Jim Dandy to the Rescue

"My advice to you is not to inquire why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it's on your plate." -Thornton Wilder

There are few greater joys in childhood than when your parents announce the family will be going out for ice cream that night. Immediately, visions of combinations of flavors and toppings flood your head like sugarplums on a sleepy Christmas Eve. Oh, the wondrous, endless possibilities. You dream of multiple scoops with multiple sauces, topped with whipped cream and a cherry. You even venture to imagine what it would be like to order and consume the Stanley Cup of ice cream sundaes: The Jim Dandy.

Five scoops of ice cream, marshmallow, strawberry, and chocolate topping, walnuts, bananas, sprinkles and whipped cream served in a massive goblet. A confectionery paradise that my siblings and I would clamor for any time my dad would agree to take us to Friendly's. We'd pile in the back of the car - four of us crammed in, dreaming of Jim Dandy's frozen goodness, vocalizing our wishes.

 Until...

"YOU"RE NOT GETTIN' A F*CKING JIM DANDY."

My dad had the ability to go from zero to maniac in less than six seconds. More like three. That's how little time it took him to crush our chilled dreams and dash our ice cream spirits.

"IT'S TOO MUCH. YOU'LL NEVER FINISH IT."

Ok... but do you have to yell like a madman? Ice cream was YOUR idea, crazy person. Excuse us for getting excited. Of course, we'd never say these things out loud, out of fear of a solid smack from Mr. Not-so-Softee. We'd end up getting a scoop or two. Maybe one topping. Two max. While DAD got a Jim Dandy. The hypocrite.

This little passion play took place so frequently that it has become part of my dad's legend. So for the first time, My Director and I decided to perpetuate that legend, and took Peanut for a Jim Dandy on Saturday.

She approves of this obnoxious concoction.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Stop on Pop

"Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever be the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees." -Victor Hugo

THIS is gambling. (And creepy.)

Gambling isn't my thing. While I do enjoy fantasy football, filling out my NCAA tournament brackets, and the very occasional trip to the blackjack table, I'm no gambler. That is, at least some skill on my part needs to be involved for me to lay my own money on the line. I don't do slot machines, play the lottery, or amble up to those spinning wheels at the boardwalk or amusement park. Even if I'm going to lose a dollar, or a quarter, I want to do so knowing that my knowledge or ability had something to do with it. So I don't gamble, generally.

Except...

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The Sweet Smell of Success

"Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived." -Helen Keller

Not only is Peanut NOT happy to see me when I come home from a run, she cowers with fear at my mere presence. It used to be, I'd walk through the door and ask loudly, "Who wants sweaty kisses?" And Peanut, as I'd hoped, would respond with horror. It came to a point where all I had to say was,"Sweaties!?" And she would shriek with dread. Now she's been pre-conditioned, Pavlov-style, to wail and frantically stomp her legs on the couch the moment I've turned the doorknob. I never do kiss her. Nor do I have the intention. But I wouldn't be doing my job as a dad if I were not torturing her at every opportunity.

Me hugging Peanut after a 5K race, circa 2009.
She was horrified.

I'm sure it's not just the soggy, uncomfortable, tactile sensation of wet, sweaty skin on smooth, dry skin that Peanut wants to avoid at all costs. It's also the smell. Let's face it, I can work up quite a stink after logging a few miles with the old sneakers. And Peanut's told me so. "Daddy," she says. "You can't kiss me until you shower." Fair enough. But the threat of the sweaty kiss will always loom until the day I die.

Sometimes I catch a whiff of myself and can't believe it's even possible that a man who showers twice daily, manscapes regularly, and grooms and conditions properly could produce such a stench. Not so much a stench, but a musk. An odor. A lingering scent that must be wiped out with fresh water and Dove body wash as soon as I've inhaled some fluids and a banana.

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One Piece of Advice for Graduates

"I used to be young and cocky like these kids. Now I'm old and cocky." -Me, to My Director, as a group of graduates stood at the front of church one Sunday for a special blessing.


I have some words of wisdom to impart to the class of 2013. Because despite my receding hair line and expanding home equity line, it wasn't too long ago that I graduated from high school. Alright, so it was 1993. Two years before most of this year's graduates were even born. You happy now? I'm old. There. I said it. And I drive a minivan. Can we move on to the advice?

There is a line I write in every high-school graduation card that My Director hands me with the assignment of "be inspiring." Here it is: "Don't do anything you can't tell your mom."

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Tough Egg to Crack

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be." -The Beatles

Peanut is indeed her father's daughter. Sometimes, like in the case of her cartoonishly large feet, it's to her detriment. Often times, however, it is to mine. Ya see, you can't hide a personality flaw in a pair of snazzy shoes. One of the biggest challenges I have faced and continue to face as a parent is raising a child who is just like me in so many ways. For even I have no idea why I do some most of the things I do. How am I expected to know how to react when my daughter does the same thing?

While Peanut has inherited many of my positive attributes: humor, intelligence, good looks (ok her mom has a lot to do with those), she's unfortunately also picked up my most negative one. No, not narcissism. But thanks for your concern. Peanut and I both have the ability to affect the mood of a room - of a house - all by ourselves. If one of us is in a bad mood, everyone knows and feels it. The worst part: there is no getting us out of it and very little if anything we can do about it. How charming.

