Love and Local 203

I have an annual fling with football, and I respect it, as a sport. But every year at this time my heart returns to my first, true love: baseball.

Today’s kids seem to all grow up playing soccer, scurrying around in some inchoate effort to kick a speckled ball into a net, their arms and hands all but useless. I was lucky enough to come along when baseball ruled, learning from older neighborhood mentors the simple but eternal truths: throw, catch, hit.

And run, when appropriate.

If we didn’t have enough players for a game, we’d play flies and grounders, or relay. If there were only two of us, pitcher and catcher, swapping roles as soon as one struck out three or walked four.

If there was only one, throw the ball straight up, and catch it when it comes down. A lesson in physics and coordination. (I once broke the windshield on my parents’ car.)

The first goal was to demonstrate sufficient skill at tryouts to be drafted by a Little League team. To win a uniform: team name across the chest, pants tucked at the knees to show off those stripped leggings, cap with bill carefully rounded, black canvas shoes with rubber cleats.

I wanted it all.

It took two years in the minors - wearing T-shirts for Staples Athletics and Nelson Pontiac Dodgers - before I got a uniform of my own and a place on Papermakers Local 203. From that to Standard Oil to Burnham’s Drugs, to steel cleats and stealing bases, I was a serviceable infielder, a decent hitter and, for a couple of years, a wildly erratic pitcher.

There was nothing, from sweaty practice sessions to snowball treats after the games, that wasn’t fun. Even a bad day on the baseball field beat a good day doing something else.

I know the detractors’ arguments: baseball is too slow, too boring, too arcane. This, I figure, comes from people who never played it, or never played it well enough to appreciate it. (The infield fly rule isn’t really that difficult.)

My own playing days are decades behind me, but I still love everything about baseball, especially at the ballpark: the pre-game warmups and stretches, infield and batting practice, the national anthem, the smells and tastes, the crowd’s crescendo as a fly ball climbs, climbs, climbs into a home run.

O.K., I’m not too crazy about the ticket prices for a Yankees game. But as any guy who’s ever bought diamonds knows, true love can be expensive.

Lights! Camera! Joe!

I’ve been thinking about becoming a movie star, figuring, how hard could it be?

Not a young, good-looking movie star, obviously. But look at the career that, say, Karl Malden had. And nobody is confusing Morgan Freeman with Denzel Washington, but they both seem to do all right.

As for training, I had a part as a lord in my third-grade play, complete with red satin knee breeches and tailcoat, in which I demonstrated a marked ability to skip around a Maypole - forward and backward, mind you. (Hey, Ken Hase couldn’t do it, and had to play a frog.) I appeared in my junior play as well, and, as I recall, was able to deliver my lines and move about the stage without tripping over anything.

Clearly, I would come to stardom having paid my dues.

And so the other day, when my friend the comedian/actor Mack Dryden offered me a role in a coming small-scale video production of his, I leapt at the chance. Such is the stuff success stories can be made of.

My role, shot on location around Rockefeller Center, might be billed in the credits as New Yorker With Attitude. That, and Guy Who Held the Camera While Mack Did the Funny Stuff.

I will not, as a result of the second role, actually appear on screen. But I did have lines, extemporized by Mack, that any critic would be sure to describe as “crucial to the plot development.”

Alas, any critic would most likely go on to describe them as “the worst imitation of a New York accent ever attempted.”

O.K. So accents, other than the one I come by naturally, are not my thing. Perhaps a better entry role might be Middle-Aged Guy With Ability to Look Very Stern, and I could work my way up from there.

Meanwhile, I’m not putting all my show business eggs in one basket. I’ve also been thinking about writing some hit country songs. I used to live in Nashville, and from what I could see, there’s good money in it.

Yankees Doodle Dandy

In the wake of the Yankees' stirring World Series championship,* a friend sent congratulations, tempered by his Yankees loathing: “Every year the Yanks don't win it is a victory for our national pastime in my opinion.”

Another confessed inner conflict, saying he really likes the team “except for A-Rod.”

Well. So it goes.

We Yankee fans are accustomed to such. Everybody needs a villain, it seems, and let’s face it, teams like the Padres, the Royals or those adorable loser Cubs just aren’t up to the role.

