The Interview

Kim Jong-un might want to reconsider his position on the release of "The Interview." For a deranged despot, he seemed a pretty likeable fellow. In fact, the actor portraying him was darn good in his role.

The movie itself is another story. It was destined to be one more in a long line of very forgettable movies good for a momentary laugh and then quickly headed for extinction. But not now, not after it became the center of an international imbroglio.

Maybe the masterminds behind this story were not the desperate government of a tyrant but the publicity gurus at the studio. Maybe, this was all a brilliant plot by Sony to give life and length to this film. Maybe there is a movie to be made about the secret tale behind the movie that wasn't and then was.

Or maybe Kim Jong-un just hadn't gotten a chance to watch the picture, and made a hasty ill conceived decision.  For only $5.99 he can get it on demand and let us know what he really thinks. We'll be awaiting his review.

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.

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.

Torture

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS POST APPEARS IN THE RECORD (THE BERGEN COUNTY NEWSPAPER) ON DECEMBER 11, 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.

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.

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 END

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

The Journey - Chapter 10

Two days before the 2015 All Star Game, the Yankees called a hastily drawn press conference. Brian Cashman spoke:

"It is with a great deal of sadness that I come here today to inform you that we have terminated the contract of Alex Rodriguez with the NY Yankees. A-Rod served this organization with distinction for over a decade. For all those who have doubted him and spoken harshly, know that he has been dedicated forever to the betterment of the team. We, as an organization, have had some rough patches with Alex, but through it all we have recognized his commitment and passion for the game and for the fans of New York.  As of today, he is no longer associated with the Yankees and is free to offer his services to any other major league team. We wish A-Rod nothing but the best wherever his future, inside and outside of baseball, may take him."

Alex Rodriguez was hitting .197 when this announcement was made. In truth, it was an open secret that the team had been trying desperately for weeks to give him away, or to work out some kind of settlement to buy out the balance of his contract, which had two and a half more seasons to run. The Yankees had failed in their efforts to peddle his wares, had failed in their efforts to have him declared medically unfit to play due to the continuing difficulties with his hips, and were forced, in the end, to absorb all but a few million dollars of the remaining monies due to A-Rod as they escorted him out the door. It was a bad moment for the team, and for A-Rod it was extremely hard.

I had been a big critic of Rodriguez during the revelations of prolonged steroid use. I felt that he, and others of equal star power, like Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, had abused the privilege that their talents had afforded them. All of them had become so egomanical that they, much like Lance Armstrong in cycling, had seemed offended by even the suggestion that their skills had been artificially enhanced. It was that hubris on the part of A-Rod which drove me to write several letters which the NY Times published on my great and lasting displeasure for him.

Yet, I must admit that when I read the Cashman statement I was saddened, and felt more than a touch of sorrow for the former third basemen for the team. I understood that Rodriguez was particularly aware of and sensitive to criticism. Whereas Jeter seemed to go about his business, and keep his head down, not listening to the whispers of lack of range or power, Rodriguez took in every bit of negativity. He wanted to please, he desperately needed to please, and if it meant doing what many others were doing, he had to maintain his place at the top of the pantheon of heroes. This is not intended as an endorsement for the fallen star, but an explanation of what seemed to drive him and feed his insecurities.

As there were no games played on July 13th through July 16th, I was able to spend that time away from the game. But the rise and fall of Alex Rodriguez remained with me throughout that time.

I was happy, if that phrase can ever be associated with work, to have four uninterrupted days at the office. No thoughts about rushing out to the Stadium, no planes to catch, no packing or unpacking. One thing I had discovered was how nice it was not to have plans.

My back was acting up a bit, and so the time off was welcome in that regard.  I  envisioned myself much like the players who welcomed the break to reconnect with loved ones and to rest their engines. It gave me a chance to sit down with both of my children and give them my mid-term report. And to spend a lot of time talking about nothing to do with baseball.

Even better was that, after the break, the first two series were at home. That meant that there would be almost two weeks when I could be at home with my wife. Oh, yes, my wife.

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I don't know who they are, but I can testify that they are correct. I missed my wife, more than I ever expected. Closing in on four decades of marriage, it is hard for me to believe I am even writing these words. There were no more secrets, for they had long, long ago been revealed. But what I had not realized, maybe never realized, is that I should appreciate what it was that I had, that I knew, that I could count upon day after day. That I loved.

And so, this baseball season became one in which there was a little bit of a renewed romance between myself and my wife. I don't know if she felt it in the manner that I did, but I think I finally was beginning to understand, even a little, what marriage was all about.

When I left for the road, and Minnesota, in the early afternoon of July 24, I was more than a little sorry to kiss my wife goodbye.

The Journey - Chapter 8

The ghost of Derek Jeter hovered over the shortstop hole from the first day of the season. Not only was the bedrock of the team gone, he had seemingly sucked all the talent out of that position. By mid June, there had been six players who had tried and failed, if not to fill the shoes of the former occupant of this space, at least not dig a deep trench.

