Baseball, Hot Dogs, Apple Pie, Chevrolet, and the High Holidays!

If you’re Jewish and a baseball fan, there’s gotta be a special place in your heart for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. As the vast majority of those reading this probably know, it started way back before SportsCenter and smart phones, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, with Hank Greenberg and Sandy Koufax foregoing important games at the end of the season and during the World Series respectively.

Then as fans we carried the torch, as kids in junior congregation or a cool parent in each synagogue across America would bring a transistor radio with an earpiece into the service, listen to the game, and like a  3rd base coach flashing signs, bring the rest of the congregation up to speed on the scores. I bet if you did social research on this these kids either grew up to commit adultery or give away trade secrets – unless they were busted by their parents or the junior congregation teacher Ms. Schwartz, the fear of that leaving a lasting impression on them so they became Secret Service, or TV sports anchors instead.

There are mystical qualities to both entities as well and this year has been no exception. Flash back to the 1st night of Rosh Hashanah which was the last night of the regular season. After dinner we had 7 guys watching 3 games simultaneously, at one point changing the channel after each pitch - as in each league the wild card favorites (Boston Red Sox and Atlanta Braves) were in the process of historic chokes, being overtaken by streaking teams (Tampa Bay Rays and St. Louis Cardinals) in the 162nd game of the season within about 30 minutes of each other. Then in services the next morn you read of Abraham almost killing his first born Isaac and being stopped by angels in the nick of time.

On Yom Kippur the holiday and American pastime symmetry continued as at night the National League leading Philadelphia Phillies were beaten in the first round by the aforementioned Cardinals at home, which came a night after the best of the American League New York Yankees lost to the Detroit Tigers – at home. Both losers were the prohibitive favorites at the beginning of the season to meet in the World Series with the Phils beating the Yanks because good pitching beats good hitting, but that’s why they play the games. Meanwhile on the day of Yom Kippur we’re fasting and dreaming of delicacies (specifically a pastrami on rye with mustard and a Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda on the side, which was a change of pace – usually it’s sweet and pungent pork with fried wontons at Woo-Hop’s – downstairs thank you, reminiscent of the glory days of breaking fast at my mom’s and then driving to Chinatown to really break fast) while contemplating Jonah being the main course for a great fish that in the end actually had acid reflux.

As for the rest of the season(s), the Cards are going to the big dance because their opponents the Milwaukee Brewers' (has there ever been a more aptly named sports team?) star player Ryan Braun played on Yom Kippur (yes he’s only ½ Jewish on his father’s side and non-observant – according to the NYT, but homey don’t play that), and we’re rooting for the Detroit Tigers in the AL because we’d like a classic World Series matchup from 68 http://www.baseball-reference.com/postseason/1968_WS.shtml to give us another opportunity to go back and forth between the past and present, as that’s what we start to do at this time of year.

And the way sports seasons have gotten stretched out – we should have a champ by Hanukkah!

Better Than Iowa

As those of you who read this Blog know, I’ve been smartin’ about the way the Mets handled the dismantling of Shea Stadium.

Imagine your extended family was giving an old ugly uncle of yours euthanasia. He probably could have held on for a few more years, but his immediate (adopted) family wanted to put him out of their misery. They had a party celebrating all the great things the rest of his family did that he was a part of, but they didn’t mention the tomatoes he planted for many years, the bright blue and orange squared accessories he used to like to wear in his youth before the family decided to dress him in their favorite shade of blue, or the way he used to rearrange his seats when yo came to visit, depending upon whether you wanted to watch baseball or football. The family didn’t focus on him, they didn’t want you to spend much time on him, and they certainly weren’t going to give you a real opportunity to put a period at the end of that sentence.

Sure we said good bye to the Mets at Shea with Tom Terrific and Piazza closing the centerfield gates, but we didn’t say goodbye to Shea itself, and that stuck in my craw… until Friday night.

Thanks to Rich “Chubs” Schaffer, I got to ride shotgun on the opening night of CitiField. We came in at leftfield (formerly Gate A), went up the escalator to the field level (Section 128 - gotta get used to the new naming conventions) and walked in the open air promenade to look at the place. I'll always remember the minute I spent looking out at centerfield, with those 2 big scoreboards, and all that wrought iron and brick. It kinda felt like the first night Spence was born, watching him in the nursery from behind the glass, settling in for his first night’s sleep, and falling in love with him. That’s how it felt looking at CitiField for the first time. I’m over Shea. I’m home.

I felt like I was looking at all those pictures of Ebbets Field (minus Symphony Sid). Take that bandbox, put it on steroids, and open the decks up. It’s like the Wilpons went to Baltimore, San Franciso, Philly, Cleveland, Petco and DC and said, I'll take one of these, and that, and a couple of those, and…

they've successfully “retro”ed Ebbets Field.

All night, as Rich and I explored the park – along with everyone else (no one stayed in their seats), it was like we were all giddy kids on unguided tours bumping into other. A buncha 50+ year old guys with the same shit eating grins. All over the place you heard derivations of, “the hell with Iowa, THIS is heaven”!

I can’t sit in the ballpark I went to with my dad, cause neither of them are here anymore, but I can sit in a newer version of the ballpark my father grew up in, living a newer version of what he saw. It’s probably as close to time travel as I’m going to get to (aside from watching an episode of LOST).

So the lesson (I've relearned again) is, whenever one thing ends, something else begins, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Now, to apply that to the rest of my life, but how bout you? What are your memories of Shea? What lemons have you/are you turning to lemonade?

