Wednesday, December 17, 2014

Car Talk

For those of us who choose the path of car ownership rather than the universe of leasing, there is that moment in time when a determination must be made if too much is enough. When the mathematics of caressing a vehicle makes little sense and we bid adieu to an aged companion. Such was the dilemma recently before me.

First let it be known that I am not a car person. I do not anthropomorphise my cars, do not assign cute names to them, do not grow attached to their peculiarities and am genuinely aggravated by their peccadilloes. Unlike my wife, who still chastises me for demanding she release her death like grip on her 1989 Saab in 2004 when the rust was omnipresent, the push pins holding up the sagging interior ceiling were unsightly and there was water cascading in the car during rainstorms from the imprudently named sun roof, there is no sentiment coursing through my veins in regard to my automobile.  My actions are motivated only by financial considerations.

I am cheap. For those of you who know me well, or even know me a little, the sentence immediately preceding this one was unnecessary. Unsubstantiated rumor has it that I will travel far and wide for a free meal and that I never met a handout that I could refuse. Of course, I am that person who can be found at every food and beverage tasting in the supermarket. So when our 2005 Volvo with 110,000 miles on it began to make ugly sounds in its front right quadrant, the question of the necessity of medical intervention was raised.

The Volvo ranks only second in terms of elder statesmen among our vehicles. The 2002 Audi, with its omnipresent check engine warning, with its fan that makes its own determinations as to whether and when it wishes to operate, with its heating system that long since decided it was done providing us a service, with all of this seeming to hasten its demise, still continues to exist. We do not lightly discard those items we call ours.

But the noises emanating from the Volvo caused me consternation. The grating sound made it seem the problem could be somewhat ominous. Like a wheel about to fall off the car and wander on its own intended path down the highway. And when our mechanic was asked to investigate, the number $800 was suddenly part of the conversation. And worse, the noise could not be duplicated. This forfeiture of cash related to replacing old and worn out brakes. Deep breath in, cash out, new brakes installed.

When the offending noise resurfaced within a day or two of our taking possession of the car, it seemed only logical to have it addressed. After all, once the $800 was expended, there was no point in not getting this right. Over another $1000 was then removed from my wallet so I could become the proud new father of struts and shocks, although this seemed not like a reference to a vehicle but rather to (a) how the mechanic was walking around with my money and (b) how I had responded to this intrusion into my piggy bank.

Thus, over the course of 10 days, I had much spilled milk to cry over. But, as we all must do, I rationalized that this expenditure was well worth it when amortized over the expected remaining life of the car.

Yesterday was two days after I retrieved the Volvo. My wife and I agreed how much better it was handling, confirming the mechanic was prescient in informing us that the difference in the ride would be most noticeable. Early in the morning I drove this new and better version to a doctor's appointment and was then scheduled to return home to pick my wife up. Even more surprising than the improved handling of the car was the fact that its recent habit of flashing the check engine light at me was nowhere in evidence.

So, happy was I, at least in the car sense, as I headed back to our apartment. That feeling ended very abruptly.

As I was making a left hand turn at a light, mere blocks from my destination, I had an unrequested and unexpected companion knocking at my right passenger door. A car, operating at what I will swear at the time of my deposition was moving at excessive speed towards me, announced it wanted the space I was occupying in the middle of my turn. The result was that my right passenger door was significantly damaged, the right front wheel and tire were now facing inward rather than forward, and the compartment housing my right front light was smashed into a thousand little pieces. Green oozed from underneath the car, declaring to me that the antifreeze was antifrozen. What else was happening in places unseen was most certainly quite extensive. I surmised the great likelihood was that the puddle of green I was seeing was actually my money being spit out.

The vehicle was undriveable. As I sat in stunned silence, my first call was to the mechanic, advising him of the car's sorry state of affairs and making arrangements, if the car was not totaled, for him to undertake its resurrection. By the way, I mentioned, if it was not too late, could he back out the $1800 in charges on my card since I had received scant benefit from his undertaking. I could barely make out his response in my semi-coherent state, but I am quite certain that he did not tell me to peruse my next statement for credits.

