calling a sporting event, especially baseball? Not at all. It brings on delays, and lightning will stop any sport/event that I'm broadcasting.

Of course, I don't relish a power outage either although I feel like that can be a good thing once in a while. However, it's never exactly ideal.

Still, bring it on tonight.

"If the rain comes they run and hide their heads..."

So I sit here. Waiting.

Happy birthday, Interstate Highways

 

It was June 29, 1956, and the paperwork just needed a signature. President Dwight D. Eisenhower put his name on it and it was official.

The Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956 was real.

What that meant was the creation of the Interstate Highway System.

To some, it means nothing. You wouldn't necessarily know the difference between an interstate route, US route, state route, county road, farm road, and so on. They're just numbers and I understand that.

Expressways -- freeways, tollways, even parkways -- had existed prior to 1956. Now they fell under this new umbrella.

It's a far deeper explanation as to how interstate numbers are assigned that I'll leave up to my road friends because that's really not why I'm here.

There are nuances in each state as well and, yet, not really. But really. Like I said, we're not digging in that deep tonight.

I live within 20 minutes of an interstate highway, with both Interstate 84 and 684 close by. I've driven many of them, from the two I mentioned to 287 to 87 to "the five" and "the 15" to the ends of Interstate 80 in New Jersey and California and Interstate 10 in Florida and Cali.

I've been on hidden interstates (878) and interstates that are glorified exit ramps (175, 375) and have been past those that drive the road community into different camps (97, 99, and others).

When I was younger, there's no question I loved the interstate because it was the fastest way. I've come to appreciate the slower roads as I've gotten older and I guess that's only natural.

But I haven't mentioned my own personal favorite, which comes as no surprise if you know me. Yes, we've all cursed it. I've cursed it in almost every state I've driven it. I've almost driven the whole thing, but not quite. But no interstate screams the happiest days of road trips to me like Interstate 95.

I know. You hate it. You hate it especially in Connecticut and New York and probably New Jersey along with a few other states.

But I've seen its undulating hills in Maine (just not to the very end, which remains a goal) and its urban-to-rural landscape of Virginia and the southern end in Florida.

I've driven it in every condition possible and have sat in myriad delays. The Capital Beltway still gives me fits.

But I also love it. In the road world, the stretch in North Carolina is always maligned as boring among other things. I love that stretch. I find the swampy low country of South Carolina to be more mindboggling, personally.

I've got memories to fill a trunk of Howard Johnson's and state welcome centers and South of the Border billboards.

Memories of the tolls that weren't so annoying as a kid (especially when I could throw the money in the basket) and the tunnels of Baltimore and a brief view of DC from the Woodrow Wilson Bridge and the bend around Main Street Station in Richmond and the view of Lower Manhattan and the crossing of the George Washington Bridge or the view via Lake Marion.

Memories of the joy of each border crossing, where things just immediately felt different (I'm weird). The happiest crossing, of course, was Georgia to Florida, until it set in that there were still four hours left until we reached the Tampa Bay area.

Interstate 95 represents the reminder of the culture of the Holiday Inn "Great Sign" and of Stuckey's Pecan Logs and the gas stations that promised clean restrooms and maps (WOOHOO!) and of the other lost brands and roadside icons of a lifetime ago.

Now it's the beginning of Waffle House in Elkton, Maryland, and the nearest Wawa or Sheetz.

I've got near and dear memories to my heart of just us and a few trucks as the radio played in the still of a South Carolina early morning. My dad would explain to me why he flashed his lights to a truck and their flashing lights back were to thank him for a road maneuver -- a thing I do to this day.

That's exactly why I love traveling in the dead of the night because I can still hear those echoes of a wayward AM radio station and being able to count the number of cars on the road with me. I can hear my family, even when we weren't saying a word.

In that darkness, I might look for a sign with Pedro, telling me another non-politically correct joke and the exact number of miles to the land of T-shrits and coffee mugs.

Someone will nitpick this (or generally ignore it) and I get it. But there's joy in writing about this for me. The details might be fuzzy but the feeling is real.

Happy birthday, you flawed system of brilliance. I look forward to driving you once again.

A little more about last night

 

The image of eating chili dogs (sans onions) in a parking lot
was meant to be sort of humorous. (A&W)

OK, so let me explain...

One challenge of writing a post every night since the end of 2018 is (obviously) coming up with content.

Some nights, I really struggle with it. I'm either too tired for a deep dive or simply out of ideas at that moment.

Thus last night's post came to be.

Yes, I was bummed about my performance at first. I was embarrassed. I misidentified players at the plate. I wasn't smooth. I can offer every reason why but they come off as excuses and that's just not good enough.

The heat was a factor. Sure. I was hungry, despite the chicken fingers Sean and I shared before the game. I was tired. Probably low sugar. No rhythm in the booth and so on.

