A Schnorrer's Cry: Baseball's Been Good to Me

I’m a baseball schnorrer.

Theres no getting around it. As I reviewed in my mind my visits to Yankee Stadium, I see a definite pattern of schnorring.

Now, for the uninitiated let me first decipher the meaning of the Yiddish word schnorrer. It may be best defined in my case as a moocher, someone who gets something for nothing or otherwise would not partake in the experience.

Eight years into the new Yankee Stadium I finally made it, with Gilda, to the big ballpark in the Bronx Thursday night, courtesy of our friends Jane and Ken G., who themselves were recipients of four complimentary $150 field level tickets about 12 rows in and a third of the way up the right field line. Great seats.

During my years at Lebhar-Friedman (1977-2009), I was fortunate to be among the privileged to receive the company’s four box seat tickets once or twice a season. They, too, were great seats perhaps a dozen rows behind the Yankee dugout near first base. They were so good they spoiled me for sitting anywhere else.

Unfortunately, along with the building of the new Yankee Stadium came a dramatic increase in season ticket prices which dovetailed with the recession that struck publishing especially hard. L-F made the tough but economically prudent decision to not renew its ticket subscription. 

I, as well, did the financially prudent thing. I forsook going to games. I even turned down a suggestion by Ellie and Donny that we go one Father’s Day several years ago. Instead, I convinced them that rather than spend a minimum $400 on tickets alone, plus food, parking and other incidentals, we should go to a Brooklyn Cyclones minor league game in Coney Island, have dinner at a nearby Russian restaurant and stroll the boardwalk, all for less than the cost of one Yankee ticket. It was a most enjoyable Father’s Day.

I didn’t always use the L-F tickets for my own enjoyment. I would give them to Dan and Ellie. I even gave Dan tickets to the seventh game of the 1999 World Series because it was to be played on his 21st birthday. Baseball aficionados no doubt realized the gift turned out to be a beau geste as the Yankees wrapped up the series against the San Diego Padres in four games. 

I was fortunate enough to go to a World Series seventh game in 1975. I scored a free ticket from the sports editor of The New Haven Register where I worked as a bureau chief. Happy to report the Cincinnati Reds came from behind to win the title against the Boston Red Sox. Aside from the Reds’ wives and front office personnel, I was probably one of the few people in Fenway Park pleased with the outcome. I was intelligent enough to keep my delirious contentment to myself that evening, even from my fellow Register reporter John Membrino, a die-hard Sox fan.

After moving back to New York in 1977, the only time I went to a Yankee game other than with L-F tickets was with John and Gilda to watch the home team play the Red Sox. We sat high in the upper deck along the left field foul line. I have no idea why people pay good money to sit in those far-away seats. 

My baseball ticket schnorring began as a child. My brother Bernie and I would go to Yankee games using tickets provided by one of our father’s sales representatives, a Mr. Schaeman. Half the fun was going on the ear-popping elevator to pick up the tickets at his office in the Empire State Building. Back then, in the late 1950s early 1960s, when the last out was recorded, on their way to the subway fans could walk on the ball field toward the exit gate in center field. Police would keep you from running on the infield diamond, but to tread where Mickey Mantle patrolled was a thrill to be savored.

We didn’t always go to Yankee games. Bernie rooted for the Dodgers. We went to Ebbetts Field virtually for free after eating 10 Elsie the Cow ice cream treats and sending the wrappers along with 25 cents to the Bordens Company. Mr. Shaeman also provided tickets to Mets games at the Polo Grounds and Shea Stadium.

For the record, I’m not just a baseball ticket schnorrer. For many years now Gilda’s brother Carl sends us two tickets to four regular season and one pre-season game of the New York Giants football team. They, too, are really good seats, though in recent years I’ve mostly chosen to avoid the two hour drag-of-a-ride home from the Meadowlands in heavy traffic. It’s a lot more comfortable watching the game on televised tape delay skipping through commercials. If Dan and Allison or Donny and Ellie can’t use the tickets, we give them to friends, Gilda’s co-workers or donate them to charity auctions.

By the way, at Thursday night’s Yankee game, the Bronx Bombers won in true bomber fashion. Brett Gardner hit a tie-breaking walk-off home run leading off the bottom of the 11th inning. Too bad we headed to the parking lot at the conclusion of the 10th inning. Ah well, at least we heard John Sterling’s call on the radio, “It is high, it is far, it is gone. The Yankees win!”

Play Ball

I knocked in the go-ahead winning run in our temple’s season opening softball game Sunday, striking another blow for almost-over-the-hill ballplayers. 

To be truthful, I shouldn’t really categorize my effort as a “blow.” And “knocking in” conveys the image of a powerful drive. What really happened is I came to bat with one out and runners at the corners (that’s first and third for those who don’t know baseball parlance). The circumstance called for situational hitting, so, being a decent switch hitter, I batted lefty as a ball hit to the right side has more of a chance of scoring the runner from third. 

I took a mighty swing (that part is true). The ball dribbled just to the right of the pitcher’s mound. In my youth, I might have run fast enough to beat the throw to first. Or at least make the play close. At 66, I made it about a third of the way down the line before giving up. I was out but the runner on third scored, the second of our runs in a 4-1 victory. 

Between innings the umpire mentioned he considered calling me out for an illegal swinging bunt. He didn’t. Perhaps he had pity on me. I was, after all, older than him. 

Now that the major league baseball season has started I am back to my normal after-dinner cleanup routine. Normal, that is, when the NY Yankees are playing night games. As I wash the pots and pans I listen to the game on television.

Last Friday the Yanks were tailing the Boston Red Sox 3-0 early. I turned off the TV. Gilda asked why. I said I was not into self-inflicted torture, which watching the Yankees this year seems to be almost a certainty. Before going to bed around 11 I checked my iPhone to see the score. It was 3-2, the Yanks coming to bat in the bottom of the ninth. As Gilda was trying to go to sleep I put the set on mute and watched the futility until, until, until Chase Headley hit a game-tying home run to send the game into extra innings. 

I wasn’t tired so I kept watching, and watching and watching as inning after inning prolonged the contest. I stayed up through a 15 minute power failure at Yankee Stadium. In the 16th inning David Ortiz hit a solo home run for Boston. In the bottom of the 16th Mark Teixeira tied it with a home run. Gilda woke up, saw the TV was still on, asked what was happening, and went back to sleep. She woke up again after the 18th inning to learn Boston had once again gone ahead by a run and the Yankees had tied it up for a third time in their half of the inning. 

In the 19th inning Boston scored again while the Yanks did not. A game I had turned off around 8 pm Friday had lasted until 2:16 am Saturday. I had watched the last three hours and 16 minutes in silence. And self-inflicted torture.

