Christie's Defense

("Inquiry is Said to Clear Christie, but That's His Lawyer's Verdict")

Perhaps there will be no smoking gun located. Perhaps there was only the pervasive attitude, the implicit understanding that steamrolling those who stand in your way is not only permitted but required. Perhaps Governor Christie will survive and grow emboldened by the inability of the opposition to destroy him.

But an investigation by the very law firm that is also responding on the governor's behalf to other ongoing inquiries screams conflict of interest. To spend a million dollars of taxpayer money essentially to mount one's own defense strategy, and then to announce vindication, seems ludicrous. To contend that the analysis even approximates completion when many of the central figures in Bridgegate have not spoken is only to arouse skepticism.

Who among us would have expected the law firm hired by the Governor to advise us that he was at the heart of the Fort Lee debacle? What has transpired is that some very high priced counsel are now more ably equipped to go on the offensive. Until all the information is in and assessed, this position amounts to nothing more than a distraction.

A Slap on the Wrist

A COPY OF THIS POST APPEARS IN THE LETTERS TO THE EDITOR IN THE NEW YORK TIMES ON MARCH 18,2014

Re “Putin Recognizes Crimea Secession, Defying the West” (front page, March 18):
It appears as though President Vladimir V. Putin does not even need a fly swatter to deflect the sting of the sanctions imposed by the United States and the European Union in response to Russia’s march toward annexation of Crimea.

I understand the complexity of the situation and that we need Russia’s assistance in many other battles, from Iran to Syria and beyond. But this opening gambit seems only to invite ridicule rather than serious concern.

In the face of the magnitude of the invasion and occupation by Russian troops, and everything it has wrought, we should either demonstrate our opprobrium with something far more concrete than a slap on the wrist for 11 Russians and Ukrainians who easily look upon their penalty (frozen assets and a travel ban) as a badge of honor, or just say nothing for the moment.

Maybe there is little we can or will choose to do to change the course of Mr. Putin’s trajectory in Ukraine. But symbolic acts of no consequence seem to send the worst of all messages.

Uniform Success

There is a great price to pay for the continued success of the Yankees. They are running out of uniform numbers.

The Yankees may soon begin counting at 11.

With everything from 1 to 10 already removed from consideration except for 2 and 6, the numerical shortage is alarming. As #2 begins his final year in pinstripes, so too will his number retire to the pantheon of heroes at season's end.

That will leave only a single digit in the single digits. Lonely #6, but when was the last time we heard from it? Joe Torre left the Yankees under somewhat acrimonious circumstances after the 2007 season. Yet, he was, and by all accounts will be, the last to put on the uniform number resting between DiMaggio and Mantle.

As Torre heads to the Hall of Fame this summer, Brian Cashman may deem it the most appropriate time to do what he has said he would. And if he carries through. then by next season, like the 10 little Indians, the Yankee single digit uniforms will officially be none.

By way of further quirk, when this happens, 1 through 9 will have been removed 10 times, as two catchers, Berra and Dickey, share the honor of having the same number retired by the team. It is a bit ironic that the person with whom Berra shared time behind the plate for several seasons, Elston Howard, also has his #32 enshrined by the team.

Phil Rizzuto protects double digits from beginning at the beginning and thus the next prized prospect, with endless possibilities, can only hope that he is given the number 11 to wear proudly.

The 1929 Yankees were the first team to permanently assign numbers to their players. It is reported that the batting order served as predicate for the uniform number given to each player in the opening day lineup. Thus Ruth wore #3 and Gehrig, the cleanup hitter was #4. 

I know we are in the era of specialization and there are designated hitters in the American league, but what position does #11 play?

The most famous of all ceremonies removing a number from statistical contemplation was the first. On July 4, 1939, in his incomparable farewell speech, Lou Gehrig, reviewing his life and facing somewhat imminent death said that he considered himself "the luckiest man on the face of the earth."

Both the speeches and the significance of retiring a number have diminished since then. But it still carries the specter of sustained greatness with it. 

Over the years, this tradition has spread throughout Major League baseball. There are now more than 150 players and managers whose numbers have been retired. Casey Stengel is the only one whose number has been retired by the Yankees and another franchise (yes, those Mets).  Hank Aaron, Rod Carew and Rollie Fingers have also had more than one organization remove their number from any possible future diminution.

But Nolan Ryan, and his three different retirement dinners holds the record for most gold watches handed out to a single performer. Unless of course, one considers Jackie Robinson, whose #42 had its last glorious moment in the summer sun on any major league baseball diamond when the incomparable Mariano left the stage.

Possibly the next important question for the Yankees is whether there should be a determination if any of those who have worn double one are worthy recipients, posthumous or not, of a place of permanent glory at the Stadium.

Herb Pennock, Lefty Grove, Waite Hoyt, Joe Page, Johnny Sain are but some of the old timers who wore #11 with distinction. And while there was certainly a fallow period, as names like Bernie Allen, Billy Sample and a host of other pretenders struggled to reach elevated heights, in recent years Dwight Gooden, Chuck Knoblaugh and Gary Sheffield have worn this number with success.  The jury is out on the current holder, Brett Gardner, yet he seems, for the moment, to be among the lesser #11 lights.

