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For most of us, death will not announce itself with a blare of trumpets or a roar of cannons.  It will come silently, on the soft paws of a cat.  It will insinuate itself, rubbing against our ankle in the midst of an ordinary moment.  An uneventful dinner.  A drive home from work.  A sofa pushed across a floor.  A slight bend to retrieve a morning newspaper tossed into a bush.  And then, a faint cry, an exhale of breath, a muffled slump.

Pat Jordan, “A Ridiculous Will”

My father died on this day two years ago.  He was at home with his wife.  They were getting ready to watch their favorite TV show.  He had just eaten his favorite pasta dish.  He slumped over in his chair and that was it.  He officially lasted until the next day but really that was when he left us.

I always imagined that he would have a dramatic death.  He was a big-hearted and volatile man.  He was unafraid to get into it with, well, virtually anyone.  I saw him kick the hub cap off a moving vehicle that had cut us off on West End Avenue and 79ths street, and was with him when he pulled a vandal out of a parked car.  I thought he’d die in a pool of blood.  I worried about it constantly.  But he left quietly.

I think about him less now.  Of course, I still think about him but I am not consumed with it as I was for the first year after he died, when his absence was acute.  Almost every block in the city, certainly on the Upper West Side where he lived, holds a memory, some happy, others not so much, of the old man.  I miss his stories, I miss asking him questions about the theater and the Dodgers and Damon Runyon.

But I don’t miss how tough he was on me, or the fact that even as an adult, I felt anxious around him.  I don’t miss how competitive he was with me, and I don’t miss worrying about his financial state.  When he was alive, I don’t think there was a time when I wasn’t afraid of him, even if it was on a subtle or subconscious level. 

I feel relief now that he’s not around. I loved him very much and the feeling was mutual.   He was proud of me, he was proud all of his kids, as well as his neices and nephews.   He and I buried the hachet long before he died and I tried my best to accept and love him for who he was not what I wanted or needed him to be when I was a kid.  Like most parents, he did the best that he could.

But I don’t compare myself to him these days.  I am my own man. I remember his warmth and compassion, his laugh and his righteous indignation, and that for all his flaws he was a good man.  I’m proud to be his son.

The Rickster…No, not that one…This one.

And more Rickey from the vaults…Here is David Grann’s 2005 New Yorker profile, and old ESPN piece by the late Ralph Wiley.

Last Friday night, I had the pleasure of listening to George Kimball read from his new book at Gelf Magazine’s Varsity Letters reading series.  (Here are two video links: One and Two.) The book,Four Kings: Leonard, Hagler, Hearns, Duran and the Last Great Era of Boxing is a must for anyone interested in the fight game.  

Kimball was there for it all and conveys the excitement these four champions brought to the game in this expertly reported book that is written in pleasing, straight-forward prose.

For a sampling of Kimball’s work, check out his archive at The Sweet Science.  For example, here is his story on the Hagler-Hearns brawl: 

Nearly a quarter century later it remains a high point of boxing in the latter half of the twentieth century. Some knowledgeable experts have described it as the greatest fight in boxing history – which it probably wasn’t, if only due to its brevity. But its ferocious first round, which to this day remains the standard against which all others are measured, was undoubtedly the most exciting in middleweight annals, and one of the two or three best opening stanzas of all time.

What did Bob Arum know that the rest of us did not? Already in the midst of an age in which it had already become obligatory to sell every big fight – and many smaller ones – with a catchy slogan, the promoter who had already staged (with Don King) the Thrilla in Manila, as well as served as the impresario for Evel Knievel’s ill-fated attempt to jump the Snake River Canyon, christened the 1985 matchup between Marvelous Marvin Hagler and Thomas Hearns simply “The Fight.”

This Friday, Kimball will be interviewed by none other than Pete Hamill (who wrote the foreword for the book) at the  Barnes and Noble in Tribeca (97 Warren street).  7 pm, ya heard? 

Again, anyone with a remote interest in boxing should brave the cold and check out what promises to be a riveting chat.

It’s a big day for Rickey Henderson who will be elected into the Hall of Fame later today.

Who else goes in?

Will it be this man?

Or this dude?

Or this guy?

So, what would your ballot look like? Pick up to ten–75% is the threshold, just as with the actual Hall.

[poll id=”3″]

Shortly after the Mark Teixeira signing I was chatting with Was Watching’s Steve Lombardi about the nifty first base tradition that has developed since Don Mattingly retired.  Then, a few days ago I was over at No Maas and saw this dope image they created on that note.  