Making the Right Call

While Gilda tried to fall asleep beside me Saturday night, I watched the end of the third game of the World Series with the sound off. As the last play of the tie game in the bottom of the ninth inning unfolded, I said to myself, “Runner interference should be called.” I was wrong. It wasn't interference. Rather, it was obstruction. The umpires ruled the Boston Red Sox third baseman impeded the St. Louis Cardinal runner from advancing unobstructed toward home. It didn't matter if he did it inadvertently or with intent. The rule book makes no distinction.

The result—the Cardinals edged the Boston Red Sox 5-4, taking a 2-1 lead in games in the best of seven series. It was unfortunate timing for Boston, but a clear case of obstruction. Despite what Bosox diehards believe, the umps had to make the call. (For those not familiar with the disputed play, read about it or watch any newscast today. It no doubt will be shown.)

I can sympathize and empathize with the umpires’ plight of having to decide the outcome of a game rather than letting the players determine it outright. I, too, made a critical call during a game I was refereeing that cost Dan’s basketball team a victory.

Dan was 12, playing on a school squad of fifth and sixth graders. As fate would have it, the paid referee failed to show up for a game. Having reffed some while a counselor in summer camp two decades earlier, I volunteered my services. As both coaches knew me, my integrity and ability to be impartial as a ref were not questioned.

The game was a nail biter. With just seconds to go Dan’s team led by one point. The other team’s best player had the ball near the foul line. He faked a shot and started to drive toward the basket. He shot, and missed, but I had blown my whistle. He had been fouled in the act of shooting. Parents of Dan’s team, my wife included, went ballistic. How could I call such a foul with only a few seconds left on the clock?

The ride home after the shooter made both free throws to propel his team to a one point victory was not a pleasant one. No amount of explaining could console Dan or reassure him and Gilda that a foul is a foul no matter when it occurs and it is the obligation of the ref to call it. 

Later that season the same two teams played for the league championship. I didn't ref that game. Dan’s team won.

Hard to Believe My Son's 35 Today

Hard to believe, our son Daniel turned 35 today. Gilda and I can’t believe we’re that old, er, I mean, he’s that old. Seems like just yesterday Gilda told me not to go to work one Friday morning as contractions had started and it was time to go to the hospital. Some 16 hours later Dan finally decided to slide down the chute and change our lives forever.

I did some fall cleanup today, clearing out the shed in our yard. Out went an old perambulator, one of those big baby carriages common before the umbrella stroller and other modern conveyances turned baby portage into a fast-paced affair. We hardly ever transported Dan in this baby carriage which Gilda’s sister Barbara had used for her children. Shortly after Dan was born we installed a woodburning stove in the fireplace in the living room of our first home. We heated most of our house with wood I would gather as I drove around in my Chevy Vega, a chain saw in the back ready to cut up any fallen branches I came across. I used the baby carriage to move firewood from the driveway to the yard to a temporary pile on the porch. With its big wheels the baby carriage plowed through winter snow, even when weighted down by seven or eight logs. 

We don’t use the woodburning stove in the den of our current home very much; it was time to sever ties with the baby carriage. I’m nostalgic about it, not because Dan rode in it, but rather because it evoked memories of when we were younger, a time when I played lumberjack and the cozy warmth of a fire made our home toasty.

Eddie Mathews: Do you know who he is? He is a Hall of Fame third basemen who played most of his 17-year career with the Boston/Milwaukee/Atlanta Braves in the 1950s-1960s. I wasn’t a Braves fan. Neither was my brother Bernie, but one of the earliest of his baseball gloves was an Eddie Mathews model. I found his old, four-fingered glove at the bottom of a pile of sporting goods I was cleaning out today in the garage. Old doesn’t begin to describe its condition. It needs new stringing to keep the fingers together. The leather is dirty and maybe even moldy, but surprisingly, not cracked. I’ll give it some tender loving care and oil it up, though I’m not promising to give it back to him, despite his B. Forseter still legible across the band at the top of the glove. 

Pressure Picks: Who do you like in Monday night’s football game, the NY Giants or the Minnesota Vikings? The Giants are 0-6, the Vikings 1-4, so it’s not as if this game is between two powerhouse teams. I ask the question because for the second year I have joined a football pool and before Sunday’s games I was tied for third place among the 26 players. I might have had more points had I not remained loyal to the Giants, and been disappointed, for most of their games (I actually picked against them one game). 

I don’t have any scientific method for choosing winners. I don’t study results or injury reports as other pickers do. Success, so far, does mean there’s more pressure to pick winners. This week I’m on track for my lowest weekly total of the season.

2013 has not been a good year for my sporting life. The Yankees succumbed. The Rangers floundered on ice. The Giants are on life support (a charitable assessment). The teams I don’t want to win are winning—I root against the Jets, yet they beat the New England Patriots in overtime today. I also don’t want the Washington Redskins to win, but they edged the Chicago Bears in the last minute today, an achievement the Giants failed to do last week. Aargh! I hate the Red Sox, but they triumphed over the Detroit Tigers to make it to the World Series. At least the Mets didn’t disappoint. 

Talking in Shul, Playing Ball, Dino Sex

Gilda forwarded an article to me from, appropriately enough, The Forward, a newspaper that during its heyday at the turn of the 20th century as a Yiddish newspaper serving the mostly Eastern European influx of Jewish immigrants, dealt not only with news of the day but also with setting social mores for the “greenhorn” population (The Forward now is available on-line, in English). The article that caught her attention chronicled the efforts of Orthodox rabbis to control incessant talking in the pews during services (http://forward.com/articles/183217/rabbis-declare-war-on-chit-chat-in-synagogue/?p=all). Though a minor nuisance in Conservative and Reform temples, kibitzing, gossiping, chit-chatting is a constant background drum in Orthodox synagogues. 

I grew up in an Orthodox shul, currently am a member of a Conservative temple and have attended services in Reform and Reconstructionist houses of worship. I, thus, have reason to believe my theory of congregant conversation has legitimacy. It’s simply a matter of whom you sit next to.

In Conservative, Reform and Reconstructionist temples husbands and wives sit together. Unless they’re not on speaking terms, they’ve had ample opportunity to exchange thoughts in the privacy of their home, or in the car, or maybe over dinner in a restaurant. Sure there would be something fresh to talk about at temple, say, how the bar-mitzvah boy’s mother was dressed appropriately, or not, but by and large there’s not much new to say.

On the other hand, Orthodox synagogues segregate men from women. Husband and wife are seated next to people, usually friends, they might not see during the week. There’s lots to discuss: business, sports, politics, children, TV, movies, the list goes on and on. It’s simply a matter of being social trumping absolute devotion to prayer. Those Orthodox rabbis can pray for divine help all they want, but it will be to no avail. 