There was the free agent flop, the back-up fiasco. There were hitters who had no idea how to field, and fielders who never met a pitch they couldn't flail at helplessly. Stephen Drew proved that 2014 was not an aberration for there were no paper bags he could hit his way out of. It would have been a comedy of errors if it weren't so tragic. It was beyond embarrassing. Over two months into the season, the collective batting average of those who were pretenders for the shortstop throne was .210, with three home runs, twelve RBIs and eighteen errors. It was enough to make one wonder if Jeter couldn't be coaxed out of retirement.

Tyler Wade was a 4th round draft choice of the team in 2013. Handsome, 6 foot 1 inch and 180 pounds, out of California, with a ready smile, he was a good fit physically to one day play shortstop for the Yankees. But at the beginning of 2015, still only 20 years old, he seemed far from the answer. In 2014 he had hit .272 at Class A ball with only one home run and 118 strikeouts. No power and a questionable eye at the plate were not the combination the doctor ordered.

But he had moved up to Class AA in 2015 and seemingly found some power and control of the strike zone. He was hitting .306, with seven home runs and had committed only three errors when, on June 3rd, he hop-skotched over Triple A and landed on the Yankee bench. Ten days later he was in the starting line-up.He became my new favorite Yankee that day.

Batting ninth in the lineup, Wade had three hits in his debut, although one was a bunt, another a broken bat dying quail into short left. But he got on, stole a base and seemed to contribute more in that one game then all the rest of the Jeter wannabes had by their combined efforts. The next day brought similar results. The Yankees won both times. Maybe, finally their luck was changing and the Jeterian curse was lifting.

One other thing happened for me in mid-June. I changed my approach to the game, and to the season. If I had been assigned an average up to that point, it would have been no more than .160. I stunk. My attitude was wrong, my appreciation was missing. I had made one monumental, fundamental error, even worse than those that were being made everyday out on the field. I had forgotten what brought joy to me as a fan.

If a basketball heart beats 200 times per minute, baseball's barely breaks 100. If the face of football is violence, baseball has a much gentler visage.If athletics in today's world is all hype and loud noise, then the sights and sounds of baseball barely register. It is in many ways antiquated, an anachronism, not imbued with the necessary prerequisites that the high octane  21st century demands.

The average length of a game now exceeds three hours. For those of us accustomed to watching the Yankee - Red Sox clashes over the past decade, four hour struggles seemed the rule, not the exception.

So what is it that keeps the game alive?

It is in its lack of constant hyperventilation, in its punctuated outbursts, surrounded by time that has to be otherwise filled. It allows each of us  to slow down, to relax, to breathe, to absorb, to reflect and to make connections with much more than the game itself.

Over the close to six decades  I had been going to the ballpark, most of my lasting memories had much more to do with who I was with then what was happening on the field. I still picture the smile on my dad's face that day he caught the ball Yogi Berra hit that had caromed off one of the steel stanchions at the old Stadium. The laughter that resounded as my friend, whose family shared partial season tickets with mine, criticized or praised the efforts of the pitcher, any pitcher, one good or bad throw at a time. And best of all was the joy I got, and still get just watching my children watching the game, discussing with them matters important or not, knowing that we were all so happy sharing this life long connection. Baseball provided the backdrop,  permitting me the great and unusual privilege of letting time slow down in a very fast paced universe.

I realized that I was making a terrible mistake in taking this journey by myself. I had been isolated, surrounded each day by others who I had studiously chosen to ignore.

So I began act two. I looked for a relationship not with athletes in pinstripes but with others like me, people who came to get away from their worries, to cement old bonds or create new ones. I engaged fans around me, both at home and on the road. I found them to be universally warm, interesting and nearly as funny as my friend had been so many years before. Many found my story compelling and I seemed to gain a bit of celebrity wherever I went. 

And while I deeply missed the presence of my children, I found a kind of substitute family with whom I could share my thoughts, many of which had nothing to do with the trials and tribulations of my team. It opened up a new world and a level of enthusiasm that had been sorely lacking in me.  

Suddenly, I was having fun.

The Journey - Chapter 7

My law practice had been a very local one throughout the years. Travel was almost exclusively limited to vacations, and such was the long established rhythm of my life. I was definitely not used to living out of a suitcase, going from place to place, never quite settling in before I was gone. But this year, this odyssey, meant that I was always coming or going. Never at rest.

After the wedding on Saturday night, the fatigue seemed to settle into my bones. I was very happy that the homestand was not finished, and that my next journey would be to Baltimore (and back to my cousin's) on the following Friday. Best of all, both Monday and Thursday were off days for the team, but more importantly, for me.

I felt I needed to replenish, revitalize, if I was to stand even a remote chance of continuing this trek for another 100 games or more. I now knew the fuller meaning of the phrase, as prevalent as any saying in the game: "baseball is not a sprint, it is a marathon." Yes, its application was in never counting your team out in June, for the race, as they say, did not necessarily belong to the swiftest. But in reality its truer meaning was in relation to the physical and emotional stress that must permeate to the core of every ballplayer's soul. He cannot but grow tired of the routine, of the monotony, of the Sisyphean task of pushing himself and his team up a very large hill for a very long time. If a runner hits the imaginary wall at the 20 mile mark, then I had run headlong into a brick barrier at about 10 miles into the race. And the Yankee players, mired in last place and going nowhere, must have encountered the same demons.

