Dodging the truth

 

(L-R Cookie Lavagetto, Ralph Branca, October 3, 1951)

By the 19^th century, the battle between Scotland and England had reached its absurd conclusion. War was one thing, but the final indignity saw members of the ruling class adopting the sartorial stylings of the Scottish. British noblemen began dressing like the clans they’d spent centuries subjugating. Can you blame them? Kilts look cool and there was something very special for a dainty Londoner parading down Downing Street in his plaid best. 

 

Why am I recounting this grave sin of fashion? Because the Los Angeles Dodgers won the World Series last night. And it's what I think of every time I see someone rooting for LA in a Brooklyn Dodgers hat. Good, God Bless. The insistence by many fans and even parts of their organization to connect their Hollywood present with a distant Brooklyn past.. 

 

This is wrong. The Brooklyn Dodgers were a beloved piece of Kings County. Their callous departure after the 1957 season was an act of depravity, compounded by the fact that the uptown New York Giants left for the stupid hills of cloudy San Francisco. Walter O'Malley resides in the borough's collective memory alongside the worst men of the 20th century. It was five long years before the Mets arrived, somewhat filling the void. But some scars never heal. LA is Sandy, Drysdale, Garvey, and Fernando. Hershiser, Kershaw, and Freeman. But it’s not Gil, The Duke, Campy, Jackie, Red, Hilda, or the Sym-phony.

 

When a team moves cities, they should be legally prohibited from keeping their previous name. This would rightfully do away with the Los Angeles Lakers and Utah Jazz, forcing them to choose something with slightly more regional flair. There is precedent, of course. When the Colorado Rockies, an expansion hockey team moved across the country to the swampy meadows of New Jersey, they left the mountain range behind them and became the folkloric, Devils. 

 

Some would say I’m merely a bitter Yankee fan. Which is partially true. However, I don’t derive personal pride or shame from the outcome of the teams I root for. I did my part, listening to the game on radio in an Aaron Rodgers-style darkness. Beyond being a baseball fan, I’m a New Yorker. 

 

The Brooklyn Dodgers have nothing to do with the Los Angeles Dodgers. The very name connotes dodging trolleys, not mental patients darting through traffic on the 405. So congratulations to the city of LA, its players and fans. Just try not to invoke the ghosts of 1955. Because that memory forever belongs to Brooklyn.

Over the Hinchcliffe

 

(The Conformist, dir. Bernardo Bertolucci, 1970)

You might be a hack if…

 

You bomb at a political rally where everyone already agrees with you

 

You try to be edgy like a teenager with a chain wallet 

 

You’re a conformist at heart 

 

You prefer applause over laughter 

 

You try to make an actual point during a comedy set 

 

You forget the “comic” part of “insult comic”

 

You’re not important enough to be cancelled

 

You can’t even ride the coattails of your famous friends to achieve genuine, mainstream success

 

You require the presence of rank amateurs to look halfway decent 

 

You’re not funny

Dear, headlights

 

(BMW xenon headlights)

You’re much too bright. Don’t take that as a compliment, though I understand if it initially came across that way. It’s hard to fathom by someone of your supreme intellect that anything could be hard to fathom. But it’s too true. 

 

Being bright is fine. However, illuminating everyone you pass with pedantic lectures on Kant is just annoying. Someone should be able to pass you without literally feeling your glow. It’s uncomfortable. 

 

Tone it down, okay? We’re all interested in cowering to your incandescence. In fact, there are times when being bright isn’t even called for. Can’t you turn it off on occasion? It’s no way to go through life. 

Past its time

 

(George Carlin, Saturday Night Live, Oct. 11, 1975, Herb Ball/NBCU Photo Bank/Getty)

Baseball isn’t perfect. I know that. The lords of nerdom have transformed the game into a stupid math problem. It used to be geometry, which I could appreciate, as someone partial to the slow incorporation of the word “rhombus” into everyday conversation. I wonder if we’re close to a time when pitching staffs will feature twenty-seven hurlers, one for every out of the game. You know: entertainment. 

 

But the one thing, no pocket protected counter of beans hasn’t ruined yet is the field itself. The game is still quite easy on the eyes. The large expanse of greenery in the outfield, the dirt, even the bulbous bases are aesthetically pleasing. Who doesn’t like a diamond, fanning out towards each respective foul pole? 

 

This is an important component of the sport untouched by those who wish to sap every ounce of joy from it through actuarial tables and quantitative projections. Baseball is a good-looking game, even if what happens on the field is not always that. 

 

Which brings me to the real crux of this piece: football. There are many dings against the game today. The ubiquity of gambling. The danger of concussions. The pervasiveness of binge drinking by fans. The stupidity of announcers. The prevenance of fantasy idiocy. And on and on. What few people seem to acknowledge is how truly hideous the sport has become. Defenders will say it’s a reflection of war, a proxy contest that isn’t mean to be pretty. Where’s the incredible war photography then? I don’t see Robert Capa pacing under the goalposts. 