Ouch.

Her most recent mood swing took place when we were dying Easter eggs at my mom's house on Saturday night. Peanut was having a great time with her cousins and her Mema, creating works of art on this rare medium. My nephew was playing some festive music. Syracuse had just clinched a spot in the Final Four. All was right with the world. Then the mood dramatically came crashing down with one act of clumsiness. Peanut was meticulously placing stickers on a purple-speckled egg she had patiently waited to dry after coloring. Instead of completing this oblong and delicious masterpiece, she dropped it. The sounds of holiday merriment were unceremoniously interrupted by the crackling thud of hard-boiled shell on ceramic tile.

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For Goodness Sake

Let peace begin with me. 

Let this be the moment now. 

With every breath I take 

Let this be my solemn vow.

I didn't give up anything for Lent this year. Growing up Catholic, I've participated in this annual rite with equal parts enthusiasm and dread since I can remember. Recently, I gave up Facebook for two straight years. (I'm on it a lot.) Two years ago I gave up chocolate. Last year it was swearing. (Success was relative.) I would approach this as an annual test of my resilience and willpower. Like most people I know, I never had a problem sharing what I was sacrificing with anyone who didn't ask. And that's why I hesitated this year.

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An Instrument of Peace

A statue sits in one of our flower gardens in the backyard. It's a small statue. Once the garden is in full bloom, you have to look for it to see it. But it's there. I know it's always there. I can see it no matter what. It's there for a reason.

During our backyard Halloween party last fall, I thought about picking it up and putting it in a safe place. But I didn't. I figured, who runs through a garden that's in the corner of the yard, away from all of the activities? And wouldn't you know it, a boy ran where he wasn't supposed to run. He broke the statue. I then proceeded to take that boy on a guilt trip that would have made my mom proud.

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Holding Out For a Hero

"Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods? Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds?" -Bonnie Tyler

Now that Super Bowl XLVII is over, we are finished with the Ray Lewis farewell tour as well. Lewis is the linebacker for the Baltimore Ravens, arguably the best at his position ever to play the game. He has received a lot of fanfare since announcing that this season would be his last. There has been no shortage of bouquets thrown his way, including a victory lap around the stadium at his final home game last month. A victory lap that was replayed ad nauseam the next day. Lost in the celebration of a football career in our sports-crazed society, many forget or choose to forget that Lewis was accused of murder not too long ago.

Lewis pleaded guilty to a lesser charge and avoided jail time. He paid an undisclosed settlement to the victims' families, but the murder for which he was charged was never solved. His "image" has undergone such a meteoric rehabilitation that he now endorses several products and will serve as a football analyst on ESPN upon retirement. Lewis even cited that it's, "time to be a daddy" to his children - six of them with four different women - as his reason for retiring. Excuse me for not being overjoyed with his newfound commitment to fatherhood. No one is arguing that Lewis is an outstanding football player. As a football fan, a dad, and a human being I just have a hard time with the celebrating and hero worship.

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The Richest Man in Town

"Remember: No man is a failure who has friends." -It's a Wonderful Life

I never thought it would be us sitting in that front row. Sure, it was always in the back of my mind. Certainly I could imagine losing a close family member. But I really never thought it would be us sitting in that front row at the funeral parlor, receiving condolences for our loss. At least not yet. Until it was us.

The man loved Christmas.
This is from 1992.

My dad died of a heart attack ten years ago today. He was 59. It was sudden and painful for all of us individually and as a whole. Sometimes I still can't believe it happened. Sometimes I miss him so much the ache runs through my entire body, up my spine, and settles in my heart. Sometimes if I think hard enough I can still feel his strong embrace, I can still smell his unmistakable musk, I can still hear his voice calling my name. This is not an easy day for me. For us. Those days immediately after he died, and eventually those weeks and the better part of that whole year, were somewhat of a blur and, as you might imagine, a nightmare. Sometimes it still is. Especially today.

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The Boys of Summer

The Yankees were playing the Mets earlier this season. Unlike most fans of either team, I do not enjoy the annual "Subway Series." Why? Because it's a no-win situation for the Yankees. What I mean is, when they do win, it's no big deal because that's what's expected. When they don't, it IS a big deal because they're expected to win. (Cry me a river, I know. I'm currently accepting donations to my new charity, Spoiled Yankees Fans Non-Anonymous.)

The third game of the Yankee Stadium half of the series entered the bottom of the ninth inning tied. The Yankees had already won the first two games. I rarely if ever watch an entire Yankees game. (Who has the time or the patience?) But I made an exception for this one.

Peanut, her love of the game or lack thereof already well documented, was getting antsy. She kept asking to watch - what else - Doc McStuffins. I told her she could after the game. My Director deemed this an equitable solution. Soon thereafter, Russell Martin hit a home run to win the game for the Yankees, sending the Stadium into euphoria and Peanut into McStuffinsville:

Touch 'em all, Russell. (photo from here.)

