The Evolution of a Saturday

Posting here about an ordinary Saturday, which began when I noticed a Rambler Rose blooming on a vine that my wife and I feared had died over the past winter.

Later, we traveled to Queens to see the New York Mets -- who lost. It was cold and windy where we sat. The day before, the temperature had reached 90. The scoreboard said the temperature was 63 at game time, and it never changed, but it seemed much colder in the wind.

At the end of our row of seats sat a couple with a baby. A man sitting next to me with his son returned from a food run in the early innings with a wool Mets hat he had purchased for the couple's baby. They were strangers when the game began; they left as friends.

At the end of the game, Mets relief pitcher Adam Ottavino (an excellent photographer who, like me, grew up a Yankees fan) talked to the New York Post about his time with the Mets and Yankees. He said the modern Yankees fan has "a little bit more of an expectation of perfect play and an All-Star at every position. Whereas I think the Mets fan, the expectation isn't quite as high. It's more of a level of hope."

Hope is a journey where great things are possible but not expected. I prefer this approach to life: the unexpected act of kindness, the unexpected rose.

While we were at the game, my daughter stopped by our house to feed the cats. She texted photos of post-prandial Batman, illustrating an essential lesson in portrait photography: the angles make all the difference. 🙂

Before returning home, we stopped for a Guinness and a Harp at a favorite Irish bar -- The Cottage in Teaneck, NJ. The bartender there reminded my wife of her late brother, who lived a kind, too-short life. We toasted him.

The place was filled with laughter. Small groups of friends were competing in a trivia contest, and one woman wore a black sweatshirt proclaiming, "Pigeons Are Liars." On one of the TV screens above the bar, I watched Aaron Judge -- my favorite baseball player even though he's a Yankee -- crash through the rightfield bullpen gate at Dodger Stadium to rob J.D. Martinez of at least a double.

On the journey home, I stopped to take a photo of St. Mark's Episcopal Church. Every Sunday, I post images of churches in New Jersey on one of my Instagram accounts.

It's an odd hobby, but it often fills me with hope.

Thank You to a Friend (In Praise of Mel Stottlemyre)

I visited my friend Paul Macchia yesterday, and he remembered that Mel Stottlemyre was one of my favorite baseball players. So he gave me a Stottlemyre 1989 Bowman card (when he was a Mets coach) and an autograph Mel had signed for him years ago.

Thank you, Paul!

I admired Mel because my Dad admired him. As a 13-year-old, Dad (who passed away 16 years ago this month) was already pitching semi-pro baseball, thanks to a wicked sinkerball he had mastered.

Years later, when I was pitching in Little League, Dad would hold up Mel as a model of how to throw a sinker. I, of course, wanted to throw something more exotic. "How do I throw a gopher ball?" I naively asked Dad. He laughed and replied, "Just keep doing what you're doing, son."

Mel's autograph now holds an honored spot beneath Rusty Staub's on top of my grandfather's old dresser. Also in the photo here is a recent, thoughtful handwritten note from Mets GM Sandy Alderson to my wife Nancy, who had written him about this year's "thumbs down" controversy.

I posted information about Dad's baseball career here two years ago.

Why I Love New York (in 21 seconds)

This is why I love New York.

I went for a lunchtime walk last week and was able to touch the ‘86 World Series trophy, say hello to Mr. Met, watch artist Joe Petruccio at work, buy a 35th anniversary t-shirt for Nancy, see the KAWS sculpture on temporary display at Rockefeller Center, and stroll down Broadway as David Byrne’s “American Utopia” prepared for its reopening this weekend and where Carmine’s restaurant proudly rolled out a red carpet to welcome back customers for the first time since the pandemic.

 

I Miss You, NYC

It's Throwback Thursday, so I posted this photo on Instagram tonight from two years ago, the first time Nancy and I had ever been to baseball's Opening Day (and the first time we ever descended the precariously steep escalator to the Hudson Yards subway station).

We rode one of the MTA museum's 7 Trains to Citi Field that day.

I happily snapped photos of the train's arrival, and we sat in one of the 50-year-old "redbird" cars.

My Uncle Charlie had taken me to my first MLB game on one of those same subway cars, arriving to then newly-built Shea Stadium, across from the World's Fair, and ascending to our seats in the precariously steep nose-bleed section of Shea Stadium.

Hudson Yards station

That first ride on the 7 Train was a rite of passage for me, full of odd and eye-opening sights I had never seen as a boy growing up in the New Jersey suburbs. Things were different in New York, in a profound way.

Just like when I rode the train with Uncle Charlie in the 1960s, on Opening Day 2018 the tinny subway sound system played the hokey song "Meet the Mets" when we arrived at the ballpark station. That was a great day, and Nancy and I bought tickets for the Mets home opener in 2019... and Opening Day 2020 too.

But that game didn't take place today.

New York is on lockdown. No one knows when the baseball season will start, and everyone grimly accepts this fact given the current life-and-death Covid-19 scenarios.

In "an abundance of caution," our New York City office, like so many others, has been closed these past two weeks. I haven't been to the city since Friday, March 13th.

My daughter is currently on lockdown in a Manhattan apartment, but she assures us she's fine. I keep wanting to drive to the city to "save" her, but I really think I want to drive there to save myself.

I'm very much in love with New York. I'm a little worried about how it will change in the coming months.