I should end my story there, but for the sake of full disclosure there is a bit more to my tale of woe. Immediately upon arriving home, the insurance carrier was contacted. I provided chapter and verse of what had transpired (I could only guess that, much like "The Affair", my version of events would have a very different flavor from that of my "attacker") and was informed that the carrier would have the car moved from the lot to which it had been towed, to another lot of the carrier's choosing. There, the post-mortem would be undertaken.

Frazzled and more than a bit harried, I was driven by my wife to my office in my mother-in law's car, after we first dropped my mother-in law at her physical rehab appointment. Before I even arrived at work, there was a call from the carrier. It seemed the lot to which the car had been towed was refusing to release its possession without a signed release from the police. The form for this, the carrier was told, had to be obtained at the police department.

My wife called the local constables and explained our recent circumstances. Yes, she was told, the form had to be filled out. No, it could not be faxed or emailed. Yes, I had to appear at the police station to pick up the form if I was the registered owner of the vehicle.

So, we left the office, returned to our apartment, picked up the requisite papers, and arrived at the offices of the police. I spoke to the person in  apparent charge. "What", he asked me, "are you talking about? There is no form needed. This was not a police tow, but a private tow." With that, the lieutenant picked up the phone, called the lot where the car was stored, and advised that I was now able to pick up my vehicle.

I suggested to him that it was my belief there was some kind of scam going on. I announced that the lot was reluctant to release the car as it would be receiving storage fees the longer it kept my car in its clutches. My comment was not met with understanding but with more than a bit of indignation.

Approximately four hours after I arrived at the intersection of going home to pick up my wife and no you aren't, I appeared at my office, ready to start my work day. As I sat there I thought my Volvo actually deserved a name for what it had put me through. However, because I am a gentleman and do not want to offend my suddenly all too human transportation device, I will leave its moniker to your imagination. All I can tell you is that its not pretty.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Common Folks

Every day, President Obama awakens to a world filled with serious problems. Ebola, terrorism, racism, torture, unemployment, incarceration, ISIL, Putin, al-Assad, Hamas. Attached to each word, to each name is a seriousness that evokes very deep emotions. Each one occupies the President's thoughts, and collectively they define the space in which we all reside.

President Obama is nothing if not precise and very careful in his response to each crisis that is laid before him. His greatest strength lays in his intelligence and his ability to express our worries, our fears and our hopes in clear and powerful terms. He is the polar opposite of his predecessor, who appeared to intentionally perpetuate the image of himself as a simple man by speaking often in a comically inelegant manner.

Yet, there is one word that has bridged the gulf between George W. and the current holder of the highest office. One word that each of these men called upon again and again. One word that seemed jarringly inappropriate in the context of the moment but has arisen, over and over. One word that unites two men with such different political philosophies and ways of communicating their thoughts. That one word is "folks."

In response to our emerging national conversation concerning the recognition that we are very far removed from a post-racial society, President Obama spoke of the ongoing problem relating to black "folks." It struck a discordant note with me and I wondered how often he had called upon that word in different contexts, for it forever seemed to pepper his conversations.

The answer is a lot.  A recent article in BuzzFeed found that word appeared at least 348 times during President Obama's news conferences. It determined that for every 10,000 words uttered in these settings 7.3 was that one congenial, non-threatening, non-confrontational word. Folks.

The runner up in the use, or over-use, belonged to George W. Bush, but his reliance on that term paled in comparison with the current record holder, being less than half as prevalent. That is not to say that the former record holder did not cause some significant consternation with the application of this word.

Whether it be in reference to Al Qaeda as "the very same folks that attacked us on September the 11th" or as Islamist fascists as that "extremist group of folks",  it was not an uncommon turn of events for President Bush to somehow refer to the people who had, in his opinion, led us directly into what may arguably be the most ill conceived conflict this country has ever entered into, with a word that we perceive to have no malevolence attached to it.

