Number Two

I was one of those fortunate to be in the stands on the evening of July 1, 2004 when "the catch" happened. There was an intensity to the game that belied the fact the Yankees were 7 1/2 games ahead of the Red Sox. (Who then could ever have imagined this would be the season the curse died?)

Drama surfaced in seemingly every at bat in the later innings. At one point the Sox employed five infielders in an effort to choke off the winning run. All appeared lost for the home team in the top half of the 13th, as Manny Ramirez homered. But an improbable hero, John Flaherty, responded  in the bottom of the frame with the winning hit deep into the left field corner.

It was perhaps the most compelling regular season game I have witnessed in more than a half century of attendance at the home of the Bronx Bombers.

But nothing that night, nothing compared to the image of a bloodied Derek Jeter emerging from the stands, baseball firmly in his mitt, to stop a Boston rally in the 12th. From my vantage point I had a perfect view of the play as it unfolded. Shading the left handed batter slightly towards the middle of the diamond, Jeter was in all out sprint as soon as the little looper began its brief ascent. There was scant time to consider the consequences.

His outstretched glove captured and cradled the ball as he moved, in full flight, across the foul line in short left field. The stands were but a few feet away and avoiding potential calamity was an impossibility.

He was not the first nor last player who ever "gave up his body" for his team. Witness the catcher who braces for certain seismic impact as ball and runner meet simultaneously at the plate which he protects with a ferocity worthy of a mother standing guard over a new born child. Or the outfielder who runs full tilt into an immovable object called the outfield wall.

But there was, in that instant, an embodiment of everything that made this particular man so special. This was more than a catch, it was a statement of the importance of this game, of every game, of every pitch. It was what we expected and received from Jeter from the moment he appeared in pinstripes. There was a pride and a commitment not only to excellence but to effort that was reenforced with each stride as he raced towards not only a quickly descending ball but certain danger.

This was Derek Jeter whether the opponent was the Red Sox or the Royals, from the most meaningless of times to the most critical. Everything and everyone deserved respect. It was what the game demanded and what Jeter unfailingly delivered.

The Yankee shortstop was not at the stadium when the winning run crossed the plate that night. He was on the way to the hospital to tend to his wounds. But the imprint he left behind could still be felt by everyone in attendance.

A copy of that famous photo, signed by number 2, hangs in my home. It is a constant reminder of everything wonderful that Derek Jeter has provided baseball fans for nearly twenty years.

Olympics - 2018

The numbers for the viewing audience for the 2014 Winter Olympics are stunning. The International Olympic Committee believes this success is attributable, in large measure, to the infusion of new competitions, such as slope-style skiing and boarding, and team skating. As such, there is already effort underway to infuse the 2018 Games with new concepts.

There are a number of options garnering strong attention, but for now we know only their titles. Here is the present top 10 list:

1. "The Deer Hunter"
2. "Ice Fishing in Your Skivvies"
3. "Tonya Harding Broke My Heart and My Knees"
4. "Drive by Shooting"
5. "The Full Pipe"
6. "Cement Skiing"
7. "Avalanche!!"
8. "Downhill Skating"
9. "Disney on Snow", and
10. "Shaun White-Out"

A Vocabulary Lesson

("Health Care Law Projected to Cut Labor Force")

Exacerbate - to make worse
 

Ameliorate - to improve

Voluntary  - of one's choosing

The CBO report advises that, for many millions, the crushing fear of being without health insurance will be removed thanks to the impact of the Affordable Care Act. As lives are improved, many in our midst will feel a freedom that has until now been denied.

The projection that more than two million people over the next decade may make the voluntary determination to reduce their hours in the workforce is a good thing. It is a statement of the positive impact of the law.

Yet in the world of misdirection, otherwise known as the Republican spin cycle, facts and figures are removed from context. No longer is this a decision made by the worker, but somehow morphs into a statement of the shortcomings of the health care system, to a universe where employers are compelled to take away opportunity from the beleaguered.