My Google Photos folder is filled with past images of the city. And, more often than not, these are the photos that Google's mysterious algorithm chooses to "auto-stylize." Here's an example:

St. Patrick's Cathedral

In fact, here's an entire folder of 120 images of New York City that Google has auto-stylized for me (often, nostalgically, editing them in black and white).

When I've worked in New York these past few months, I've taken cell phone photos all the time. The city is full of beauty and life, architecture and art... and still odd and eye-opening sights.

Most recently, on March 11, I posted this photo on Twitter of Times Square and one of my favorite places, Grand Central Terminal:

It was a Wednesday morning (evidenced by GCT's iconic brass and onyx four-sided clock). I was simply struck by how far fewer people there were than usual in pre-lockdown Manhattan.

A BuzzFeed editor saw the tweet and asked to add the Grand Central photo to the end of a story, "24 Shocking Pictures of Famous Places Before and After the Coronavirus Outbreak." All fine... until Complex Media re-posted the photo on Instagram in this way:

In a little more than half an hour, more than 34,000 people had "liked" the post, but the comments were turning rapidly ugly.

Pictures don't tell the whole story, and there was certainly more context to the BuzzFeed post. In contrast, Complex's stark Instagram post looked... odd... showing Grand Central at an obviously different time. People were commenting that my photo was inflaming fear.

Magically, just as the photo began to go viral in a bad way, Complex deleted the post. So ended my brief reign as a perpetrator of fake news.

The lesson: a picture is (possibly) worth a thousand (misleading) words.

That is, unless it's a photo of New York City in the distance, without any words at all:

3 Days in Florida: What I Saw at Spring Training

Jacob deGrom's first pitch in 2020

Ever since spring training began, my fancy has turned lightly to thoughts of baseball.

This past weekend, I attended three Grapefruit League games, two won my favorite team, the New York Mets:

• Rays vs. Nationals this past Friday at FITTEAM Ballpark (the Washington/Houston home stadium in West Palm Beach, Florida)
• Mets vs. Astros on Leap Day Saturday, also at FITTTEAM
• Nationals vs. Mets on Sunday at Clover Park (the Mets home stadium in Port St. Lucie, Florida)

I’m posting these thoughts about my first-ever spring training visit on March 5 – the infamous day, 48 years ago, that Jim Fregosi broke his right thumb during a workout. The Mets had obtained Fregosi in an off-season trade months earlier for Nolan Ryan, and their careers subsequently took very different turns, with Ryan winding up in the Hall of Fame.

So the life of a Mets fan, like life in general, is not always easy or fair. Still, I am eager for the arrival of the 2020 season and happily took photos of FITTEAM field as soon as I arrived…

Scenes from FITTEAM (Jalen Beeks, lower left)

My wife gently nudged me and asked if it was a good idea to be seen in an Astros ballpark with a camera pointed toward the batter’s box.

One theme of the weekend was the Astros cheating scandal. Fans everywhere chatted constantly about it. During the Mets/Astros game, fans were especially vocal, chanting “Beat the Cheats!” to the tone and rhythm of “Let’s Go Mets!” It’s anyone’s guess how long this hostility will last, but I wonder whether it will demoralize or galvanize the Astros players as the season progresses.

Another weekend theme was how nice people are to you when you wear Mets gear. No matter where we were -- at the ballpark, airport, hotel, in bars and restaurants, or walking the streets of West Palm Beach -- people would nod, smile, wave, or say “Let’s Go Mets!”

One Rays fan, an older gentleman, saw my Mets cap and bemoaned how much he’ll miss Marcus Stroman, who left the Blue Jays to join the Mets last year. As he kept talking, he revealed a schoolboy crush on Nikki Huffman, Stroman’s personal trainer, who he will miss even more.

Scenes from West Palm Beach (Clematis Street, lower left)

Watching the Mets players interact up close gave me a hopeful feeling for the future. The players seem to genuinely enjoy each other.

The day before we left for Florida, mlb.com’s Anthony DiComo posted an endearing story describing how a group of Mets players have formed an impromptu “Cookies Club,” meeting up regularly after road games to eat peanut-butter cookies, drink 2% milk, and talk about baseball and life.

I saw evidence of this refreshing decency with my own eyes: Jacob DeGrom joked with the home plate umpire after leaving the pitcher’s mound following three innings of work. I’m guessing it was about the five strikes the ump had given the Nationals’ Michael Taylor in a previous at bat. And when muscular, fan-favorite Tim Tebow pulled back from barreling late into second base during a meaningless, late-game double play, Nationals middle infielders gave him a respectful, appreciative nod.

Even though today’s culture is so divisive, and cheaters evidently do sometimes win, I refuse to believe that nice guys always finish last. Give me Luis Rojas over Leo Durocher any day. I’ll take my chances.

Scenes from Clover Park (immortal Tom Seaver, lower right)

Niceness is contagious, even if it isn’t yet a global pandemic. It’s amazing how friendly the Mets vendors and support staff are when we attend games in New York. That vibe extended to Clover Park, which has been newly renovated and mirrors some of the best features of CitiField (cheers, Jim Beam Bourbon Bar!).

Clover Park was more fan-friendly and comfortable than FITTEAM. Upon entering on Sunday, the guards let my wife through with a friendly wave despite problems with a wonky metal detector. We joked that had the same thing happened at Yankee Stadium, I would have spent the afternoon bailing her out from a Bronx detention center.