Cool stuff from the No Maas crew. It’ll be interesting to see where Teix ranks with Mattingly, Tino and Giambi.

By the way, apropos of nothing, my wife calls Teixeira “the white Barry Bonds,” because she thinks they look an awful lot alike, puffy face and all.

The sun is poking out from behind a mass of dark greyish-blue clouds in the Bronx this morning.  The sounds of snow shovels dragging along the pavement echoe around the neighbhorhood as New Yorkers prepare themselves for a big-time football game this afternoon at 1 pm. 

Giants vs. Eagles. A nice little rivalry, right?

I’ve never been a Giants fan, though I don’t have anything against them.  But thinking about them this morning brought to mind L.T.–the original L.T., Lawrence Taylor–who was certainly the greatest defensive football player of his era:

Here’s hoping for a couple of good games today.  Something good to eat, some smashmouth football.  Sounds about right, huh?

The wife and I were down in the village this afternoon when it started to snow.  I told her about an e-mail I got this morning from my friend Rich out in Long Beach, California.  He pointed out that it would be 80 degrees there today, 30 in New York.  Then he quoted Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.”  I replied, taking the bait as I always do, and questioned his manhood.  But as the wife and I walked west into the wind,  I cursed him again, thinking 80 degrees didn’t sound so bad after all.

We stopped by the Chelsea Market.  I hadn’t been there in years.  I got a baguette from Amy’s Bread and went to Buon Italia, one of the most comprehensive Italian markets in the city.  It can be pricey, but it is worth it. 

We puttered around, looked at the expensive cheese and chocolate.  Got a can of La Valle tomatoes, my favorite brand.

I browsed the jams and the wife said, “What is a Quince, Alex?”  Rosie Perez, her best movie impression.  So I picked out a jar of Quince jam.  Then we got some nice buccatini pasta, the hollow spaghetti that the wife loves.   

Then we stood in front of a case of cured pork products.  The wife looked at the rolls of pancetta and sides of ham and frowned.  “That is so gross.”

“It is heaven,” I said. 

“Funny how two people can look at the same thing and have such opposite reactions,” she said.  I repeated the line back to her twenty minutes later when we passed a parked car with a pug sitting in the passenger’s seat. 

When we got back to the Bronx, the snow was covering the cars and three garbage trucks were rolling up Riverdale avenue plowing the street.

Then we were upstairs, warm and dry.  NFL playoffs, a cup of tea, and some butter and quince jam on a baguette.  Kittens.  Wife.  A perfect way to beat the cold.

“Rickey Henderson’s strike zone is smaller than Hitler’s heart.”  Jim Murray

“If you could split him in two, you’d have two Hall of Famers.”   Bill James

I know the Baseball Hall of Fame is sometimes hard to take seriously.  Forget some of the less-than-deserving players in there, that’s bound to happen in any museum, but Tom Yawkey has a plaque.  When I was last there, it was placed directly above Bob Gibson’s plaque, an unintentional joke that reminded me of In the Heat of the Night.  At the same time, talking about the Baseball Hall of Fame is a lot of fun, even something to take seriously. 

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Our great friend and Bronx Banter colleague Todd Drew is still in the hospital recovering from surgery.  He’s a trooper, a strong man, but still has a way to go before he can return home. 

If anyone cares to send Todd a message, please send it to:  shadowgames@earthlink.net and his wife will be sure to read it to Todd once he’s alert.

Thanks, y’all.

I don’t go out to eat much these days. My wife is more of a homebody that I am and she’s no foodie. I think about food constantly and love cooking. I enjoy restaurants but I don’t go often. When I do, to a nice place, it is a real treat. Which is why the most delicious present ever is the gift that keeps giving.

Last night I went to The Spotted Pig for the Sheep’s Milk Ricotta Gnudi (which are a bigger version of gnocci). 

They were terrific, as was every other thing we had, including a special appetizer with fried pig’s ear. By the time we left, around 8:30, the joint was packed with pretty people. I saw four guys, in their mid-twenties I’d guess, standing around, talking loudly, looking nervous, checking their cell phones again and again, waiting for something to happen, or just soaking up being in a hip spot. I remembered being that age, spending time in cool places around cool people, where the lights are low and everyone has a drink, and recalled how unhappy it made me.

