Good Sports

 

The pitch came in.

And it hit the batter.

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

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

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

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

Damn. I left the game.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a short time, the injured player sat up.

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

One of the coaches thanked the home plate umpire.

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

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

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

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

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

Sports, man, sports.

There was just something beautiful about that small moment.

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

Twelve games are complete. Five reman.

I Appreciate the Kind Words

 

Photo by Brett Conner

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

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

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

Oh, but they're treating me amazingly well.

Need a water? Done.

Sandwich? Done.

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

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

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

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

Among other places, I hope.

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

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

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

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

He gushed.

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

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

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

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

The words help. No question. 

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

There was laundry to be done.

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

Think good thoughts for me.

Day One of Regionals

 

Making it work

Time is extremely short tonight.

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

Except...rain.

And lots of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thus, I'm keeping the post short.

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

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

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

I have nothing to add.

My Baseball Friday

The teams gather on the field at Oxford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Home run derby competitors chat

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

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

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

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

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

Trumbull. The final frontier

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That journey begins early tomorrow.

When Perfection Isn't Attained

 

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

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

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

Over three hours of baseball flew by.

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

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

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

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

So, we survived.

Until last night.

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

Except...

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

And I watched the battery drifting lower.

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

Wrong. Like, really wrong.

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

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

Storm, meet perfection.

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

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

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

Except...

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

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

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

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

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

But it's all out there in some form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It worked.

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

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

So, yeah, it happened.

Onto tonight's game.

No Celebration Necessary

 

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

Yeehaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And more athletes who will be the stars.

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

No cakes are needed. No banners. 

I like cheesecake, for what that's worth.

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

So bring on 1,901 tomorrow and so on.

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

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

Store This

 

My phone rang between games on Sunday.

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

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

Eight.

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

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

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

Yep.

My response was exactly what you might expect. 

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

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

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

(Narrator: None of that happened)

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

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

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

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

When it was done, we both felt good. 

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention we've just moved in?

Truly In the Booth

 

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

Yes. That is correct.

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

Again, that is correct.

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

Yes. It has been that kind of night.

Maybe it's the ghost of Babe Ruth.

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

Or CT State Route 15. 

Your call.

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

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

It was mostly harmless. 

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

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

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

Mission accomplished.

Now, I'm going home.

At the End of Six

 

Stamford's excellent pinstripe uniforms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this is just the beginning for the month.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It makes me feel like they're listening.

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

Remember, we just moved in a week ago.

Familiar Territory

 

Unity Park in Trumbull

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

It had been even longer since I called baseball.

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

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

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

I battled traffic and came home.

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

A tradition unlike any other indeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Crazy Friday Night

 

Rascal watches things while I record

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it's my happy place.

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

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

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

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

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

Have headset! Will travel! And love doing it!

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

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

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

It's a thrill. 

I hope everyone enjoys it.

The Annual Reminder

 

It's July 4.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the people who enable him.

Constantly.

The point is, be safe tonight. Have fun.

Thinking Forwards and Backwards

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plus everyone seemed to get along.

Happy days, indeed.

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Including a cat tower. Destructocat finally killed it.

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

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

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

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

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

Including me.

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

Blech.

Back to the Renegades tomorrow.

Lots of fireworks to be had.

Boom.

The Wall

 

I don't need no frustrating evenings

This was bound to happen.

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

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

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

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

And eventually, I slammed into the wall.

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

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

I was just, generally, burned out.

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

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

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

I was getting there.

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

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

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

But I need it to work from home.

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

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

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

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

Yup. That.

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

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

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

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

And recognize when I've pushed myself too hard.

Like tonight.

Moving Out

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

Four in the morning.

Not for a conference. Not for vacation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then I went home where Sean was still asleep.

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

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

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

But it's over.

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

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

Trying to settle into his new home.

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

We're on the right path.

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

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

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

And my back, as expected. Ouch.

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

Once the laundry is done.

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

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

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

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

We're in our new home. 

Long may we stay.

In Our Bruce Park Era

 

I'm generally not a nag.

You need to know if you don't, that I hate nagging. 

But the process of being able to move has been borderline ridiculous and I've had to remain aggressive on getting information.

At last check, word was that the current tenant (it's still their place until midnight) would be moving out and cleaning would take place.

As of this morning, I heard that we'd be allowed to start moving in tomorrow.

So I did a little detective work. Take it from me: the tenant(s) is/are gone and things look clean.