Scooter and the Big Man warm up to face the Astros

My Dad, a great amateur ballplayer in his own right, used to observe that, however old he was, he always felt he was younger than the major leaguers he watched on TV. In real life, that conceit is hard to maintain. All the players look young… and younger than on TV. They also seem bigger in real life; not like actors, who always seem smaller.

Today’s baseball players are in terrific shape and are the most talented in the world. I chuckle to myself when people claim that Babe Ruth would be just as effective today as he was in the 1920s. Back then Ruth’s opponents came from a small, sometimes out-of-shape, homogeneous talent pool who did not have the benefit of all the advances over the past century in health, nutrition and sports science.

Strolling past the left-field bullpen during the Rays-Nationals game, I heard what sounded like a gunshot, only to look down to discover it was the pop of a Jalen Beeks fastball hitting a warmup catcher’s mitt. Young Beeks’ stats suggest he’s so far been an average big-league middle reliever, but I wonder if Ruth had seen or heard anything like him.

My wife wore her “Scooter and the Big Man” T-shirt to Sunday’s game, which happened to be scheduled on Michael Conforto’s 27th birthday. The E Street Band reference in this case refers to “Scooter” Conforto and “Big Man” Pete Alonso.

deGrom warming up

It also happened to be deGrom’s first start of the spring that day (we were doubly lucky: having witnessed Stephen Strasburg’s first spring start on Friday).

It was quite a sight to see “Jake” warm up on the third-base sideline (I wonder why the Mets dugout is on the third-base side of Clover Park; isn’t the home team always on the first-base side?). All the other Mets pitchers gathered around to study/watch/admire deGrom’s seemingly effortless delivery. Catcher Wilson Ramos, who looks to begin the season in top physical condition, was squatting closer to the ground and setting a lower target than he did during the 2019 season.

Once the game started, deGrom made short work of the first three batters he faced: a great sign for the season ahead. Not only that, but Scooter and the Big Man came through: Alonso getting his first hit of the spring and Conforto hitting a birthday home run.

It was a memorable Sunday. Only one thing was missing: Where was Mr. Met?

My only sighting of Mr. and Mrs. Met at Clover Park

Other things of interest?

• FITTEAM Ballpark has no clock on its expansive scoreboard, as if time had stopped… or we were in Las Vegas.
• The hawkers in spring training are especially entertaining, although the “very, very cold beer / if I were you I’d order a beer” guy met his match when a high school baseball team sitting together all jokingly stood, shouted and raised their hands when he passed.
• The between-inning amusements are sweetly reminiscent of scenes from “Bull Durham.” Games at both parks were interrupted by an urgent plea from the PA announcer for the owner of a certain car. The centerfield scoreboard then displayed said vehicle, and the announcer enthusiastically informed the crowd that it had won that day’s “Dirtiest Car in the Parking Lot” contest, awarding the owner a free wash.
• Florida is filled with palm trees and churches and concrete utility poles.

In the end, my wife and I enjoyed our stay in West Palm Beach very much. It features inviting bars and restaurants, street art and musicians, and people who like to dine outdoors on Clematis Street in shorts and short-sleeve shirts in 53-degree weather.

We crossed the bridge to moneyed Palm Beach only once. I felt claustrophobic there, finding the architecture imposing and ostentatious.

Perhaps that’s where the owners of the Yankees live.

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Postscript, from my Instagram account in March 2021:

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A post shared by Found in NJ (@foundinnj)

Non-Fiction for Adults: Weinstein to Hart to Nabokov

A book store in Nyack, NY; photo by @bvarphotos

With the untimely death of the New York Mets 2019 season, I’ve had time to catch up on some reading these past few weeks.

I realize, now, that all these recent reads have been non-fiction titles – and that last week, on the first Thursday in November, much of the world celebrated #NationalNonfictionDay.

For children.

While many great reads were suggested for young adults on social media last week, let me offer a few non-fiction titles reviewed for adults.

They are filled with words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: Weinstein to Hart to Nabokov.

Catch and Kill: Lies, Spies, and a Conspiracy to Protect Predators by Ronan Farrow
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

After reading this book, I can’t even…

I can’t even believe the breadth and depth of Harvey Weinstein’s behavior – or his enablers.

I can’t even believe that NBC News refuses to conduct an independent investigation of how it botched the handling of this story.

I can’t even express how much I admire the tenacity and talent of Ronan Farrow.

Like “Bad Blood,” “Catch and Kill” is another great work of investigative journalism. It is an outstanding read, chronicling the abuse of power. It was the best book I read all month… and so far this year.


The Front Runner by Matt Bai
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This book – originally titled “All the Truth Is Out” – is an earnest recounting of Gary Hart’s place in history.

I read it after recently watching an earnest movie adaptation.

The movie was OK. To be honest, I didn’t enjoy the book any better than I enjoyed the movie. Earnest is not my cup of tea. I prefer Ernest, as in Hemingway. Also, I’m not a big fan of politicians.

Still, I am a big fan of journalists, and it’s hard not to be impressed by author Matt Bai, who, until recently, wrote political columns for Yahoo News.

Until recently, I was a media relations director for Yahoo’s corporate parent, Verizon.