And if the use by President Bush was somehow startling in its juxtaposition to the gravity of the issue, it seems President Obama has amplified and expanded its application.

It was reported that during the second of the  2012 Presidential debates, Mr. Obama used the word folks on 17 occasions,on subjects as diverse as gun control: "automatic weapons that kill folks in amazing numbers"; illegal immigration: "deport folks"; and the murders at the Libyan embassy: "I know these folks killed."

In a recent interview on "60 Minutes" President Obama spoke of the strategy to be utilized in confronting the then newly emerging terrorist group, ISIL : "We've got to get Arab and Muslim leaders to say very clearly.These folks do not represent us. They do not represent Islam". During that same conversation he defended his failure to arm Syrian rebels against Bashir al-Assad contending it was not correct to assert that if "we had given those folks some guns two and a half years ago, that Syria would have been fine."

Perhaps the President's most well remembered, and some would say tortured use of that word came in August of this year when he responded to allegations of CIA abuse of prisoners by stating "we tortured some folks.". This seemingly far too casual reference even led to the creations of a twitter hashtag "#wetorturedsomefolks."

Yet the use of this word is not confined to the most virulent of situations or aggressive foes. Years before, in discussing those who opposed passage of his proposed health care plan, he stated that "some of those same folks who are spreading these tall tales have fought Medicare in the past.

A recent Wall Street Journal article reviewed the range of circumstances to which this word affixed in a July, 2014  press conference: " The president used the word “folks” eleven times, referring to a variety of groups including workers, critics, healthcare-seekers, the Border Patrol, the general public, the Central Intelligence Agency, Africans, and potential Ebola victims."

So, what conclusions can be drawn from the President's reliance on one innocuous word? Is it intended to humanize Mr. Obama, who has often seemed distant from both the electorate and from those in Washington who clearly find him remote and unapproachable? Is it meant to reduce the level of fear or concern that attaches to the most seemingly dangerous of adversaries or circumstances? Or is it merely the natural tendencies in his language, a word that both he and President Bush find easy and comfortable in their conversation?

It is hard to discern what motivation lies behind the constant use of this word. If meant to make the President seem less an intellectual elite and more a common man, I would suggest that it has failed to achieve its purpose. If it was a way to reduce anxiety in the public as to the toxic level of our enemies, I do believe that hyperventilated language can exacerbate (see the recent dialogue regarding the Ebola quarantine) and that common relatable phrases, in limited dosage and in proper context, can minimize anxieties. If it be only a term of comfort, that assists this President, and the one before him, in making each of the pressing issues of the day a little less personally cumbersome, then I can appreciate why this word has become so prevalent in presidential speech.

But whatever the rationale, "folks" has become a term that jars my senses a bit and troubles my soul. For me, it has lost its meaning by becoming a generic. It no longer strikes me as a term of informality or closeness, but rather as a word that makes me stop and lose context of what comes before or after.

I would merely ask the President to follow the sage advise of Porky Pig that was the punctuation mark at the conclusion of each of his episodes.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014



Is morality flexible? Is torture acceptable in the right circumstances?
There is much discussion today on how imminent the threat or how successful the "enhanced interrogation". If we perceived the chance of another 9/11 as extreme and that the result of the torture would be to stop it from transpiring would this excuse our actions?

Can our code of what we as a government are permitted to do not have absolutes? Can we say that no matter the level of our fear or the certainty of what shall be uncovered,  there is never justification for torture? Or are there always moments when moral absolutes crumble in the face of reality?

Leadership comes with a responsibility, a mandate, to demonstrate to our citizens and to the world those qualities that make them, make us, examples of what is right. Of what must be done, even in the most difficult of times. Especially in the most difficult of times.

Friday, December 5, 2014

Modern Day Racism

There are multiple levels on which the perpetuation of wrongs committed upon blacks is ongoing. Educational and employment opportunities are but a mirage in many communities. Incarceration is merely the next inevitable step in the lives of far too many. Decent housing, access to basic social services, even the opportunity to vote are often scarce or denied.