6:18:40

I finished the 2007 NYC Marathon in 6:18:40 with my partner in crime Steve Gross. He suffered terrible cramping for the last 10 miles, and it was amazing that he was able to finish at all (don't think I could of if it was me)! Highlights included:

- Pre marathon minyan with 50 Jews from all over the world (Argentina, England, France, Italy, Teaneck...) picture $150 running shoes, sweats, tallis and tefillin outside in 47 degrees and morning light. 25th annual, with next year's falling on the anniversary of Fred Lebow's passing. Intensly moving...

- Standing on the Verrazano 50 yards from the top male Marathoners in the world Martin Lel, Hendrick Ramaala, Rodgers Ropp, (previous NY Marathon winners - the all-stars of their sport), Stefano Baldini (Olymic Gold) as they warm up, 8 helicopters swirling overhead, firetruck in the harbor spraying Orange, Blue & White (marathon colors), moment of silence for Ryan Shay (died from a heart attack the day before in the Olympic trials in Central Park on Saturday), singing the National Anthem amongst a crowd of 38,000 (half from out of the U.S., 46% running their first marathon, taking countless pictures of friends on their cameras prior to the race)...

- Cannon shot for the start, then 26.2 miles / 6:21 hrs./min. of people constantly cheering your name (cause it's written on the front of your shirt). Running to the sidelines and sticking your hand out to hi-five the crowd (at any point in the race) - and they get excited that you touched them - like you're a rock star! Speaking of...100 garage bands (one every 1/3rd of a mile) crankin out every song about moving that's ever been written (Going Mobile, Keep on Truckin. Rockin Down the Highway...) Images of old ladies dancing with canes to some funk in Harlem - shimmying for me with toothless grins, a dozen Hassidic girls in beautiful wool coats huddled together with their young mothers in Sheydels (wigs) in front of them - looking at us like we're from Mars - while their husbands with Peyis (bannana curls) in black vest and rolled up sleeves hold out bottles of Poland Spring for us....

- making a right on Columbus Circle, the last 400 yards, running a slight uphill, stadium seating on either side, the PA announcer Ian Brooks (who does all NYRR races - the Bob Sheppard of NY Road Runners, and has recovered from a near fatal accident in March) giving the play by play, the crowd and music roaring, and you realize that YOU DID IT, that indescribable rush of adulation, you scream out at the top of your lungs and pump your fists, cause that's the only acceptable/appropriate response - like when you're on a rollercoaster...

and then it's over. A 60 year old cheerleader greats you with a a beautiful sincere smile and a medal, you bow your head like you're on the podium as she places it on you, while someone else drapes you with a Tyvek blanket as you try to retain your heat, but as you walk up the west side path of the park and get handed a goody bag with a Powerbar, Gatorade (as if you haven't had enough of that shit for the last 6 hours ;-) apple and bagel, to find the 1 out or 74 UPS trucks that has your clear plastic bag with your sweatshirt/pants) you get cool, cold, colder, then walk out of the park to meet your family that you saw at miles 9, 16, and 1/2 a mile from the finish - but feel like you haven't seen in days - because you kinda feel like you're a different person, and you kinda of are, because you've accomplished something that most people don't, won't (want to) do, and more often than not can't understand why you did.

So that's it, aside from lifecycle rites of passage, I've never done anything that's more fufilling, so yes I'll do one again although not for a couple of years - kinda like childbirth, I'd guess - hopefully with Spence (speaking of childbirth), and anyone else who wants to saddle up. If all this sounds kinda crazy - go watch it next year live - and you'll understand.

McGuire's No Brainer

Message to Mark. Apologize. According to reports the only golfer who'll play with you in your gated community in Southern California is OJ ( if he can find golf gloves that fit him).

America's culture is very forgiving. Everyone with a media presence is required to reinvent themselves (lets face it they are products) each decade - so it's time for the new, improved Mark McGuire - with no transfat, I mean steroids. It's no big deal.

In fact, think about those remaining hard core steroid using teenagers who can't get off the cream. They'll listen to you - if you look right into the camera and say you're sorry, and tell us why you did what you did (it wasn't banned when you started, once you were in the thick of it you didn't have the balls - no pun intended* to stop, and when you got in front of the committee you just froze, like Beltran looking at Wainwright's called 3 Sir Charles in game 7 of the NLCS).

Remember, you're not alone, I bet that not only are plenty of guys who are going through the same torment you are, but there's plenty who've come out of it on the other side that will be there to support you. By the looks of you these days you've come clean physically - now its time to come clean emotionally - you'll be the bigger man for it.

* I believe steroid use shrinks your testes - but this is by no means conclusive

College Football: the Dawning of December Delerium

Boise State's win over the Sooners of Oklahoma not only goes down as the most exciting college football game ever played (the deciding play was a Statue of Liberty where the QB fakes a pass to one side of the field without the ball in his hand - it's hidden in his other hand behind his back - while a back takes the ball zooms to the other side of the end zone, makes a beeline to the cheerleaders, gets down on one knee, proposes, and the cheerleader accepts and jumps into his arms - you can't make this shit up!),

but it ushers in the era of December Delirium (read March Madness for college football) where the mid majors get their due, are legitimized, and show that "on any given Bowl Day" there are now more than the 15 old guard teams that can beat the brains out of each other.

Removing that objection, coupled with the David vs. Goliath theater that these scenarios provide, will lure enough TV money to get everybody paid, which will enable them to acquiesce to the CFA Playoff movement and get er done.

The good news - we'll have a true national champion. The bad news - if you think bowl game sponsorship names are horrible now.......