OK, all true, and, yes, it was my 13th game in 13 days but I was hardly alone in that.

I went in looking forward to The Beatles' angle of the day (it was a Fab Four-themed day at the stadium), prepared to have fun by dropping song references and addressing any trivia questions. Then I started worrying that I was overdoing it (call this some PTSD from a past life).

In my brain, I have to be better than what I was yesterday. I realize my expectations are usually unacceptably high but even if I don't reach them, I at least drive home feeling decent.

Last night was different for sure. I leaned on my car at one point and just looked at my phone as well as the utter cluelessness I felt when I stood in the cat food aisle at Wal-Mart.

Yet, to an extent, I just wanted to make fun of the Shania Twain music playing. I didn't want to bury Shania -- I have no axe to grind and I've sort of mellowed on ripping artists (Maroon 5 still sucks) -- but I wanted to turn that into a little self-loathing comedy. 

However, when I do write a post like that, it leads to concern about the details and I appreciate it. There were questions and comments -- publicly and privately.

The big takeaway is that I care so damn much about every call. I want these players to appreciate those clips. I want fans to love them. I want Sean to be proud of his father. Same with my friends. I want Renegades fans to say, "That's OUR broadcaster."

I want the team to feel that way also, and push for me to call more. 

But, by the end of the post, I noted that I'd move past it, and I sort of did. I went about my day today, albeit purely exhausted. I realized both Zach Neubauer and I were basically zombies on "Renegades Weekly." Zach has a good reason. The guy runs all over the stadium every day.

I talk.

So, yes, I got rattled last night and I'll get back at it as soon as possible. As of now, I have nothing to call until next Tuesday and that's OK. I'll work some depo jobs and make some money. I'll do stuff around the house. I'll cover the Gades every night from home while they're on the road.

In the moment last night, I was bummed and I thought I had a slightly humorous post at my own expense. There was something about a movie about a broadcaster sitting in a parking lot eating chili dogs (played by Amy Schumer) that made me chuckle.

Then I slept and moved on. I appreciate the love and I'm even a bit embarrassed by it.

Live and learn.

I'm OK.

Really.

Me and Shania

 

Sean, Me, Will, Tim. (Tim photo) Most certainly the best part of the day,
and Will's sign made me happy.

I'm sure Shania Twain is a lovely woman.

She made mostly harmless country/pop in the late 90s into the early 00s and was pretty much all over the radio. It was never my taste but it was generally benign and easy to flip past.

And, yet, at 9:00 at night, after a broadcast from hell, when walking into a Wal-Mart to buy cat food, Shania Twain was exactly what I did not need to hear.

Oh, I'm not sure anything would have sufficed. I drove home in utter silence.

At one point, I just stood in the pet food aisle, staring at the Purina offerings. One bag was too far back to be reached (and, yes, I tried). I even considered just diving in for it but had a vision of my legs hanging out and unable to purge myself from this shelving system.

So I stood there. Almost helpless. Pondering how much I sucked and exactly why I did suck.

I expected to hear something on the PA system.

"Attention Wal-Mart, please ignore the space cadet-looking sucky broadcaster in the pet department."

Eventually, I picked up a large bag of food and a bag of treats (chicken and waffles for my Rascal) and paid.

I also decided I needed food -- something I should have done hours earlier. The pittance of chicken fingers I bought at the ballpark was stupid. It was nowhere near enough for me or Sean.

So I was awful. Nobody's fault but mine.

I barely talked to anyone after it was over. Thirteen games over on the homestand and if I had read some kind of terrible criticism about me, how could I argue?

Sean left and I watched him depart. It was a sad scene. I took my leave eventually and went to the land of Sam Walton.

Finally, I decided a nearby A&W would give me some chili dogs and fries. Terrible for my health but good for my soul in the moment.

I pulled into a parking lot and ate in my car before driving away. Another sad scene that would make for a bad life.

Damn. That's a movie. "Lonely loser eats chili dogs and fries in deserted shopping center parking lot. Netflix presents Amy Schumer in, 'I Suck.'"

Screw it. It was a bad day. They happen.

Sports reminds us that, unless it's fatal, you soon jump back in the batter's box.

As the fog lifts, I tell myself there were a few good calls and, at the same time, simply file the broadcast away and never discuss it again.

Tim, Ursula, and Will Parry were there today, and Will made me a sign.

Take that -- and the other good points -- from the day and move on.

Maybe Shania would like that. Maybe not.

"OK. So you got a sign."

It don't impress her much.

Insane. Utterly Insane

 

It was Pride Night at the stadium

I've called a lot of games.

I've seen a lot.

I've never called a game-winning grand slam until tonight.

And, basically, I know it was coming. I think we all did.

Anthony Seigler launched a missile that gave the Renegades an 8-4 win.