The signs of innate prejudice and overt racism are evident when a seemingly innocuous situation turns dangerous for a person of color. Shoot first and ask questions later is the standard. We have been conditioned as a society, and remain conditioned to see danger lurking at every moment, on every street corner.

The emotional upheaval that follows the recent events in Missouri and New York is small solace for lives that are so compromised by our treatment and our prejudices.

It is an ongoing national tragedy and disgrace.

Thursday, November 27, 2014

The Journey - Chapter 15

The last month of the season can be the cruelest for those teams no longer in the playoff hunt. With the September call ups, the expanded rosters, there are players sprinkled all over the diamond who are tomorrow's possible stars, but today often seem overwhelmed and overmatched. In year's past, it had been the Yankees and their "regulars" who had taken on and beaten up these newcomers to the stage. This year, the names on the field for the Bronx Bombers were virtually unknown to all but the most fanatical fan.

Sitting on the bench was an array of high priced talent, reduced to the role of bored cheerleaders. They gave the obligatory smiles, backslaps and high fives to those who performed in their stead. But it all seemed and looked so strange. Coming on the heels of two decades of greatness, or at least near greatness, it was an uncomfortable and unnatural fit for those of us who remained in the stands at the Stadium.

On the road, it became almost a surreal, out of body experience. I watched those in the seats around me, still caring deeply about what was transpiring on the field, for both Tampa and Toronto remained in the chase for post season glory. I was able to step back from all that emotion, virtually immune to the pull and push associated with rallies or misdeeds.  One other stop along the way produced the 2015 version of misery loves company as Yankee and Met fans sat side by side at Citi Field licking their respective wounds, almost afraid to consider what the past few months had wrought.

Yet, somehow through it all, the product improved. The team's record in September was 19 wins and 9 losses. There was even a brief flirtation with the .500 mark. There was hope for a better tomorrow, a sense that the frustrations of 2015 would give way to a rebirth and revitalization the following year. It must be how fans of so many other franchises have been feeling since the days of Ty Cobb. Just ask those who have placed their baseball hearts in the hands of the Chicago Cubs and who have spent countless days watching nothing but enduring futility.

As September tumbled into October, there were but four games remaining to be played. On October 1, 2015 the final home game of the season would take place against, well you can already guess the opponent. Then off to Baltimore for the finale.

There was one more person to whom I owed an invitation. On Wednesday morning, September 30, I wrote an email to my wife. I thanked her for her patience with me, not only during this season but for the past 38 seasons of our lives. I told her that it had been an arduous trip, not for me, but for her, and that she was made of something remarkable to find that the rhythm of my life could be intertwined with hers for so long. I told her that there was one thing missing, one hole in our resume.

So, at 5 PM on Thursday, October 1, 2015, my wife and I got in our car (no public transportation this time) and took the five mile trip to Yankee Stadium. I had spoken with my brother-in-law's friend who was the owner of four box seats next to the visitor's dugout. As the game was without meaning, these tickets were going to be unused. I could have taken all four, and invited my children along , but I declined. Two tickets would be just right.

I talked to my wife of the monuments in the outfield, testament to glories past. I pointed to the flags high above the stadium, tributes to championship teams. In our high priced seats, we were entitled to all the finest food the Stadium had to offer, free of charge. I opted for pepperoni pizza, a waffle ice cream cone and a big bag of Crackerjacks.

Did my wife become a baseball convert that day? Hardly. Did she tolerate my eccentricities and put up a good front, as though she was enjoying an encounter that was meaningless on every level? Absolutely. It was all that I could ask and more than I had a right to expect.

The Yankees thrashed the Red Sox 14 to 2. We stayed until the very last out of the game. I had a stomach ache from my gastronomic indulgences.

The team headed to Baltimore late on the night of October 1, 2015 for one last series at Camden Yards. They would win two games, lose one and conclude with a record of 79 wins and 83 losses. I would stay at home that weekend, never even watching one out, one pitch.

