The TV Hierarchy

Laying on the couch with a severe case of Man Cold for past few days, I've watched a lot of television. Most of it classic, awesome movies like Die Hard With a Vengeance, Field of Dreams, and Midnight Run. There is no better way to sweat out a bad case of Man Cold than by channeling the testosterone and coolness of the likes of Bruce Willis, James Earl Jones, and Robert DeNiro.

Watching all of that television inspired me to unveil this list, the undisputed rankings of what takes precedence on the television in our house. It is the result of years of negotiations. Now despite its length and detail, you'd think we watch a lot of television. Fear not. We watch just enough. You will notice it is very top-heavy in my favor. That is because I am willing to sacrifice what's on the television for a majority of the year, just to have complete authority when it counts. So without further ado, here is what rules the tube in the DKL house:

1. Pro football: For the sermon at our wedding, the pastor asked me and My Director to write about why we love each other. Neither of us was allowed to know what the other wrote until we heard the sermon. One of the things I wrote was, "Because she understands Sundays are for football." The pastor made sure to interject that Sundays are for church too. Well played, padre. Entire weekends are planned around me getting to sit on the couch for six hours and watch nothing but football. Or the Jets, who occasionally resemble football.

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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 First Chapter

To mark Peanut's first day of Kindergarten today, I am taking you back in time. To the beginning. Not of her life, but of this blog. I started DKL with this post, two months before Peanut was born. Reading it again recently reminded that I feel the same excitement, hope, and angst now as the dad of a five year-old that I did then, as a dad anticipating her arrival. (There are also references to the annoying things people say when you're pregnant.) Enjoy this look back. I will be back with a brand  new featured post next Thursday.

TELL ME SOMETHING I DON'T KNOW

Here's the most annoying thing about being an expectant dad: it's not that my wife's mood swings more often than the door to the Yankees bullpen when Randy Johnson pitched. (Thank God he's gone.) It's not that every time she tries to get comfortable in bed, I get a knee in my back. It's not even that, like clockwork, she'll ask me for something the instant I sit down. And that something is usually in the place from where I just came. That's annoying, but not the most annoying.

No. THE most annoying thing about being an expectant dad is that everybody wants to tell you something you already know. Sometimes they're specific. Like the fathers who tell you that you're never going to sleep through the night again. "Get your sleep now," they say. As if I'm a bear that can just hibernate for months until my daughter arrives. And in doing so, I'll be magically well rested. What they don't realize is that by saying that, they are having the reverse effect. Since I'm so neurotic, one of the things that keeps me up nights is knowing I won't get enough sleep once the baby is here.

Christmas card 2006:
"What Child Is THIS?!"

They also want to tell you that you're never going to get to the gym again, thus becoming a fat slob with three chins and man boobs. That's a good thing to say to a guy who is so self-conscious that daily he asks his still-growing soulmate if he looks fat. Why am I friends with these people?

Other times, it's more general. Here's a good one: they like to tell you that "life as you know it is going to change forever." No kidding. You mean it's not like owning a hamster? I can't keep her in a cage and get her a little wheel to run on for those times when I'm tired of playing with her myself? Do these people have anything constructive to say? Seriously. What is wrong with people?

What is wrong with the women who find it helpful to share with my wife all of their horror stories from pregnancy and birth? Did more than the baby, and perhaps some of their cerebral cortex, come out during the birth as well? Even our moms, sisters, cousins, and aunts do this. Our own flesh and blood. Hello? Do you not remember what it was like when you were pregnant for the first time? All of the anxiety about the unknown?

Parents who have been through it already should be a source of comfort, not of aggravation, for expectant first-timers. Didn't your mom always tell you, "if you don't have something nice to say, don't say it at all?" Well that should go double for these moms and dads who want to share all of the gory details about afterbirth and late-night, weary-eyed feedings, and "make sure you ask for the epidural as soon as you get to the hospital." One of my favorites: "Breast feeding sucks. No, it literally sucks. Ha ha." No, you're literally not funny. You're a nightmare. Ha ha.

You know what would have been helpful? One of these know-it-alls coming over and helping me put the crib together. That would have been nice. I'm not the handiest guy in the world. I can drink a screwdriver better than I can use a screwdriver. Or maybe they could have shown me how to install the car seat. I swear to you there are some NASA scientists that couldn't figure that one out. And when I brought it to the police station for them to make sure I did it correctly, they just laughed at me.