All it requires for misinterpretation to prevail is a willing proponent and a susceptible listener. Having been relentlessly informed that the signature piece of legislation to come out of the Obama years is an unfolding disaster, it will take very little to convince far too many of the truth of the latest assertion.

For the chicanery from the Republican machine to fail, the true conclusions of this report must be emphatically revealed and reenforced. In the end, it must be shown that, contrary to the words coming from deceitful mouths, numbers on a page can't actually dance and to ameliorate does not actually mean to exacerbate.

Audibles

("Maturity's Victories")

Peyton Manning is an anomaly, an aberration. He is a once in a generation athlete who has been able to beat back the ravages of time and 300 pound defensive lineman and emerge, if not totally intact, at least fully in control of his environment. Do I see reasons to applaud my ever advancing age and decreasing capabilities because of the greatness that is Peyton? I wish.

Life is a series of trade-offs in which we search for reason to find the benefits in what remains rather than mourn what has been lost. However, that does not always translate as easily as Mr. Bruni suggests.


There can be an aching with the passage of days that has nothing to do with creaky joints and thinning hair. As we survey the landscape of our life, much as Mr. Manning does the shifting defensive formation across the line, we recognize we cannot call audibles with his facility..


There is an inevitability, no matter how supple we may be. Things may slow down in a positive way for the Bronco quarterback, as he weeds out the false signals intended to confuse him and finds the truth hidden in its midst. But for those of us on the wrong side of 60, things just slow down. He is the exception. We are the rule.

We marvel at his wondrous skill, his perspective. And we do find some comfort in knowing that there are those rare creatures among us who find ways to defeat all opponents, no matter the seemingly impossible odds. But each of us will wake up tomorrow reminded not so much of the greatness of Peyton, but the realities of our own universe.


There are surely those who don't wish to go back to the early days, with its confusion and uncertainties. Maybe some don't ask to be rookies all over again, but would rather be the grizzled veteran who has withstood the best shots and is still standing. But for most, to wake up tomorrow, a little befuddled as to how we got there, with a full head or hair, an endless supply of promise and a small sense of invincibility, would be a trade worth the risk. Like a general manager taking a shot on an unknown for a  player to be named later.

The State of Dis-Union Address

AN EDITED VERSION OF THIS PIECE APPEARS IN THE NEW YORK TIMES LETTERS TO THE EDITOR ON JANUARY 30, 2014

"Yes I can, because they won't" is what happens when reality meets soaring expectation. Gone is the vision of a new world in which great change is inevitable. What remains is much smaller, more manageable. In his sixth year on the job, President Obama has been forced to abandon even the pretense of hope for a united state of American politics.

This has become a place where executive order substitutes for congressional action.  Where cheer-leading for states to move, without federal mandate, from the present ludicrously inadequate minimum wage to living wage becomes the new cry. Where exhortations for enacting big, sweeping legislation on issues like gun control now merit not even a passing comment. Where almost nothing feels probable and very little feels possible from those sitting in the room where the President was speaking.

In this environment, it is really quite remarkable that anything at all has been accomplished. The President began his address with an overview of the progress that has been made in recent times. Despite the worst of intentions by the Republican party, in some areas things are indeed better. But this has come despite, not because of, the intransigence of those whose mission has been to make the President ineffective and inconsequential.

And so, Mr. Obama does what he can with the cards he has been dealt. Little things around the edges. It is a long way from that night in Chicago when everything seemed possible.

The Toll Taker

He is scheduled to slip into his place of penance at 5AM under the cover of darkness on the second Monday in February and remain there for three hours. Forgetting the logistical difficulties, his official videographer is to be crammed in this small space with him, to chronicle each moment of every mea culpa. It is the untold, but soon to be released story of the one day toll-taker career of the governor of the great state of New Jersey, Chris Christie.

What better place to say I'm sorry then at the actual scene of the crime. Forget going to Fort Lee's City Hall for a handshake and an apology to the mayor. Did the mayor  sit in that ugly traffic snarl for those four mornings in September? No, the real apology is to be given to the thousands of commuters who were forced to endure the wrath of Christie, who were just in the wrong place at the very wrong, and for a very long, time.