In my excitement, I proclaimed to Peanut:

"That's why we root for the Yankees. Because they're the best."

I admit, that was arrogant. But don't worry, My Director quickly cut me down to size:

"Then why do we root for the Jets?"

I had no answer. This is why, despite what you might infer from how I acted in the brief story I told above, I am not your typical arrogant Yankees fan. Since I am also a hard-luck, broken-hearted, never-say-die Jets fan, I know I am blessed with my baseball allegiance. This is also probably why I have shared so many Yankees stories over the years. (That and their connection with my dad.)

Please take some time to catch up on some DKL you may have missed. I have been doing this on summer Mondays, telling a new story and then following it with a list of links to previous posts about that topic. This week's subject, you may have guessed, is baseball. Enjoy:

As I mentioned above, we thought Peanut's newfound baseball ability would translate into a love of the game. It didn't, as I recently explained in The Peanut Gallery: Play Ball"

When Mariano Rivera went down with a season-ending injury earlier this year, I was very upset. I thought it meant his career was over and I'd lost one more connection to my dad. But then I learned that Legends Never Die.

My dad's favorite player was Mickey Mantle. And for that reason, his name and number are a part of Baseball Immortality in my house.

One of my favorite Yankee Stadium memories is of one non-Yankee's performance. It's Why I Root For Josh Hamilton.

While my dad loved Mantle, he HATED Bernie Williams. It was so irrational it was funny. I made sure it didn't come up when I had a Brush with a Legend

I made sure Peanut was witness to history when Derek Jeter reached 3,000 career hits. She was not impressed or amused with his Puttin' on the Hits

I crossed off an item from my bucket list when I got to watch the Yankees win the World Series in person. My Director helped make this Once in a Lifetime experience happen.

One of my favorite memories of baby Peanut is taking her to her first and only game in the old Yankee Stadium, before they tore it down. It was very hot that day so I called it "I'll Stop the World and Melt with You."

Previous subjects of my summer retrospective series: My Director, Christmas, our trip to Disney, the swagger wagon, and favorite songs.

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Legends Never Die

"I'm coming back. Write it down in big letters. I'm not going out like this," - Mariano Rivera 


Before I heard the words above, I spent my day in stunned disbelief. I was nauseous. There was a perpetual pit in my stomach. It wasn't because someone in Peanut's class has lice and now I'd had that always-itchy feeling. It wasn't that I'm running a half-marathon in less than 48 hours. No. It was because I couldn't get the images of Mariano Rivera crumbling to the ground on the warning track in Kansas City last night out of my mind:

Image from here

Image from here

I know it's only sports. But one of the few reasons I watch anymore is a connection to my dad. When I watch baseball or football, I remember sitting in our family room rooting for the Yankees or Jets with him. That's probably why I take it more seriously than it deserves. Not because he did, but because it's still a way to keep him alive. I can watch a game sometimes and get lost in the memories of him without anyone else in the room even knowing I've gone somewhere else.

There are certain things about my dad that are permanently etched into my memory. Among them: His musk of sweat, coffee, and cigarettes. The sound of his slippers shuffling across the kitchen tile as I laid in bed at night. His shouting, "Gotta go to Mo!" and then loudly clapping his hands once every time Mariano Rivera entered a game for the Yankees. That last one was even more prominent in my mind today, as it appeared Rivera, the greatest relief pitcher in the history of baseball, had suffered a career-ending injury while shagging fly balls in the outfield during batting practice yesterday.

Turns out, Rivera vows to pitch again at age 43. Turns out, heroes may grow older but legends never die. (That's from The Sandlot.) Rivera had hinted before this season that it would be his last. So it was easy for me to lament what I thought was an unceremonious end for a once-in-a-lifetime player. And as a Yankees fan who shared that bond with his dad, it broke my heart.

Make no mistake, my dad was a sports fan. He watched every game in any sport possible. But I never really saw him get excited. He was always a cynic, questioning whether sports were headed in the wrong direction because of ticket prices, salaries, and egos. So when he liked an athlete, I mean genuinely rooted for and admired a guy, it meant something.

He rooted for and admired Rivera. I remember choosing to watch most of the 1998 World Series with him in our family room instead of out with friends. (Before that, the only Yankees championship I remember was in 1996 and I was in college at the time.) The eighth inning would end and he'd shout, "Gotta go to Mo!" To this day, I say that myself every time Rivera comes into a game. A lot of people do, I know. But I say it because of my dad. I never really heard him talk glowingly about an athlete the way he talked about Mariano Rivera. (Except for Mickey Mantle, of course.)

Image from here

I do and say so much because of my dad. He continues to be my dad, my parent, more than nine years after his death. And every time a piece of our history fades away I feel a piece of him fades away with it: the destruction of the real Yankee Stadium and of the old Giants Stadium, the passing of players he enjoyed, the inevitable moves out of homes he once knew and into ones he never will. I lose a little piece of him every time.

Seeing a hero I shared with my dad crumble and possibly fade away made me sad. But knowing Rivera will be back, and knowing him I assume he'll be back at full strength, makes me very happy. It keeps that bond, that memory, alive. I've never taken for granted that I am witnessing greatness every time I watch Rivera take the mound, whether on television or in person. That I am blessed to be alive to see someone who is the very best ever at what they do. The same greatness my dad recognized and admired. Now I get to see it for one more season.