What is this, initiation to some sort of fraternity? Well, let me tell you something, my friend, I've pledged already. It was more than a decade ago. I wore the diaper and I ate the raw onion. That was college, and it was funny. This is real life, and I'm not saying it's not funny, but a little help would be appreciated.

And they may be thinking they're sharing a nice sentiment, but if I hear someone say how much I'm going to love this child one more time, I'm going to flip. What am I, made of stone? If you cut me, do I not bleed? You're talking to a guy who was so upset when his wedding reception had ended, his new bride had to console him. That may have had something to do with all of those Sambuca shots, but that's neither here nor there. And while I'm baring my soul, I also cried the first time we left our dog somewhere when we went on vacation. How's that for love or attachment? I may present a tough exterior, but inside, Niagara Falls is just a good episode of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" away.

So don't tell me my life is going to change. I know that. We knew that when we decided to have a baby. It's going to change for the better, because this little girl is going to teach me things I would have never thought I could know. And please don't tell me how much I am going to love her, because I already do love her more than you can imagine, and she's not even here yet.

As Peanut starts her school career, I am also reminded of a letter I wrote for her right after she was born. You can read it here.

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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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Why I Root For Josh Hamilton

“The Lord won’t bring up things in the past you’ve asked forgiveness for because He has forgiven those, moved forward. But Satan will remind you of those” -Josh Hamilton


Every once in a while, not very often, you witness something that inspires you. And you come to witness this inspiring event somewhat serendipitously.

I was offered a free ticket to the Home Run Derby at Yankee Stadium. This was 2008, the last year of the "old" Stadium. Normally, I'm the kind of person who likes to go home after work, have a nice dinner,  relax on the couch, and let the magic of the DVR wash over me. I wouldn't even watch the Derby on the tube because it starts too late and takes too long. But this was different. This was the only time it would be held at Yankee Stadium. Ever. That's some pretty serious history.

The ceremonies before and even during the contest were once-in-a-lifetime experiences themselves. Reggie Jackson throwing the ceremonial first pitch to Derek Jeter. Even my brother-in-law, the most ardent Yankee hater I know, said he got chills watching it. This event was the beginning of the end of Yankee Stadium, the farewell party long before they pack up the boxes.

The Derby itself was pretty mundane at first. A few players showed flashes. Some floundered. Then, the last of the eight contestants stepped into the left hand batter's box. The same batter's box occupied over the years by such greats as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Bobby Murcer, Don Mattingly, and Paul O'Neill... each of them heroes to his generation of Yankees fans, and beyond.

2008 Derby from news-and-stars.blogspot.com

But this player, though, wasn't wearing that recognizable interlocking "NY" emblem on his cap. No pinstripes on his uniform. He is a member of the Texas Rangers, and now he is a legend in Stadium lore.

One by one, Josh Hamilton, a young outfielder whose promise was nearly derailed due to his battles with addiction, lofted majestic blasts into the Bronx night. Moon shots into the bleachers. Screamers into the box seats in right field. Bombs into the upper deck. A bullet that bounced off the mezzanine. At one point, he slugged 13 in a row. Thirteen straight swings resulted in balls that left the park. In fact, two of his home runs almost literally left the park, a feat only the great Mantle came close to accomplishing. I sat there unable to speak, unable to move. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. In all, the man swung 38 times, and 28 of them resulted in a home run. Awesome. Ridiculous. Impossible.

In a Yankee Stadium event devoid of Yankees, we were looking for a hero. Someone to embrace. And as Hamilton sent a screeching line drive the opposite way that dunked just short of the left field seats, ending his turn, the fans gave an ovation worthy of the performance. "HAM-IL-TON, HAM-IL-TON." Over and over, we chanted his name in appreciation of what he had just treated us to, and in recognition of what he has overcome to do it.

That July night in 2008, Josh Hamilton was given the same treatment reserved for Yankees legends. For fan favorites. This is New York. You have to do something special and memorable to impress the people here. Hamilton did it. He inspired me and almost 60,000 others. I'm glad he seized his moment and ran with it, for him. And I'm certainly glad I got off the couch, and was there to witness it.

2010 ALCS from nydailynews.com

I've rooted for Josh Hamilton ever since that night. He killed the Yankees in the 2010 American League Championship Series, an MVP performance that carried the Rangers to their first ever World Series. And for the first time I can remember, the irrational fan in me didn't hate the star player on the team that had beaten my team.
Today, I was sad when I heard the news of his relapse. I don't know much if anything about addiction. Nor do I pretend to understand the second-to-second struggles faced by those with addiction.