Bai’s world and mine never collided. Even though we both received paychecks from the same company, the writers and editors who worked on Yahoo, TechCrunch, Engadget, HuffPo and other Verizon-owned media properties were never, as far as I could ever tell, interfered with by their corporate parent. In this way, Verizon was more supportive of journalists than, say, NBC News was of Ronan Farrow.

On both sides (corporate and publishing), we valued objectivity and professionalism. And humanity. Every time TechCrunch mentioned Verizon in a post, it added an editor’s note describing the company as the site’s “corporate overlord.”

This was as it should be. At one point, we in Verizon’s communications department even thought of purchasing “Corporate Overlord” t-shirts as a team-builder, but some PR issue or another diverted our attention.

All of which is to say that I do not pretend I can research, write and provide context as well as Bai and his colleagues.

I’m just a lowly reader, but this book didn’t engage or excite me.

That is, except for two redeeming scenes: the recounting of two of the author’s interactions with Gary Hart that gave me goosebumps.

I’ll write more about one scene when I turn to Nabokov. For now, take it from me, the final pages of Bai’s book are evocative and profound.

There’s a question left hanging as the book ends, delicately suspended in mid-air, described with extraordinary perspective and heartache.

Bravo, says the former corporate overlord. Bravo, I say again, for what it’s worth.


The Real Lolita: The Kidnapping of Sally Horner and the Novel that Scandalized the World by Sarah Weinman
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The title says it all here, especially the breathless part about “the novel that scandalized the world.”

This is basically a solid true crime story about a heartbreaking tale of the 1948 abduction of an 11-year-old girl from Camden, NJ.

I’m glad that Sarah Weinman told this tale with such empathy and thoroughness. Where the book loses me is that, throughout, the author is shocked… SHOCKED… that Vladimir Nabokov might have had some knowledge of this crime when writing “Lolita.”

Nabokov makes one parenthetical reference to Sally Horner in “Lolita,” and a thorough vetting of his estate yielded one reference to her among the thousands of legendary index cards he used for notetaking and organization. This should hardly be surprising. It’s the 1950s version of finding a link in someone’s comprehensive browsing history.

My post, "Re-reading 'Lolita' in Middle Age"

Weinman uses this slim reed to indict, and even mock (see Vladimir chasing butterflies in his funny clothes; see his beleaguered wife Vera try to protect his image like a corporate PR director) the author for crass exploitation of a sex crime.

I don’t know how much Nabokov knew about Sally Horner and, frankly, I don’t care.

I also don’t need Weinman to tell me that “Lolita” is exploitative at its core.

There was a time in my life – when I was a sophomore at Notre Dame and read the book for the first time – that I was enamored with its art.

There was, in fact, the Saturday night someone drove a group of us the few miles from South Bend, IN, to Niles, MI, where the legal drinking age was 18.

I wound up drunk at a dive bar, reciting the opening lines of “Lolita” by heart. That should tell you all you need to know about my prospects for dating during college, and how much I loved that book.

I’m insufferable that way. Still. When a friend recently asked why I had pursued another PR job rather than retire after leaving Verizon, I winced as I realized I was semi-quoting lines from “Annie Hall,” written by Farrow’s father:

Annie: The people here are wonderful. I mean, you know, they just watch movies all day.

Alvy: Yeah, and gradually you get old and die. You know it’s important to make a little effort once in a while.

I once loved... no, lurved... “Annie Hall,” but lately I can’t stomach watching Woody Allen movies. I’ve long since cleared my house of his books.

It’s because I’ve grown up.

I now regard Nabokov’s pretty words as nothing more than pedophilia played out in prostitution, threats and manipulation, as Lolita cried herself to sleep every night.

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In Matt Bai’s book “The Front Runner,” the author is conversing with Gary Hart many years after his PR debacle.

Hart is reexamining his life and quoting from, of all things, the New Testament.

He can’t quite shake the implications of Jesus’ parable of the talents. Hart wonders aloud to a journalist if perhaps he hadn’t put to best use all his God-given abilities and blessings. Then he almost begins to cry.

I feel that way about myself most days. I feel that way about Nabokov too.

What if Nabokov had written a bold and insightful story about someone like Hart – or the homeless woman I just passed on the street? What great work of art could Nabokov have produced on the theme of the manipulation of power among adults, perhaps in terms of a character like Harvey Weinstein?

What if he had simply written about the intersection of life and baseball?

Extra Innings:

Can't Anybody Here Play This Game?: The Improbable Saga of the New York Mets' First Year by Jimmy Breslin
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

As I discovered this past weekend, a non-stop plane ride from New York to the heart of middle America is the exact amount of time it takes someone like me to read this short book by Jimmy Breslin, whose writing is an acquired taste.

In 1963, only five years after the American publication of “Lolita,” Breslin wrote about the intersection of life and baseball.

He wrote about the 1962 New York Mets. My sin, my soul.

Let’s-go-Mets: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of only one step to end, at three, by howling at the moon. Let’s. Go. Mets.

The Mets, in the immortal words of Breslin, are losers – just like nearly everybody else in life.

This book is about the most poetic season of the most poetic team in the most poetic of sports. It’s recommended reading, full of life’s wisdom.

These days, I enjoyed it more than “Lolita,” although not as much as I enjoyed and appreciated Ronan Farrow’s book about Harvey Weinstein. I don’t know what that says about my life. I must be a loser too.