I mean, this is just crazy. This team has won eight in a row and they're never out of it.

Down 4-2, they cut it to 4-3 before an Elijah Dunham home run -- his first as a professional -- in the eighth inning. Elijah was my guest on the "Rob's Roundup" segment we film before games and I told him I kept saying he was so close to hitting one out.

Tonight was that night.

This is getting fun.

The 13-game homestand ends tomorrow with a tribute to The Beatles.

Join us at the ballpark!

You never know what you're going to see.

Oh, and we were filmed for the show "Homegrown" on the YES Network. So there's that.

I'm meeting Sean for dinner now. What a night.

The plaza

 

This is the view from behind the press box at Dutchess Stadium.

Once upon a time, a group of us would stand there and just take the scene in.

Sean Ford, Freddie Coleman, others...and me.

I loved it. We'd stand up there and laugh and talk and generally decompress before the game.

I'm the lone dog now who will just glance down and watch people as they come in. It's a brief moment of zen before getting back to the task at hand.

But, to be sure, people are coming in. 

People will come and they're going to keep coming.

Tonight, tomorrow, and Sunday.

Then comes a break.

*****

It was quite a ballgame at Dutchess Stadium as the Gades rallied on Friday night to win 11-9. Fun times at the ballpark. Nearly 4,000 packed the place.

*****

Happy birthday to Susan. The best fan and friend.

Are you kidding me?

 

There are really dumb things that broadcasters say. Frequently we exaggerate unnecessarily.

Not everything is "unbelievable." In fact, very little is unbelievable.

That's one that I've largely removed from my bag of tricks on the air. In that same vein is, "Are you kidding me?"

Generally, no.

And yet, last night, I couldn't help myself.

The Gades and Blue Rocks played a pretty standard game for a stretch.

It started as a pitcher's duel. The Rocks put up a run in the fourth and the Renegades answered with two. The Gades added a run in the sixth on an Ezequiel Duran home run and led 3-1.

But in the eighth, things start happening. Just give it a read.

Gage Canning doubles to right-center field. Gilbert Lara lines out to James Nelson. Armond Upshaw walks. Wild pitch by Nick Ernst, Gage Canning to 3rd; Armond Upshaw to 2nd. Justin Connell reaches on throwing error by James Nelson, Gage Canning scores; Armond Upshaw to 3rd. Jake Alu lines out to Brandon Lockridge. Passed ball by Anthony Seigler, Armond Upshaw scores; Justin Connell to 2nd. Israel Pineda pops out to Chad Bell.

So, OK. That kind of inning happens and the game was tied. Pretty basic, but ugly, I suppose.

The game had a chance to be mostly forgettable because the Renegades put the first two of the bottom of the eighth on. Those runners moved up on a balk with one out. 

The Gades came up empty, stranding the two runners on strikeouts.

The Rocks put the leadoff man on in the ninth but he was soon doubled off first. That brought out manager Tommy Shields who expressed his displeasure. I noted on air how he was looking to be ejected.

And he was.

I'll be the first to defend umpires but I'll politely say this crew did not have the best night.

In the bottom of the 10th, the Gades had the "ghost runner" move to third on a passed ball with no one out. Yet three strikeouts followed and that was that.

Onto the 11th. Again, let's read the play-by-play log.

Armond Upshaw starts inning at 2nd base. Justin Connell doubles through the hole at second base, Armond Upshaw scores. Jake Alu grounds out, Anthony Seigler to Chad Bell, Justin Connell to 3rd. Israel Pineda doubles through the hole at shortstop, Justin Connell scores. Drew Mendoza singles to left field, Israel Pineda to 3rd. Jacob Rhinesmith out on a sacrifice fly to Elijah Dunham, Israel Pineda scores. Yasel Antuna walks, Drew Mendoza to 2nd. Gage Canning singles to right field, Drew Mendoza scores; Yasel Antuna to 3rd. Gilbert Lara singles to center field, Yasel Antuna scores; Gage Canning to 2nd. Pitcher Change: Charlie Ruegger replaces Jefry Valdez. Armond Upshaw walks, Gage Canning to 3rd; Gilbert Lara to 2nd. Justin Connell flies out to Isaiah Pasteur.

So, yeah. In total, it's 8-3 after 10.5 innings. Following the first out, on the bouncer in front of the plate by Jake Alu, a close play ensued at first base with the out being recorded. Wilmington hitting coach Luis Ordaz was then ejected for arguing. Only the pitching coach remained in the dugout for the Blue Rocks.

Oh, and did I also mention there was some kind of dustup between the home plate umpire and catcher Anthony Seigler? There was a moment that I thought both Seigler and Hudson Valley manager Dan Fiorito would get tossed. In the end, things calmed down.

Yet, still, it had been a long night. The Gades were down by five and three precious out remained. Time to go home.