My season had ended three days earlier when I walked out of Yankee Stadium hand in hand with my wife. My journey was over at that moment.


The Journey - Chapter 14

Masahiro Tanaka had the most remarkable season ever witnessed in major league baseball. Pitching for the Tohoku Rakutun Golden Eagles, his 2013 regular season record was 24 wins without a loss and a microscopic ERA of 1.27. He was the Next One. Flexing their financial muscle, and the allure of their franchise, the Yankees signed Tanaka to a long term contract beginning in 2014.

The initial results were impossibly impressive. He began with six victories, unsullied by human expectations. Then reality began to creep in, first slowly and then on July 9, 2014 with more force. On that day, after a bad outing, he went on the disabled list with elbow inflammation. Never a pitcher's friend.

While he returned to the mound before the season's end, the picture that emerged was much different, much less other worldly. In his final start, he lasted less than two innings and had allowed seven runs to cross the plate. Against the Red Sox, of course.

And so, 2015 was, for him and for the team, full of questions. While Tanaka avoided the surgeon's knife, something was not right. By the middle of August his record stood at 9 wins and 11 losses, his ERA was a bloated 4.15. On August 26, 2015 after the Yanks finished another desultory home stand, they announced that their star pitcher was being shut down for the rest of the year.

After taking some extensive ribbing from my family on my return from the road over my "near death" experience in Cleveland, I took some time to study the remaining schedule for the season and decided to make another fundamental shift in my approach to my undertaking. I would be inviting my children to join me on my next road trip.

Maybe it was a response to being alone and sick in a "foreign" world. Maybe it was the realization that this was not an individual journey but a collective one that involved everyone who was part of my universe. Maybe it was just my comprehending that this undertaking was of little value if I couldn't share it, not abstractly, but in its everyday detail, with the people who had been with me nearly every step of  the last three decades on my life long baseball trek.

There were only three road trips remaining as of August 28. The first would take me to Atlanta and then, where everything somehow seems to lead, to Boston.

My daughter's travels earlier that year had been to Taiwan and Hong Kong. She had a wondrous adventure, filled with sights and sounds that would remain with her forever. These were places that were unique, astounding, overwhelming and the pictures she took and the stories she told were remarkable. She spent several days in youth hostels in Hong Kong, stayed at the home of strangers who opened their doors to her and her friend in Taipei. She met people who were bright, charming and remarkably hospitable. At the conclusion of her journey, she was more anxious than ever to replenish her pockets and continue her exploration.

Atlanta and Boston should have been a tremendous let down by contrast. She had attended school outside of Boston during college and so was intimately familiar with that area. For her birthday in 2004, during her second year in college, I had promised to try to get her tickets to a Yankee - Red Sox playoff game. I failed, although I was able to obtain seats for her to a game between Oakland and the Sox in that magical, terrible post-season year. The chasm between that experience and this was more than enormous.

Yet, both she and my son seemed genuinely excited about spending time together, and with me, as part of a new and different exploration. It was with an overwhelming amount of joy that I found myself settling into my seat at both Turner Field and Fenway Park that last weekend of August and the first two days of September. Spending those evenings, those days in the company of my children made the events of the last several months fall into much clearer perspective. It had all been leading to this moment in time.

Each of the games on that trip have already faded from my mind. In truth, there was little that could have transpired on the field that would have taken my focus away from those to whom I gave my undivided attention. The hours sitting in the stands, the days exploring parts of the towns together, even those areas that my daughter knew so well, Boston Commons, Faneuil Hall, the Museum of Fine Arts, all of it thrilled me. We took an excursion to visit her college, the same college I had attended more than 40 years before. My son always reminded me that my memory was so bad that I was convinced that I had resided in the admission offices for the first two years of my college career.

Upon our return home, I received beautiful e-mails from both of my children, thanking me for allowing them to take part on my crazy trip to nowhere. My son wrote that a road trip each season was now an essential part of the fabric of our family and that he was anxiously awaiting the 2016 schedule so he could tell me where we would next be headed. My daughter wrote of feeling like daddy's little girl once more, and that it had been such a treat for her to be able to spend an uninterrupted week with her brother, far from the obligations and distractions of everyday life.