Admittedly, I passed that news along. You'd think -- at that point -- I'd get the "all clear" and I'm telling you I would have made several runs back and forth.

But, not so much. 

Instead, I went about shopping to get drinks for our movers (now, apparently, growing to be a few more people thanks to Sean's friends).

And I decided I'd come back home. You know, to our current home. 

I packed my car.

So it's ready and you better believe I'll start moving stuff first thing tomorrow morning. As tempting as it is to go over at midnight tonight, I won't go that far.

With that, I'm back in the Bruce Park place. 

I can never quite put into words what this apartment will mean to me and I'm sure I can speak for Sean here.

I've told the story before. We got the news that the buyers of my parents' house were ready to close and move in. Basically, we had about three weeks to move out and find a new place for me.

I had been looking for something with no success since just after Mom passed. 

Thankfully, I wrote a post here and my landlord -- a friend -- reached out to me. I drove by a few hours later and saw the outside. Then I came back a few days later and walked inside.

I wanted it. Immediately.

We began moving on May 23, 2022, and I started living here on May 25.

We were fortunate. So fortunate. It had room for me. It had a deck. A washer/dryer combo. It was small but just right. It had plenty of storage. It also had a room that Sean could use when he visited.

Yeah, about that. We've noted that, basically, he moved in. We've noted or at least hinted at the reasons. We're not here for that today. I'd never treat my son like that and he knows it.

So it became our sanctuary.

People didn't visit enough but that's our fault. I'm not one to set up a housewarming gathering and I always thought it would be a little tight to do that here.

But there were certain people in our world who never visited and that's a shame.

They can always visit our new place.

Mahopac is in our hearts but this became our home.

We also knew it was fleeting. We hoped to stay longer but it wasn't meant to be and we received that bad news back in April.

After assessing things, I began to turn the page. There's so much I'll miss. The deck. The washer/dryer in the apartment. The attic storage.

But there are also things I won't miss.

The parking and, most notably, Floyd. I'm sure Floyd is a nice, hard-working soul. But his van is on the street near where we wanted to park my car almost every day. And he has a nearby driveway that he could use but doesn't.

So many nights I'd come home -- especially after nearby Bruce Park Grill reopened -- that I'd scuffle to find parking.

Yes, I had a place in the driveway but Sean tended to get that. It was just easier to let him have it. A lot of times, I would just block him in if I couldn't find a place. It wasn't ideal but we made it work.

But, yeah, if you know Greenwich, you know parking is an issue.

I probably won't miss the roar of I-95 and the train tracks out back. I mean, this was hardly a dealbreaker and I often enjoyed watching traffic roll by. But that hum never stopped. Literally, it never stopped. 

I won't miss the horn honking. We live in such a horribly impatient world and whether it was delivery trucks of all sizes or people struggling at the four-way stop, the horns would sound out from roughly 7 a.m. to 12 midnight daily.

My bedroom tended to be the warmest room in the apartment. So many times I didn't need a blanket. I never complained since the apartment was always so comfortable and Sean said the temperature was fine.

Regardless of the season, my room was often very toasty. Bundling up to sleep -- which I like -- wasn't necessary.

Oh yeah, and I'm hoping the electric bill isn't as high as it was here. That wasn't fun as I paid double of what my parent's house was.

But I'll miss the vibe here. Despite the noise, I'll miss the convenience of being so close to 95 and the train station. 

While I didn't love patrons of the Grill making noise while I was trying to sleep, I'll miss looking out the window at it. People here in town have pined for it to reopen for four years and it was exciting to be one of their first customers a few months ago. That being said, we'll be a five-minute drive away.

I'll miss our landlord. Oh, we'll still be friends and colleagues but he was incredibly responsive to any concerns and we each knew we were here if the other needed. When there was water pouring through my ceiling one night, he had it quickly resolved. 

It was a joy to live here and I'll look back with great fondness for this time.

It was a time of transition, definitely for me. 

And this was the perfect place for us to be comfortable.

In all likelihood, I'll be writing from a new location tomorrow.

It's empty and it's waiting for us to occupy it.

Thank you forever, Bruce Park.

I'm hoping new opportunities will follow this move.

A new era dawns at midnight.

(I just nagged for more answers. This is insane.)

The Endless Pizza Debate

 

I saw an account pop up on the socials today.

He seems like a fairly nice guy, though I don't know him and I don't follow him.