I spoke with my wife and children at length about whether I should just give up the chase and return to a more sane and sanitary existence. I was, after all, no longer chasing the dream of seeing every pitch. Now I no longer would even be able to say I had been present at every game. I was lonely on the road. The thrill of going to the park, day after day, had disappeared, and it seemed more work than play at this point. The team was bordering on pathetic, the future looked dismal, and I missed my wife, my children, my friends, my life. I was as close to miserable as someone could be whose main task was merely to show up to watch major league baseball.

My family told me to do what I wanted. That, unlike the wedding of my niece, I would not look the fool if I decided that enough was too much. But that what I was doing was something special, something unique, and if I did not see it through to its conclusion, I might look back with a great deal of sadness on my decision to abandon the chase. They were, as I said, a very bright group of people and very sage in their advise. I decided that I would carry on, at least for now, and see where the road led.

So I trudged to the stadium on Sunday and the Yanks again spanked the Angels. On the off day on Monday, I caught up with my most pressing work needs, visited my mom, and had dinner with my wife and both of our children. I felt a little stronger, a little more focused on the task at hand.

Tuesday I arrived  earlier than usual at the ballpark  for a night game against the Nationals. As I was waiting on line to go in, there was a tap on my shoulder. It was the cousin whom I was going to visit later that week. He was an avid Nats fan, and had driven up to catch the two games at the house that Steinbrenner built after he tore down the house that Ruth built. We spent most of that night talking baseball, speaking of its great joys and great moments. I mentioned little of the woes that had beset me, of my uncertainties. I suddenly felt foolish even harboring the possibility of leaving this all behind. 

And then there was Bryce Harper. He was a stud, and having a monster season for the Nats. That Tuesday night he made a diving catch in the outfield, threw out a runner at third base, legged a single into a double and clubbed a massive home run deep into the right field stands in the upper deck. He reminded me of why I was there.

As the homestand closed, and after another off day on Thursday, I headed out on a short five day road trip, ready to take on all challenges. Even if the Yankees weren't.

The Journey - Chapter 6

I was a New York Giant season ticket holder in the 1980's. This had been a franchise of greatness in the late 1950's and early 1960's but had fallen on a generation of hard times since then. I even attended a dinner of like minded unhappy fans in the late 1970's who ended up protesting their displeasure by having a plane fly over the Stadium with a banner that read something like "19 years and we're not going to take it anymore."

Thus, when the 1986 team reached the Super Bowl, there was boundless joy. And when my friend and I, through a lottery, obtained two tickets to California to attend that year's extravaganza, it was like, well, winning the lottery.

The game took place on January 25, 1987, the Giants won and all was right in the world. Except for one small matter. January 24, 1987 was my son's sixth birthday. And I was not home for the celebration. Even now, twenty eight years later, I am reminded that I voluntarily chose to be 3000 miles from home on that day.

So, I get that milestones in one's life, even if not particularly important to me or my wife, do have far greater meaning to much of the population. Thus, Saturday, June 6, 2015 was circled in my calendar with a big exclamation mark. It was the evening my niece was getting married. And the California Angels were in town to play the hapless Yankees.

I love my niece. She is a great kid, not so much a kid anymore as she had just turned 31 earlier in 2015. She was bright, pretty, a young lawyer of some renown, and best of all she treated her uncle with the respect he (I) deserved. She was my one and only sister's only daughter, and she was very special. Except that she was interfering with my plans.

That Saturday's game had a 4PM start to accommodate the television gods. The Yankees had broken their 14 game losing streak two weeks earlier, and had now settled into the pattern of alternating wins and losses with a metronomic regularity. They were 12 games out of first place on June 6, and the stands were half empty. Those who came spent more time directing their venom at the home team than rooting for them.

But I had not missed a game, missed an inning, missed a pitch of the entire season. And pictures for the family were called for 3PM on that Saturday, with the ceremony to begin promptly at 5:30 PM. How could I tell my niece, my sister, that I would not be able to appear, thank you very much, because I was an absolute moron?

While milestones might not mean all that much to me, family does. I live and die each day by the joys and sorrows that attach to my children's lives. I have spent most of my marriage within arm's length of my wife. And my mom, dad and sister have been like idols for me. My dad passed away when he was 61, more than 35 years ago, and not a day goes by that I still don't miss him and wish he was here. My mom, who thankfully had another of her amazing recoveries from recent back problems and was still with us in body, if not mind, was someone who spoiled me from the first day of my life to the last coherent conversation I had with her. And my sister was a wondrous person, caring not only for herself and her crew, but for my family with equal depth and sincerity. She was generous with her time and of her spirit. I adored her, and all those in her family.

Could my idiotic mission, coupling myself for no good reason with the gang that couldn't hit straight, trump all that? Could I really let them know that I was giving my regrets, that I was certain that the day would be spectacular, that she should take a lot of pictures, and be sure to give me every detail, but my first allegiance was to be at my appointed round at the appointed time? Was I like the postman, only rain, sleet and snow was substituted with weddings, work and worldly worries?

I sought counsel from my wife and my children, whose understanding of the human condition I greatly respected. They were universal in their dismay at my even considering putting my self appointed obligation over my duty to honor and respect my niece. So much for my trusting in their judgment.