What do baseball fans want? Championships, of course. But realistically, they want to see their team play meaningful games in September. Against the odds, the injury plagued, elderly NY Yankees are  playing such games. Even the devastating losses to the Boston Red Sox this weekend could not alter the fact that the games were meaningful.

I can say the same thing about our temple softball team. Last Sunday, September 1, we had to win to make the playoffs. We did, 7-6, behind a rousing five-run ninth inning rally we almost squandered by giving up three runs in the bottom half of the ninth. Today we played another meaningful September game. We lost by a score too embarrassing to publish, but we had fun, and that’s what really counted.

Sexual Fantasies: I’ll end today with an off-beat item too amusing to pass up passing along. Ever wonder how dinosaurs procreated? Can’t say I ever did, but this link to a story from Radiolab from NPR will provide some fanciful notions on how they got it on, or  should that be “in”? http://www.radiolab.org/blogs/radiolab-blogland/2013/aug/06/subtle-mysteries-dinosaur-sex/ 

Fenway Memory

Just as they did 100 years ago today when they opened the new playground of the hometown Boston Red Sox, the NY Yankees (known then as the NY Highlanders) will be afternoon guests at the centennial of Fenway Park. A cherished edifice of Beantown architecture, Fenway is a bandbox of a ballpark where fans sit so close to the action they feel they can almost touch the players. For years they suffered with them in the anguish of never having won a championship from 1918 until 2004. Even with a second World Series title in 2007, Boston fans are forever lamenting the fate of their beloved Bosox. All the while they repeatedly sell out Fenway Park.

My one and only time visiting the baseball shrine off Lansdowne Street was in 1975, for the seventh game of the World Series against the Cincinnati Reds. My friend John and I had freebie tickets courtesy of our employer, the New Haven Register. We sat along the third base line, in the lower, covered deck. It was the night after the Red Sox had triumphed in what some people argue was the best World Series game ever, a contest tied in the bottom of the eighth by a three-run home run by Bernie Carbo and won four innings later by a solo shot over the Green Monster down the left field line by Carlton Fisk, a home run forever immortalized in film by Fisk’s willing the ball to stay fair to give Boston a 7-6 victory and a chance to win its first championship in 57 years.

Despite the exhilaration from the night before, Boston fans, including my friend John, seemed to me to carry an air of resignation on their shoulders, even after the home team took an early 3-0 lead. They seemed to be waiting for someone to foul up, to make the error that opened the floodgates for the Big Red Machine. Sure enough, in the sixth inning second baseman Denny Doyle, a mid-season acquisition based on his defensive skills, made his second error of the game, a miscue that prolonged a Cincinnati at bat. Tony Perez promptly made Boston pay by smacking a two-run homer. From then on the home town crowd’s emotional support never revived. Like prisoners waiting for their turn before the firing squad, the fans waited patiently for the coup de grace. Cincy scored single runs in the seventh and ninth innings to win the game and Series, 4-3.

With the exception of Reds players and their families, I probably was among the few fans to leave Fenway a happy fellow that night. I don’t like the Boston Red Sox. My only regret is I could not openly express my feelings. I’m not stupid, after all. No way would I openly cheer against the home team in Fenway.

I have another regret, not tied to the Red Sox, but to baseball in general. My business travels took me to every major league city. I regret not watching a game in each ball park. Too late now.

Are You Ready For Some Football

Now that ESPN’s Monday Night Football broadcast has been circumcised of any openly bigoted celebrities (thank you, Hank Williams Jr., for making it kosher to view America’s favorite sport without feeling too guilty about tuning in to redneck country), let’s turn our attention to a post-mortem on the untimely demise of our, or at least my, favorite team, the NY Yankees. I’ll try not to repeat what others have said or written.

* Right off the bat (don’t you just love that pun), I’ll violate my last sentence—the Yanks didn’t lose to the Detroit Tigers 3-2 last night because of their pitching. They lost because of the Tigers pitching. They lost because they didn’t hit, not just in the last game but throughout most of the first round playoff series. With few exceptions they did not hit with men in scoring position, and since the name of the game in baseball is to score more than your opponent in each game, not collectively throughout a series, they lost. Blame, and yes, in this case there is blame, Alex Rodriguez, Mark Teixeira, Nick Swisher, and even Derek Jeter. Robinson Cano, as well, came up short, like Jeter's fly ball to the wall in the eighth inning last night, when it really mattered, when runners were on base, except that one time in Game One when he hit a grand slam. Yes, Cano hit a solo home run yesterday, but he made out earlier in the game with two runners on.
* Some players are great during the regular season but wilt during the post-season. That’s been the pattern for years—at bat, not in the field—for A-Rod, Teixeira and Swisher. There’s no predicting how a player will perform in the playoffs, so let’s not bury these guys. Mope and hiss, but keep in mind, the difficult part of any season is making the playoffs. Only four teams make it from each league; these players have helped the Yanks continue their exemplary record of qualifying for 16 out of the last 17 years. Remarkable.
* A-Rod’s prowess at bat is diminishing. Watching A-Rod over the remaining seven years of his contract will be a flashback to watching Mickey Mantle in the twilight of his Hall of Fame career, only fewer people idolize A-Rod so his failures will be less tolerated.
* Jorge Posada showed he still can be a big-game player. He led all starters with a.429 playoff batting average. It will be sad to see him on another team next year. I was rooting for him to cap his Yankee career by smacking a tying home run in the eighth inning last night.
* Ron Darling and John Smoltz, TNT color commentators last night, made a point of saying the electronic image of a pitch was not accurate. So why bother showing it? It grossly frustrates fans when pitches clearly outside the strike zone on the graphic are called strikes against your team and balls when your pitcher throws them, or when your pitcher throws the ball inside the box and it's called a ball.
* The disappointment of unfulfilled expectations will linger for months, soothed by just one thought—The Yankees made it to the playoffs, the Boston Red Sox did not. Now, onto watching the NY Giants. My expectations going into this football season were low, so my pleasure at how well they play (they’re already 3-1) will be boundless. Unless they make it to the playoffs, at which time I’ll be crushed if they fail to win the Super Bowl.

Signs of Aging

Stopped at a red light the other day, I glanced down at my right hand and did a double take. Could it be? Were those round shadings on the back of my hand the telltale signs of aging spots? I shuttered to think so. I’ve been checking my hand ever since. So far, nothing new to report. Whew!

Here are some real signals of creeping decrepitude, culled from time recently spent with family and friends. You know you’re getting old...

When your adult children are more interested in watching a reality show like The Bachelor or Jersey Shore than a great black and white film, even if it’s starring Humphrey Bogart;

When you wonder how your adult children can listen to TV with the sound so low and they tell you it’s because they’re all under 40;

When the eldest of your friend’s teenage children slides behind the wheel of his car;

When your 8-year-old grandnephew is excited about showing you a new video game and you have absolutely no idea what you’re viewing.