This was a trip in which baseball was merely an asterisk. This, it turned out, was what I had been searching for since I went through the turnstile on opening day of 2015. This was perfect.

Wednesday, November 26, 2014

The Journey - Chapter 13

Monday, August 10, 2015 was an off day. The team flew out to Cleveland, to begin a series with the Indians the following day. Joe Girardi was not on the plane. He was no longer manager of the Yankees.

At the moment of Girardi's firing, the record of his squad was twelve games under .500. Commander of a team nineteen games out of first place and sinking fast,  Girardi's departure from the team he had managed since 2008 was a seeming inevitability. Even though he was in the middle of a four year contract, the dollars the Yankees were forced to absorb in the firing paled in comparison to the earlier A-Rod disaster.

The ownership, with the departure of King George, had been much more forgiving of the trespasses of the team and of its leader, but there were limits which had now been exceeded. The last Yankee mid-season firing of a manager was the dumping of Bucky Dent, in June of 1990, while he was with the team, in Boston of all places. A quarter of a century later, at least the timing was a bit better.

Dave Miley had managed the Cincinnati Reds for two and a half seasons ten years ago. On August 10, 2015 he was performing that role for the Scranton- Wilkes Barre Roughriders, the Yankee's Triple A team. The following day he was back in the big leagues, this time as the leader of the most storied franchise in baseball history.

He was widely viewed as an interim sacrificial lamb, a placeholder until a manager with some gravitas could be plucked from the ranks of the unemployed or free agents before the 2016 season. He hoped to prove the naysayers wrong, much as two controversial earlier choices (Buck Showalter and Joe Torre) had done.

The road trip to Cleveland and Toronto produced five wins and one loss. Everyone seemed to have a little more bounce in their step, which is a strange phenomenon that occurs with some surprising regularity in circumstances such as these.

I was trying to regain my own footing, having just gone through some difficult days. My 38th wedding anniversary was August 6th. As much as I paid it little mind throughout the years, the fact that it was not a day of celebration but one of somber reflection robbed me of any joy this event would typically bring.

I encountered my first health problems on this trip. I had been fortunate throughout the season that apart from the occasional back discomfort, I had been remarkably healthy.

On Wednesday evening, August, 12, 2015, I ate at a Caribbean food truck on Ontario Street just outside of Progressive Field, home of the Cleveland Indians. I awoke in the middle of the night with a very pronounced case of food poisoning. After struggling for an hour or so in my room,  I called my wife looking for help, as though she could hold my hand at 4 AM from afar, then contacted the front desk asking for suggestions, I ended up taking a cab at 5AM to an emergency room. I was in the hospital most of the day, and was discharged late in the afternoon.

Too weak to even consider spending the night at a ballpark, I now missed my fifth game of the year, and my fourth in less than ten days. At this rate, it was a toss up as to who had the worse record, the Yankees or me.

That evening, I did manage to go into the bar at the hotel to watch the game. I do not drink, due to a balky stomach, and have hardly ingested a glass of wine or stronger beverage in over four decades. So, I was decidedly in the minority as I sat there, surrounded by mostly Cleveland fans, all with several alcoholic stimulants helping to propel the discussion.

When the conversation turned to me, and how I found myself sitting in that particular locale, I was advised that it was not the food, but the Yankees that had made me so ill. I could hardly put up a fight, both because of my weakened condition and the state of the squad that I had now followed, at least most of the time, for almost four and one half months. 

Thankfully, at least on this night, victory was ours. Jacoby Ellsbury hit two home runs, only the third time this year that anyone on the Yanks had accomplished that feat in one game, drove in six runs, and the final score read 8 to 5.

When the game concluded, I called my wife and both of my children to check in and let them know I was feeling much better. I woke each one up. While I wondered if I had overestimated my value with them, I understood the truth was that my family knew if there was even anything remotely bothering me I would chronicle it, chapter and verse. For I am nothing if not both a wimp and a hypochondriac.