And so the Yankees go about their business of beating up teams at home in the Bronx, or traveling around the country and filling stadiums for other teams, and then beating them up.

“They’re buying championships!” critics cry. “The best team that money can buy!”

As if there’s something wrong with an owner trying to put the best team on the field. Besides, if money is the be-all, where are all those championships Jason Giambi, Kevin Brown, Carl Pavano and Randy Johnson were supposed to bring? How about a little sympathy here for nine years without a ring?

“Steroids!” others shout. “Cheaters!”

Hey, the Yankees have been winning championships since the days when cigarettes and beer were their performance enhancers. Imagine what the Babe or Mickey could have done sober!

So, in the spirit of comity, let's give the Yankees their due for No. 27, move on to football season, and hate the team that really deserves it: the Patriots.




*Every Yankees' World Series championship is stirring. Every defeat is either gut-wrenching or heartbreaking (see Game 7, 2001).

A One, and a Two, and a ...

I count.

I don’t mean that in the sense of, “I’m important.” I mean, I count things. Actions. Stuff.

Not everything - that would be nuts. But a lot of things: stair steps, each skip of my jump rope, the number of pumps it takes to put air in my bicycle tires, the time it takes for my commuter train to arrive from the previous stop to mine.

I could tell you how many running strides I get to the minute, with a pretty fair degree of accuracy. On a driving trip, I could tell you how many miles I’d covered in the past hour, how that compared with the previous hour, and the overall average for the journey.

Research tells me this kind of behavior is consistent with obsessive-compulsive disorder, which I find unsurprising. It can also apparently be a sign of depression, which I find depressing. But I can’t stop.

It is, after all, a compulsion. Like, say, repeatedly checking to see if you turned off the stove or iron. Which I also do.

And sometimes it’s useful. I count breaths when meditating, up to 12 and then starting over. Unfortunately, that also leads me to keep track of the number of cycles I’ve been through and to keep a running tally of how many more I have to go, which more or less defeats the purpose of meditation to begin with.

Still, as compulsions go, counting seems to be relatively benign. At least I’m not compulsively gambling away all my money, washing my hands 20 times an hour or rearranging my CDs and books so that they’ll be in alphabetical order.

Come to think of it, I wonder how many CDs and books I have...

My Way

I’m thought to be mild-mannered, and I work for a great metropolitan (and beyond) newspaper, so let’s assume for the sake of discussion that I’m Superman.

In addition to fighting for Truth, Justice and the American Way, I’ve got some changes I think ought to be made for the benefit of society in general, and me in particular. Hey, I’m Superman. You gonna argue?

And so, henceforth:

Baseball players are to let their socks show below the knees - with stirrups. It’s baseball, not cricket.

Littering will be a felony. And that includes cigarette butts. Ditto loud talking, cellphone or otherwise, on trains, and trying to butt ahead when leaving a plane. That steams me.

Items someone - it doesn’t matter who - should always make sure are in my fridge: banana pudding, tuna salad, pimiento cheese, meatloaf.

The broadcast of singing by Tom Waits or Neil Young is prohibited, as are public performances by either.

Every bar must stock Double Diamond ale, on tap. And, say, Stella, Carlsberg and Harp (or at least two out of the three). And Guinness or Murphy's stout, for when I feel more heavy.

All dentists are required to use nitrous oxide upon request. Lots of it.

No more designated hitter.

TV and radio talking heads will be subject to fact-checking and review. More than five distortions, outright lies or blatant examples of idiocy, and it’s off the air for a month.

Facebook must return to the old practice of showing only a person’s most recent status update.

Professional basketball? Hockey? I don't think so.

The willingness to eat bugs, exotic internal organs or small slithery creatures will not be sufficient reason to have a TV show.

No college football polls before the second game of the season.

No commercials before movie screenings. Instead, a return to cartoons.

Women will not make the same amount of money for a tennis tournament unless they play the same number of sets as men.

No long-term guaranteed sports contracts.

Barq's will be the official and only root beer, and grape, orange and strawberry flavors will return. In glass bottles with blue labels.

No Christmas lawn decorations until after Thanksgiving.