No doubt you have your own senior moments, if only you could remember them.


Adios, Tito: Because he was a really good manager, Terry “Tito” Francona’s departure from the Boston Red Sox brings some relief to any NY Yankees fan. But also because he was such a good manager it also elicits sadness that he became the fall guy for the epic failure of the Red Sox to make the baseball playoffs this year, and last year as well.

In comments agreeing to his removal as manager after eight years, and two World Series wins, Francona indicated the team no longer heard his voice in the clubhouse, that he wasn’t able to inspire them. But let’s be honest—few players remain from those glory years of 2004 and 2007. The exceptions are David Ortiz, Kevin Youkilis, Tim Wakefield, Josh Beckett, Jason Varitek, Jonathan Papelbon and Dustin Pedroia, all top quality players and ostensibly, clubhouse leaders. There were 18 new sets of ears in the clubhouse who should have been receptive to Francona’s message, the same message that led to two World Series titles.

Francona’s problems could be traced to the failure of general manager Theo Epstein to provide quality replacement parts for the rest of the team roster. Over the last few years he’s invested heavily in players who did not live up to expectations, including J.D. Drew, Mike Cameron, Carl Crawford and John Lackey.

On the other hand, Yankee GM Brian Cashman can celebrate his efficiency in signing pitchers Corey Wade, Luis Ayala, Freddy Garcia and Bartolo Colon, along with position players Eric Chavez, Andruw Jones and Russell Martin.

What Cashman and Yankees fans cannot be too happy about, however, is the recurring failure of Alex Rodriguez and Mark Teixeira to hit in the post-season. After two games they are a combined 1 for 15 (Teixeira hit a double) with two strikeouts apiece. It’s nice to see Jorge Posada leading the team in batting average in the playoffs, but the Yanks won’t beat the Detroit Tigers if A-Rod and Tex don’t hit, and if Brett Gardner, 1 for 6 with no walks, and Derek Jeter, 2 for 10, no walks, don’t get on base.

But at least they made it into the playoffs. The season is already a success because Boston didn’t.

As for the post-season, I’ve come to accept whatever happens in the early rounds. I haven’t altered my life schedule to view the games. Saturday night Gilda and I watched the first two episodes of Downtown Abbey while the Yankees bashed the Tigers. Sunday we ate dinner out before seeing a Tisch School of the Arts at New York University production of Shakespeare’s Measure for Measure with a friend’s son, Rafi, in a leading role. After coming home I viewed a DVR recording of the NY Giants squeek out a victory over the Arizona Cardinals in the same stadium as their 2008 Super Bowl triumph.

I want the Yankees to win, but I’m not going to get really excited until they play in the World Series. Perhaps that’s another sign of aging, or at least maturity.

Damn Yankees, For One Night Only

Now I know the joy of rooting against the NY Yankees. Bliss would be one more loss, tonight, against the Tampa Bay Rays followed by New York victories throughout the post-season. But tonight, this die-hard Yankee fan wants his team to lose again to Tampa to give the Rays the opportunity to edge out the Boston Red Sox for the final baseball playoff spot. Boston must play its part in this psycho-drama by either losing tonight or tomorrow in a potential one game showdown against Tampa.

It was a truly weird experience watching the Rays last night turn a near-disastrous bases loaded with Yankees, no out, one-run-already-in situation into a thrilling around-the-horn triple play, and then to cheer when Matt Joyce unloaded a three-run home run to give Tampa a 5-3 lead in the bottom of the seventh. It was even stranger hoping Kyle Farnsworth would record a save against the very same Yanks he so miserably could not perform for during his stint as a set-up man for Mariano Rivera a few years back.

Sports talk radio and the blogosphere are full of the pros and cons of Yankee fans wanting Boston in or out of the playoffs. Only a fool would want his mortal enemy to have time to regroup to fight another day. Don’t those who want Boston to make the playoffs so the Yanks could beat them in the second round (assuming both teams make it there) realize that scenario would mean the Red Sox have righted their slide and defeated either the Texas Rangers or the Detroit Tigers, both formidable foes? When they would play the Yankees they’d have their swagger back.

No, it’s much better to stomp out your opposition when they are down, before they can recover. Abraham Lincoln knew this. That’s why he anguished over the failure of several generals to pursue Robert E. Lee’s forces during the Civil War. It was only when he found a kindred mind in Ulysses S. Grant that Lincoln was confident of victory over the Confederacy.

How strange to be rooting against the Yankees, even for one night. I won’t be watching the game. Gilda has prepared a sumptuous feast for 31 members of our family and friends on the eve of Rosh Hashanah. A Yankee loss, coupled with a Boston loss, would be a grand way to start the new year.

Solving the Mid-East Problem

Abused Again: In his Thursday night send-up of the Israeli-Palestinian statehood debate, labeled “West Bank Story” by the Emmy-award winning writers of The Daily Show, host Jon Stewart suggested Israelis might find the idea of a State of Palestine more palatable if the name were changed to “Palestein.”

Creative. Funny. Out of the box thinking. But in case some Jews still need more convincing, Stewart offered a more reassuring name change—"Dr. Murray Palestein.”

There it was, another Murray joke. Add that one to the list chronicled in this blog entry: http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/11/whats-in-name.html. At least this time Murray wasn’t used as the name of a dog or an incompetent cop. A doctor. My parents always wanted me to be a doctor. A dentist, actually. Whatever. It wasn’t happening.

On a “serious” note, The Daily Show proffered a solution to the decades-old land dispute. See for yourself: http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/thu-september-22-2011/west-bank-story---challahfax-vs--halalifax

I Was Wrong: Who knew the Boston Red Sox were more interested in proving me wrong than winning the American League East division title? How could the BoSox turn on my prediction they would win the division? It’s shameful how Boston squandered a lead and allowed a NY Yankees team with almost no starting pitching to clinch first place with one week left in the regular season.

Now that I have the option of choosing if I want the Bean Town boys to make the playoffs, I have to reveal my true feelings. No, I do not. I would relish their not making the post-season, not just because I really dislike them but also because no matter how terrible they play against everyone else, they crush Yankee pitching, such that it is, while out of nowhere hurling BB's that stymie Yankee bats. I’m fearful if Boston makes the playoffs they’ll advance to the second round against the Yankees (I’m assuming the pinstripers make it there) and wind up breaking my heart in interminably long games that are high on emotion but short on Bronx Bomber scoring.