Or not. With the ghost runner on second, the Renegades got a walk and a single to load the bases.

In the booth, I mentioned that the tying run was in the on deck circle. I said that if Hudson Valley won the game, it would be among the most improbable victories in the history of the stadium and the team. 

The Renegades got a single to score one. It was 8-4.

But then came a strikeout. Maybe sanity was returning.

Then came a hit by pitch. 8-5.

Then a walk. 8-6.

The bases were still loaded and the tying run was now at second with one out. The Blue Rocks changed pitchers.

The new pitcher promptly threw a wild pitch. 8-7.

The tying run was at third. The winning run was at second. 

I think this was around the point I uttered, "Are you kidding me?" I won't call that my finest moment. I won't call any of this my finest. But it was crazy.

There was still only one out.

The worst thought was only tying as we hit four hours of baseball.

An intentional walk reloaded the bases to set up the double play. The infield came in.

Anthony Seigler came to the plate.

Seigler swung. The ball sailed towards the left field line. The left fielder charged. If he makes the catch, maybe the runner tries to score on a sacrifice fly. Or the runner stays put. If it falls, the Gades tie the game.

There was another option. The ball gets past the left fielder and rolls away. At that point, the runners off third and second score and the game is over.

And that's what happened.

For those still in the ballpark, their cheers were the payoff for a long but crazy night of baseball.

I suppose it wasn't unbelievable. It wasn't gargantuan. It wasn't the greatest game in team history -- but I don't know that it wasn't either.

But it was special. Crazy.

It was a four-hour game. So, will we be back tonight?

Are you kidding me?

Masked?

 

El Fenómenos Enmascarados del Valle de Hudson will debut tonight at Dutchess Stadium. Now, don't take that as some great rebranding. It's simply an alternate personality for the night, as the Renegades de...er...of Hudson Valley will be decked out in special uniforms while honoring Hispanic/Latino cultures and values.

I'm intrigued. The hats -- a huge seller from what I've seen -- have been available since late 2019.

Yet that's only part of why I'm here. Earlier today, I went to the car dealer for service.

Understand I have not done that in years.

I have trust issues, friends. But, nonetheless, there were things that I felt could be done best at the dealer so I went there.

In their seating area were signs that made it clear that masks were supposed to be worn.

"No exceptions," the sign read.

I looked around.

I glanced at those waiting. I looked at the staff. 

No masks.

Sigh.

Earlier in the week I went to one of the local grocery stores. Again the sign outside the door made it clear! "Masks must be worn in the store."

I put mine on and walked in.

I spied the checkout area where nobody -- staff included -- had a mask on.

I realize this is not an enormous hardship and it's probably just a matter of staff neglecting to remove the signs or leaving them juuuuuust in case.

But I suppose it highlights the current phase of awkward communication on that topic. I'm basically open to shaking hands and even hugging again. There was no clarity in a Dunkin Donuts (yes, I still call it that) that I was in the other day. The staff had them on. A few customers had them on. Another customer didn't. Some coming into the store put theirs on.

As I stepped up to order my large coffee with cream and sugar, I decided to put mine on. Call it respect.

*****

One other thing I want to hit today is the bold and courageous move of Carl Nassib. Honestly, my statement is no more profound than that. I applaud him. Love is love and he should be himself. I hope he finds support in that people treat him like Carl. 

As opposed to Carl the gay player.

To be honest, that was my reaction. I saw the news and, mostly, shrugged my shoulders. Not out of disrespect or anything else. In fact, quite the contrary. It's so great that he is now his authentic self.

So good for him.

Sadly, I do understand there are countless others who aren't as cavalier about that news as I am and that's where the issue is.

But you be you, Carl. 

Taking a risk

 

I'm in a soggy Dutchess Stadium and there's a chance we might play.

There's also a chance that I wouldn't be able to write a post.

So, here's your post. If I hit "Publish" and this is what you see, then you know I was in a bind.

If this gets updated, then we're cool.

So the Renegades won, 12-3. There was a short rain delay (18 minutes) to begin the festivities but I think the risk of throwing a quick post together was worth it. 

I've hit a wall

He's tired

 

Welcome to another edition of "Rob's Tired and Uninspired" brought to you by any one of a number of sleep aids.

I believe this is post number 904 in a row where I've warbled on about something.

Anything.

The Cat is passed out right near my feet on a sticky night in the 845.

There's supposed to be a hint of a thunderstorm roaring through here soon (Update: It's here).

And I'm writing more crap that isn't exactly the work of a great writer.

I'd like to dive into my thoughts on the "just a kid" topic that I poised the other day on Twitter, but it seems to be too much to handle.

Even as I try to conjure a way to write about it I find myself just opting to go all "Frozen." 

Let it go.

But when is a kid no longer a kid? When are they allowed to be criticized?