But he is among the latest posting about the pizza thing.

"A simple question:

Does Connecticut have the best pizza in the country? Yes or no?"

And my answer was equally simple and I truly doubt it will ever change.

"No. Negative. It's good but it's not NY."

I mean, truthfully, how does one quantify such a thing?

I do so by saying my favorite pizza(s) are in New York. You've heard me give the answers.

Sal's.

Joe and Pat's.

Patsy's.

And so on.

Connecticut will tell you about Frank Pepe's and Modern and Sally's. I've had some of them and they're terrific, no question.

But I'll go out of my way for Sal's, for instance. I'll deal with traffic and parking in Mamaroneck. I'll deal with it when it's crowded.

And I've loved it for 30 years, back to my days at Kraft.

I get the defensive nature of Nutmeggers when it comes to pizza and other things but it just screams of a desperation for attention.

I've likened it a a certain sports fanbase who thinks they get no respect or regard. 

Or the broadcaster who keeps posting the same things because they think it will somehow help them get an MLB job.

But, like bagels, lobster rolls, music, and other things, this is all conjecture.

Frankly, it's silly.

What happens is we discover our go-to.

I mean, when Sean and I want breakfast, we're immediately going to say Waffle House but that doesn't mean there aren't other things we like. Effective Monday (I think), we're going to be living within walking distance of a diner. 

But there are those things that stay with you forever.

I mean, I guess if that's what people in Connecticut need to justify something, then so be it.

Look, there are things I love here in Greenwich. The Hotsy and the Nugget Wrap at Garden Catering and the ham, egg, and cheese at Plaza Restaurant. The Bruin at Corbo's Corner the chicken parm at Bella Nonna.

The pizza at Frank Pepe's is also excellent, to be clear.

But it will never top Sal's in Mamaroneck.

Fight that good fight, Connecticut.

You probably love Grimace also.

Back to Packing

 

Sean is working with the Renegades this week, while I've elected to stay back and pack up.

This was the game plan, especially when we thought we'd have to move by July 1. We got a break when that changed to August 1. 

But, in the meantime, we obviously found a place and, as Babe Ruth is my witness, we'll be in it on July 1.

Our ace moving crew is ready. As we're (again) moving on a Monday, we're blessed to have Kris and Danny* available. 

Obviously, Sean and I will be here as well.

*Inviting Danny is a necessary evil (this part is a joke).

Kris and Danny both said they'd be here basically anytime on Monday morning so get ready because we'll dive right in.

There's one little thing that I'm hoping will be cleared up by then.

As you can imagine, this has been an enormously stressful time. Finding a place and finding the money for the place have both been a challenge.

(That's a hint for anyone reading this that it's time to get little ol' me some more work...preferably something permanent)

But with this process, there have been myriad concerns.

The stress has been both emotional and mental and, in some cases, both.

Late last night -- probably 3:30 or so in the morning -- as I did what a man in his mid-50s does (strolls to the restroom), I felt something move in my back. It wasn't the result of anything that I was doing in that moment.

Immediately, I took something for it and went back to bed.

The good news is I was still able to move and function all day. My back is a little sore but that's about it.

Hopefully, we've dodged a bullet and I'll be fine.

So, while I'm packing, I'm also cognizant of not adding to that.

I didn't carry much in the way of heavy stuff tonight and limited my movements.

I fired up the multiple Alexas around the apartment and listened to Yankees/Blue Jays for the evening. Nice to hear the Bombers remembered how to win. I dare not write any more about baseball because, based on the audience for Wednesday's Derek Jeter post, nobody wants to read it.

Otherwise, I played it safe. I did laundry and cleaned a bit, while trying to keep some lanes open so that we could still walk around.

It was productive, and that's a very good thing.

There will be more of the same tomorrow and Sunday, with Sean working each day. He's got his stuff under control so I'm focusing on everything else as we wrap things up.

Speaking of wrapping, I cleaned up the kitchen, wrapping glasses and mugs up as best as I could, hoping they'd survive the short trip to the new place.

Things were otherwise quiet everywhere else, which means the status quo remains in effect. Still no word on getting, you know, a key.

You can begin to understand why my back decided to freak out.

Packing will continue. 

It's therapeutic.

I need a massage.

Three Days to Go

 

Soon (even if we're not renting a truck)

I know, I know.

Everyone moves (generally) at some point in their lives.

So we've all packed up, cleaned out, handed off one set of keys, and taken another one.