If Boston doesn’t make it, the choice is between the Tampa Bay Rays or the Los Angeles Angels. I prefer the Rays. I think Angels manager Mike Scioscia is a wizard. No, not a genius (ok, he’s probably a baseball genius). I think he’s a Dumbledore who manages to cast a spell on the Yankees.


The Company You Keep: My economics degree notwithstanding, I’m no Nobel Prize laureate when it comes to the fiscal science. But Paul Krugman is, so it’s comforting to see his column in today’s NY Times mirrors what I wrote four days ago about class warfare.

Here’s a sample: “Republicans like Representative Paul Ryan responded (to President Obama’s plan to raise taxes on the rich) with shrieks of ‘class warfare.’

“It was, of course, nothing of the sort. On the contrary, it’s people like Mr. Ryan, who want to exempt the very rich from bearing any of the burden of making our finances sustainable, who are waging class war.”

Here’s a link to the full article: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/23/opinion/krugman-the-social-contract.html?_r=1&hpw

A Flair for the Dramatic

No one could ever accuse Derek Jeter, captain of the NY Yankees, of having an undeveloped sense of drama. Everything he does seems to be tinged with an acute sense of timing, the latest example of which was his dramatic entry into the elite club of 3,000 hit baseball players.

First, Jeter heightened the drama by sustaining an injury just six hits shy of the milestone. Next, he returned in time to set the stage for a Yankee Stadium-setting of the record. Third, the record hit was a home run, an anomaly among Jeter’s general hits nowadays. Fourth, Jeter did not stop at 3,000 on Saturday. He had a day for the ages, going 5 for 5 and knocking in the winning run with a single.

Anyone would remember a 5 for 5 day—Jeter had two of them before. But to add another on the day he stroked his 3,000th hit was an extraordinary bit of theater. It reinforces the flair for the dramatic that Jeter has cultivated throughout his 16-season career.

It ranks with his Jeffrey Maier-assisted home run in the 1996 playoff opener against the Baltimore Orioles; his backhand flip to Jorge Posada to nail Jeremy Giambi at the plate in the 2001 playoffs against the Oakland Athletics; his head-first dive into the third base stands after making a running catch against the Boston Red Sox in 2004, a feat he performed three years earlier against the A’s in the 2001 playoffs; his “Mr. November” home run at 12:03 am November 1 to win a World Series game against the Arizona Diamondbacks in 2001; his quick-release-spin relay throw to home to get Timo Perez in game one of the 2000 World Series against the NY Mets; his leadoff homer in game four of that same series.

In short, Jeter has had a highlight reel career now capped with an incredible performance Saturday. And I missed it because Yankee baseball is not broadcast in Israel. At least not in the hotel I stayed in. Oh well, I guess I will just have to wait for YES to rebroadcast it as one of their encore games.

News Flash—I just checked the YES Network schedule; the game will be rebroadcast in 10 minutes, so I’m signing off for my view of history already made.

Panic Time?

Is it time to panic? Is losing 8 of 9 games to the Boston Red Sox, encompassing two consecutive three game sweeps at Yankee Stadium, including a depressing rain-delayed 8-3 loss early this morning, reason to wonder, really wonder, if the NY Yankees can finish high enough in the standings to qualify for the baseball playoffs this year, even if it’s only as a wild card entrant?

I’m already on record as saying the Red Sox are the team to beat in the strong American League East division. So it’s not too surprising, or dispiriting, that the Beantown boys are in first place. I’m actually surprised the Yankees are doing as well as they have, given all the injuries they have sustained to their pitching staff (the latest, a season-endinginjury to Joba Chamberlain) and the paltry batting from most of their lineup.

In recent years, the Bronx Bombers and the BoSox usually split their season series, or barely edged each other. If the Yanks had won just four of the games played so far they’d be in first place, not two games out. They are, after all, beating the teams they have to beat to stay at or near the top of the division.

There are a few keys to the Yanks making the playoffs this year:

*Their remaining pitchers need to stay healthy. With their already crippling pitching injuries (aside from Chamberlain, Rafael Santana, Phil Hughes Pedro Feliciano and Damaso Marte have gone down), they can’t afford to have any more hiccups from their hurlers. It’s over if C.C. Sabathia or Mariano Rivera aggravates anything. They also can’t afford any setbacks to starters Bartolo Colon or Freddy Garcia, and reliever David Robertson, given the fragility of their staff;

*They need a left-handed relief specialist who can consistently get lefty batters out. Boone Logan is a disaster. General manager Brian Cashman needs someone who can pitch to David Ortiz, JD Drew, Jacoby Ellsbury et al and get them out when called upon. Maybe it’s not a leftie. Maybe it’s a right-hander with a great changeup. It’s ridiculous to rely on Logan;

*They need to start hitting better, especially situational hitting, as with less than two outs and a runner in scoring position. Too many of their runs have crossed the plate via the home run. They need to build rallies. They need timely hits. When a player like Robinson Cano, a potential batting title candidate, is hitting just .273 going into tonight’s game, there’s reason to be concerned. That’s 30 points below his career average. The last time Cano hit so low, .271 for the 2008 season, the Yanks did not qualify for the playoffs. Only one player in tonight’s starting lineup against the Cleveland Indians is batting higher than Cano. Alex Rodriguez is at a less than stellar .276. It’s a long season. All hitters go through slumps. Perhaps Yankee hitters are slumping en masse. They’ve got three and a half more months to break out of their collective funk;

*Brett Gardner has to learn how to steal bases better. His chances of swiping a base are only 50-50. That’s not good for someone with his speed. You can’t turn a game around if you waste your best asset. Gardner also has to learn how to bunt better, and how to hit pitches away from where infielders are playing him. He’s just not the catalyst we expected him to be.

Is it panic time? Not yet, but it’s getting close. Maybe they’ll take off once Derek Jeter gets his 3,000th hit, which should happen in the next two weeks. Maybe the team is experiencing a uniform angst along with Jeter as it awaits the inevitable.

Whatever the cause, they have to start playing better or it will be a loooooong summer.

A Mix of Messages

Today is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. For most of my professional life I worked this day. It was not included in the 10 authorized holidays my employer observed. It did not share the status of Memorial Day, or the Fourth of July, or even the day after Thanksgiving.

Until, that is, a new vice president of human resources joined our company from Time Warner. She revised the holiday schedule to include MLK Day (unfortunately, the National Retail Federation annual convention usually fell on that day so I had to work, anyhow). As soon as she left the company, MLK Day reverted to its prior status as an official day of work.

Who says one person can’t make a difference? If you haven’t figured it out by now, the VP HR was Afro-American.


Revised Opinion: One month ago I labeled the Boston Red Sox as the team to beat in the American League East. That was even if the NY Yankees could sign Cliff Lee. Of course, they didn’t, so the outlook appeared even bleaker for the boys in pinstripes.