I think the answer has much more context to it. 

I saw some criticism of a young broadcaster a few weeks back and, to be clear, the person was wrong. Dead wrong. What the young broadcaster said was fine. However, if he said something was in left field when it was clearly in right? Well then that's different, I suppose. 

I guess it's also in how it's presented and who is presenting it. 

Anyway, there's much more to it and, in broadcasting, we don't have a delete button when things are live. 

Writers do.

*****

I saw the Greenwich football schedule is out and I've got a few conflicts.

Sep 11, 1:00 -- at Westhill (Renegades at 6pm)

Sep 18, 3:00 -- Ridgefield (Renegades at 6pm)

Sep 24, 7:00 -- at Shelton (I'm back for sure!)

Oct 16, 1:30 -- at St. Joe's (ummmm...)

Oct 22, 7:00 -- at Trumbull

Oct 30, 3:00 -- New Canaan

Nov 5, 7:00 -- at Danbury

Nov 13, 3:00 -- Stamford

Nov 25, 10am -- Staples

Maybe I can do six games? Maybe seven?

Believe me, I looked at Sep 11 and thought, "If they can finish quickly..." and immediately shot that out of my mind. Teams don't run the ball anymore. We're not done within 90 minutes to two hours.

So now the question becomes who fills in?

I can help with remote troubleshooting to an extent. That's where I'm helpful. But, damn, the first true Cardinals games since 2019 and it's most likely that I won't be there.

As always, I'll call whatever I can wherever and whenever I can.

I patiently await the Brunswick schedule also, or whoever else needs me.

Or wants me.

On Father's Day

I mentioned the "Golden Sombrero" and was handed this. 

Father's Day can present such a mixed bag.

On the one hand, it emphasizes missing my late father. On the other hand, it celebrates being Sean's father.

This year, father and son spent most of the day in a baseball stadium working together. Not a bad gig.

I don't know that I can offer anything to tell you it was a spectacular day. No, not really. It was a good day. The Renegades won and we were together. I think that's sufficient.

There was no really big hit or spectacular play. In fact, it was an ugly game featuring six errors. But, so what? We had a good day. That's enough.

Not everyone gets to do what we're doing. 

Of course, I miss my father, as this was the 33rd Father's Day without him.

So, sure, there's that, and nothing will change it.

We didn't have a special breakfast or meal. We worked, put on a solid baseball broadcast, and had pizza after it was over.

That, to me, is pretty special.

Happy Father's Day to those who are our dads, both biologically and spiritually.

Happy Father's Day to the dads still with us and those who have passed.

There are no rules. No right or wrong way.

Just Happy Father's Day.

Open for business

 

When a Renegades game ends, I press the refresh key on the computer for the box score from the game just completed.

For me, that's a nice luxury but it's also different to have someone else tallying numbers and info. 

I'm sort of use to serving as my officially unofficial official scorer.

So, last night at the conclusion of a doubleheader, I kept refreshing until official scorer Mike Ferraro completed his duties.

Then they appeared: winning pitcher, losing pitcher, save (if there was one), time of the game, and attendance. Most of these I can do on my own but I prefer to get Mike's official certification. The guy is great at what he does and I respect his work.

But attendance mattered the most last night to me in the postgame.

Two-thousand, eight-hundred-seventy-nine.

I just loved the atmosphere in the ballpark. Sure, they were there for baseball and fireworks, but they were there. There were no zip ties or pod seating. There were some masks but they were optional.

There was a legitimate roar of the crowd. There was a buzz. There was energy.

As Vin Scully said, he was fascinated by the sound of the fans as he listened from underneath the big radio in his family apartment in Washington Heights. 

That's what it is for me. The crowd says so much -- whether it's no fans, 20, 100, 1000, 5000...or 2,879.

So when that last out was recorded, I couldn't wait to see what the total was.

I wrote the numbers down on my scorecard as we came back from the commercial break.

I read them, feeling myself getting emotional. Like Celine Dion in the middle of "My Heart Will Go On," I punctuated as I read it out loud.

I pounded the table.

Fireworks lit up the sky not long after I went off the air. I sat in the booth, my computer serving as the only light as I began to write my game story for Saturday...don't ask me why I thought it was Saturday.

(Actually, our last doubleheader was on a Saturday so that's my guess).

For the first time since late 2019, there would be heavy traffic leaving Dutchess Stadium. We actually needed to wait before leaving. So I kept writing.

Soon, Sean finished and left. I walked out a few minutes after him and went home to finish everything up and post it to the website.

Fans are back. Players are stopping by and talking. We can fit more fans in the stadium.

It's progress and it's pretty sweet.

2,879.

Those numbers looked awfully good.

Getting better all the time

 

You say it's his birthday

A doubleheader is on for today.