On June 4, 2015, still tortured by my indecision, I picked up the phone to call my sister and discuss what was going on in my head. After she initially laughed, thinking I was making a very bad joke, she told me to call my niece. If I was thinking of doing what I was thinking of doing, she said, I should at least have the courage to call my niece and explain it to her. If I couldn't do that, she told me, then I should just get dressed up early Saturday afternoon, show up at the predetermined hour at the appropriate venue, and make believe this conversation never took place.

And so on June 6, 2015, I broke my vow to myself to see every inning of every game of the 2015 Yankee season. The wedding was spectacular, my niece and her husband looked astounding, and I hoped that my sister could one day forget the call that had taken place two days earlier.

And oh, by the way, the Yankees played their best game in over a month that day, beating up on California 11 to 1.

The Journey - Chapter 5

On the evening of Monday, May 4, 2015, David Robertson was pitching in the bottom of the ninth inning against Toronto. The team was holding on to a two run lead. One out, and three runs later, the game was lost.  The next night, a one run advantage, two outs, no one on base. A single, a double, a wild pitch and a bloop hit later, Robertson had blown another save.

It is a funny thing that after being a student of the game for six decades, it is hard to tell exactly the moment when things are truly falling apart. May 4th, it turns out, was the beginning of an epic journey to the depths of Yankee lore.

The franchise had been in existence since 1903, first as the Highlanders, and then, beginning in 1913, as the Yankees. In all that time, the longest losing streak had been 13 games. That meant that come lousy pitching, worse hitting, bad coaching and terrible karma, even the most horrendous accumulation lacking talent or luck had found a way to snatch a solitary victory from the jaws of defeat before a  baseball fortnight had passed.

Robertson complained of a dead arm after the second debacle. In truth, he was probably hurting for some time.  Two days and one MRI later, he was done for the season with a torn rotator cuff.

If I had been at home watching the games on the tv between May 4 and May 19, I  would have undoubtedly informed my wife I would be willing to watch anything, anything else in which she was interested, even re-runs of Project Runway.

It was a train wreck playing out in slow motion. Except for a four game series at the Stadium with the Orioles, I spent those 15 days in Toronto, Tampa Bay, and Kansas City, squirming in my seat every night and day. Every possible way of losing was demonstrated and then repeated. The team, and I, were trapped in a cycle of misery.

By the time we reached our last stop, the streak was at 11. The local press was funny and brutal. Kansas City, which had forever been a downtrodden baseball town was now home to the AL champs. The axis of the world had shifted. "Yanks Make Reservations on Hindenburg" one headline exclaimed. Indeed this $200,000,000 mistake was going down in flames. It was only the middle of May and this was already a collection of the walking dead.

I was depressed. My son called me after defeat 13 to check in. "You are watching history" he told me, as if that would provide solace. He could sense the quiet desperation in my words. "Are you ok?" I was touched by his compassion and felt an overwhelming desire to get home on the next flight out. But there were still two more games to be played before that could happen.

This had to be a humiliating experience for the team. So many of them were accustomed to nothing but success, surrounded forever by sycophants, full of obsequious praise. Now they were being ridiculed, publicly flogged day after day and privately criticized relentlessly. Overpaid and underperforming was not a happy combination.

In the middle of this maelstrom was Joe Girardi. He of the marine style haircut and the look of a man who was forever ready to do battle. But this was more than even he could explain away. His job was on the line. He received the obligatory vote of confidence from those on high, meaning he was close to the unemployment line. Like the good soldier he was, he answered questions with stock responses night after night. And he prayed that his name would not soon be in the record books as the captain of the Titanic.

May 16th brought consecutive loss 13 and then the record for futility was cracked on Sunday May 17th with a national audience watching in collective delight. The mighty Yankees, the team of 27 World Championships, the home of everything strong and powerful, were mocking symbols of past glory. This was as bad as it gets.

That is until I twisted my ankle leaving the plane on the flight back to New York Sunday night. Talk about limping home. I was mentally and physically a wreck.

And then it got worse.

The Journey - Chapter 4

I gained four pounds the first month of the season. At that rate, by October I would have to add the cost of an entirely new wardrobe to the price of my adventure. I had decided that, even when home, I would dine at the ballpark. Something about purity of experience.

But living on at least one fast food meal a day, and more on the road, was definitely not what the doctor ordered.

So, beginning in May, I cut back on the bread, the pasta, the fried foods and the desserts. I would exhibit self restraint. It is not easy walking past the cheese fries, the ice cream swirls, the pepperoni pizza and settling in for a meal consisting of a piece of grilled chicken on top of some green stuff. It felt like I had removed one of the essential underpinnings of what made baseball so enjoyable. My pleasure meter dropped precipitously.

I spent Friday morning before the start of the Boston series in the office. I had a 2PM flight. But at 10 AM I received a call from a court of an emergent application to be heard at 1:30. My presence was required. I considered advising that this would not do as I had an away game that night, but thought better of it. I worried that my consecutive inning streak, as important to me as Ripken's  consecutive game was to him, was already in jeopardy.