In 11th grade I was considered a pretty good soccer player. Captain of my team, I was being counted on to be its most prolific scorer. After the third game, I developed a small rash under my chin. When it persisted for several days, I went to a doctor for a diagnosis. I was informed that I had impetigo. I rested for the remainder of the season, almost two months, for what was quite candidly, not much more overwhelming than a pimple.

As I lay in bed that night, I worried if I would be strong enough to continue on the road trip. I am sure the following morning my family was in contact with one another, chronicling my episode and laughing at my latest version of impetigo.

Tuesday, November 25, 2014

The Journey - Chapter 12

My friend died on the night of August 3, 2015. His wife wrote us a brief note saying he was now at peace.

The Yankees played August 4, 5 and 6 in New York against the Red Sox. I did not attend any of the games.

Sunday, November 23, 2014

The Journey - Chapter 11

The road trip took me to three cities, and into the month of August. There had been times in the past that the Yankees, seemingly headed nowhere as the heat of the summer intensified, suddenly found their footing. None was more memorable than 1978.  The team, trailing the Red Sox by 14 games in July, took their rivals to task in the "Boston Massacre" in September and then ripped out their hearts with the Bucky Dent home run in the playoff game to determine the American League East championship.

But that team had been in the World Series the previous two seasons and won 100 regular season games and, eventually, the 1978 title. There was to be no mistaking this year's version for its predecessor. There were no heroics remotely on the horizon as the 3 win and 7 loss road trip concluded. It was August 2 and the fat lady was already singing.

My limited notoriety preceded me into foreign cities now, and afforded me one unique opportunity while on this trip.  I was contacted by the Star Tribune, a newspaper out of Minneapolis, and asked whether I could be interviewed while I was in attendance at the Sunday afternoon game on July 27. I gladly accepted, for unlike my ailing friend from Boston. I craved the attention.

I had begun a blog in 2008. Since then, I had given my view on something, almost anything, several times a week. I suffered if the 'hits' to my site were lacking. I took great pride if a piece seemed to garner admiration. What I had essentially accomplished over the years was to alienate most of my readers and bore the remaining few, to the point that I was virtually writing words that no human eyes except mine, ever saw. But I continued on, convinced somehow that what I would write tomorrow would capture the imagination of the public and elevate my being.

My intention had been to keep a lower profile during my 2015 odyssey and then overwhelm the reading universe with a story of immense meaning and sublime wit.  What I determined, as my travels continued, was that my tale would probably best serve as a sleep aid and that the hours I was going to spend on my writing project would be better utilized learning to be a more well rounded person.

The reporter greeted me at my seat a few minutes before the game was to commence. He was young, maybe in his late 20's, and had only been with the newspaper for several months. I was not going to be a front page story, and I envisioned our conversation being whittled down to one comment hidden in the recesses of a mid-week sports page.

Others sitting near to me were quickly aware of what was happening. They made sure to give the reporter their opinion of the Yankees, and of a Yankee fan who was traveling around the country watching a losing team perform with metronomic futility.

As the game progressed, I began to speak of all the issues that had taken priority over the course of the season; my family and friends, work and travel. I spoke of the loneliness, the boredom, the camaraderie that I was now establishing, or trying to, in each new locale. I focused little, if at all, on the games I had watched and on my disappointment with those masquerading as Bronx Bombers.

I spoke, almost non-stop it seemed, for several hours. As the game drew to a close,  my new young friend thanked me for being so forthright and open with him. He said a story would probably run in the next several days and he would contact me as to when this was to happen. I received a call from him the following day, just after my plane landed back in New York. The newspaper wanted to interview me again, and was considering writing a series of articles on what I was doing. 

Over the course of August, September and through the last game of the season on October 4, I had a conversation with my new best friend at the conclusion of every series. We spent long hours dissecting what was happening with me, what my eyes and my head were telling me. And especially what was going on in my heart. It made me feel much less isolated, much less fatigued.