Legends never die. Not that easily, at least. Ya gotta go to Mo.

Speaking of legends, if you want to read the post about my dad's admiration of Mickey Mantle, click here. 

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Baseball Immortality

"Heroes get remembered. But legends never die." -from The Sandlot

It was an ordinary Sunday morning. I stumbled downstairs after sleeping in, as college students are known to do, especially in the summer. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table doing the crossword puzzle, as was his Sunday morning ritual. I struggled to spit out a mumbled "Morning, dad," with as much effort as it took to walk downstairs. He turned his head and looked up at me. The moment I saw the look on his face, I stopped. Now I was awake. In that instant I could tell something was wrong. My first clue was that for as long as I've known him this man has never taken his eyes off the crossword until he was done. The second was the look of sadness on his face.

Then he broke the news to me. "Mickey Mantle died," he said with a gravelly half-whisper and a furrowed brow, choking back an emotion that was obviously foreign to a man who is made of granite. That's all he needed to say. It was August 13, 1995.

courtesy: sportsillustrated.cnn.com

I was 20 years old and I knew. I knew Mantle was his hero growing up. The Yankee he idolized and went to see at the original Yankee Stadium. He'd regale me with stories of sneaking into the bleachers with his friends or taking my mom to games. Or the few times the Yanks played at Roosevelt Field in Jersey City, my parents' hometown. My dad loved to describe how the monuments to former Yankees greats were in the field of play in center field in the old Stadium. And how sometimes when the ball was hit far enough it would bounce among them, among the tributes to Ruth and Gehrig. And in all of his stories about all of those games, Mantle did something memorable. Something remarkable. A goliath home run to win the game. A stolen base with blazing speed. A circus catch that saved a run.

"He was the greatest player I've ever seen," my dad would tell me. "Would have been the greatest ever to play the game if he never got hurt." A big "if." There was, of course, all of the drinking too.

Still, seeing my dad's reaction gave me a deeper connection to The Mick. One I barely had. I was sad when the tales of his drinking and his need of a liver transplant came out. Sad that people were making fun of him, because I knew my dad adored him. Still, I admired Mantle for facing his demons, albeit too late.

A few years ago, in the concourse of the brand new Yankee Stadium, I was shopping in the clubhouse store. I wanted a new team shirt with a player's name on the back. Problem is, I'm sort of a jinx. Anytime I buy a jersey with the name of my new favorite Jet or Yankee, something bad happens to him: Chad Pennington blows out his shoulder, Brett Favre crashes and burns, not to mention Joba Chamberlain's string of injuries that are so unfortunate and bizarre you'd think I had a voodoo doll. (The latest being a compound fracture of his ankle from jumping on a trampoline.)

Despite my obvious curse, I was thinking about purchasing a shirt with the name and number of backup catcher Francisco Cervelli. He was on a bit of a hot streak at the time and had quickly become a bit of a fan favorite. Plus, he's Italian. Like from Italy Italian. "Should I get Cervelli?" I asked my friend. "I don't think you should do that to the kid," he deadpanned. "His career just started." He was right. Cervilli was so young with so much ahead of him. "I could get a Mantle one. There's no cursing him. The guy's dead."

I went back and forth in my head for a few minutes, carrying both shirts until my friend finally gave me a dose of reality. "I'm going to pretend you're not really deciding between Cervelli and Mantle. Because that's ridiculous."


He was right. It's Mickey freaking Mantle versus a backup catcher who may not last four seasons in the  majors. Moments later I was forking over my Visa and paying way too much money for a T-shirt just because it had a Yankees insignia on the front and a legendary name on the back. A name my dad cheered and revered. 

My dad's hero is a legend. An immortal. When I'm walking around during the summer with his hero's name and number 7 on my back, I'm immortalizing both of them. I think my dad would like that. 

I have many more great Yankees stories to share:

My favorite memory with my dad involves the Yankees (and a player he absolutely hated.)

Peanut's less-than-enthusiastic response to Derek Jeter's 3,000th hit.

How I jumped at the once-in-a-lifetime chance to see them win the World Series in person.

And I'll never forget Peanut's first Yankees game.

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The Man of the Hour

Remember a few years ago when "25 Things About Me" was a huge thing on Facebook? Everyone posted their lists, then tagged 25 people, and you got to learn a lot of new, fun and interesting facts about each other. I was very into it. I read everyone's. Found it fascinating. I eventually did mine, and even did one for Luna. (Maybe I'll post that one some day. It's pretty funny.) I also did one for my dad, and sent it to some family members on his birthday. Recently, one of those relatives said he couldn't find it here on the blog. That's because I never published it. Until now... 

1. Today - 3/18/12 - would have been his 69th birthday.

2. He always wanted pineapple upside down cake for his birthday.

3. Not your average everyday guy, my father was not a drinker and did not enjoy steak.

4. In fact, he did not by any means approve of drinking, regardless of whether you were of age.

5. Without fail, every time you asked him to pass the salt he always said, "it doesn't need salt." Yet, the man loved potato chips.