The dedicated entrance to the GWB from Fort Lee consists of three lanes which are (on all but those days in early September of 2013) cordoned off from the rest of humanity by bright orange cones which Mr. Christie described by way of foot in mouth parody. The right and left of these lanes accept not only E-Z pass payment, but cash customers and those who, riding in groups of three or more, advise they are a "carpool" and entitled to special discount. It is in the far right booth that Mr. Christie will plant his rather over-sized ego.

No one can know in advance of this intended action, as to do so would undoubtedly cause the one thing that the governor can surely not afford: another massive traffic tie-up. No, this will be a well kept secret, known only by those in his immediate circle who have been sworn to shut up under penalty of being forced to watch the entire press conference in which the governor held everyone hostage for nearly two hours without actual saying much of anything.

And oh, the few of you reading those words are also now knowing co-conspirators.

The governor is donating the monies he earns during this abbreviated employment to a study devoted to demonstrating there is no reason to raise the minimum wage in New Jersey.

What he hopes is captured during this three hour tour (where have I heard that phrase before, oh yes, Gilligan's Island) is his real emotional attachment to his constituency, a kind of right-after-Sandy type hug and feeling that "I know your pain."  If all goes according to plan (no, not that plan)  the following should be typical of what the final edited product looks like at the 2016 Republican National convention:

Driver: "Carpool"

Toll-booth guy:''Please roll down the back window because I don't see a third person in your car."

Driver: "Are you questioning my veracity? And, by the way, get that camera out of my face."

Toll-booth guy: "I am only doing my job. Please roll down the window."

Driver: "Do you want me to get out of this car?"

Camera shot fades to black. (Sorry. That was an outtake from "the Sopranos" that somehow slipped in)

No, really what the governor envisions is an endless trove of positives as he goes good will hunting. Images of those who recognize the governor not only by his look but by the kindness and compassion that exudes from every pore of his body (actually that is an image that might be a little difficult to capture). Smiles and soundbites of people thanking the governor for being such an excellent toll booth operator (maybe there is a little Peter principle at work here). Myriad words of praise and of understanding by the devoted hordes that every one of us makes mistakes along the way, but it is how we respond to tough times that is the true measure of the man (Mr.Christie just has to make sure none of those still without Sandy relief get in this lane).

And when his shift is over and the governor holds a press conference to thank the head of the Port Authority (who has for some reason asked to stay out of camera range and not to shake the hand of Mr. Christie) for allowing him to perform such a wonderful service, there will undoubtedly be much ado about the nothing that has been more than amply demonstrated.

For in the final analysis, the truth is the toll that must be paid is forever increasing, whether you are in your car heading to New York or the target of those 20 subpoenas that have recently issued. And no photo op can make a small man look large (well, not in the sense intended).

Glenn Beck Revisited

("The Penance of Glenn Beck")

Apology not really accepted.

Even though there was a hint of impishness in his act, a kind of twinkle in his eye, like we were meant to understand this was but a huckster at work, the damage left behind in the wake of the performance of Mr. Beck has been enormous and long lasting.

He and Rush Limbaugh are not merely the parents of the dumbing down of America, but of everything this spawned. Based on an ideology disassociated from reality, governing has become an intractable disaster, as a a long line of fools masquerading as political leaders have drawn an endless series of irrational and ludicrous lines in the sand.

If Mr. Beck intended us to consider him nothing more than a combination of Elmer Gantry and John Nash, with his chalkboard and shenanigans, far too few got the joke. From the Tea Party to the latest rants of Mike Huckabee, extreme histrionics has become a very marketable commodity. As Mr. Beck taught us all too well, being extremely loud and more than a little dangerous, pay$.

Is Mr. Beck experiencing a true awakening or is this but the latest iteration of his act? Has he discovered that in 2014 he has to re-brand himself to remain viable? We may never know what is going on inside his head, but what even a charlatan like Mr. Beck cannot do is put the genie back in the bottle. Too little, too late.