And so, even as I write this story for you, there is in a parallel universe, a long piece that is supposed to be published in the Star Tribune shortly before Christmas, chronicling what occurred as I followed the most losing Yankee team in decades hither and yon over the course of a very long and difficult season.

My friend in Boston continued to deteriorate as the days went on. I called his wife upon my return home. I could hear the pain in her voice and I suddenly wondered what right I had to go on such a frivolous adventure

Saturday, November 22, 2014

The Journey - Chapter 9

On July 8th, the Yankees reached the half way mark in the season, at least in games played. They were still staggering at 36 wins and 45 losses, although there had been some slight improvement over the past several weeks. Not only was Travis Wade continuing to perform reasonably well, hitting close to .290 and making remarkably few mistakes for a 20 year old rookie, but another youngster emerged as a once and future star. His name was Jacob Lindgren.

Drafted in the second round of the 2014 draft, small in stature at 5' 11", he possessed a huge arm. In a truncated first year in the minors he averaged almost two strikeouts an inning. He was a year older than Wade, and  Lindgren jumped to the majors when David Robertson went down with the season ending injury. As they say, when one door closes, another opens.

Betances moved seamlessly into the closer role, throwing well when called upon, which was too infrequent given the futility of this team. Lindgren quickly moved up the pecking order behind him, and by early June he settled into the penultimate reliever's position. It was fun to watch Wade and Lindgren perform and it gave at least the hint of hope that there was, lurking in the weeds, the possibility of a new generation of home grown talent.

The weekend of July 10 through 12 brought another series in Boston. This time I chose not to stay with my earlier hosts, not because of their Red Sox bias, but because I wanted to spend time with a friend who was ailing.

I  met my friend several years before and immediately found him enormously interesting. He was forever a person of mystery, never revealing much of his past, making us guess as to what secrets were hidden under lock and key. From the bits and pieces of information that emerged, I determined that he had been a musician of some renown. But beyond that I didn't know if he had been a member of the CIA (a common guess) a trader in commodities or a minor league third baseman in the Brooklyn Dodgers farm system. He was very bright, always interested in my story, my children, my issues. And his own health problems were shrouded, kept under cover, as he held onto his privacy fiercely.

He had not been well in recent months, and it seemed clear that there was something very serious going on. So, I asked, with much trepidation, if I might bunk with him and his wife for the weekend while I attended the three games at Fenway. To my great surprise, and with my deep gratitude, he said yes.

The series had virtually no importance to me. I rushed to the games at the last minute and rushed back the moment the last out had been called. I just wanted the opportunity to thank my friend in whatever way I could for his friendship.

Over the years he had collected many autographs of ballplayers, and of others in various entertainment industries. Many were signed on baseballs. In fact, on one occasion, when my wife and I went to listen to Rachel Maddow speak, we came away from that event with a ball she signed that I handed over to my friend. Most of those balls had long since been donated to support various causes. But some remained, and we spent a long time on Saturday morning looking at them, my friend recounting tales of the hows and whens that each particular signature had been garnered. He also showed me an amazing photograph signed by all the players on the 1948 Brooklyn Dodgers. It only aroused more suspicions about his baseball background.

Sunday brought more stories, more self deprecating humor on his part and more glances by me at his wonderful and devoted wife. I could see the toll that these past few months had taken on her and I worried for her well being. But she was a rock for him, always at his side and always there to lift his spirits. She was a remarkable human being in her own right.

It was with a heavy heart that I boarded the flight back to New York on Sunday night, as I wanted nothing more than to be able to linger a little while longer. I hoped my friend understood how much our time together that weekend had meant to me.

When I arrived home that evening, I discussed the events of the last few days with my wife.  I found myself in tears, overcome by the emotions I had tried to suppress when in the presence of my friend. Before heading to bed, I unpacked my bag. Hidden beneath my clothes was something that made me break down once more. It was the autographed photo of the 1948 Dodgers.