The clock is ticking toward June 28 -- a few days to the end of the month -- and I still have no firm date on when Sean and I can drop anchor in our new port.

This much I am -- sort of -- sure of: we will spend July 1 in our new home.

Beyond that, the left doesn't seem to know what the right is doing.

I got a text earlier today from Gideon, our trusty realtor (and my boss at WGCH). He said the broker wanted me to call the existing tenant of thew soon-to-be home of Adams.

"Um, OK," I said. "Why? What am I calling about?"

Supposedly it was about utilities.

"Huh. OK. Well, I've already spoken with Eversouce and they know to switch our account to the new place on July 1."

Gideon was impressed that I was on top of things (readers of this very piece of real estate already knew this). Electric and internet/TV were both taken care of on Tuesday, with a follow-up call to Verizon on Wednesday to confirm things.

So, we're set, even if I'm not confident things will work when we arrive.

But, of course, the landlord wants to clean and paint before we start moving in.

Cool. Maybe.

We're still moving in on the July 1, right? I mean, I'd like to get cracking immediately that day and I want my moving crew (currently numbered at three others) to get here ASAP without us waiting for a key.

I mean, I was coerced into signing the lease, and paying all of the rent and security weeks ago without delay or risk losing the place. Like, serious nagging.

(Hint: nagging isn't wise with me)

So when do I get what I want, like the key?

Knowing the answer, since we're paid for July 1, I still inquired about being allowed to move in.

I got an affirmative.

So, OK, then. Exactly when will the key be handed to me?

And thus, I'm back to waiting again for an answer. Sunday -- June 30 --  seems acceptable and, yes, we're still waiting.

You see, I've been in a holding pattern on several things. I've alluded to this recently. And I'm really sort of sick of it. As in, end of my rope sick of it.

Several situations have just sort of not come back to me and I need one of them to do so.

So, again, in the meantime, I continue to pack a bit. I continue to get toward the bare necessities here.

We'll get into the final packing over the weekend.

It's not unlike me to go to the apartment at 12:01 a.m. on Monday and drop off a carload of stuff.

But it's more likely I'll wait until after 6 a.m.

Maybe. After all, do you really think I'll sleep much on Sunday night?

*****

I used to really dig presidential politics. 

No longer.

I'm not watching tonight.

*****

The kerfuffle caused by Michael Kay yesterday was honestly much ado about nothing.

No radio/TV outlet is going to turn down advertising money.

Nor are they going to say that the advertiser -- in this case, SNY -- has to redo the commercial to not call their broadcast team "the best in baseball." Of course, SNY thinks their team is the best. That's simple hype. Marketing nonsense. Things that high on their horse social media dopes write about.

Honestly, this is what we're upset about?

Michael didn't like it and decided to defend the Yankees booth. And, look, I get that too. I'd defend my teammates as well.

Personally, I like the Yankees booth (the right combination) and, while the Mets booth is great, I think it's vastly overrated. I think the San Francisco Giants have the best booth, led by the incomparable Jon Miller.

But it's all opinion and who cares? I'll take the Robcasting Radio booth if you want the truth. 

Then the SNY broadcasters had to make fun of Kay and it just all got especially silly. We won't even get into the social media side of it but you can guess where that would wind up.

Besides, Kay isn't even working tonight's broadcast and we're stuck with Ryan Ruocco. Oh, wait. You might be stuck with Ruocco. I'm sitting in a quiet apartment.

Like music, it's all subjective. The Yankees broadcasters can be my warm milk and cookies. They're comfort food. Of course, a fan is going to go to them first.

So what would I thought of it had it happened to me?

If Chris Erway were still around we'd both laugh at it and, likely, mock it.

I recall someone once tried to use the "A-Team" moniker. It didn't go well. We tended to defend our turf.

But laughing is our best approach.

Followed by outworking and outperforming. We liked that kind of challenge.

I don't doubt Kay gets sick of hearing the SNY booth is "so much better" than YES. It would bug me and, like I said, I would also defend my coworkers.

That's not to say his approach was a good one on his radio show. But, that being said, it brought him attention. Is that good? Depends on opinions.

But I thought Michael's dropping a bottle of Diet Coke in a garbage can years ago in reference to mocking Mike Francesa was a bit eye-rolling.

So, perhaps, is this.

Just work hard. You have the gig. The Yankees gig.

You win.

Happy 50, Jeets!