Look at this tangle of thorns.


View all my Goodreads reviews

Hope Springs Eternal at the End of the Season

Images from Citi Field, 2019

Tonight the Major League Baseball playoffs begin. Once again, without the New York Mets.

Oddly, I'm not saddened by this. Just hopeful.

I'm with Dominic Smith.

On Sunday, taking his first swing after returning from a two-month injury, he hit a walk-off three-run home run in the bottom of the 11th. It was the Mets' last game at Citi Field in 2019 and the last game of the season, an otherwise meaningless victory since the team had already been eliminated from post-season play.

With my wife beside me, we waited for his post-game interview. In imitation of Ringo Starr, Nancy had blisters on her fingers from clapping so hard all afternoon. It was a joyous scene.

Smith summed up the season this way: "We didn't get to where we wanted to go, but this is the start of something great."

I believe him too, just as I believe in Pete Alonso's guileless tears of gratitude and joy, and just as I believe in Jacob deGrom's consistent excellence.

Attending 15 Mets' home games this season, I was once again enchanted by Citi Field's relaxed, fun and friendly vibe. I want the Mets to succeed. Somehow the team makes me want to be better. Citi Field is Venus to Yankee Stadium's Mars.

I've cited Roger Angell's words here before: cheering for the Yankees' perfection is admirable but a trifle inhuman. The Mets' "stumbling kind of semi-success can be much more warming... there is more Met than Yankee in every one of us."

I saw further evidence of this on Sunday:

• Students from the Louis Armstrong Middle School on nearby Junction Boulevard performed the National Anthem
• Clear-voiced Marysol Castro, one of only two female PA announcers in baseball, handled the player introductions
• Todd Frazier (whose retro walk-up music is Sinatra's version of "Fly Me to the Moon"), in what might have been his last game as a Met, held an earnest, animated chat with two young fans at third base before the start of the game, as part of the Mets' routine of letting kids meet with players on the playing field

My wife, who is notoriously and inexplicably harassed by security personnel at other venues (and who we won't even allow enter a DMV office), was greeted warmly and cheerfully wherever we went -- from the parking lot attendant, to the jovial ticket-taker, to the bartender who carded her when we purchased wine. Her one and only suggestion for improvement? Given all the Mets' nods to quirky traditions, you should be able to buy Schaefer beer, her dad's improbable favorite and a throwback Mets sponsor, at Citi Field.

Still, when it came to baseball and as good as they were for most of the season, the Mets shot themselves in the foot several times... notably blowing a six-run lead in the bottom of the 9th after scoring five in the top half against the Washington Nationals on the day after Labor Day.

My personal Mets won-loss record was 9-6, a .600 percentage, so I'm hoping the team will offer me tickets to every home game next season. I witnessed three shutouts (two started by Steven Matz, including a rare complete game, one by deGrom); the only Mets wins ever for Hector Santiago and Chris Mazza; improbable late-inning home run heroics by Tomas Nido and Luis Guillorme; five home runs by J.D. Davis, four by Alonso and two, including the great finale, by Smith.

Below are some additional photo memories from the 2019 season.

Just wait, though, until I post about the 2020 season. I feel it in my bones. This is just the start of something great.

Meeting Mr. Met

We went to Seinfeld Night...

...and commiserated afterward at the Jackson Hole Diner

Yeah, we went on our anniversary too

With friends Paul Macchia and Matt Davis

Finally, a big thank you to my friend Joe Zwilling and his wife Cathy; they made all this possible!

Read this related post, "A Death in the Family," about the transcendent power of baseball.

About the Varettoni in the Hall of Fame

Today is National Baseball Card Day.

So, of course, I’ve posted a baseball card photo of myself from one of the exhibits at the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY, on Facebook and Twitter.

This only reminds me that, in real life, there’s a real Varettoni in a baseball Hall of Fame.

Bob “Chick” Varettoni was inducted into the Passaic Semi-Pro Baseball Hall of Fame on Friday, May 3, 1996, at the Knights of Columbus Regina Mundi Hall in Clifton, NJ.

That’s my Dad.

He was pitching semi-pro ball at the age of 13, featuring a nasty sinker he once tried to teach his son, with disastrous results. When Dad was 20, he twice pitched against New York Yankee great Whitey Ford when Passaic’s DeMuro Comets faced the Fort Monmouth Army team, during Ford’s military service.

Dad’s the second from the left in this photo from that night in Clifton. The kneeling man is Ted Lublanecki, a legend in NJ semi-pro baseball and a scout for the Philadelphia Phillies back in the day:

Here’s the text of the resolution entered into the Congressional record by Rep. William J. Martini of New Jersey on May 1, 1996. It details Dad’s accomplishments (click on the photo for a clearer image):

And here are the box scores of the games Dad pitched against Whitey Ford in 1952:

Here’s my ticket stub from that great night in 1996, along with Ted’s business card, in case you know of any good prospects:

Finally, here’s a team photo of the 1952 Passaic City Recreation Baseball League champions, the immortal DeMuro Comets:

A Death in the Family

Anne, about 19 years old, at a New Jersey Telephone Co. Christmas display.

Anne Bunce Cullinane returned home before dawn on July 6, 2019.

Anne was my mother-in-law, and the location of her home is a mystery, depending on your perspective, her faith and the transcendent power of baseball.