But I’m revising my sense of doom and gloom in light of the Yankees signing of Rafael Soriano, the relief pitching specialist. There’ve been reports he could cause some locker room problems, but his former pitching coach with the Tampa Bay Rays discounts them (http://www.nydailynews.com/sports/baseball/yankees/2011/01/16/2011-01-16_rafael_soriano_was_a_good_signing_by_the_yankees_says_tampa_bay_rays_pitching_co.html ). I’m also hoping that under the soothing influence of Mariano Rivera, Soriano will find a kindred soul (both are very religious) and contribute mightily to making the Yankee bullpen the best in the business.

Last year, Soriano recorded 45 saves in 48 attempts. The Yankees plan to pitch him in the eighth inning and leave the ninth to Rivera. Rivera had 33 saves in 38 opportunities last season. In effect, the tandem make a typical nine inning game into a seven inning contest, assuming the Yankees are ahead. Last year the Bronx Bombers led the major leagues in runs scored, so there’s every confidence they can place many a game in the capable hands of the bullpen masters to protect a lead and win.

Naysayers may point to the Achilles Heel of the ball club, the starting pitching. To get to Soriano-Rivera, the starters and middle relievers will have to limit scoring by the opposition. I’m hopeful they’ll be able to do that.

What else am I going to say?


Nature or Nurture: 14-month-old Finley’s been taking advantage of his mobility on two legs, enjoying walking around children’s museums, especially those with a play kitchen set-up. His mom has told us to keep a sharp eye out for kiddie stoves. As a tag sale devotee, I couldn’t wait for Spring.

Lo and behold, while replacing batteries in the smoke detectors in the attic this morning, I found a Care Bears stove/top burner/sink with lots of dishes and utensils. After more than 20 years of accumulated dust from the last time Ellie played with it is cleaned off, the toy kitchen will be ready for Finley. Of course, there are some who might cringe at this less than manly interest by the young fellow, Iron Chefs notwithstanding. But it made Gilda recall a lesson she learned about what’s more dominant in raising a child, nature vs. nurture.

Not wanting to typecast our daughter with just girlie interests, Gilda decided Ellie would play with generic toys as a toddler. Blocks. Legos. Balls. Cars and trucks. Stuffed animals. Nothing feminine. No dolls.

Ellie was a contented child, but not very enthusiastic. Finally, for Ellie’s third birthday, Gilda’s friends could take it no more. They gave Ellie several dolls and other “gender appropriate” gifts, including a baby doll stroller and the aforementioned Care Bears kitchen set. She immediately radiated excitement, took the presents to her room and played with them for hours.

So much for trying to control development. No one who knows Ellie today would suggest she is anything but feminine. She’s not into organized sports, though she enjoys camping, hiking, mountain climbing, canoeing and other “manly” activities. For Ellie, nature most assuredly won out.

Playing Catchup

Gilda advised me when I woke up Thursday morning that Syracuse, NY, was under two feet of snow. I checked the weather forecast—over the next few days more dandruff from the sky is expected in the city I love to hate.

For those not familiar with my disdain for Syracuse, here’s a link to a blog I wrote last December: http://nosocksneededanymore.blogspot.com/2009/12/let-it-snow.html


Name That Feud: Baby Boy Forseter, our grandnephew, has an official name—Jacob Peyton Forseter, to be commonly called Jake.

I won’t weigh you down with the lineage from whom Jake derived his first and second names, but I would like to dwell a moment on Peyton. Though his father, Eric, hopes Jake will find a good playmate in our one-year-old grandson, Finley, I’m not sure he is aware of the challenge he has placed before them.

According to thinkbabynames.com, Peyton is of Old English origin; the meaning of Peyton is "fighting-man's estate". Finley, the Web site says, is of Irish and Gaelic origin; the meaning of Finley is "fair-haired, courageous one". I surely hope these English- and Irish-named Jewish kids get along.

The next Forseter grandchild is due in March. Eric’s sister, Karen, and her husband, David, live in London (he's a real English Jew). I can hardly wait to hear what name they’ll pick for their progeny, the sex of which we have yet to be told.


Dead as a Doornail: The mulcher is officially dead.

The mulcher my brother Bernie gave me last weekend lasted less than a day. It did not help matters that some of the leaves I mulched were slightly damp. Who knew that was a no-no? Nowhere in the instruction booklet—which I thoroughly read before using the mulcher—did it say anything about avoiding wet leaves. But that was the first thing the Black & Decker repairman asked me when I called for help. And it was the first thing Gilda asked about when I told her the mulcher died.

(Since Bernie does not read this blog on a regular basis, perhaps I’ll be spared his commentary.)

Next time, I will hark back to my tried and true method of handling yard work—I’ll pay to have someone else do it!


Yankee Misfortunes: I’m happy Derek Jeter and the Yanks agreed to a new deal, but the big news in baseballdumb (“dumb” because of all the dollars being thrown at players of questionable quality for contracts of too many years) is the vast improvement, on paper at least, posed by the dreaded Boston Red Sox with the signing of Adrian Gonzalez and Carl Crawford.

With their solid starting pitching and the expected return of injured players from last year, the Beantown Boys are the team to beat in the American League, even if the Yankees sign Cliff Lee.

To qualify for the playoffs next year, New York will need rebound performances from A.J. Burnett and Jeter, more well-rounded results from Curtis Granderson, Mark Teixeira, Brett Gardner, Jorge Posada and Joba Chamberlain, and at least comparable statistics from Nick Swisher, Robinson Cano, Alex Rodriguez, Mariano Rivera, Phil Hughes, Andy Pettitte (if he returns) and C.C. Sabathia.


Equal Opportunity Rant: It’s time to vent against Congressional Democrats for saying they won’t go along with the compromise President Obama stitched together with Republicans extending the Bush tax cuts and stimulating the economy, including renewing unemployment compensation for the long term jobless (including many of my former colleagues).

Before the November elections, House and Senate Democrats couldn’t get the job done despite their majorities. The time to push principles has passed. It’s now time to govern; governing often requires compromise. Rare is the person who likes compromise. It means you didn’t get all of what you wanted. But that’s the way it works in government, Democrats. Don’t allow the GOP to turn you into the “party of NO.”

Don’t let the electorate believe it was the Democrats who raised taxes on the lower and middle classes. That’s a sure way to creating even greater Republican victories in 2012.


For Shame: Yesterday, Senate Republicans again scuttled an attempt to fund medical care for 9/11 first responders and others who became ill breathing the toxic air around Ground Zero. To use a phrase made famous by Joseph N. Welch in rebuking Sen. Joseph McCarthy in 1954, “Have you left no sense of decency?”