After we ate, my friend and I took a slow walk around the west village. If there is anything I miss about Manhattan it is walking after a meal, enjoying the company of a great pal.  Digesting, taking our time.  Is there anything as civilized?

Here’s some video from SNY:

Our new kitten, Moe Green in a rare quiet moment.  Dude is a complete madman.  He’s just three months old–we’ve had him for three weeks now–but he’s already King of our Castle.  We’re just lucky he lets us pay rent and feed him.

Do the Yankees need Andy Pettitte?

Dipping back into the SI.Vault, here is Jimmy Breslin on the early Mets, aka, the Worst Baseball Team Ever:

It was long after midnight. The bartender was falling asleep, and the only sound in the hotel was the whine of a vacuum cleaner in the lobby. Casey Stengel banged his last empty glass of the evening on the red-tiled bar top and then walked out of this place that the Chase Hotel in St. Louis calls the Lido Room.

In the lobby, the guy working the vacuum cleaner was on his big job—the rug leading into a ballroom—when Mr. Stengel stopped to light a cigarette and reflect on life. For Stengel this summer, life consists of managing a team called the New York Mets, which is not very good at playing baseball.

“I’m shell-shocked,” Casey addressed the cleaner. “I’m not used to gettin’ any of these shocks at all, and now they come every three innings. How do you like that?” The cleaner had no answer. “This is a disaster,” Stengel continued. “Do you know who my player of the year is? My player of the year is Choo Choo Coleman, and I have him for only two days.

If you’ve never read Breslin’s book on the Mets, it’s certainly worth picking up.

I’ve gotten some memorable gifts over the years–the Roberto Clemente jersey that a bunch of high school friends got me when I turned 25, the soul mix cd that my friend Alan made me for my 30th birthday, comprised of songs that were released in 1971, the year I was born.  The jersey and the mix were wonderful, but mostly what made the gifts so special was that they came as a surprise. 

Well, a few weeks ago I got another surprise, this time from my cousin Ben who works in the food business here in New York.  First off, he gave me a 20-year old bottle of aged balsamic vinegar and an even fancier bottle of olive oil from Sicily.  Alone, they made a lavish gift, but that was just the start. 

Ben handed me six small manilla envelopes, each filled with cash.  On each envelope was the name of a specific dish and the restaurant where to said dish. 

Here’s the list:

Classic Vietnamese Sandwich at Nicky’s (150 East 2nd street, between Avenue A and B):

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Day two of the NFL playoffs this afternoon.  I enjoyed both games yesterday.  Tough guys, football players, huh?

Well, here’s a real tough guy for you, one of the hardest men ever to grace the silver screen. From a Johnny Carson interview on The Tonight Show:

Carson: Lee, I’ll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima and that during the course of that action, you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded.

Marvin: Yeah, yeah … I got shot square in the ass and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Mount Suribachi. The bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys getting shot hauling you down. But Johnny, at Iwo, I served under the bravest man I ever knew. We both got the Cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. The dumb bastard actually stood up on Red Beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. That Sergeant and I have been life long friends.When they brought me off Suribachi we passed him and he lit a smoke and passed it to me lying on my belly on the litter. “Where’d they get you Lee?” he asked. “Well Bob, they shot me in the ass and if you make it home before me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse. Johnny, I’m not lying, Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew!” You now know him as Bob Keeshan. You and the world know him as “Captain Kangaroo”.”

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Here’s Joe Posnanski from his latest column about the Hall of Fame:

One knock you hear all the time about certain Hall of Fame candidates is that they were just good players who assembled impressive career numbers simply by sticking around for a long time. I have always thought that undersells longevity, the ability to stay healthy, the ability to grow old gracefully, which is probably the most underrated talent in the business.

…Baseball is an unforgiving game — you can’t live off your name for very long. You have to perform or you will be discarded, and those players who perform long enough to put up the huge numbers, well, while most people think they are overrated, I tend to believe the opposite is probably true — they are probably underrated, under-appreciated for being successful after their youth has faded, and their bodies ache, and their stuff has gone, and their bats have slowed.

If there is one thing that I think we as fans generally overlook is how difficult it is to play the game, and play it well, once you get older.  Jamie Moyer, are you kidding me?  This guy is a marvel.  More than ever, we seem geared to asking, What have you done for me lately? And each slump is greeting with impatient proclamations of, That’s it, he’s Done.