But good fortune shined on me. The judge was actually on the bench at the appointed hour, my case was the second heard, I spoke quickly and concisely, which is not my normal manner, and by 3:10, I was on my way to the airport. I was somehow able to get a seat on a 4PM flight and arrived at Fenway with 30 minutes to spare. Disaster avoided.

The Sox, having gained early season momentum with their sweep in NewYork, were playing the best ball in the majors. The Yankee winning streak came to an abrupt end that night and they once more fell below .500.

My hosts for the weekend were good friends, the daughter and son-in-law of our next door neighbors. They had two adorable kids, 8 and 4. My wife and I babysat for the older child once and she promptly fell headlong into the corner of a table. We had not been asked to babysit since.

They lived in a beautiful house in a Boston suburb. As I settled into my room that evening, a surprise awaited. The entire room had been filled with Red Sox paraphernalia. My favorites were a bear wearing a Sox uniform and hat and  a blanket with a huge logo of the team dominating the bed.

But I was tired, the bed was very comfortable and I lacked the energy or the will to put up a fight.

I fell asleep only inches away from the autographed photo of the "Splendid Splinter", Ted Williams. The kids had drawn a picture of a World Series trophy, below which it merely read "2004." It was nestled underneath my pillow. 

And so I spent the evening sleeping with the enemy.

The weekend brought unexpected good times at Fenway. On Saturday, Michael Pineda, he of the sticky substance on his neck, threw a beauty, limiting Boston to three hits, all singles, and not allowing a runner past second base. Sunday was even better as the Bombers won in a rout and Brett Gardner hit for the cycle. It was the first time I had ever been eyewitness to this feat.

Gardner's last hit was the hardest one to achieve, the triple. He lined a ball into the right field corner and took off from home plate with what appeared to be fierce determination and amazing speed. He threw himself headlong into third base, seemingly beginning his ascent shortly after rounding second, and slid in just ahead of the tag. A huge grin crossed his face and for a moment all seemed well in the Yankee universe. Back over .500 at 12 wins and 11 losses and heading on to Toronto.

And that is when it happened.

The Journey - Chapter 3

My mom turned 97 on January 8, 2015. Most of her last decade had been lost to ever advancing dementia. Her interaction with this world was connected by a thread, and my visits with her consisted of a pantomime in which I pretended that she could hear and see me and that the words which occasionally came out of her mouth made sense. It was heart wrenching and seemed as if it would last forever.

If my back was bad, my mom's was many multiples worse. While her constitution seemed impenetrable, her achilles heel was her back. The pain, at some moments, was great and it would be the painkillers keeping my mom comfortable, that would be the most likely culprit in her demise. But for each battle, each turn for the worse, there was a corresponding minor miracle. She was still alive, and if not wholly intact, at least she was amazingly resilient.

As I returned from my time on the road, I made a visit to my mom's apartment in the early afternoon hours of April 24, 2015. Several days before, the discomfort had returned with a vengeance. She was all doped up, and completely out of touch when I arrived. Her caretaker told me it had been worse than before. If she didn't respond within the next few days, there was fear that she would just drift away. I kissed my mom's forehead and told her of the adventure on which I had embarked. I left out any mention of my own issues, for it seemed it would be ludicrous to do so. Even if she couldn't hear me, and understood nothing of what was being reported, she was still my mother. I squeezed her hand, and I think she squeezed back.

On June 16,1997 the two New York metropolitan teams met for the first time in a regular season game. It was a ticket as valuable as the World Series. There was a fervor and excitement that belied any particulars. It was at a moment when the Yankee engine was in full force, all the young talent resulting in the 1996 World Championship, the beginning of that memorable five year run. In contrast, the 1996 season had been yet another disaster for the Mets, as the losses piled up and their final record was a dismal 20 games below .500.

Throughout the years, the teams had continued to meet during the regular season and once in the post-season, in the 2000 World Series. I was at the game, sitting along the third base line, when Roger Clemens threw the shards of Mike Piazza's bat in his direction. But time and repetition had dulled the senses. As the crowd wandered into the Stadium for the first game of this year's version of the rivalry, it was hard to even imagine the level of intensity from that first encounter.

The innings moved along without much notice until I realized that it was the bottom of the 6th and the Yankees were still hitless. The 7th produced the same results as did the 8th. The one and only time I had been present at a no-no was on May 14, 1996. It was thrown by a pitcher at the tail end of a career that had started out with the promise of unimaginable greatness and then dissolved, largely due to a series of bad choices. The name of that pitcher was well known to Met fans: Doc Gooden.

I remember the stands literally swaying as the last out was recorded that night. The opponents were the Seattle Mariners, led by Ken Griffey Jr. and  a young phenom named Alex Rodriguez. It was an emotional experience, as Gooden was struggling at that point just to remain on a major league roster. It would prove to be his saving grace and allowed him to extend his dreams a little while longer.

Now it was Jacob DeGrom's chance at baseball immortality, at least for one day.

The colors in the crowd may have been evenly divided, but the noise generated by the Met contingent was overwhelming as the first Yankee went down on strikes to start the bottom of the ninth. Jacoby Ellsbury was next to arrive. On the second pitch, fooled by a slow curve, he stuck out his bat and hit a  dribbler down the third base line.  The no hitter was gone, and the last remaining shred of Yankee dignity was saved.