No. Not "Doubleheader" but two baseball games -- first pitch at 5:05 p.m. -- meaning I can't do then radio show.

So here I am, creating stat reports and looking over notes. Also doing some general cleaning.

Oh, and laundry.

Rascal is nearby. Not that Rascal, but the one I named because he's a rascal and for Rascal.

Sheesh.

I figured I should throw a few thoughts down because I nearly had it end last night.

I was in the stadium, as I wrote. I did the game recap and was sort of lingering. Thinking.

The car moved along I-84 towards the Taconic.

I was listening to John and Suzyn call Yankees/Blue Jays. Of course, neither one was in Toronto or Buffalo, where the game was actually being played. We really have to get our fellow broadcasters back out on the road, I thought. Me included, that is.

I thought about the broadcast. In truth, I didn't feel well all night. I was slightly lightheaded and struggled to concentrate. 

Random thoughts through the game:

"Did I say the score enough?" "Am I repeating myself?" "Who's pitching?" "Did I do the spot read?" "What graphic am I supposed to talk up?"

I just felt...off.

So, as I drove home, I figured we got through it. Hopefully, the listener didn't know.

Overall, a passing grade.

The checkmarks and random thoughts continued in the car.

And then it hit me: I hadn't written P365.

No need for panic. There was time. I knew I'd be home around 11, giving me an hour to throw something together. I had a picture of the stadium with a few lights still on. That will do.

It was going to be OK.

A doubleheader awaits. BlueClaws and Renegades again.

Lineups to be reviewed. Scorecards to make up. Stat packs and game notes to look through. "Rob's Roundup" to record.

Two games. Then sleep and onto tomorrow.

Somewhere along the line, I'll get the lawn mowed. Sure I will.

Oh, did I mention that the stadium is 100% open? Not sure if I said that. Get tickets. Come up and visit me in the booth.

Lastly, it's Paul McCartney's birthday and he's the GOAT.

So take any sad songs today and make them better.

And live and let die.

The empty stadium

 

The final out had been recorded and the Renegades had won.

Sean said his goodnight and took his camera back to the office. Then he drove away.

As the game wasn't too long, I stayed and wrote my game story in the booth.

Soon, it was down to just a few souls at Dutchess Stadium.

I love an empty arena. Before the game and, especially, after a game, it brings me some peace. It brings me time to reflect and a chance to mostly check out with nobody around.

I've dashed out of the stadium several times not long after getting off the air, opting to write at home. But tonight, I elected to stay for a while.

Not long. I've had the lights turned out on me and that's no fun. Then you're walking out of your way to find the only remaining open gate.

In this case, a few banks of lights stayed on as I wrote a quick game story. 

The cool night air came through the open window and I eventually closed things up.

I could have stayed and took it all in but I hadn't really felt my best tonight and decided it was best to get home to be with Rascal. The one in Mahopac.

I wondered how many people were actually left. I figured a few were still down in the office. I was quite wrong. As I drove away, the parking lot was empty. 

The buses that transport the players to and from the hotel drove off.

It really was just a few people remaining, including me.

It was definitely time to go home.

There are plenty of nights remaining. Like, say, tomorrow.

I'm settling in and feeling about as OK as I can.

Breaux (or BRO!)

Goodbye, Mr. Spalding

 

The crack of the bat sounded good and I watched the ball jump.

I described it but, in my brain, I heard a voice.

"Wait...that's gonna be a home run and this game will be over. Don't *bleep* it up! Don't get fancy. Stay on point. Don't oversell it."

Normally I'd try to get the outfielder's name as he ranged back. In this case, it was Hunter Hearn. Yet I didn't want to flub it like I did when New Canaan walked off on Greenwich years ago. That always bothered me.

All of that was in the span of a second. Maybe.

The home run was a high, majestic "no-doubter." It was gone off the bat. Josh Breaux, the author of this mighty wallop, knew it was gone when he hit it. You could see it in his body language.

The ball disappeared into the Wappingers Falls night and the Renegades had beaten Jersey Shore, 6-5.

There was one out in the bottom of the ninth when Breaux hit it out. In the booth, seconds earlier, I sounded somewhat prescient.

"I have the POWERRRR!" He-Man

"He has the power," I said, realizing I had just echoed an 80s cartoon. "Let's see if he 'He-Man's' his way to end this game."

I glanced up at Sean, who wiggled his hand to indicate he thought the pun was so-so. Not my best work, he was implying.

BlueClaws' pitcher Aneurys Zabala dealt a one-one pitch...

Breaux connected.

Crack.

"AND A DRIVE TO DEEP LEFT."

So far. So good. That's factual. Not having enough time to confirm Hunter Hearn's name on my defensive chart, I stayed basic.

"TURN AROUND AND WATCH IT."