How shameful is it that the party that professes to be all about patriotism, law and order and American values cannot see the morality of supporting those who put their lives at risk for the sake of their country and fellow citizens? The GOP is balking at spending $7.4 billion in medical benefits but is happy to enthusiastically back tax breaks for the wealthy that would add $60 billion a year to the nation’s deficit.

For shame. For shame.

Handwriting on the Wall

I’ve got a handwriting problem. I can’t always read notes I’ve written down for blog entries.

I walk around with a pad and pen in my back pocket to jot down notes, even to longhand full stories, whenever the muse hits me. Trouble is, my scribble is so hasty that unless I sit down to transcribe it right away I often have a hard time discerning what I wrote.

It was always this way. My illegible handwriting drove my parents crazy, so much so that when I received an “A” in penmanship in fourth grade my father made my mother go up to the teacher to complain her standards were too low. She explained she based the grade on the penmanship of homework reports she assigned. Knowing that, I painstakingly toiled to make these reports works of cursive art. Even at the tender age of eight I knew how to game the system.


I think I might qualify to be a banking executive. Today’s New York Times showcased troubles with the mortgage foreclosure process. One problem involved the signature of an assistant vice president of American Home Mortgage Servicing assigning a mortgage to another bank. As shown in a photo of three documents, the AVP’s signature differs widely in each instance. The clear inference is that three different people signed the paperwork, meaning at least two were forgeries.

That’s the logical conclusion, but if American Home Mortgage Servicing needs an expert witness on its behalf, I’m available. You see, I, too, have multiple signatures, and I’ll be darned if I can remember which one I’ve used for, say, the safety deposit box form, my regular checking account or any other official paper that requires a John Hancock.

It’s always a crap shoot wondering which way to sign and if the people scrutinizing my chicken scratchings will ask for further proof of who I am. When they don’t I silently say, “Fooled them again,” but then I begin to wonder how safe my money and identity are if I am not questioned when my signature clearly does not match the official record.


Does God need a better GPS? It might appear so after last Friday’s weather.

On Thursday, Jews all over the world prayed for rain, part of the annual fall holiday of Shemini Azeret. They were praying for rain in Israel, which, by the way, is enduring a years long drought. Instead, God sent torrential rain up and down the East Coast, with more rain expected this week. In Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, meanwhile, it’s been nice and sunny.

Perhaps God was confused because there might be as many Jews living on the East Coast as there are in Israel, especially when you consider the number of Israelis who have moved here.


Driving home from Queens the other day, two things occurred to me. First, too often there’s no music I like playing on any of my 12 preset FM radio stations. I don’t do enough driving to invest in satellite radio so I’m stuck with FM fare. Oh well...

Second, why is it during a traffic jam whenever I switch lanes my new lane almost always comes to a standstill and my old lane starts moving faster?


At his town hall meeting at Washington, D.C.’s, Newseum two weeks ago President Obama got an earful about the stalled economy and shattered dreams. One poignant moment came when a woman, a supporter of his, asked, "My husband and I thought we were beyond the hot dog and beans (stage) of our lives. ... Is this my new reality?"

Funny thing, Gilda and I like the occasional franks and beans dinner. But it’s easy to understand why a constant diet of franks and beans would be disheartening. If Obama and the Democrats hope to keep their majority influence in Washington they have just four weeks to convince voters that a Republican/Tea Party victory would guarantee many more franks and beans meals.

Compassionate Conservative is never mentioned these days. Instead, the candidates on the right hammer home a message of lower government spending which can only mean less assistance for the needy. And more tax breaks for the wealthy.

Incidentally, on your next visit to Washington, take time to visit the Newseum. Set aside several hours. There’s lots to see and absorb there.


The regular baseball season ended with Boston denied a post-season slot but gaining some measure of satisfaction by denying the Yankees a first-place finish in their division, though the New Yorkers still qualified for the playoffs as a wild-card entry. It's too early to say if the Red Sox did the Yanks a favor by making them play the Minnesota Twins, and not the Texas Rangers, in the first round.

Over the weekend the Yankee announcers were reminiscing about the 1978 playoff game between Boston and New York, won by Bucky Dent's dramatic three-run home run off Boston's Mike Torrez. They wondered why they had been home to watch the one-game playoff to determine the winner of the American League East crown (this was before the wild card option). They speculated they played hookey from school that Monday, Oct. 2, 1978.

I, on the other hand, easily remember why I wasn't at work. It was the first day of Rosh Hashanah. After we returned from my parents' synagogue and ate lunch, we retired to the TV room to watch the Yankees begin a wonderful year for our extended family, capped by the birth of my son Dan, my sister's son Ari and my brother's daughter Karen. And, oh yes, the Yanks won the World Series that year.

Lost Advantage

It was too hot to go to the movies yesterday.

I had been planning to catch the 2:15 pm showing of Toy Story 3 at the Clearview Cinemas in Yonkers, part of my free film Tuesday series, courtesy of our Optimum Rewards membership. After bringing Ellie’s and Donny’s gear from a long weekend on Martha’s Vineyard and Cape Cod to their apartment in Brooklyn and returning to Yonkers in time to deliver meals to the homebound, I was ready to spend a couple of hours relaxing in air conditioned comfort.

Unfortunately, the Jeep I was driving was not too keen on bleaching out in the 100 degree sun on the totally exposed parking lot. Whether it was the triple-digit heat or a malfunctioning, underperforming a/c system, my morning drive confirmed Ellie’s report that the 12-year-old Jeep was not the most comfortable conveyance to be cooped up in, all the more so if it had several hours to bake in one spot. I reasoned Toy Story 3 would probably be around next week and that a visit to the dealership for an a/c tune-up Thursday would be a more prudent approach. After hearing a news report last evening that a car parked in the sun could have its interior temperature elevated by 50 degrees, I have no doubt I took the correct course of action.


Lost Advantage: Has Mariano Rivera jeopardized the NY Yankees’ chances for a 28th World Championship?

Because of nagging injuries, Rivera has backed out of this year’s All-Star baseball game next week in Anaheim between the National and American Leagues. The All-Star game winner determines home field advantage during the World Series. If the American League wins, it would mean games 1,2, 6 and 7 would be played at Yankee Stadium (I am assuming, of course, the Yanks will represent the American League. To presume otherwise would be heresy).

As the premier closer in baseball, the pitcher responsible for securing the last outs of a game, Rivera has never faltered at Yankee Stadium in the post-season, so gaining home field advantage would be a tangible and psychological advantage to the Yankees. While “Mo” has been stellar in other ballparks, he has four times failed to safeguard a lead during post-season away games—the 4th game of the 1997 Division Series in Cleveland won the next day by the Indians, the 7th and decisive game of the 2001 World Series in Arizona won by the Diamondbacks, and Games 4 and 5 of the 2004 American League Championship Series in Boston eventually won by the Red Sox.