Pos mentions a few great players who were ineffective by their early-to-mid Thirties: Foxx, Koufax, Mantle, Drysdale, Sandburg. Makes you wonder what Jeter’s career will look like from here on out, Alex Rodriguez too for that matter.  It ain’t easy growing old, no matter how great you once were.  Will any team sign Frank Thomas next year? What about Ken Griffey, Jr? Mike Piazza went quietly into the night and he was one of the great hitters of our time.

Once again, reading this story reinforces my appreciation for Mariano Rivera’s brilliant career. Man, are we ever lucky. It won’t last. And as is the case with most great players, it probably won’t end gracefully.

There used to be a spot in the Times Square subway station where dance crews used to set up and perform for the tourists.  It’s right as you get off the Shuttle train to Grand Central.  Now, an electronics store is there instead, but they still draw a crowd because a famous fight is always playing on the flat screen TV in their display window.  The first couple of times I noticed a crowd huddled around, the Ali-Forman fight* was playing. 

Nothing brings men together like a fight.

Last weekend, I saw them playing the great Hagler-Hearns bout.  One guy watching served as the commentator.

I remember seeing the fight when I was a kid, and being electrified by the fury of violence.  Here it is, brief, savage, and bloody:

Round One:

Round Two:

Round Three:

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The good people at Sports Illustrated did us a major service last year when they launched the SI.Vault on-line.  The entire SI archive–what a treasure chest of goodies, man.  About the only trouble is that the site is still difficult to navigate–there is no author index for example.     

But I’ve been poking around anyway, thoroughly enjoying getting to know some of the great SI contributors from the past–Curry Kirkpatrick, Roy Bount Jr, Dan Jenkins, Rick Reilly, and of course, Frank Deford.  So I figure I’d share some the gems I’ve found with you.

First up is the late Myron Cope’s 1967 profile of Howard Cosell, Would You Let This Man Interview You?

“Oh, this horizontal ladder of mediocrity,” sighs Howard Cosell, ruminating on the people who make up the radio-television industry, which pays him roughly $175,000 a year. “There’s one thing about this business: There is no place in it for talent. That’s why I don’t belong. I lack sufficient mediocrity.”

Cosell fondles a martini at a table in the Warwick bar, across the street from the American Broadcasting Company headquarters. Anguish clouds his homely face. His long nose and pointed cars loom over his gin in the fashion of a dive bomber swooping in with lighter escort. “This is a terrible business,” he says. It being the cocktail hour, the darkened room is packed with theatrical and Madison Avenue types. A big blonde, made up like Harlow the day after a bender, dominates a nearby table, encircled by spindly, effete little men. Gentlemen in blue suits, with vests, jam the bar. A stocky young network man pauses at Cosell’s table and cheerfully asks if he might drop by Cosell’s office someday soon. Cosell says certainly, whereupon the network man joins a jovial crowd at the bar. “He just got fired,” Cosell whispers. “He doesn’t know that I already know.” The man, he is positive, wants his help, but what is Cosell to do when there are men getting fired every week?

“This is the roughest, toughest, crudest jungle in the world,” Cosell grieves. A waiter brings him a phone, and he orders a limousine and chauffeur from a rental agency. He cannot wait to retreat to his rustic fireside in Pound Ridge up in Westchester County. It is Monday evening, barely the beginning of another long week in which he, Howard W. Cosell, middle-aged and tiring, must stand against the tidal wave of mediocrity, armed only with his brilliance and integrity.

Never be another like Cosell.

Come to think of it, there will never be another like Myron Cope either.

I don’t remember the first time I saw Al Hirshfeld’s wonderous charactures in the New York Times. They were always there as far as I’m concerned. Those drawings were the closest the Times had to actual comics other than the Sunday political cartoons.  As a kid, I looked forward to picking out all the “Nina’s”–his daughter’s name–that he embedded in each piece. Hirshfeld was a master of lyrical line drawing.

So is David Levine, though his line is dramatically different.

I didn’t see The New York Review of Books much growing up, but I was familiar with Levine’s work.  A good friend of my family, a lawyer who also happens to be is a fine draftsman not to mention a dry wit, was very influenced by Levine.  His annual holiday postcards reinforced this familiarity, so I knew about Levine before I really knew his stuff.  

It wasn’t until high school probably that I actually saw Levine’s drawings.  I was hooked instantly.  I drooled over them during my college years, studied and copied them.  Levine has remained one of my favorite artists ever since.  I can look at his drawings time and time again; they still give me an enormous amount of pleasure. 

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