6. His irrational disdain for random things/people bordered on insanity. But it was amusing nonetheless. Hazelnut coffee, gum chewing, and former Yankees centerfielder Bernie Williams immediately come to mind.

7. He was saying the phrase "What the F*ck" way before it was cool.

8. I only saw him choke up - not cry - twice: when we walked into my Grandma Sylvia's wake, and when I read what I wrote to him at our rehearsal dinner.

9. Anyone he didn't like, knew it. He was incapable of hiding his feelings. (Sound familiar?)

10. He was a master at Trivial Pursuit. He always teamed up with my mom. They formed a deadly combination. To keep her interested, he made sure to land on a pink question (Arts & Entertainment) at least once a turn. His reason? "Mommy likes pink."

11. His middle name was Richard. Because of the preponderance of men named "Dominic" in his family (due to an antiquated Italian tradition of naming the first son after the paternal grandfather), his family called him "Dick." He, not irrationally, hated this name. I don't think anyone outside of my immediate family knows this.

12. Sometimes when we were fighting, I would pejoratively refer to him as "Dick." This never ended well for me.

13. Despite popular opinion, he did not begin rooting for the Jets purely to make me happy. He stopped liking the Giants and started liking the Jets. For me. There is a faction of my family who deny this. They're mistaken. It's true. People change their minds and their allegiances.

14. Going to live sporting events was not by any means something he enjoyed doing. To him, watching at home in his chair was just fine. Still, he took me to at least one Jets game every year starting in 1985.

15. My favorite memory of him is a phone conversation. Right after the Yankees won the World Series in 1996 I called him - drunk - from college. This was my first experience of a Yankees championship. At the end of the conversation, I told him I loved him. I didn't do that too much before that phone call. I did it a lot more afterwards. My friends who were there followed suit and called their dads.

16. He was surprisingly fleet of foot for a big guy.

17. He had the talent and opportunity to play Division I college football. He chose love and marriage.

18. He was an amateur magician, singer, and songwriter. Very amateur.

19. The man could drink cold, two-day-old coffee that had been sitting in his truck without flinching or thinking twice about it.

20. Coffee from 7-11 was his favorite. Wawa was #2.

21. He also ate anything that was in the refrigerator, no matter how long it was in there, as long as it did not have fuzz on it.

22. His legacy lives on through parents who tell their children at dinnertime, "You don't have to like it, you have to eat it." Pure genius. At the time, though, I did not find it remotely amusing.

23. We never made it to 12 o'clock mass before 11:58 because he insisted on finishing the Sunday crossword before getting ready. He always finished. The problem was how late he always started it: never before 10:30.

24. He was meticulous about his rock garden, about his kitchen tile, about hanging wallpaper.

25. After years of hard work, he finally had a comfortable pair of shoes when I bought him Merrills for Christmas. We buried him in them.

Miss you and love you, dad. Happy birthday.

"The man of the hour is taking his final bow. As the curtain comes down I feel that this is just goodbye for now" -Pearl Jam

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Where It All Began

"Wherever you go, go with all your heart." ~Confucius

Turns out, you can go home again. And in doing so, you can introduce your child to a part of her past that she was too young to remember. All through the magic of Groupon. Well, we didn’t exactly need Groupon to take Peanut back to the town where we lived for the first 15 months of her life. (And for nine years of our relationship.) But it did give us a good excuse when an offer for our favorite restaurant in Hoboken popped up in my inbox. So I pounced.

That Groupon, however, sat printed in my mail bin for months, and was about to expire. So I came up with the idea to take the Peanut there one weekend. Retrace some of her roots. And some of ours.

As we talked about it one night at dinner My Director asked Peanut if she knew what Hoboken was. "That's where I got born," she said. (Technically, she was born at a hospital in NYC, but close enough.)

This restaurant is nothing fancy. It serves mostly bar food on its lunch menu. It turns into a more sophisticated yet still low-key Italian place for dinner. We fell in love with the atmosphere, though. It was laid back, and served good food. A place where we could get drunk, feed a hangover, or celebrate with a nice meal. A lot of our family history has played out in this restaurant. The night we got engaged, Peanut’s Baptism, dinners with our parents. We always seemed to end up there.

This was also the place we were partying with friends when we received that horrible phone call about my dad. But all of the memories are fond ones, for even on that night we were celebrating something: a rare Jets playoff victory. On this day more than nine years later, we shared the fried calamari like we always used to. Peanut had a pizza:

A Sinatra song began to play. Then another. Summer Wind, followed by Moon River. Peanut said, “It sounds like you singing, daddy.” She’s too kind, but that’s a compliment I’ll take. Then I told her that Sinatra is my dad's favorite. All of those memories of this place coming full circle in one tiny observation by my four year-old.

After lunch, we drove around town to see what’s changed, and what hasn’t. There’s a perpetual line of people waiting outside of Carlo’s Bakery now, because the man who made Peanut’s Baptism cake is now more famously known as “The Cake Boss.” I think it’s kind of silly to wait an hour in the cold for a cannoli. There’s so much more to Hoboken that that.