 

Derek Sanderson Jeter, perhaps the greatest human being ever, is celebrating his 50th birthday today.

My God. For the love of Babe Ruth, that's some lead right there.

In truth, I was never the biggest Jeter fan during his career. Oh, I loved watching him play. Of course, I did.

You had to watch him every day to appreciate him. Jeter wasn't about the flashy plays. Sure, he could play -- gulp -- defense and he could get big hits, but it was the little things.

Even as a leader, everything was done quietly. 

But he was a standard every October. He was on TV's everywhere. He was a way of life.

And that's where things could get flashier.

Remind me why I say "Black is not a Mets color"
Jeter homers on the first pitch of Game 4 in 2000

Look, I know he has iconic plays that he'll always be tied to. The Flip. The dive into the stands (once against Boston, once in the playoffs against Oakland). Mr. November. The jump throw from shortstop. The walk-off hit in his last at-bat at Yankee Stadium. The 3000th hit "with an exclamation point." The home run on the first pitch of Game 4 in the 2000 World Series.

But it was all done with a steady hand and a grin.

Best of all, it was done with a fist pump when it was over.

I got to be around him in the locker room after a September game against Toronto in 2003. That's probably the first time I really understood it all.

No, he said nothing of consequence as I stood there with my back almost into Thurman Munson's locker/shrine. That was the point. That was what impressed me.

He answered. He answered everything. He said nothing. 

But he was in control.

The end at Yankee Stadium

Eventually, all iconic careers come to an end. Jeter's ended in two parts in Sep 2014. First on that single to right off Evan Meek against the Orioles at Yankee Stadium, driving home Antoan Richardson. Royalty waited to hug him with Joe Torre, Bernie Williams, Jorge Posada, Andy Pettitte, Mariano Rivera, and Tino Martinez, plus his good friend and former teammate Gerald Williams.

Then, three days later, it ended for good at Fenway Park, of all places.

Despite the lack of flash, he still knew how to walk away, dribbling a grounder to third. He beat it out for an infield single and even picked up an RBI as Ichiro scored.

He knew when to say when. Even Boston tipped their caps with a lengthy ovation.

Baseball fans get it. Even vicious rivals.

Since then he tried to be an owner in Miami and, well, not everything turns to gold. He stepped down.

He was part of the documentary The Captain in 2022.

He has since taken up broadcasting for FOX.

And he's returned to The Bronx a few times, much to the delight of his adoring fans.

There's still a foundation that bears his name. He -- and his family -- aren't just faces. They're actively involved.

He's happily married after the myriad jokes about his bachelor lifestyle, including once dating Mariah Carey. Some of his nightlife got him in the doghouse with George Steinbrenner, though they lampooned it in a commercial. Of course, there were the legends of gift baskets for his "visitors" as well.

Print the legend, of course. 

But he remains, by all appearances, the same loyal guy from Kalamazoo. Adored by his parents and sister, and now with children of his own. Still close to his fell "Core Four" mates. Still able to talk smack and take it.

I always appreciated him but all of the other stuff helped me appreciate him more.

And then came the "overrated" stuff. Yes, Ken, thank you. For you, my friend, created the #OverratedShortstop.

It's the most tiring nonsense. "Blah blah blah defensive metrics say blah blah blah."

Spare me. 

He made the plays, got the hits, and shined with the lights were the brightest. He won five rings. Not exactly Yogi Berra territory but in the modern era that's pretty great. He has -- and I say this repeatedly -- the sixth most hits ever.

People get jealous of such success. The looks, the image, the winning, and whatever other things that go into such hatred.

Plus, they hated him because he beat their team. They hated him because he personified the Yankees. You knew he'd fit in anytime.

They hate him because he said the right things while saying nothing, such as his speech to close the old stadium in 2008.

“There’s a lot of tradition, a lot of history, and a lot of memories. The great thing about memories is you’re able to pass them along from generation to generation.”

They hated when he won Gold Gloves and championships and waltzed into the Hall of Fame, missing being unanimous by one vote.

And, yeah, he wants accountability for that one vote because that's what a leader and competitor does.

So as I continued to read takes about him that just felt uneducated, it made me raise Derek Jeter to a more mythical status, even with tongue firmly planted in check because it's sports after all.

He was, as someone once said in a heavy New York accent, "duh Yankees best hittah."

Intangibles. Hate the word all you want. That was Jeter.

Happy birthday, Captain.