But I ask whether, among that group, is there not sufficient cause to bring number 12 to the forefront? And if that were to occur, I have no doubt that among its wearers is one worthy of coronation.

As we begin the end of the Derek Jeter era, and the demise of the one digit uniform on the most storied franchise in baseball history, there are weighty matters for contemplation. For example, when in the inevitable march of time will we watch the first triple digit uniform roam center field for the Bombers?

Inside Putin's Head

While all politics is, in one form or another, an examination and probing of the psychological strengths and weaknesses of your opponent, the current crisis in Ukraine has made the study of what makes Putin tick into a virtual obsession.

The pages of your newspaper are replete with pieces that not only speak to the facts on the ground but to the motivations that drive the Russian president and to the question of what, if anything, will deter him.

"What Putin Really Wants", "Why Putin Doesn't Respect Us", "Putin, Flashing Disdain, Defends Action in Crimea", and "The Man on Horseback" are articles, op-eds and discussions intended to dissect the inner workings of the man and look for something, anything that will make him reconsider and reverse his recent course of action.

I suggest that "Putin on the Couch", authored by a leading psychiatrist, would make for fascinating reading. The shaping of world events by the force of one man's personality and vision has rarely been so evident..

Putin and the Paralympics

("US Cancels Paralympics Delegation but Athletes Will Compete")

In 1979 the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan provoked much anger and protest from the government of the United States. President Carter threatened a boycott of the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow if the Soviet's did not withdraw from their unwarranted incursion. When the battle raged on, the boycott occurred.

Now, in the face of the recent Russian action in Crimea, and the imminent threat that this could escalate to other parts of Ukraine, the United States has spoken once more, but quite differently. This Friday, the full contingent of US paralympic athletes will be in Sochi to begin their competition. Whether it is the timing of the event, merely days into the present crisis, or other factors that militate against the United States taken a stance similar to that of 1980 is uncertain.

What is clear is that the light that shone on Sochi in recent weeks has been extinguished. It is far more than the Olympic torch that has gone out, as the reality of the Putin era has been brought into full view. These paralympics will forever hold a very strange place in political history.

Kayla Montgomery

("For Runner with M.S., No Pain While Racing, No Feeling at Finish")

Overcoming a disability to compete at elite levels is an incredible accomplishment to be greatly applauded. But in some of the discussion of Kayla Montgomery's feat, there are alarming parallels to allegations made against other disabled athletes.

When there is question raised as to whether Montgomery's M.S. provides her with a competitive advantage, it brings to mind the travails endured by both Casey Martin and Oscar Pistorius (who is now facing problems in a wholly different arena).

Martin, severely hobbled by a birth defect in one leg, had to fight all the way to the Supreme Court for the right to compete (with the "aid" of a golf cart) at the highest level of his sport. And Pistorious was forced to push back against adverse rulings and compelled to undergo rigorous testing before his carbon fibre prosthetics were permitted in able body events.

It is hoped that Ms. Montgomery will be applauded for her bravery and her athletic prowess in the coming months and years and any discussion of competitive advantage from a numbness in her lower limbs will quickly fade away.

The Worst Cadillac Commercial - n'est ce pas?

As we gathered around our television sets and tablets to witness and applaud great achievements by athletes from around the globe, there was an alarmingly discordant note that repeatedly intruded.

At a moment when our country is almost universally viewed in a troubling light, the Cadillac commercial which aired far too often merely magnified the portrait of the ugly American.

The scene opens into a world of conspicuous consumption. We are led on a journey laced with images and words dripping with contempt and sarcasm for others.  We, so we are informed, are worthy of unfettered praise, while "they" deserve merely scorn.

While we struggle to ready our youth for the challenges of tomorrow and appear ill prepared educationally in contrast to many other nations,  we hear boasts of our capabilities, and ours alone, for wondrous achievement.

It may be considered an act of marketing genius, targeted to a very specific audience who fully embrace this jingoism. And what better moment than the Olympic stage with all of its attendant national fervor?

But the message it sends is antithetical to the very heart and soul of these games. The Olympics is, above all else, a moment of community not isolation, of inclusion not exclusion, of understanding not ugly stereotypes.

For its total lack of care or consideration of anything other than trying to improve its bottom line, I would award the gold medal for most reprehensible commercial during the 2014 Olympics to Cadillac. N'est ce pas?

The Olympics and the Whip

The Bay City Bombers. Joan Weston. The whip.  Being hurled by a teammate into and somehow past the massive blockade of skaters positioned between you and glory. Emerging ahead of all others with hands on hips, having navigated the mayhem, leaped over, around and through and coming out the other side, triumphant. A fistful of points in your pocket and a declaration that the madness is over, at least until the next whistle.

Boarder and ski cross remind me of those roller derby moments of my viewing youth. Only now the game is not scripted. This is wild, wacky and wonderful as each race brings the possibility of imminent doom to the doorstep. My heart used to ache for Lindsey Jacobellis until I realized there is someone finding similar tragedy in virtually each frantic surge towards the finish line. Bodies strewn everywhere, participants running far behind the fray only to somehow find themselves at the end of the journey with arms raised as much in disbelief as in domination. Victory and defeat appearing much more random than preordained.