Now, I don’t begrudge Rivera wanting a few days off during the All-Star break. His right knee and left oblique muscle are bothering him. But caution now could backfire in the World Series. Yes, there are other worthy closers on the American League roster. But every other closer blew a lead during last year’s post-season; only Rivera’s record was spotless. When that happens, the Yankees generally win.

There is no certainty the All-Star game would even be close enough to require Rivera’s appearance on the mound. So his injured body might not be taxed. Taking away the Rivera option has surely diminished the American Leagues’, and thereby the Yankees’, margin for success, next week and in three months.


Woodchuck Invasion: Peering out the kitchen window while cleaning some potatoes for this evening’s dinner, I spotted a woodchuck waddling across our side yard. He stopped to munch on some leafy plants. I raced outside to shoo him away, but he was back a few moments later, only to amble off to our neighbor’s lot.

Perhaps it’s this woodchuck that moved some sizable stones surrounding the bird feeding station in our yard. Yesterday I noticed several stones had been overturned. The birds didn’t do it. I have my doubts the coyotes we’ve been reading about did it. I thought maybe a raccoon, but upon seeing the woodchuck I have a new suspect.

No doubt Gilda will demand immediate repulsive action (that’s repulsive as in keeping it away, not as in doing anything repugnant). The woodchuck control web site lists several remedies, each one bullet-pointed with the paw of a woodchuck (cute, yes? Not really, when one considers the reason why one has landed on this web page).

Speaking of bullets, that’s one suggestion, though not one I would consider. Trapping is another option my ancestors might have employed. Engaging a professional pest controller is a little too much for now. The most appropriate remedy might be using a repellant with predator odors, such as coyote urine. Hopefully, those odors won’t attract real coyotes. I’ve emailed “ask-the-peeman” for an answer.


Frisbee Update: Dan’s team has won all its games so far at the World Ultimate Frisbee Championships. Only one more contest Thursday before the playoff round begins Friday.

Games People Play

Our temple softball team lost again today. So far this season the team has an ignominious 0-6 record, a sharp turn from the last few seasons as one of the elite squads of the 17-team league. I care, but not as much as when I used to devote almost every spring, summer and early fall Sunday for nearly 30 years to the team. As the starting pitcher for almost all of those seasons, I felt a certain responsibility to show up each week to keep us competitive. It was only after we secured another pitcher, a better pitcher, that I found myself liberated from that responsibility.

I retired last year, one year after we finally won the league championship. I brought a bottle of champagne to the game (just in case we won) and celebrated in traditional style after the final out, showering all the players in the bubbly. I kept showing up the following season, but after turning 60 last year just before play began, I decided lounging in bed beat out pitching batting practice, coaching third base and getting into the occasional game. This morning I “managed” to roll out of bed near 11 am, about the time the last out was made in today’s 8-3 loss.

It wasn’t that way during the first 22 or so years of my “career” in the temple softball league. Before I joined the team, we’d lose by double digit scores. That’s what happens when your pitcher in a fast-pitch league lobs the ball over the plate. We continued to lose after I began pitching up to speed, but the scores were much closer.

And then, a few years later, as it does to many sports teams, the players all seemed to mature at the same time and we rose to the top of the league. At one time all our infielders shared the same first name—David. I called them my Magen David (Shield of David) infield. We made it to the championship game against one of the league powerhouses. Over eight innings we outscored them 3-2. Trouble was, in the first inning none of our trusted first basemen was present, one being on the injured list with a broken elbow sustained in a game earlier that summer, another at a wedding in Washington and a third out of town on a business trip. We were forced to play a scrub—Alan—at first.

The first two batters hit ground balls to short. Alan could not handle either throw. By inning’s end we had given up three unearned runs. One of our wayward first basemen arrived before the start of the second inning, we played flawless ball thereafter, but the deficit was too much to overcome against the opposing pitcher, Joel, who, I should note, joined our team about six years ago and pitched us to that first and, so far, only championship season.


“My Team” Wins: The most intense rivalry in sports, or at least in baseball, is generally acknowledged to be between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. That probably explains why I, a dedicated Yankees fan, care more about how Boston fares than how the Tampa Bay Rays do, despite the fact that the Rays currently are in first place, beat my Yanks twice last week at the Stadium in the Bronx and seem pretty invincible. Maybe it’s also because I can’t get too angry with a Tampa Bay team whose manager looks like a slimmer version of Drew Carey, not that I’m a big Drew Carey fan.

I want to win it all, but if we do fall short of that objective, all I really care about is finishing ahead of Boston. So each night I check the box scores to see Boston’s results. I get very disappointed when they win. I know it doesn’t make any sense, but no one ever accused me of being rational.

I have the same “my team vs. their team” mentality for football. I root for the NY Giants. Since my brother abandoned New York to take up residence in Washington some 40 years ago, and subsequently switched his allegiance to the Washington Redskins, I console myself after any Giants loss if the dreaded Skins also lost. The last few years, I gleefully add, I’ve enjoyed most fall Sundays, Giants win or not.


“Glee”-fully Speaking: The TV show Glee is a sensation, but not one that Gilda or I have marked on our must-see list. We tried watching it one time, but couldn’t get into it. Probably didn’t give it enough time to ferment in our brains.

Equally lost on us is the frenzy over the last episode of Lost. We should have engendered an attachment to that show. It began filming not far from Ellie’s apartment on the North Shore of Oahu while she spent eight months there six years ago.

Ah well, chalk it up to another missed viewing opportunity, along with 24, Six Feet Under, The Wire and lots of other TV shows that one day, one day, we say we will have enough time to view on DVD.


Video Game Challenged: I can trace the beginnings of my decline as a comparatively capable functioning member of society to an exact date, 30 years ago—May 21, 1980. That was the day Pac-Man made its debut and signaled my transition from a generally accomplished person to klutz.

I played Pac-Man, occasionally. I remember taking business trips with some of my publication salesmen. Every free moment they’d be playing Pac-Man. Perhaps because I wasn’t too good at the game, I never developed an obsession with it. Or with Donkey Kong, Mario or any of the other “juvenile” pursuits.

Since video games did not turn me on, I wasn’t too disappointed our children didn’t spend hours upon hours in front of a computer screen zapping away at aliens and assorted bad guys. I was much prouder of Dan’s accomplishments on the playing fields and Ellie’s in the theater.


Speaking of Proud Moments: Ellie won her battle with the NYC Transit Police. You may recall she’d been accused of turnstile jumping, even though she had an unlimited monthly Metro card that would have obviated any need to slip through without paying.

After several appearances at Transit Court, the last with the policeman who cited her testifying, Ellie won. The judge dismissed all charges.