Peanut's tiramisu cake from Carlo's

We made one last stop at the park. This is where we took her on her first walk, her first time out of the house. The same park where she rode a swing for the first time. The one right next to our old condo. Her first home.

March 2007: Her 1st walk (we're all very tired.)

2012: Same park (I'm wearing the same hat too)

It was cold, and we had to get Peanut to a haircut appointment. So we headed back to the swagger wagon, which I parallel parked expertly... twice. (I still got it.) As we drove away, we said goodbye to our old home. Again. "I like Hoboken," Peanut said. "I want to live here again." Then we reminded her that if we lived here, we wouldn't have a backyard. That changed her mind quickly. "Can we come back and visit then?"

We thought about it. And found the perfect occasion to return. (And maybe make a tradition out of it.) Next time we'll take Luna. She was born there too, after all. And we'll do it on Luna's birthday in June. (You can be sure there will be a blog post about it.)

Perfect. See? You can go home again. With or without a Groupon.

The last post I wrote before Peanut was born is an ode to our favorite Hoboken tradition, which was cancelled this year due to the persistent bad behavior of hooligans and amateurs. (Some great shots of us in this one, pre-parenthood.)

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The Worst Day of the Year

"He's not missing anything. We just miss him." -My Director, last night after I said I can't believe everything my dad's missing.

I wish this day could be a celebration-of-life day. But it's not. I wish I can mark this day by doing something he loved. But I don't. I wish my family can look back on this day and remember his life, not his death. But we can't.

This day sucks. Still. It's sad. Still. I just want to forget it. Still.

I opened the hallway closet the other day and squatted down to get Luna one of her special twirly rawhide treats that we keep in her little drawer in there. The Peanut followed me. I turned to look at her because I thought it was cute that she wanted to be part of this little ritual. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the inside of the door. And I saw my dad. His face. His eyes. His hairline. His smile. Him.

And knowing this day was coming, I started to miss him again. For the sake of the Peanut I didn't allow my sudden grief to consume me. But it hovered, like an ominous cloud.

Today, that cloud pounded me with buckets full of rain.

It's been nine years now. Nine years since we lost him. Nine years since our lives, our foundation, were rocked. Sometimes it seems like 90 years. Sometimes it seems like yesterday.

I miss him helping me, and aggravating me while doing it

I miss him. I miss his voice, his hugs. I miss his irrational hatred for hazelnut coffee, It's a Wonderful Life, and Bernie Williams. I miss talking football and baseball with him. I miss talking about life with him. I miss busting his chops for getting a manicure before our wedding. I miss challenging him to Trivial Pursuit, and losing.

I know if you read this blog regularly you expect me to find the hidden meaning. To end on a high note. To accentuate the positive. But I'm sorry. Not today. I just can't do it. 

This day sucks. It reminds me of our worst nightmare. A nightmare from which we never awoke.

So I'm sorry if I'm incapable of being upbeat today. I'm sorry if my sarcasm doesn't come with a friendly smirk today. I'm sorry if I don't want to laugh at your joke today.

I just want it to be tomorrow. I'll still miss him. But at least it won't be today.

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So This is Christmas

A week after my daughter was born, I wrote her a letter. I used a word to represent each letter of the alphabet. Each word is an action I hope she chooses to take during her life. Here's what I wrote for the letter "O:"

Observe. Observe traditions, like eating seven fish on Christmas Eve... traditions are a huge part of who you are, and where you came from. Learn them. Appreciate them. Make them your own. Maintain them, while making changes to fit the times. That will make passing them on even more special.

I wrote that more than four years ago. It's still true. It's come true. And will always be true.

Christmas Eve is the holiday for many Italian-Americans. More important than Christmas. It goes back to the old country. And my family is no exception. Our tradition, what makes this event so special, is the seven fishes (yes... it's fishes. This is one of the few instances where I will allow a grammatical mistake.)

We eat seven fish on Christmas Eve. But to tell you the truth, we don't really know exactly why. We're funny that way. Some say it represents the seven Sacraments of the Catholic Church. Some say it's the seven deadly sins. Others argue the seven days it took Mary and Joseph to get to Bethlehem. Then there's the seven hills of Rome theory, and the seven winds of Italy one.

I like to think of the Biblical significance of the number seven: three for the divinity plus four representing earth. Seven is the perfect number, representing Christ on Earth. I'm not super religious, but this is the explanation I prefer.

Regardless, on Christmas Eve, we eat.

My parents made Christmas

My parents made sure Christmas Eve was always special. The fish and the gifts and the memories. Ah, the memories... not all of them fond. You see, we're no Norman Rockwell family. We have our warts just like everyone else. There was the year my niece screamed bloody murder because we had skipped a part in the Nativity play she was producing (I was Joseph and my performance was spot on.) There was the year one of my sisters nearly choked to death on a fish bone, requiring the Heimlich Maneuver (the downside of eating nothing but fish). There was the year my dad got irrationally angry and threw a fit because there was only hazelnut coffee made. (that's genetic.... hazelnut makes me mad too.)