But, as this is baseball and momentum goes only as far as the next day's pitcher, the weekend belonged to the Yankees and they limped on to a return engagement with the Rays at 7 wins and l0 losses. It was April 26 and the middle three hitters in the lineup had exactly one home run among them. Murderer's Row it was clearly not.

My wife seemed to be doing just fine in my absence, thank you very much. The sad truth is that I am more hindrance than help to her, like the child she never bore but was saddled with for the rest of her days. She had been able to keep up with her portion of the workload in our office in my absence and had been freed of the other responsibilities that my inept presence demanded. In fact, she was probably looking at the calendar to see when my next road trip began. If she was happy to see me arrive, she was equally as happy when the door closed behind me.

The baseball gods suddenly cast their light upon the home team in the next series. Home runs came from everywhere, 28 runs were accumulated in 3 days, and after the last game in April the Yankees suddenly found themselves in equipoise, 10 up and 10 down, and the proud owners of a five game winning streak. May, the second road-trip, and the Red Sox, awaited.

The Journey - Chapters 1 and 2

CHAPTER ONE

November 17, 2015

It is one year from today. I have recently finished the endless summer. Strike that. I have just completed a sometimes endless spring, summer and fall. This can all be laid at the feet of two people, my daughter and a person whom I have never met.

It was November 16, 2014 when the plot began to hatch in my brain. On that day, more precisely that evening, my daughter announced she was planning a trip in the coming months. She had recently told us of her frustration with not having been attentive to her inner voice asking, no demanding, she satisfy her need to explore. She had seen friends abandon the security of their jobs, their lives and go on adventures to places far and wide. She had been envious of their freedom, of their pictures, of their stories. And she knew that she would always feel a sense of frustration and more than a tinge of unhappiness if she did not follow in their footsteps, if not literally, then figuratively.

She had a friend who had recently embarked on his own journey of discovery, seemingly on a moment's notice. He had an itinerary, she had accumulated vacation days, sick days, personal days and if they could all be squeezed together, maybe she could fit a square peg of an everyday job into the round hole of an extended trip to somewhere new, somewhere intriguing.  She emailed her friend to see how and when she could meet up with him.

The following morning, today to be precise, I read a piece in the New York Times about a 31 year old lawyer who had abandoned his profession (okay, he had gotten fired from his job) and decided he would spend the 2014-15 basketball season following his beloved team, the seemingly hapless and hopeless Knicks of New York.  82 games would be chronicled in a blog describing, one can only assume, the highs, the lows, the food, the lumpy mattresses and the eternal question of how Phil Jackson could have come out of retirement for this.

I have a little, actually a lot, of obsessive compulsive disorder in me. One of my many focuses is numbers. How many miles until I get to my destination, how many steps from my car to the door, how many times 31 (the stranger's age) goes into 62 (my age) or 82 (the length of an NBA season) goes into 162 (the number of games played by an MLB team). The mathematical symmetry was almost perfect, far too obvious to ignore. This stranger was a lawyer, as am I. He liked to write, and  had an apparent need to advise the entire universe as did I (ok the five or so people who actually read my writing) on his thoughts profound or insipid. This man, this random article in the paper, the timing of this piece and of my daughter's decision to stop suppressing her desires, all of this could mean only one thing for me: I was about to embark on the most unusual and unorthodox journey of my life. I would be attending every Yankee games of the 2015 season.

I rationalized it this way: there were only 81 away games during the Major League season, spread out over seven months. Almost all weekday games were at night, which meant that when I was home it would not interfere with my work schedule, and even on the road I could attend to my law practice remotely and barely skip a beat. The weekends were not for work (or so I told myself) and thus games played from Friday night through Sunday afternoon would have little if any impact on my giving needed attention to my clients. The travel would be compacted into no more than a dozen trips, and never more than 10 days or so at a clip. All in all, it was eminently doable.

And then there was the small issue of informing my wife of 37 years of my impending plans. She had never attended even one of the approximately 500 Yankee games I had seen with our children over the past decades, and for the 1000 or so Yankee games I had been to during my lifetime, she could counter with a number that would certainly fit neatly on all her fingers, without need to resort to use of her toes. She did not discourage my interest in the sport or my time away from her. Rather, as our law office consisted only of the two of us, and had been that way for three decades, she was glad to be rid of me. In fact, we joked we had been married for 75 years if you added up all the waking moments in each others presence.

Yet, there was still some trepidation as I approached her with my thoughts. I would be turning 63 during the first month of the 2015 season and wasn't this idiocy something that should be the product of a much younger brain and body? Wasn't this the time in our lives where I should be focused on her wishes instead of thinking only of my own unfulfilled dreams? Wasn't it time I grew up?

But my wife is not built that way. She understood that whether it was something that burned inside a 29 year old daughter, a 31 year old stranger, or a 62 year old husband, it was not to be summarily ignored. "You owe me big time" would be her tongue in cheek response and about as close as she would come to putting up resistance. She truly did want to make my life happy, and I don't think I ever fully understood that until the moment we had finished our discussion and she had given her blessing to my journey to nowhere (and everywhere).