I'm just a fan of the guy. I'm not someone who idolizes athletes, especially since I know how so many of them behave off the field. But here's a guy who's admitted his mistakes, and is very publicly trying to fix them. For that, I salute him. I root for him. And wish him the best moving forward.

Good fortune, and the cooperation of My amazing Director, also brought me to Yankee Stadium on another historic night. Read about it here.

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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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Puttin' on the Hits

"I just didn't want to hit a slow roller to third base and have it be replayed forever." -Derek Jeter, on hitting a home run for his 3,000th hit.

It's not often you get to witness history. I was fortunate enough to be there two years ago when the Yankees won their 27th World Series. I happened to be in the right place at the right time when someone had a free ticket to offer. (Click here to read about it.)

If you can't be there (and with the cost of taking your family to a ballgame these days who can?), then watching it on television is the next best thing.

This is the situation I found myself in as Derek Jeter sat two hits shy of 3,000 for his career.

He stood on the precipice of baseball immortality (only 27 other players in history have ever reached 3,000 hits). And I realized one thing: The peanut was monopolizing the only television in the house while watching a movie. "Meet the Robinsons," in fact.

My wife and I were lounging by the pool at my parents' house. I had checked my blackberry and saw that Jeter had singled in his first at bat. So I told my wife, "We're going to have to interrupt her when Jeter comes up again. He's one hit away."

"Then you'd better start laying the groundwork now," she wisely answered.

I opened the sliding glass door and entered the family room with a pit of dread bubbling in my stomach. The same feeling I might get when I was a boy and I knew I had misbehaved and my father was sitting right there in his recliner.

Only this time, I was dreading a confrontation with my 4 year-old daughter.

"Sweetie, in a few minutes I'm going to pause the movie so we can watch the Yankees for a little bit."

"But I don't want toooo," she whined, almost on the verge of tears. A morning in the pool had taken a lot out of her.
"Not right now. In a few minutes. And it'll be real quick. Then you can watch your movie again."

"Noooooo," she offered feebly.

I went back outside, hit refresh on my blackberry, and saw the Yankees were due up again. And Jeter was hitting second that inning.

I gave it a minute, went inside, and ripped off the proverbial Band-Aid.

"I'm going to put the Yankees game on now, sweetie. I want you to watch too because something big might happen here."

She protested, but there was no stopping me. And as Brett Gardner was called out just barely as he dove head first to beat out a ground ball to second, I entered Yankee fan mode. Hands cupped over my mouth and nose. Then clasping them on top of my head. Rocking back and forth as I stood in place.

No longer were the peanut's pleas relevant. We were watching this no matter what. I opened the sliding glass door and yelled to my wife, "Hon, Jeter's up." and she knew.

She came in. And we watched. As a family. The peanut on the couch. My wife sitting on the floor next to her. I standing behind them in hopeful anticipation.

He fouled off a few pitches. One he hit straight back, meaning he barely missed it. The count went full. "He's facing one of the best pitchers in the league here," I offered to my otherwise ambivalent audience of two. I was referring to Tampa's David Price.

#3,000 (image courtesy of yankeesdaily.com)

Then: the pitch. A curveball that didn't quite curve enough. Jeter, not a home run hitter, blasted it into the left centerfield seats for number 3,000. Awesome. Captain Clutch does it again. Only the second player ever to hit a home run on his 3,000th hit.
I yelled, "He hit a home run!" (Very original). "Woooooo! He did it!"

I was fighting back tears as I looked over at the peanut, only to see her holding her blanket in front of her face saying, "I'm NOT going to watch."


About five minutes later, after we watched the celebration and the excitement had worn off, I knelt down to my daughter.

I told her, "I'm glad we got to watch that together. Thank you for letting us watch. You don't know it now, but that was a big deal and you'll tell your children about it some day."

To which she answered, "Daddy, may you please put Meet the Robinsons back on now?"

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Once in a Lifetime

"I'd like to thank the good Lord for making me a Yankee." - Joe DiMaggio

You don't get many chances to witness history. To experience something you may never experience again. To cross something off your 'bucket list,' if you will. So you have to recognize the opportunity when it presents itself, grab the moment, and capitalize on your good fortune.

I started my day pretty much the same way I've started every other for the past 18 months... shower, dress, breakfast, bus, work. The only difference was the nervous anticipation with which I was consumed for what I had hoped, and silently expected, to be the clinching victory for a Yankees World Series championship later that night. Quiet confidence. Cautious optimism.