The $pending $pree

("Yanks on a Budget? Yeah, Right")

I am staring at a framed copy of a "Uniform Agreement for Transfer of a Player" dated December 26, 1919. "The party of the first part (the "Boston American League Baseball Club") does hereby release to the party of the second part ("the American League Base Ball Club of New York") the services of player George H. Ruth."

Over the past 95 years it has been the Yankee way.

On April Fool's day of 2013 the lineup for opening day included an assortment of the oft injured, over the hill or never was:Youklis, Wells, Francisco, Nix and Cervelli. It was an uncomfortable fit from the first to the last out of the season.

As Cano heads west for the gold, Rodriguez files multiple lawsuits raging against the machine and Jeter and Teixeira face very uncertain futures, the Yankees were confronted with the choice of either accepting mediocrity or spending their way to great possibilities.

Yes, the Cardinals may do it in a very different fashion, as do Tampa Bay.and several others. And yes, the Red Sox, while willing spenders, seemed to have purchased relatively bargain basement magic in 2013. But that is not who the Bronx Bombers are and not who the very large shadow of the late George Steinbrenner would ever allow them to be.

Will Tanaka go undefeated in 2014? Will Ellsbury and Beltran roam the vast expanses with speed and grace? Will home plate now be home to McCann for many productive seasons? Only time will let us in on these secrets. But one fact is clearly ascertainable. These are the New York Yankees again in 2014, thinking big and buying bigger. Welcome back.

Chris Christie and Tonya Harding

"I would like to begin by saying how sorry I am about what happened... I am embarrassed and ashamed to think that anyone close to me could be involved.. I had no prior knowledge... (When) I learned that some persons that were close to me may have been involved, my first reaction was one of disbelief and the disbelief was followed by shock... I know that I have let you down, but I have also let myself down... Despite my mistakes and my rough edges, I have nothing - I have done nothing to violate the standards of excellence... I ask only for your understanding and the opportunity to represent my country."

Those words of remorse and painful recognition of grave errors committed by close allies in whom the speaker trusted, were spoken in a press conference almost 20 years ago by none other than Tonya Harding. In "the Price of Gold", a documentary now airing on ESPN, Harding laments her damaged stature but adamantly denies her involvement in the plan to do whatever was necessary to reach the pinnacle of her profession.

Is Chris Christie this year's Harding, minus the sequins? Are the parallels in the public apology something other than coincidence? Is this the language employed whenever the path of wrongdoing leads directly from the hands of those whom you control to the doorstep of your house?

Harding's mea culpa was a mere blink of an eye compared to the nearly two hours Christie devoted to exhausting his vocabulary and all his listeners with many variations of the same theme. If Harding's performance was a short story, Christie gave us War and Peace. But the volume of words ultimately has no relevance.

How does one know where the lie ends and the truth begins?

In Harding's case, her "rough edges" were much more than that. She was not merely a star in decline, she was in free fall. This Olympics was her last and only hope for survival. The weapon taken to her opponent's knee was in keeping with her image and her desperation.

As to Christie, he did not need the support of the mayor of Fort Lee to decimate his opponent in the November election. He had pushed and shoved the Cory Booker coronation for US Senate to another day on the calendar to preserve and protect his insurmountable lead over an opponent whose name almost no one can even recall. There was seemingly nothing that could stop him from reaching the most elevated of heights in the Republican party. Yet his strong-arm tactics was his natural instinct and his proven tendency. He did not need desperation, he merely required a reason. He had taken a bat to the knee of  virtually everyone blocking his path, and Mark Sokolich just happened to be the next in line. The crime in that sense was much more heinous than Harding's.

One has to wonder whether 20 years from now "The Price of Gold" may be playing with a different central figure. One who clearly would not look good in sequins.

Speaking Yiddish

There are few visitors now. Apart from immediate family, the phone calls to her have virtually stopped. When anyone inquires it is almost by way of apology: "I hate to ask."

It is difficult and uncomfortable to peer into this disintegrating universe. It is not the image of my mother that anyone wants to retain. It is not how she would want to be remembered.