 

I’m not talking about how the game is played. That is ugly by design. Numbers on the field? Really? They’re obnoxiously large. It’s a boring rectangle with writing all over it. Dumb logos in the center. Stupid sayings in the end zone. Say what you will about soccer, but it is the beautiful game by comparison. Verdant greenery punctuated by tasteful netting on either side. If you removed the white lines and hash marks, what would happen? The referees would be required to do their job from the sidelines. At least we’d be looking at a cleaner game. Too bad it's ugly from here on out. Either this or put linebackers in tutus. 

Everything but

 

(George Marks)

It was a peaceful time. I washed dogs and leafy greens, bathed children and dogs, filled jugs and bowls. Saw colanders and pots. I was an integral part of the family. They couldn’t function without me. Thanksgiving Day was not Thanksgiving Day without a fully kitchen sink. There were other sinks. Ones in bathrooms, debased by the associated activities therein. I was different. I was on center stage, every meal that mattered. Oh, how we laughed. 

Then things started to change. The father got indicted by a federal grand jury for witness tampering. I wasn’t familiar with the concept, but it sounded bad. I was used to dealing with shady plumbers, but they were people who worked with their hands. They had a trade. Slowly, items in the home began disappearing. First the kids would take things, then strangers. Assets were seized and everything started to go. I watched as dining furniture, chairs I had practically grown up with leave without even a goodbye. Light fixtures and molding. Grout and chair rails. It was starker and starker. I didn’t understand the reason behind the culling, but I noticed it.

Then one day, I was the only thing left. There were some pipe fittings, but the water was turned off. And a sink without water is a man without a soul. They took everything, everything but me. I took it personally. Who wouldn’t? I mean, I’m not a person, but close enough, simply circling the drain. 

I ended up in architectural salvage, finding my way into a bohemian art gallery. A dry kitchen sink representing the emptiness of society. I went from a utility to a metaphor.

Lemon Aid

 

(Getty Images)

When life gives you lemons…

 

Make a game of citric baseball to negating obvious vitamin deficiencies 

 

Make an organic, perishable art installation

 

Make a body double 

 

Make a trade for highly coveted limes

Make someone make you lemonade and then find enough iced tea to make an Arnold Palmer

Ta-Nehisi explains it all

 

(Melissa Joan Hart in Clarissa Explains It All, 1991-1994, Nickelodeon)

Open in a suburban home. A family gathers in the living room. Clarissa struggles through her homework while her parents and brother sit on the couch watching TV.

 

Clarissa:          I hate math. Especially calculus. 

 

Ta-Nehisi Coates walks through the front door. The audience applauds. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        Oh, is that calculus? I learned about the 

subject on the walk over. 

 

He grabs Clarissa’s homework and scribbles on it.

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite simple. 

 

Applause and laughter as Clarissa tries to read his handwriting, but can’t. She shrugs. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        Need anything else?

 

Dad:                The TV’s not working. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        Here, try this. 

 

He hands each of them signed copies of his newest book.

 

Clarissa:          Okay, smart guy. What’s the meaning of life?

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite simple. It’s all about confidence. That’s why con men are confidence men. If you don’t believe in yourself, why should anyone else?. If you think you’re smart, you are smart. It’s that simple.

 

Clarissa:          Oh, I see. That makes sense. 

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite simple. 

He grins.

 

Clarissa:          What if I want to be a successful celebrity

writer who doesn’t write that much but still manages to

avoid meaningful criticism?  

 

Ta-Nehisi:        It’s actually quite complicated.

He winks at the audience.

 

Fade out. 

Aurora Boringalis

 

(Photo by Dean Saitta)

The Northern Lights showed up in New York City and you would have thought something enlightening happened. Were they nice? Sure. Do they beat the neon beauty of Times Square, the majesty of the Empire State Building after dark or the luminescent glow of headlights in traffic? Hardly. Can they compare to our gorgeous skyline illuminated nightly? Not a chance. The aurora borealis proves just how much we take for granted. When New York is a shining city on a tidal estuary. 

The Lorne Identity

 

(Fred Hermansky/NBC/NBC Photo Bank/Getty)

People weren’t funny before I arrived on the scene. They would laugh, but it was usually out of respect or confusion. A nervous tic or an anatomical reflex. By bringing live comedy to network television for late night programming, I changed the world. Messianic feelings began seeping into my delicate Canadian psyche before that very first show. It was a time of mass apathy in the country. People needed me more than they will ever know. It was a Promethean accomplishment. But even he just stole fire. It didn’t include TV, advertising, electricity and any digital content.  