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Kicked by a Donkey

"Sometimes the most real things in the world are the things we can't see." - from The Polar Express

How many times have you almost made an ass of yourself in front of a group of strangers during the holiday season? (Emphasis on the word ass. Explanation to follow.)  I came very close last weekend.

You never know when emotion will grab hold of you and not let go. At least, I never do. I almost lost it during what was an otherwise wonderful Christmas memory, perhaps our favorite event of the season and possibly the start of a new annual tradition. We took the Peanut on a train ride last weekend complete with Santa and Mrs. Claus, a sing-along with a guy playing banjo, and cookies and hot chocolate.

Santa gave her a bell just
like in the movie

It was festive and adorable. Peanut absolutely loved it. She wore her pajamas even though the train left at 3:30 in the afternoon because she wanted it to be like The Polar Express. She told Santa what she wanted for Christmas. (A Rapunzel baby doll that My Director manipulatively planted in her mind earlier that day because it's already purchased and hiding in the attic.)

So why was I nearly overcome with emotion, you ask, that I was ready to sob in front of a train car full of strangers, their children, and my in-laws? Were they tears of joy because we had made our child so happy and she was enjoying herself so much? No. It was because of that damn banjo player. How dare he? He had the nerve to play "Dominick the Donkey," that ridiculous song about the much-celebrated beast of burden that helps Santa deliver toys to the children who live in the "hills of Italy."

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A Brush with a Legend

"This field, this game: it's part of our past. It reminds us of all that was once good and could be again." -James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams

If you had the opportunity to meet one of your childhood heroes, you'd take it right? And when you did, you would tell him that your dad (gulp) hated him, right?

I think my dad would have gotten a kick out of my meeting former Yankees center fielder Bernie Williams. Even though, for no reason at all, he had the most irrational hatred for Bernie. Could not stand the man. He'd say things like, "He's the slowest fast guy I've ever seen." Whatever that means. And, "I just hate how he runs." Huh?

The man was a little crazy, and this is just one example.

Suffice it to say, even though I think my dad was being ridiculous and I found it amusing enough to goad him about it during Yankees games, I wasn't going to bring it up to Bernie.

Bernie Williams was appearing as a guest on my show. I watched him help the Yankees finally win a World Series in 1996, then three more in the next four years. As soon as I was told that he arrived, I waited for a long commercial break, unplugged my headset, and hightailed it out of the control room.

Working in the news business at a national network, I occasionally get to meet sports, entertainment, and political celebrities. I rarely go out of my way to meet them. But this time I made an exception.

I spotted our stage manager in the hallway, handed him my blackberry and said, "You mind taking a picture of me with Bernie?" He understood. I didn't even have to ask. I didn't even have to wait for an answer.

I burst into the green room (where the guests wait) and spotted Bernie sitting there, watching television. (Watching my show, which was still in commercial.) Here is a man behind so many great Yankees memories. So many great stories. I had no time to tell him any of them.

I shouted Bernie's name, almost startling him. I introduced myself and explained that I was actually producing the show on which he was about to appear. And would he mind taking a picture.

"Yeah, no problem." Bernie stood up and shook my hand. I was surprised at how tall he was, impressed at how in shape he still appeared, thankful he was friendly, and relieved he had a strong handshake.

Before the picture, I considered putting my arm around him. Then I thought if Bernie wanted a half-man hug with a complete stranger, he would have made the first move. So I just settled for a kind of awkward standing next to each other pose:

If I had the time, I would have loved to tell him about watching Game 6 of the 1996 World Series with a bunch of my fraternity buddies (Yankees fans only) at that crowded off-campus apartment. Bernie came up in the bottom of the sixth inning. The Yankees clinging to a 3-1 lead. We were on the verge of witnessing our first ever World Series title. Even though we were all alive for the Yankees last championship in 1978, none of us remembered. That's when I made my pledge.

"If Bernie hits a home run right now, I swear I will name my first born 'Bernardo Mannato.'" I didn't even have a girlfriend at the time. (I wonder why.) That's when everyone began to chant, "Bernardo Mannato, Bernardo Mannato, Bernardo Mannato" at the top of their lungs. For the entire at bat. Then, Bernie connected. He lofted a 1-1 pitch deep down the left field line. Everyone still chanting, "Bernardo Mannato, Bernardo Mannato, Bernardo Mannato." It had a chance. At the warning track. At the wall. The left fielder leaped and made the catch.

The Peanut has no idea, but she was a few inches away from being named Bernardo or Bernice or Bernadine. One day I hope she gets as big a kick out of that story as my fraternity buddies still do.

Bernie came up again in the eighth inning and I repeated my pledge. The chant started up again. On the fifth pitch, he singled up the middle.

The Yankees won that game, clinching that memorable World Series title. We were all drunk and happy and hugging and crying with each other. As soon as things settled down, I went outside and called my dad. I didn't plan it, I just felt it. At that point, my dad and I weren't as close as we would become. But I imagined him sitting there in his reclining chair, with his ashtray on his chest and an open bag of ShopRite Krinkle Cut potato chips on the floor next to him. My mom asleep on the couch. No one to enjoy this with.
That's exactly where he was when he picked up on the second ring. I heard his joy when the first thing he said was, "How 'bout them Yankees?!" This was my favorite conversation I ever had with my dad. We talked about the game. I told him how cool it was that they finally did it and I finally got to see it myself.