Sitting in her wheelchair, leaning slightly to her right, supported by a pillow in the small of her back, it is hard to tell the depth of the problem. Her hair has been neatly combed, makeup and lipstick applied. But come closer, for  there are many "tells". Her eyes are almost always closed and she has no comprehension that even when they are open she is without sight. The stereo is playing Sinatra, always Sinatra and always too loud. It is only this noise that seems to penetrate the fog.

Her once immaculate apartment is definitely showing its age. The dining room carpet has tape over the areas that have now grown threadbare. The drawers in the kitchen are almost impossibly stuck. The notes that resonate from the piano are decades out of tune. The deeply stained carpet has been removed from the bedroom, the stories it could report of the trials and tribulations within that room thankfully no longer evident.

It is not neglect but the ravages of time that have compromised my mother and her surroundings. All about her has been swallowed up in this vortex. There is the distinct sense of desperation, trying not to disappear into an ever growing hole.

Often she talks in unsolvable riddles to me. Her word retrieval is fading fast and so her thoughts come out in a series of non sequiturs.

Recently she has begun speaking Yiddish.

She lives mostly in an imaginary world occupied principally by her parents and her grandmother. She is very worried about their health. None are well. Her father appears a gentle soul, her mother more the disciplinarian. She often is concerned that she has to leave to tend to them.

When her Aunt Minny is mentioned, it is that "Tilly works too hard." Minny spends her days at the family store, alongside my mom's parents. There is a strong work ethic that permeates this place.

My father has long since been left out of the conversation. A marriage of 34 years, marked only by one happiness after another, is nowhere to be found. On the very rare occasions when my dad surfaces, it is to discuss my mom's credit card habits. I never knew this was an issue.

"Mom, I don't understand Yiddish so well. You'll have to translate for me." On the bad days, nothing seems to penetrate the barrier she has erected between the world she actually inhabits and the one her mind has her residing in.

But on this occasion, she is able to give me a brief English version of one sentence. I tell her that I never learned Yiddish but that 50 years ago, for a moment in time, I studied German in a general language class. I still recall counting from one to ten. As I begin, she joins in on some of the numbers.

The trick is to try to find a way to bring her to this room, to this time, to this person who is sitting next to her. Blind, there is nothing tangible before her that anchors my mom here. Her hearing, while sometimes acute enough to pick up asides spoken to her caretaker, is often almost oblivious to the conversation that is taking place within a few feet. It is always about trying to locate a connection to her.

It is unfathomable that my mom was born while World War I was still raging. Was a body ever intended to last this long? How much information has been processed through that brain, how many images have those eyes witnessed, how many sounds have had to be interpreted?

The downstairs neighbor is on the warpath. She finds my mom's screaming during the daily ritual of bathing and cleaning an attack on her senses. When the caretaker asks my mom to be a little more quiet, that she is getting complaints, the response may well be for my mother to scream a little louder, a little longer. No one, my mom seems to be saying, can tell her how to conduct herself. There is still something, she is advising anyone and everyone within earshot, that has not escaped her control.

In her reaction is she demonstrating that, in some corner of her mind, all is still being properly processed? While it may not translate into cogent conversation, maybe it is still happening.

Where is the line drawn where we know that enough is too much? At what point can we wish for something different? Over the course of watching this journey, I have asked myself that question countless times. But I have not discovered an answer.

Despite all of this, it is not a place without joy. I know that my mom is happy for my visits. When she asks, "where is Rob?" and the answer is, "he is here, he is right next to you", there is an almost audible sigh of relief and pleasure. Often when I get up to leave, she announces, "isn't he wonderful?"

If I have to spend my time counting from one to ten in German to capture her attention, if I have to sing the same Frank Sinatra song over and over to her, if I have to repeat stories day after day, none of that matters as long as, for whatever brief moments there may be, she and I are together.

On a related note, another post about my mother, "The Man in My Mother's Bedroom," is scheduled to appear in a future edition of "Chicken Soup for the Soul" to be published Spring 2014.