 

Some people say I invented modern comedy. It’s flattering. I usually blush and accept their praise. Because it’s true. Did jokes exist before my arrival? Possibly. There were attempts, I’ll admit that. Abbot and Costello. Charlie Chaplin. Buster Keaton. The Three Stooges. The Marx Brothers. Bugs Bunny. Jack Benny. Your Show of Shows. The Colgate Comedy Hour. But these were different somehow. What I changed was finding a joke, one joke, then beating it into the ground for fifty years. That’s commitment. None of the individuals above are still at it, except for the cartoon rabbit.

 

What’s great about live comedy and to some extent improv itself, is that people don’t have to be in awe of the humor. It’s the act we admire. The process. The audience understands and appreciates how hard it is to make a show like ours. That gives us cover and a pass. It’s all out there. I never liked Apocalypse Now, then I watched the documentary Francis’s wife made about the three-year ordeal making the film in the Philippines. Now it’s my favorite film. You can’t imagine the deprivations, albeit self-inflicted ones, they had to overcome just to complete a movie.  

 

It's old hat to say no one wants to know how the sausage is made. My whole career disproves that theory. Look at it. People need to know how the sausage is made. They crave it. They want to see and understand. Only then can they laugh. 

Shoeless Rick Rubin

 

(Chicago History Museum/AP)

(Rick Rubin, Photo by Christian Charisius/Getty)

Creative acts are all around us, in many forms, and most of them don't even involve the circus. Just look at me wiggling my big toe in this palatial room with cathedral ceilings and skylights. What I’m saying, without saying it, is that creativity cannot be ignored. We rely on our hands because that’s what we’ve been taught by glad-handers and well-armed individuals. I consider my toes, stronger, stranger and smellier fingers. I can’t write with them – yet. But I can hit a snare drum, bang a clutch and grip the corners of expensive Persian rugs while on holiday. Some people ask me, why I don’t wear shoes. I answer their question with a question. 

 

Did the first human being wear shoes? Were they Nikes? Were they Asics? Early primates were constantly running for their life from predators. Because fight or flight wasn’t about arguments with an airline concierge. 

 

The great artists of France’s Chauvet Cave weren’t wearing flipflops and argyle stocking. They were connected to their canvas in a profound way. Socks and shoes are middle management, getting in the way between truly understanding the world. I don’t want anything obstructing that. Why did I import heavy slabs of Italian marble for each of my seventeen bathrooms? It wasn’t to not feel the floor as I gaze into my own reflection for three hours each morning.

 

Whenever someone raises the issue of fungus, I smile and shift the subject to mushrooms. How sweet, how savory, how important they are to the modern dining experience. The choice to bring these delectable little snacks from the forest floor to our dinner plates was a revolutionary one. It took courage and creativity. Imagine if toadstools were left to be the stools of toads? The enterprising amphibians' seating loss was our spiritual gain. 

 

Creativity cannot be understood with footwear. I know this will disturb sneakerheads and bootlickers everywhere, but it’s the truth. And if you really hate the smell of feet? 

Light some incense. 

Happy Belabor Day

 

(L-R Jerry Seinfeld, Jason Alexander in Seinfeld, 1989-1998, NBC)

Belabor Day is a holiday that starts early. When the sun comes up, when you wake up, when the coffee pot smiles, when the toaster sings. There are rituals throughout the day, too. You might call them traditions. Cultural touchstones signifying our collective connection to generations gone by. Part oral history, part folklore, part mythmaking. 

 

There are heroes of belabor day. Sultans of small details. Maestros of minutia. Emirs of elaboration. On a day like this, it’s good enough to do it once, you have to do it again. There are songs, all chorus, that go on for hours, usually until someone participating has a medical episode or the neighbors call the police. 

 

Some people wonder, “where did a holiday like Belabor Day come from?” It’s a good question, and a seemingly simple one. Though, as should be clear by this paragraph, that nothing about Belabor Day is simple. 

 

Have a content, decent, stellar, not-to-bad, and only if it’s your choice, an appropriately happy Belabor Day.

The Costas of doing business

(Bob Uecker, Bob Costas, NBC)

A man slowly fills his shopping cart with cereal boxes. Bob Costas and Bob Uecker watch from a safe distance, broadcasting for reasons that aren’t exactly clear. 

 

Bob:     Welcome to the supermarket. Ya know, they say, “breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” But were they talking about cereal, a serial staple of the morning meal, when the phrase was first coined? I don’t think so. Coins are barely coined anymore, as we steady our clammy palms for the cold digital embrace of a cashless society. Those are empty calories, Bob. Milk is good for your bones; any osteopath would surely attest. I’m not here to affirm convention, then again, neither is he. He’s here to feed himself, or his family. He’s alone in the wilderness, or in this case, the cereal aisle. 