Then it happened. A phone call that appeared to be like any other. It wasn't even a phone call for me. It was a co-worker's phone that rang. I didn't even pay attention it. I wasn't even listening to the conversation, even though I was sure it had something to do with the show we were both working on. I didn't even hear him put the person on hold. Then he asked me the question that changed my day, my mood, my life.

"Do you want to go to the game tonight?" Yeah, right. I answered honestly. "Only if the ticket is free." I have refused to enter the abomination that is now called Yankee Stadium if I have to pay my way in. I am a stubborn traditionalist who refuses to be gouged by the team he supports. "Yeah, it's free," my co-worker answered. It was a no-brainer.

I had no clothes, no way home, no place to sleep, no money in my wallet... but I also had no choice... I had to go. This was it. This was my shot to witness the Yankees win a World Series in person. To cheer and chant and scream until my throat hurt. To celebrate with the team and with the fans and in the Stadium, however much it is barely a reasonable facsimile of the original, lacking the charm, character, and history of the sad relic that now stands across the street.

And while for the first time ever, I got no goose bumps upon my entrance into the Stadium, I will forever get goose bumps thinking about what I saw, where I was, what I did. Dancing in the streets of the Bronx with tens of thousands of other fans. High-fiving police officers as they celebrated with us while on the job. Experiencing in person what I have watched on television four times before in my life - the other four times I can recall the Yankees winning the World Series in my lifetime (1996, 1998-2000).

Wow (from wix.com)

But it could have been better. I still wished my wife would have been there. Not necessarily because she wanted to be there. She didn't. But because she is the one who makes things like this possible for me. She is the keeper of my dreams. She's the one who doesn't require me to ask permission when something like this comes up. She helps me make it happen, without even giving it a second thought. She's the one who packed me a change of clothes and lugged it into the city for me. Who took on our cold-fighting daughter without me that night.

She has played an integral role in the best three nights of my life: our wedding, the birth of our child, and now Game 6 of the 2009 World Series.

That is why reliving the celebration the next evening with her and my daughter, through the magic of DVR, was even more special. You never get a second chance to experience something that may only come up once in your lifetime. Actually, apparently you do.

The Peanut watched with more obligation than interest as she nibbled on a cookie. She said, "Yay 'Ankees" a few times leading up to the final out. Once the initial celebration on the field commenced, and the novelty had worn off, she realized she had better things to do. "I'm going to go play in my playroom," she announced. And off she went.

You can be sure I will revisit Game 6, 2009 ad nauseum with her in the years to come. Not only the game itself, but the spirit of jumping at a chance you may never get again, despite the fear of failure. Failure in this case was knowing how angry, disappointed, and tired I'd be the next day if they were to lose. I've said throughout the playoffs that operating on minimal sleep is a lot easier after a victory. But that would have been a small price to pay for a shot to witness history.

from sullybaseball.blogspot.com

She also needs to know how important her mother is to my happiness, our happiness. I think she knows this already, actually. But how incredibly flexible and understanding she can be despite her best efforts to be the most anal person on the planet. That her mother is now a Yankees fan and cheered for them despite her geographical and familial links to Philadelphia and the Phillies. That keeping harmony in her house, keeping her irrational and sometimes insanely fanatic husband happy is more important to her than anything else.

She needs to know how lucky we are to have her mother, how you need to pounce on luck when it smiles upon you and make the best out of it. And how lucky we are to be Yankees fans.

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I'll Stop the World and Melt With You

How did we spend the first 90+ degree day of 2008? At the beach? By the pool? Sipping iced tea inside with the air conditioner blasting? Those are all excellent options, but not the answer to the question. No, we chose to spend it with more than 50,000 of our closest friends, at 161st Street and River Avenue in the Bronx. That's right, we took Peanut, our 15 month-old who can't sit still for more than six seconds and has started to throw inconsolable tantrums when she doesn't get her way, to a Yankees game in the boiling heat.

Batter Up!

We can't control the weather, so that wasn't going to stop us. And being that we had already purchased the overpriced tickets during this "Final Season" at Yankee Stadium, there was no going back. (I love the Yankees, but they're bleeding their fans dry with how expensive it is to see a ballgame.)

Play Ball!

There are certain watershed moments in the life of a new dad. You have the moment your child is born, followed quickly by the moment you first hold her. Then there are the little moments: the smiles, hugs, first steps.