If this was purely a TV call, I might have been OK to stop there and let the crowd do the rest. But people are listening on Z93 and hvrenegades.com. More detail was needed to confirm that we were done. So I punctuated.

"AND SAY GOODNIGHT!"

Still, I didn't feel that was quite enough. I stated the obvious.

"THE BALLGAME'S OVER."

Oh, and it was, but the drama was not.

Braux triumphantly rounded the bases. I called back to my He-Man comment of just a moment earlier.

"Josh Breaux HAS the power...and he hits a walk-off home run in the bottom of the ninth..."

But, was I saying too much? Should I layout a little more and let those remaining in the crowd fill the moment?

Then?

Hold on. Breaux and Zabala are chirping at each other. Gesturing. What's going on?

"...says something to Zabala..."

I still had a job to do. I still had to report.

"...and this ballgame is over. The Renegades win, six-five."

The Gades stood at home plate to greet the hero and then, quickly, they wanted a piece of the Claws. Oh, and the Claws wanted a piece of the Gades.

The umpires and coaches immediately stepped in and stopped it. The BlueClaws were told to go to the clubhouse. The Gades were told to stay in the first base dugout. This was one time where the teams wouldn't be walking out together.

So there's a story that will be monitored moving into tonight.

On the air, I described everything, found a natural break, and took it before coming back. I recapped the game, and "put a ribbon" on the broadcast.

My phone began to buzz almost immediately. I knew I had a call that I'd keep for fun. I had no idea what awaited me.

I got a few texts and messages.

Christian Mingione, a talented baseball player at Greenwich High School, tagged me in a tweet in response to a popular social media star named Jomboy.

"@double5 bringing the heat as always," he tweeted to Jomboy.

Wait. He was tweeting at Jomboy? About me?

And then I discovered Jomboy, who creates often hysterical social media content on sports, retweeted the home run and quoted me.

TURN AROUND AND WATCH IT.

AND SAY GOODNIGHT.

THE BALLGAME IS OVER. https://t.co/nQvMfF4reX

— Jomboy (@Jomboy_) June 16, 2021

Jomboy talks about the Yankees on a daily basis and has also been talking up the Renegades. I never suspected that he'd do this. 

Keep in mind, this is someone with over 340,000 followers.

Jake Zimmer, Mike Hirn, Shawn Sailer, Tom Prizeman (who works for Jomboy), Dan Gardella, and others were among those liking, commenting, and retweeting what had just happened.

I was stunned at the attention.

"Elite level call," Adriana S tweeted. "Get this man to the big leagues...Just perfection."

The full at-bat can be heard here.

I'm humbled and am still processing this.

The video, from the Renegades Twitter account, has been viewed over 28,000 times as of this morning. It is the work of Zach Neubauer, who does a remarkable job of getting those items out on social media.

It is the work of the director Sam Eisenbaum and replay/graphics coordinator Clint McLeod. It's the steady camera work of Matt DeBara (1st base), Jason Stapf (3rd base), Brian Camporese (wireless), and Sean Adams (high home). It's also the work of Conor Santoianni and Spencer Pearce, who produced game notes.

It's them and others who helped produce a tremendous broadcast that I hope everyone is proud of. I talked.

The praise has been wonderful but I'll say the finest praise might have come from the high home operator.

My son.

"Your home run calls are always great," he said.

There was no punchline. He was serious.

Still, the thing is to stay humble. I drove home, overwhelmed by what had happened. I wrote the game story and had to get to bed quickly because I needed to be up at 4 a.m. to start work (yes, you read that correctly).

As calls go, is this my best "walk-off home run" call? Maybe. I'm not going to worry about that. I'm content to have the next one be hopefully as good or better.

"Just FYI you slayed that s*it," Mike Hirn messaged me.

Overwhelmed. Yes. Definitely.

What's it all mean? Not much. It means I had a call that people liked. ESPN hasn't called. Nor has anyone else. No job offers are magically jumping up. 

It was one call and I can be proud of the reaction. I can be proud that I did my job.

Hopefully, I was dressed appropriately.

Now? Do it again.

Back at it tonight.

Oops

 

I wrote this earlier today. The game tonight was...something...and we'll deal with it tomorrow.

So there I am, in the midst of other things going on, bummed about low reads here on the bloggo.

It contributed to me thinking that I might need to take a break as I wrote last night.

And then? A small thought came into my pea brain.

Was it possible that the posts that I put on Facebook weren't set to public?

Yes. Yes indeed.

So I'm a fool.

That still doesn't take away from the other very real concerns. But, when creating something like this, the numbers matter a little. I often wish I didn't know them but they're unavoidable.

I keep going because some of you like the consistency and my dedication to writing one post-per-day.

But if nobody (or few) were reading then what's the point?

Anyway, the who conundrum has been thrown out the window.

I'm heading back to the booth and doing what I do.