Then I told him I loved him. That's the first time I said that to him and actually meant it. I always felt it, but never really said it without having to, without my mom asking me or telling me to.

Just another great memory involving Bernie.

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Living Proof (on Father's Day)

"They are not gone who live in the hearts they left behind." - Native American Proverb


The other night I was on the phone with my eldest sister (I'm sure she'll appreciate that description). We were talking about being parents. I enjoy these discussions with her because I think she and my brother-in-law do an amazing job, are role models even. And even though my sister is eleven years older than I am (another fact she may have preferred I not share), the fact that we're both parents is something we have in common. Not to mention, her children are aged 12-19, giving me and my wife a sneak preview of what's possibly to come (it's a little frightening).

Anyway, we were talking and I made a reference to our parents... plural... and she corrected me. So I said, "I don't refer to Daddy in the past tense because he's still my father even though he's dead."

We never stop being parents. Even when they're grown up and out of the house. Even when we're gone. He'll always be my dad. I'll always be her dad.

And that's what I'd like to talk about this Father's Day. My dad has been gone for more than eight years, but he is still a big part of my life. He lives in my heart and in my mind and in my stories about him. He lives every time my daughter says his name, since every time she says his name it's like she is saying it for the first time. Every time she sees a picture of him and recognizes him and identifies him. Every time she asks about him. Magic.


Everything I do as a father I do because of what he did. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Directly or indirectly. He lives through me and my actions as a son and a husband. And as a dad.


He's the one who taught me the importance of a hard day's work. He's the one I told one hot summer afternoon as we were digging and toiling inside a gigantic hole in someone's backyard... a hole that would eventually become a swimming pool... that while I am certainly capable of working in the field with him, I'm more suited for the store. "Dad," I said honestly, "I don't like getting my hands dirty, literally."

He agreed... because he didn't want the same life for me. So I worked in the store from that day on until the day it closed. I developed invaluable communication skills that I still use professionally today. He lives every day when I'm at work.

He lives in me through the things I say to my daughter... because of the things he didn't say. Well, that's not quite fair... maybe he did say them and I don't remember. Maybe he wanted to say them and thought he had more time. Things like "I'm proud of you," "you're so smart," "you're so beautiful." I say these things when I feel them because I want my daughter to feel them and to know them. My dad was a father in a different time when men were not overly affectionate to their sons. Besides, when we were growing up his primary role was of enforcer. He was intimidating.

A daily reminder

When I try to be like that my daughter says things like, "I don't like your face, daddy" if, for instance, I'm looking at her sternly.

He lives in the frame on the bureau in our bedroom... in pictures of the two of us, one from a childhood vacation to Puerto Rico, one from outside the tuxedo shop the day before my wedding. He lives in a keepsake box next to that frame. A box where I store cufflinks, and the watches I don't wear anymore. One of those watches is his (See? No past tense).

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Solving for Why

Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton asked "why."  ~Bernard Baruch


With one little word... three little letters... the conversation I had anticipated, dreaded, feared was underway. And once that little word... those three little letters.. were spoken, they hung in the air like a thick fog.

And I was speechless. I felt powerless.

So many questions

"Why?"

How many times a day does she ask that question? Dozens. But never, had she asked this.

She finally wanted to know where Popsie is. My dad.

"Where is he?," she inquired when we brought up his name for the thousandth or so time. Has never happened before. We always talk about him. His name is part of the conversation pretty much every time we mention my family. Or my wife's family for that matter. We've made a point of it. Just last week we were looking at swing sets at an outdoor store and she thought it was just a really big park (Good thing because I don't think we're getting one), and at one point she asked me, "Daddy, did Popsie used to take you here when you were a boy?"

My dad at our wedding 12/7/02

And I told her yes.

This, however, was obviously different.

My wife answered her, "He's in heaven, honey."

And then... "Why?"

I ask myself that same question almost every day. Why? Why isn't he here? Why is he missing all of this? His youngest granddaughter. Our house... and everything I've needed him to fix. Why did this happen to us, so soon after our wedding? Why did it have to happen to him? He had just bought a bag of discount Christmas decorations at Target that day for crying out loud. Does that sound like a man who was ready to die?

Maybe that's why I didn't have the answer. Thankfully my wife was poised to respond. As always. She said pretty much the only thing you could say. "Because God wanted him in heaven."

Beauty & the Beast doesn't dance around death

And that was it... until minutes later when we reached the point in her Beatuty and the Beast book that she was "reading" to us, where the beast dies. (And I was worried bout Tangled).

My wife was surprised she had made the connection so soon after the conversation about my dad. Or did she? We never said he had died. We told her he was in heaven. That God wanted him. That he's her guardian angel. "Do you know what it means when someone dies," my wife cautiously pressed her. "That's what happens when bad guys hurt you," she said.

Freakin' movies.

She wasn't interested into getting philosophical. She wanted to move on and read books. So we dropped it. Until the next "why."

I might not ever have the answer, but at least we've started the conversation.

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