 

Ueck:   I see his wife now. Or is that my wife? 

 

Bob:     This general tableau really takes me back. To my childhood, yes, but elsewhere too. To a time when man was kind, and mankind was young. They hunted, they gathered, they didn’t worry about choosing paper or plastic. They came from caves. They painted with the materials they could find. The walls were their television. There were men like us, Ron, hiding from predators, in need of marrow and good cheer. 

 

Ueck:   He can’t seem to push his damn cart in a straight line. Four good wheels, I’ve seen it.

 

Bob:     Food is up there with shelter as one of our basic needs. But as you can see, it’s not hard to obtain. You fill your cart, grab your credit card, and that’s that. There’s no romance to the express checkout. There was once, when the stakes were a good deal higher. 

 

Ueck:   He likes pickles. Look at the size of that jar. I once won a pickle the size of a small animal. Milwaukee State Fair 1968. I was recently retired, lost, and hadn’t yet discovered broadcasting. That pickle lasted three years, which led seamlessly into becoming the voice of the Brewers.  

 

Bob:     And with that, he pays. No receipts, no evidence, no more drama. 

The man opens his trunk, preparing to load his groceries.

Man:   Who are you talking to?

 

Luis Luis

 

(Luis Tiant, Pete Rose, 1975 World Series, Fenway Park)

Pitchers are a conforming bunch of athletes. They all pretty much throw the same way. Their job is an extreme version of playing catch, with higher speeds and stakes. They even lord over the hitters from a higher plane, given the mound’s sandy perch. Whether throwing from the windup or the stretch, pitchers are imitators, following in the familiar cleat marks of their predecessors. The occasional gangly reliever opts for a submarine style, but even that bears a n obvious resemblance with past players. Everyone does the same thing. 

 

Except Luis Tiant. Who turned the simple act of throwing a baseball to his catcher into a display of incomparable individuality. 

 

RIP

Obet

 

(Pete Rose, Bud Harrelson, 1973 National League Championship Series, MLB photo)

 

On the ballfield, Pete Rose was the hit king who ran to first base after every walk. And with Draft Kings, run to exclusive playoff parlays during Major League Baseball’s exciting postseason.

 

Alongside Tony Perez, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, George Foster and Ken Griffey, Rose was a key member of the Big Red Machine, bouncing off the rock hard astroturf of Riverfront Stadium. At BetRivers Sportsbook and Casino, bounce into online bonuses to make things interesting.

 

Rose was legendary for possessing a relentless fire inside, sometimes spilling into battles with opposing players, like his duel with Buddy Harrelson during the 1973 NLCS against the Mets. FanDuel allows fans to make wagers in real time.

 

If it were humanly possible, Rose would have played baseball 365 days a year. At Bet365, lock in your best bets for nonstop gambling.

 

Pete Rose died in Las Vegas at the age of 83. 

Gameus Interruptus

 

(Ken Rosenthal, Bryce Harper, FS1/MLB, 2022 Playoffs)

When Albert Einstein first proposed the theory for general relativity, it had less to do with complicated math than putting things in perspective. It’s the reason Al grew his hair out or rode a bicycle through Princeton’s main quad. He was attempting to defy expectations among the faculty and student body. The stranger he looked and acted, the more he’d be taken seriously. This is why restaurants serve palate cleansers. Not because these tiny plates of amusing bouches are all that tasty alone and unadorned by menu explanations. It’s that they help put your dinner in its proper perspective. You can’t possibly be asked to enjoy three courses of interesting flavors without tasting something subpar in between.

 

And this, my little sports fiends, is the purpose of sideline reporters, whose specialty is interrupting the high drama of the game for useless inanities. 

 

“What are you thinking right now, coach?”

“We’re losing, so we need to score more.”

 

“What was going through your head on that play?”

“How I’d respond when you asked me about it.”

 

“This team never gives up.”

“It’s part of their collective bargaining agreement.”

 

Fans typically become incensed by the presence of a microphone on the sidelines or in the dugout, peppering coaches and players with questions while the action is happening mere feet away, unseen and unheard by a rapt audience at-home. This calculated technique only adds to the drama, creating a situation that puts people on the edge of their upholstery. You’re not meant to learn much from these exchanges. You’re meant to become full of rage and at the exact moment you’re ready to toss your devices into an open sewer, abandoning your fandom for more intellectual pursuits, the camera pans back to the game. Treating your emotions like a dime store yo-yo is what television executives have long understood. Because now, you aren’t going anywhere, too afraid to miss a second of the action. 

 

It's irrelevant what is happening on the field, only that something is happening on the field. You breathe a sigh of relief, lean back onto those well-worn cushions of yours and lock in for the remainder of the game. Broken and defeated yourself, the sport always wins.