Science will turn the attention of its greatest nutritional minds to subtracting all the calories (but none of the taste) from Cinnabons, Butterfingers and Snickers.

Leather and/or stretch pants will not be sold in a size above medium.

Oh, and June 28? National holiday.

Alpha to Omani

Kayne and I are eating our way around the world, alphabetically.

And slowly.

We started almost three years ago in Argentina. From there it was on to Burma, Cuba, the Dominican Republic, and so on. The process has been instructive, in terms of cuisine -- we learned, for example, that it’s risky to be a cow in Argentina, or a chicken in Peru -- and not particularly expensive, since we don’t actually go to any of the countries involved.

That’s one of the benefits of living near the Big Apple Pie.

For example, Germany was a relatively easy drive to the Zum Stammtisch in Glendale, Queens. (Kassler rippchen, bratwurst und leberkase mitt sauerkraut. Yum!) Ethiopia? LIRR to Penn Station, walk to the Queen of Sheba on 10th Avenue. (Assorted meat stews and vegetable mushes, basically, scooped up with spongy bread. Better than it sounds!)

We did burn some miles for Lebanon and Morocco, both of which we sampled while on vacation last year in Vancouver. The food was pretty interchangeable, as was the belly dancer above, who appeared at both restaurants.

I’m not complaining. I love Middle Eastern food. And, given the right belly ...

A highly flexible rule is that we aim for less-familiar cuisines when possible: Filipino, not French; Tibetan, not Thai. Over all, there have been more hits than misses. At the top: Burma, at Village Mingala in the East Village.

There have also been some cases of what even a generous soul might be inclined to refer to as “cheating.” For “O,” we ate “Oriental,” on Chinese New Year. (Hey, Omani restaurants aren’t as easy to come by as you might think, even in New York.)

Most recently, we fudged some more on “Q,” with a single dish called poutine that originated in Quebec. (French fries with cheese curd, smothered in chicken gravy. Let me just say that Filipino, long at the bottom of my list, has edged up one notch.)

But at least now we can move on to hit Russia in Brooklyn, followed by a few relatively simple to find countries scattered around the vicinity.

And though “X” was looming as a potential stumper, a friend, in the spirit of further cheating, has recommended Xunta, a tapas restaurant in the Village. Onward to the former Yugoslavia, or Yemen! Zambia, or Zimbabwe!

But I will not eat zebra.

Ever Endeavour

My house is full of books, most of which I’ll never read. Some were gifts that didn’t match my tastes but I can’t bring myself to toss. Others I know I should read, but don’t.

But there’s only one I bought with the specific intention never to read.

The title is "The Remorseful Day." The author is Colin Dexter; the protagonist is Inspector Morse. Chief Inspector Morse. Fans of the PBS television series “Mystery” may be familiar with Morse. This is him in a nutshell: Thames Valley, England, police official; brilliant and enigmatic; devotee of classical music, crossword puzzles and a well-pulled pint; chronic failure with women; thorn in the side for superiors; mentor and tormentor to junior partner, Sergeant Lewis (seen with him above); grumpy.

Endearing.

I got the chance to interview Dexter in 1993, while he was on a book tour in England for the paperback edition of his 10th book, “The Way Through the Woods.” I asked if he had lots of other Morse tales up his sleeve.

“Certainly not,” he said. “I have to struggle to get any ideas at all.’’ But, he added, “I know if I start, something will come.’’

Dexter added three novels. The last one I read, “Death Is Now My Neighbor,’’ revealed a long, jealously protected secret, the chief inspector’s first name: Endeavour.

A revelation of that nature should have been a clue to what lay ahead.

There’s precedent for authors killing off their detective creations, most famously Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s dispatching of Sherlock Holmes. The public was outraged, and so Doyle brought him back. Holmes lived on to retire and keep bees in Sussex, where for all we know he still is.

Dexter rejected any such riding-into-the-sunset.

“Morse never would have lasted in retirement,’’ he told an interviewer in 1999. “He had no lawn to mow. He would have gone spare. No, it’s better this way.’’

Better for Dexter, perhaps, whose health, I gather, has not been the best and on whom the writing came to take a physical toll. Not better for those of us who dearly miss the good, grumpy inspector.