I could barely have chosen a worse year to follow the trials and tribulations of the Bronx Bombers. I had been weaned on Mickey, Whitey and Yogi. I was a child of the 1950's and early 1960's, the time of Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob, Dobie Gillis and of course, annual trips to the World Series. There was an inevitability to greatness, to success. I still recall 1959 as a tragedy, when the Chicago White Sox appeared as the American League champions in the Fall Classic. Those were days of transistor radios, Mel Allen and Red Barber. Those were times I woke up in the morning, rushed to the television set to learn if my mood was to be good or sour. If the Yankees had won the night before, I listened to the sports report as often as I could before heading off to school.

Mantle was my hero, my first and most enduring. No matter the revelations in later years, the women, the booze, the dark side that should have diminished my respect and reverence. It was a first love, and as the songs tell us, there can be little better. He will forever have that impish smile, the Bunyanesque power and that little hitch in his gait caused by an infamous drain in the outfield.

In contrast, 2014 marked the end of the Fab four plus one (I understand that Bernie Williams preceded Derek, Andy, Jorge and Mariano but they were all five fingers of a glove). The 2014 season came to a close not with the final out of the World Series between two teams I have already forgotten but with that line drive to right field that brought home the winning run in the final at bat for number two at the Stadium.

What remained at year's end was a group without an identity, a seemingly random collection of has beens, never wases, and question marks. Hitch my star to a returning A-Rod? Please. Sell my soul for another dead pull hitter like a Teixeira or a McCann, both of whom seemed overwhelmed by the shift and the shifting tides that brought their averages and their swagger down to that of the most pedestrian of back up performers? Find a diamond in the rough ready to be polished? Apart from Betances and his resurrection, there was a paucity of talent throughout the system. Hamstrung by overblown salaries for the geriatric generation and the departure of Robby Cano, this was a ship that was listing and ready to sink.

But this was the squad, come hell or high water, that I was going to give my time and a good deal of my money to follow. And money would prove another uncomfortable part of the equation. I am neither rich nor spoiled. I do not need the finest accommodations or the best of meals. The Holiday Inn and Chipotle are more than suitable for my needs. But even so, this would take some planning to fit within my budget. What was my budget? After all, I was nearing that age where I should at least give contemplation to retirement, and instead of being frugal I was going on a scavenger hunt for a meaningful October.

In putting together my game plan, I was the fortunate recipient of a general manager who made Theo Epstein look like a helpless child. My son is the absolute master of taking a nickel and making it look like a quarter, of locating every bargain, every gimmick and giveaway. If there was a deal to be had, he knew it. If there wasn't one there, he could create it. And so he studied the airfares, the hotels, the car rentals. He found friends within the area, and put notices out on the internet to help an old man in an odd and improbable dream. He looked to see what bargains could be found at the various ballparks, and devised the best strategies for the places where the games were always sold out in advance. This was my version of "it takes a village."  If I was the orchestra, my son was the maestro.

The pitchers reported to camp in late February of 2015, and the full team shortly thereafter. As they went through their paces, I had to get ready for the rigors of the baseball season in my own life. Clients were contacted, explaining what I was about to do, and assuring them that though I would be out of the office for periods of time, my work would not suffer and the level of attention I would provide would remain unchanged. Some were skeptical, some business was undoubtedly lost, but for the main part, I think those who knew me trusted in my intentions. I did get some humorous presents, like the client who sent me a Yankee uniform with my name and number 62/63 on the back. I was not to be deterred and thus tried to defuse all possible bombs during the latter part of the winter. By mid- March, I was in good shape, as if I had performed well during spring training and made the squad headed to the Stadium for opening day.

The same could not be said for the 2015 version of the Bronx Bummers. A-Rod looked more and more each day like a 40 year old man with bad hips and only the most distant relationship to the steroid induced monster of the previous decade. Losses piled up throughout spring training, nothing new or unexpected, and certainly not with the same implications as in the days that King George ruled. But still, the expectations heading into this season were reminiscent more of the Horace Clarke days, then the recent glorious era. And thus was the state of affairs as I tidied up my desk, only several weeks short of my 63rd birthday, and began my spring, summer and fall tango with the boys down on the field.

 CHAPTER TWO


It was 41 degrees at 1:07 PM on April 6, 2015 in New York City. The sky was a gray, heading towards black. The drizzle was constant, the cold was penetrating, the forecast was ominous. I took my seat in the upper deck just past the left field foul pole, the best seat I could get in my pre-determined price range for the full season package. I had decided that I would try not to miss a pitch, to be part of the process from first moment to last of this my season as a Yankee. And I would do this alone, without companionship or divided attention. My dates were the nine men who had stood at the ready on the diamond. Even though they had no idea, we were going to be joined at the hip for better or worse til game 162 do us part. As they took off their caps to give honor to America, it began.


The Toronto Blue Jays were the opponent, but as I would learn throughout most of this season, they were virtually irrelevant. This would not be a study of the hits and errors, the pitch-outs and strike-outs, the do's and the don'ts, the trials and tribulations or even the wins and losses. This would become a study or perseverance, of dedication to a task at hand, of the ability to move forward on days when it was hard to get out of bed and harder to go to the ballpark. It would be a parallel universe occupied by ballplayer and fan, as we both somehow found the inner reserve to do whatever it was that needed to be done.