But I will always remember the look on my daughter's face the first time she made her way up that tunnel and absorbed the glory and majesty of Yankee Stadium. Seeing it in HD is awesome, but still doesn't hold a candle to the real thing. They don't call it the Cathedral of Baseball for nothing. I've been there probably hundreds of times now, and I still get goose bumps when I see that bright green Kentucky bluegrass contrasted against that royal blue outfield wall. And when I saw Peanut's wide eyes and toothy smile as she gazed upon that vaguely familiar setting that routinely serves as a muted backdrop on the 42-inch LCD television screen in our living room, I knew that she knew she was someplace special. That moment will stay with me forever.

It is a rite of passage: bringing your child to his or her first ballgame. Mine was in 1987. The ageless and armless Tommy John was on the mound for the Yankees against Oakland. Reggie Jackson was playing for the A's that year and it was his last game at the Stadium. We kept chanting "Reg-gie Reg-gie" because Jackson was not in the starting lineup. They kept showing a shot of him, sitting on the bench in the dugout, on the big screen on the scoreboard. Alas, they never put Reggie in the game. But Don Mattingly did score the winning run in the 10th inning, and shortly thereafter, Frank Sinatra started singing "New York, New York." That night I fell in love for the first time. I was in love with Yankee Stadium.

I was 12 years old, which is a lifetime (in parent years) away from 15 months. But Peanut was probably better behaved during her first game than I was during mine. Forget the peanuts and cracker jacks. This kid was happy with goldfish and sippy cups. Not only did the roar of the crowd not phase her, she joined in. When the Yankees did something well, she would look around at the raucous crowd, realize what was happening, smile, and then start clapping and laughing herself. It was almost as if she thought everyone was applauding for her. Simply amazing. The heat, the crowd, the performance of the team on the field, nothing cold spoil her good time.

When it got too hot, we went to the Yankees Clubhouse Store. What better place to hang out than somewhere to buy things for me? As I chased her through one of the window displays, I wondered to myself, "How many times have I caused a scene inside this Stadium, with my obnoxious mouth and/or my drunken shenanigans?" Now I was causing a scene in a different way. Scurrying after my daughter through the store, while fans and employees looked on in amusement as the Yankees rallied on the TV screens hung above us.

The Yankees scored 12 runs that day. I was in my seat for four of them. Didn't matter. I was in my seat for that timeless gag, the 'spoon game.' That's where Peanut, for an inning and a half, took a spoon out of her mouth and put it in mine, then took it out of mine, and put it in hers. Back and forth, like the tally on the scoreboard.

The Yankees staged another trademark 9th inning rally, beating Kansas City. But since Peanut's inevitable meltdown occured in the 8th, we were on the subway and halfway to midtown when it happened. This was a day of firsts. My daughter's first Yankees game, and the first time I ever left one before the final out - or the winning run - was recorded. Fatherhood has a way of giving you a whole new perspective on the things you've loved your whole life. Baseball's never been so much fun, and yet so unimportant.

Farewell, old ballpark. While I'll be sure to visit again before the Final Season is over, I just wanted to say, "thanks for the memories." Great and small.

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One Fine Day

It's a simple statement, and it carries a simple sentiment. It's comprised of just three words, takes less than two seconds to say.

Not until they applied to me, not until someone directed those three words to me, did I truly appreciate how much they meant. From Friday through Sunday, everyone from co-workers to close friends, from people passing by in the park to the people who are nearest and dearest to me, wished me these three words.

"Happy Father's Day."

Every time, even if I shrugged them off with a quick "thanks," these three words sent a flurry of memories surging through my mind. In turn, those images from my brief tenure as a dad would make me smile on the inside, sometimes on the outside. Occasionally, I'd get chills. We've all said or heard those three words thousands of times. They now carry a whole new meaning to me:.

She wore her great-grandmother's dress

My first Father's Day was unique, in that it was also the day of my daughter's Baptism. I couldn't have dreamed of a better way to spend it, a better person to whom to defer the spotlight. I don't find the need to make Father's Day a 24-hour homage to me as a parent. I'm just doing what comes naturally, just being me. My father never required that kind of unnecessary attention. After all, my daughter is the reason this day forever carries an added significance in my life. So let her have all of the glory.

I enjoyed the simple things: my wife graciously did most of the straightening up after our guests left. She allowed me to take my daily 15-minute power nap without argument. She didn't even haggle for a second when I asked if it would be alright if we watched the Yankees at night. Not a single, "What else is on?" She's the best. I can't say it enough.

She also played along for the past month with my childish fascination with the greatest fun fact that we learned during Christening class. Did you know that any Catholic can perform a baptism? How cool is that? All you need is some water and a sign of the cross. I'm surprised there isn't a free-for-all of transformations occurring in public more often.

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