Home was definitely not the place Anne died: Marian Manor, a Dominican Sisters-sponsored residence in Caldwell, NJ.

Having lived almost all her 91 years in Nutley, Anne had spent years as an applicant for an apartment at the residence, where a never-dwindling waiting list made it seem as if Marian Manor was a magical place where everyone lived forever.

Still, she persisted. She settled into an apartment there more than three years ago, but her health failed soon afterward and her memory began to decline.

With 24-hour care from an aide and daily visits from her surviving children – including my wife Nancy – Anne was well-cared-for and comfortable.

That is, until these last weeks, when she could not be comforted.

Instead, she was restless. She was constantly telling her children that she wanted to go home.

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Otsego Lake pier in Cooperstown, reminding me of a cross.

On the surface, you’d think “home” would mean Nutley. But the Cullinane family home had been sold with Anne’s move to Marian Manor, and she seemed to understand that.

Perhaps, I thought, home was “heaven.”

Anne had a deep Roman Catholic faith. It sustained her when her husband, a Newark fireman, died of cancer at a young age, leaving her to care for six children. She simply learned how to do things for herself – drive a stick shift, type and operate a key punch, and eventually work as a tax accountant (she was always especially good with numbers) – in order to provide for her family.

Later, after her retirement at age 72, Anne’s faith sustained her when both her oldest daughter and oldest son died prematurely, also from cancer.

Still later, her faith sustained her during the long days at the end of her life when she could no longer do things for herself.

If only she could go “home.”

In the end, I sometimes accompanied Nancy as she visited with her mom, eavesdropping on their familiar, intimate and sometimes repetitive conversations.

In the very last days of Anne’s life, she and her daughter talked about baseball.

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Anne was a lifelong fan.

She used to follow the New York Giants, and as young teens she and her girlfriends would often take the bus from Nutley to the Polo Grounds to attend games. When the Giants left town, she became a Mets fan.

Just as fathers form bonds with their sons over baseball, Nancy became a Mets fan as a girl as she bonded with her mother.

Nancy still recalls with some bitterness that she was too young to attend a Mets game with her older sisters at the Polo Grounds before Shea Stadium opened in 1964. After the death of her oldest sister Eileen, Nancy bought one of Citi Field’s first commemorative bricks for her. Its inscription is the rallying cry when the Mets won the 1973 pennant: “You Gotta Believe!”

During the last few weeks of Anne’s life, she entered hospice care – and Nancy made a daily journey to Caldwell to visit her mother. After I ended a 34-year career at Verizon at the end of June, friends urged us to take a celebratory trip – but I could not take Nancy far from her mom.

Instead, we went the next day, a Saturday, to attend a Mets game at Citi Field, where they celebrated the remaining members of the 1969 team that won the World Series. Nancy had remarked that, with their dad sick and Anne struggling to raise young children, that the time before 1969 had been particularly hard for the Cullinane family.

“The 1969 World Series was one of the first, best, good things to happen in our lives,” she explained to me before we drove to Citi Field on June 29. “This celebration is the one Mets game I really wanted to attend this year.”

The next day, Nancy agreed to drive up to Cooperstown with me – our one night away from home – where we visited the Baseball Hall of Fame.

But the day after that, Nancy was back at her mother’s side in Caldwell, showing her cell phone photos of the reunion ceremony and our brief road trip.

Her mother brightened when Nancy showed her a photo of Mel Ott’s plaque at the Hall of Fame. Anne recognized her favorite baseball player right away.

Anne also fondly remembered Tom Seaver. When Nancy asked if she remembered the name of the beagle who had been the Mets mascot at the Polo Grounds before Mr. Met arrived on the scene in 1964, Anne said, “Of course, his name was Homer.”

And when Nancy showed her photos from the 1969 celebration, Anne recognized the part-time player Rod Gaspar – now gray-haired and 73 years old – from his jersey number.

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As Nancy and her siblings work to settle Anne’s affairs, my wife thought of one last, appropriate gift for her mom, harkening back to the one for her sister Eileen.

“I want to buy a memorial brick for her at Citi Field,” Nancy said.

I think this is a wonderful idea, but I have no intention of telling her how to inscribe it.

Anne raised a strong-willed, smart, independent and loving daughter. One in her own image.

I cannot, ever, tell Nancy what to do – just as I cannot, ever, tell our two daughters what to do. Through her mother’s influence, Nancy has also raised our daughters to be strong-willed, smart, independent and loving.

Anne lives on through all of them.

Still, I’ll let you know what I think an appropriate inscription would be for the memorial brick. It speaks to the things that attracted Anne to baseball: its rituals and numbers and drama and escape. Its one ultimate goal.

The brick would be from her entire family, and it would state simply this:

“To Anne Bunce Cullinane, Welcome home.”

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Stalking Mr. Met: A Happy Recap of the 2018 Season

These past few months, I saw the boys of summer in their ruin.

With apologies to Dylan Thomas' famous poem and in contrast to the New York Mets' won/loss record, I found the experience life-affirming and optimistic (thank you, Jacob deGrom).

With the abrupt end of baseball in New York (thank you, Giancarlo Stanton), there's no longer a home team to root for in the middle of this second week in October. So I have time to post this happy recap of the 2018 season.

The Mets went 10-4 in games I saw this summer, thanks to a partial season ticket package I split with my friend Joe. This is us; I'm the one in the orange Mets sunglasses (and Notre Dame hoodie).