To be sure I'm having a better day. I feel like I'm contributing to the world, I suppose. I got things done. So we're as good as we can be.

Sort of.

Anyway, carry on.

I'm here

 

(Google)

It was over.

I told Susan I was done. Tonight was the night.

There would be no post. I wasn't going to make an announcement. I simply wasn't going to write.

I sat where I am right now, stubbornly content with my decision.

After nearly 900 straight days, I was convinced it was time.

I was going to send the lineup card to the plate without my name on it.

The reasons are mostly varied and unimportant. Some of it is personal and nothing I want to get too deep into. Such things are often seen as weakness or a crutch. Given perhaps my audience has expanded, I don't want to go down that road without context.

The weekend was rough. I felt alone. It's hard to explain.

So let's leave it at the blues. Something maybe Miles Davis can help me conquer.

Clearly, the most recent posts didn't exactly excite or inspire and I go through these ruts where I feel like I'm just done. It's hard to feel like writing when the inspiration is lacking.

So tonight I thought it might be time to recharge the battery and hit the reset button.

Honestly, I don't know why I'm here.

I don't often know why I put so much of me on here and yet save quite a bit more than you know.

And, of course, it can manifest itself into a meltdown. That's when I look awful.

I mean, don't get me wrong. I did my fair share of laughing all weekend through today but that was when I was with people or talking to them via some form of technology.

Then it gets quiet. It's hard to describe. I don't mind solitude but...

Like I said, it's nothing I want to get too deep into.

The Gades grind begins anew tomorrow. I'll see Sean.

That will be nice. 

I'd like to lose myself in a broadcast, much as I was able to on Saturday in Milford, PA. I called baseball and while I didn't like having families so close to me at the "booth" (aka, "desk under a tent"), I just tried to block that all out.

That's what I plan to do at Dutchess Stadium. Back to the sanctuary.

Yet I still feel like this post is just another in a long line of uninspired drivel. I also feel I should stress that I'm not trying to diminish or downplay depression, mental illness, or anything else. To be crystal clear, nothing has changed. If you need to talk, please do. I'm here and will listen.

Anyway, I'm babbling. I considered simply posting the words to The Beatles' "The End." I worried that might seem too dark.

Worried. I'm good at that. 

I'm here for tonight.

We'll deal with tomorrow then.

RIP Ned Beatty

Ned Beatty in "Deliverance"

 

The great character actor Ned Beatty has died. He was 83.

It is unfair to say he was great in everything he did? Or that every character was memorable? Well, that was him.

He was nominated for an Oscar for a brief appearance in the brilliant "Network," a move so prescient that it is frightening. Beyond that, he was in so much from TV and film.

And, of course, he was in "Deliverance," and if you haven't seen it, well, I'm not sure I can prepare you for it. If you have seen it, you'll never forget it.

Maybe you saw him in the first two "Superman" movies as Gene Hackman's sidekick.

My immediate reaction was to go back to "Deliverance" to remember him when I found out that he had died.  

In "Rudy"

Then I thought of him in "Rudy."

Ah, "Rudy." I get it. Cheesy, hokey, and Notre Dame. And it is.

Yet, if you can get past the fawning over ND you understand that it's a movie about never giving up. Rudy doesn't want the life of his father. He doesn't want his hometown. He doesn't want to disown any of it but he wants to pursue his drea of playing football at Notre Dame.

Besides, you begin to focus more on other characters, like Charles S. Dutton's Fortune, who delivers one of the key speeches in the movie.

 "You're five-foot nothin', a hundred and nothin' and hardly have a spec of athletic ability and you hung in with the best college football team in the land for two years, and you were also going to walk out of here with a degree from the University of Norte Dame. In this lifetime you don't have to prove nothing to nobody except yourself and after what you gone through, if you haven't done that by now, it ain't gonna never happen"

Sort of makes you want to run through a wall.

And, of course, there's the famous chanting of "Roo-Dee! Roo-Dee!" led by Jon Favreau.

Yet there's Ned Beatty as Rudy's father. A lifelong Notre Dame fan who's got that steel mill town tough exterior (because he, you know, works in a steel mill), Daniel Ruettiger, Sr. would love nothing more than to go to Notre Dame Stadium.

He's also fairly unlikeable but that's the paradox of Ned Beatty. 

Nobody believes in Rudy, of course (after all, he's five-foot nothin'). But through perseverance, he eventually suits up for one game in 1975. Rudy's family travels to South Bend to see the game.

For all of us who have that father/son thing (and especially those of us missing our dads) there's the magical moment as Papa Ruettiger gets his first view inside Notre Dame Stadium.

Cheesy. Hokie. And Ned Beatty spikes the ball.

"This is the most beautiful sight that these eyes have ever seen."

Chills. Tears.

Farewell, Ned, and thanks.