And that last enormous jump where those straining to move up in the pack will their entire being, body and soul, through the air, then fall ingloriously back to earth. Nothing to show for that one final exhausting and exhilarating attempt to capture greatness but 150 feet of flailing arms and a boxful of shattered dreams.

In one heat all but one participant crashed within inches of the finish line.  Each of those on the ground almost crawling to garner a spot in the next round, the videotape announcing which limb or tip of the equipment had been thrust ahead of the others. You couldn't make this stuff up.

I suspect short track skating is intended to be the polished up embodiment of the Bay City experience, but the energy on the ice cannot match the rolling, flying insanity on the snow. With blades on it seems more calculating, sometimes moving at a snail's pace until strategy dictates action. In the "cross" competitions it is never quiet or composed.

Although there is much of significant interest in the Olympics, and some parts I just don't get (sorry curling, I know you take far too much abuse) there is only one sport that has captured my full attention.

Maybe in 2018 we can do this as a team endeavor. I can't wait to see the whip.

The Bode Miller Interview

Where does the blame lay? With Christin Cooper for pushing beyond what decency dictated? Or with NBC, which made the very calculated and unfortunate decision to linger at the scene when it had the time and opportunity to edit and leave the most vulnerable moments on the cutting room floor?

Bode Miller's emotional wounds were exposed and exploited for the benefit of reporter and network. Yet in the hours that have passed, Miller has been remarkably forgiving, treating these trespasses as though they were unintended and not worthy of his, or our, disdain and contempt.

For Miller, who has had a long, compelling and complicated career, his response to the poking and prodding might be his finest moment. For Cooper and NBC, it was anything but.

Me and My ATM

Sometimes I scare myself.

I called my son in an absolute panic. "Richie, I think I may have screwed something up." Having been subjected to this announcement in various forms on countless occasions, I knew it was hard for my oldest child to control his frustration.  Any rational being, no matter how compassionate, must be left with one overwhelming thought: "This guy is an absolute idiot."

Less than an hour before, I had been euphoric. I had entered a mystical, wondrous land, and emerged triumphant. I (and I warn those under age to turn away) utilized an ATM without assistance. 

I understand that for anyone over the age of three, this would be of no moment. But not me. It was too confusing, having to put the card in the machine with that silver thing in the right direction, push buttons, remember numbers, read instructions. It was all a maze I could not navigate.

But this was Saturday afternoon, my mom's caretakers had run out of cash, my own supply had dwindled precipitously low, and worst of all, I was alone in my car. "Courage" I repeated as I headed towards imminent danger.

I slipped the card into the slot, expecting there would be immediate rejection. But it must not have recognized me, and it moved on.

"Yes, I do want to proceed in English." This was going swimmingly.

Then everything seemed to get a little confusing. It asked if I wanted a receipt. How could that possibly be, since I hadn't even received anything yet.  As soon as I said "no", I regretted my decision.

Yet, onward we traveled, now seeming like two friends conversing easily. I remembered my pin number, only slightly concerned that someone was taking this information down from some remote locale. 

The questions increased in difficulty.  How much did I wish to remove from the bank's coffers? My answer moved unnaturally on the screen from right to left. My finger seemed to stick on one number, repeating it in error. I erased my directive and began again.

And then, without warning, the money appeared. I was even congratulated on a successful transaction. It was an emotional moment between two who had clearly bonded.

Off I drove, ready to reveal my triumph to the world. Only minutes later, as I was visiting my mom did I consider the possibility that I had not "logged out" or done whatever had to be done to erase everything about me from public exposure. It is how I feel each time I leave a station where I am forced to pump my own gas and expect the next six people in line to be charging their purchases on my credit card.

I gave my mother a hurried kiss good bye and rushed back to the scene of the crime (or at least, potential crime). I was praying no one had been to this spot in the intervening minutes so I could rectify my mistake. But, seconds before my arrival, some woman WALKED up to the machine and began the process of extraction. Various options flashed before me. I decided I could not run her down, or even scare her off.  I imagined the headline in the next day's paper.  

I was too late.

I tried to detect any sign of wrongdoing by the lady as she finished her transaction and strolled past my car. There was nothing easily discovered in her gait or her manner. She was very clever.

I pulled up to my former ally. Whatever connection I had felt earlier had clearly been misplaced. Despite my pleading eyes begging for information, I was greeted with stony silence. Righting my wrong was now an impossibility. I fumbled for my wallet, grimaced as if I had forgotten something important, and drove away, despondent.

"No, I didn't get a receipt. No the home screen did not appear before I wandered off." My son spent the next several minutes talking me down off the ledge,  gently assuring me this did not mean the entire universe was now at work depleting every account that had ever been in my name and extracting the silver from my fillings.

In the end, victory became something far less. While I may not have caused the calamity I imagined, it  was not because of anything I did of my own volition. I understand it is just a matter of time.

Sometimes I scare myself.