I attended most games with my wife Nancy, a lifelong Mets fan who recalls going to games years ago at Shea Stadium (which she still sometimes calls Citi Field) amid an eclectic fan base, including a preponderance of habit-wearing nuns.

Nancy's mom was a baseball fan, and they formed a bond over the Mets the way I had formed a bond with my dad over the Yankees. Dad is no longer with us, and Nancy now helps care for her mom -- so, by extension, a love of baseball is a bond in our marriage.

In recent years, I've rooted for the Mets, in appreciation of the profound truth expressed by Roger Angell: the Yankees' perfection is "admirable but a trifle inhuman" and "there is more Met than Yankee in every one of us." The following stories and images may help to explain why.

March 29, Mets win -- This was the first Opening Day I've ever attended, an emotional game played hours after the news of Rusty Staub's death at age 73. Nancy and I rode the MTA's museum train -- billed as "the train of many colors" -- from Hudson Yards to Citi Field. Train workers snapped photos of its arrival. We sat in one of the 50-year-old trailing "redbird" cars. The PA system played the song "Meet the Mets" when we arrived.

March 31, Mets win -- Here's a photo of me stalking Mr. Met before the game. There's something about this mascot that brings out my inner child. I love Mr. Met. Perhaps a little too much. I've posed for several photos with Mr. Met in recent years -- and I think he's on to me. Soon after I snapped this photo, he ducked into a service elevator with a handler, seemingly as a security precaution to protect him from either me or a lurking Noah Syndergaard, his more imposing nemesis on Twitter.

April 14, Mets lose -- The downfall of the Mets' season can be traced to me. Before this game, the team's won/loss record was 11-1, leading the division by 3 1/2 games. The night before the game I received an email from the Mets inviting me to take the field alongside fellow ticket plan holders on the warning track prior to the National Anthem. I accepted, and excitedly Instagram-ed my little heart out -- but Nancy (see photographic evidence) seemed a little wary. She believes we jinxed the Mets by setting foot on the field. Matt Harvey (remember him?) took the loss that day. But I take the blame.

May 19, Walk-off win -- With the Mets' season now in decline (see above) Devin Mesoraco hit a tying, 2-run homer in the fog in the 8th, and Wilmer Flores hit a walk-off SF for the win. Nancy couldn't accompany me that day, so I asked my good friend Paul, another lifelong Mets fan, to join me. While waiting for him to arrive, I texted Nancy photos of fans dressed in costume -- though none were dressed as nuns. She reminded me it was Star Wars Night, thus explaining the Mr. Met and Chewbacca Bobblehead I received at the gate. It also reminded me of why I loved Nancy. We both loved the original "Star Wars" movie when we were young. And, even geekier, on one of our first dates it seemed she was having car trouble. She told me not to worry, that she just needed to have the engine's dilithium crystal replaced.

June 9, Loss to the Yankees -- I attended this game with Joe and took my favorite photo of the season: an accidental lens flare as the sun set, making Yankees pitcher Domingo German look like the Chosen One. Even more magical: before the game, Joe and I arrived extra early to search for a memorial brick that Nancy had purchased when Citi Field was built. She had it inscribed to honor her sister Eileen, another lifelong Mets fan, who died of breast cancer in 2003. Nancy and I hadn't been able to locate the brick, but Joe searched the ground diligently to find it. It's pictured at the top of this page. Eileen was very smart, very devout and very loving, and she would have appreciated the deeper meaning of Tug McGraw's 1973 rallying cry: "You Gotta Believe!"

June 23, Another loss, with apologies to Jacob deGrom -- By the time Nancy and I returned to Citi Field in late June, the Warning Track Curse was in full effect. The Mets' record by the end of June was 32-48, 14 1/2 games out of first. We even almost poisoned deGrom's almost perfect season. In this our only live view of him, facing Clayton Kershaw of the Dodgers, he pitched 6 innings, allowing 3 runs. It was the only time all season deGrom seemed ill at ease. He kicked the mound after one pitch, jawed at the home plate umpire and flailed his arm after letting another pitch go.

Meanwhile, I took this photo while sitting with Nancy before the game at Mikkeller Brewing NYC on the Citi Field grounds. Soon after, I realized that my wallet was missing. I was a wreck. I had been using a "slim fit" wallet for several months, and this was the second time I had lost it -- and what fun it had been to replace my driver's license at a New Jersey DMV office just a week earlier! I frantically searched the bar and retraced my steps all the way back to the furthest reaches of Parking Lot E. When I got to my car, a man my age called out, waving hello, with my wallet in his hand. "I had a feeling you'd come back for this," the angel said. I offered him reward money, drinks, my tickets -- but he would accept none of it. He said, "Just pay it forward. Do something nice for someone else today." I bro-hugged him. And I now carry a wallet the size of a fanny pack.

July 7, Shut out by Tampa Bay -- Perhaps the low point of the season for me. I once again stalked Mr. Met on the outskirts of "Shea Bridge" before the start of the game. I'm not proud of this.

August 21, Mets win -- The turning point of the season -- for me -- as the Mets beat the Giants, the first of seven consecutive victories I'd witness during the second half of an already-lost season. I enjoyed the view though. Here's a photo I took that night of Manhattan in the distance.