The rain descended with a vengeance in the top of the fourth inning and the water soon ran off the tarp in torrents. On most other days, good sense would have dictated an end to the battle, but this was not most other days. It was a 97 minute rain delay and I stood shivering in the third floor concourse, running into the bathroom as often as I could for shelter from the storm.  The lounges, the restaurants, the places of creature comfort, were not available to those like me who had not ponied up the requisite dollars for our seats. It was stark reminder of the class war that had descended even into the bowels of Yankee Stadium.

When the game renewed, the starting pitchers were gone, the outfield was sloppy and the play even sloppier. When all the crooked numbers were added up, it was a glorious start for the home team on an inglorious afternoon. The Yankee record was a clean one win and no losses.

As I left the Stadium and headed home to New Jersey by public transportation (the cost of parking a car would have blown a huge hole in the monies allotted for this endeavor) I wondered how I would have the stamina to withstand the rigors of April, and somehow survive until the warmth descended from the heavens.

The next day, Tuesday was an off day and Wednesday the cold rain started early in the morning and would not stop until deep into the dark of night. The first rainout of the season allowed me two uninterrupted days in the office. Thursday night's game brought an end to a very short winning streak and the Blue Jays and Yankees finished their initial tug of war all even. On deck, the Red Sox.

For so many years the Red Sox were enemies in name only. We had to have rivalries, and even though the Yankees always prevailed in the end, Boston was our favorite target. But as much as we hated them, they despised us for our winning ways and our haughty attitude. That would all change in 2004. I was eye witness to one of the worst losses in Yankee lore, and the future pinstriper, Johnny Damon was among the chief culprits on that terrible day when the world changed forever. The Yankees were out of the playoffs and the team that was forever not good enough, suddenly was. With the World Series victory that year, the dynamic was altered and the level of animosity escalated.

Now, in 2015 it was possible that these were the two worst teams in the American League East. The Sox had been bi-polar in the past several seasons, alternating from worst to best, and no one was quite sure whether Jekyll or Hyde would surface this year. And the tension and drama was therefore somewhat muted on yet another unusually cold evening on April 10. I was bundled in my ski underwear, ski hat, ski gloves, ski sweater and ski jacket for the first pitch, and I was still cold. I took out the hand warmers but the chill had already descended into the core of my being.

CC Sabathia had been a dominant pitcher for the first decade or so of his career. Huge, at six foot seven and almost 300 pounds, he had a fastball that matched his size. Now he had trouble finding 90 on the radar gun, and had become a finesse pitcher, relying more on a change-up and guile than a dominating repertoire. It was not an easy transition and it had not gone smoothly over the past season or two. He was now the number three starter and fading fast.

The Red Sox were very happy to deal with this diminished version. They battered him around for six runs in less than four innings. Game one of this series to the Bahston crew. Yankees fall below the .500 mark.

The weekend proved sunny and warmer, but the results were no different. By late Sunday, April 12, 2015, the team had fallen to one win and four losses, was the embarrassed owner of a four game skid and had sunk to the bottom of the standings. As the Red Sox left town feeling pretty good about themselves, the Yankees slinked away for their (and my) first road trip of the year.

I would be away for 10 days, on a journey that would take me to Baltimore, Tampa and Detroit.Accordingly, I packed for cold weather, warm weather and colder weather. I would have one scheduled off day during this time to give full attention to the rest of my life, but other than that, my world would mainly revolve around the first pitch, and the last.

As much as I had been a lifelong fan of the game, I had visited very few stadiums. Apart from Boston and Oakland,  I was a virgin when it came to an insider's knowledge of these diamonds and most of these locales. I had the good fortune to be friends with a family that had done what I only had dreamed of, going to games in every major league park, American and National. They had, if not an encyclopedic knowledge of the good, the bad and the ugly of each stop along my path, at least a working one. And so I enlisted their aid. I learned of places to go during the day, foods to eat once at the game and what to anticipate from the local crowd if I started to root for my team in a foreign venue. It would prove a resource of great value.

I flew down to Washington and stayed with my cousins for the Baltimore series. I was already noticing that my back was beginning to tighten. Several years before I had undergone surgery for two herniated discs. I had religiously avoided taking care of my back since then, ignoring the problem at every opportunity until pain reared its ugly head. And so, I began a season in which getting in and out of a car, sitting cramped in a plane, and moving around fitfully in my seat at the games, became an increasing issue. If I had been a player I might have opted for the 15 day disabled list at various points along the way. But that was not an option in my quest. Once I reached my cousin's, after greetings and gentle hugs were exchanged, I asked for the heating pad.

The road proved not much friendlier to the Yankees than home cooking had. Each of the teams along the way seemed to have more depth, more power, more consistency than the pretenders in pinstripes. The glory days seemed a very distant memory and at the end of the time away from home, the team and I were both dragging. With one more rain-out, nine games had been completed during this stretch and the Yankee record stood at a wholly unimpressive five wins and nine losses as we boarded our separate planes back to New York. The team batting average was a ghastly .235. A grand total of 11 home runs had been hit by this punchless crew. I was exhausted already and there was still one week to go in April.