August 25, Mets win, Happy Anniversary, Joe and Cathy! -- We watched this game with Joe and his wife, Cathy, from the Porsche Grille, situated in the left field corner of the Excelsior Level, near our usual seats. Cathy wanted to surprise Joe for their upcoming 25th wedding anniversary, and Zach Wheeler contributed to the celebration by pitching 7 strong innings.

September 8, Mets win, Winter Hat Night -- One of the oddest promotional giveaways of the year, my Mets winter hat came in handy. It was a cool, overcast late summer's night, reminding Nancy of the scene in "Bull Durham" where Susan Sarandon attends the final game of the season in the rain. On Facebook, I posted a photo in the afterglow of the evening's 10-5 pummeling of the Phillies, as well as a pre-game pose with my new hat. Paul commented that it looked like a remnant from the Racoon Lodge in an old episode of "The Honeymooners." In a commercial on SNY, the cable TV home of the Mets, big-headed Mr. Met promoted the giveaway as fitting "most heads." And an electronic billboard outside Citi Field showed Noah Syndergaard modeling the hat. By the end of the game, the billboard had changed, so I missed the chance to post a photo of both me and Noah with the caption, "Who wore it better?"

September 13, Mets win two, Happy Anniversary, Bob and Nancy! -- Due to a rainout, this was a traditional double-header, on the occasion of our 32nd wedding anniversary. The Mets won both ends, ending the first game in dramatic fashion against Miami with back-to-back HRs in the bottom of the 9th.

This was a special night. My friends at Verizon, a Mets corporate sponsor, arranged a scoreboard message for us. I was so excited when I saw it, I only managed this blurry photo. If you squint, you can see the Mets wishing "Happy 32 Anniversary, Bob & Nancy Varretoni." OK, so they spelled our last name wrong. I blame Mr. Met's fat fingers.

Verizon also upgraded our tickets (thank you, Verizon!). We sat close to the Mets' dugout, and at one point former Met and current SNY announcer Keith Hernandez walked right past us. He patiently stopped along the way for photos and autographs. Even though Nancy and I were this close (see photo), she didn't want to approach him. Which was weird.

Have you ever sat in your living room, watching a baseball game on TV, when you look at the person sitting next to you and think, "Oh my god, I'm living with the female version of Keith Hernandez?"

Of course you haven't. Because then you'd be married to Nancy too.

While watching SNY games this summer, Nancy would make a baseball observation, and moments later Keith would make the same observation, using the same words. Nancy and Keith also share the same sarcastic sense of humor. My cat, Pumpkin, is even a bit jealous of Keith's cat, Hadji. It's not about me, I'd tell a therapist; it's just that I worry about my cat.

I told Nancy that I had arranged Keith's drive-by, and the back-to-back HRs, and the two Mets victories, all in honor of our anniversary. Nancy corrected me. She pointed out that the Mets had actually won three games on our anniversary, since the victory the night before had ended after midnight.

September 27, Mets win. Best. Birthday. Ever. -- I had an easy answer for I wanted for my birthday this year: I wanted our family to be together. With two grown daughters, this is a feat that's usually as easy as trying to reunite The Beatles, circa 1973. But by pulling "the birthday card," I managed it -- and here's a photo of me and my daughters to prove it. Before the game, we wandered down to Shea Bridge, and I again encountered Mr. Met. This time he greeted me with an exploding fist bump -- and, later, I discovered he had wished me happy birthday on Twitter. Maybe he doesn't hate me after all.

September 29, Mets win, David Wright Night -- The last game I attended was bittersweet: the only start of the season for Mets captain David Wright, the last start of his storied career. I went with Joe, and I decided, just as I had on Opening Day, to take the 7 Train to the game.

As the subway meandered through Queens (which, charitably or uncharitably, someone I know once called "The New Milford of New York" in reference to my New Jersey hometown), I couldn't help but overhear the guy sitting across from me talking on his cellphone. "That's me on the front page of The New York Post," he was saying.

After consulting my own phone to read the story, I looked up and exclaimed, "You're Chris Sobel? Welcome to New York!"

According to The Post, Chris lives in Arizona and had flown 2,400 miles just to attend this Mets game to say goodbye to The Captain. Wright had befriended Chris' son, Sean, before his death at age 17 from muscular dystrophy.

"David Wright gave me the most enjoyable moment I ever had with my son," Chris said. A Mets fan club, The 7 Line Army, had arranged for a ticket and had contributed to his travel expense. He planned to fly home that very night. Awed, touched and respectful, I chatted with Chris for a while as our train approached Willets Point, then simply shook his hand (no bro-hug, no exploding fist-bump) before meeting up with Joe.

It was Verizon Fireworks Night, so we received no promotional items when entering the stadium. That was fine. Nancy has already filled the top shelf of my grandfather's bookcase in our living room with bobbleheads and giveaways from the 2018 season, including an orange Keith Hernandez alarm clock courtesy of the Brooklyn Cyclones, a Mets minor-league affiliate.

Citi Field was packed that night. No nun was in sight. Electricity filled the air. Then the Mets took Wright out of the lineup in the 5th inning -- in what turned out to be a 13-inning game. Joe and I left the park early, well before the fireworks began. With apologies to T.S. Eliot, we were "The Hollow Men," ending the 2018 baseball season not with a bang, but a whimper.

Just like Giancarlo Stanton.
 😐