Let's Honor Derek Jeter by Not Deifying Him

There was no one but a German shepherd in the dugout of the best baseball game I saw this summer.

All nine of the team’s players – dressed in full uniforms with Seadogs blazoned across their chests – were out on the field, and the dog belonged to the second baseman.

Their pitcher was tired. He had just walked the leadoff batter – and a player came charging out of the Sharks’ dugout to serve as third-base coach with a runner on first.

The pitcher turned to the shortstop, said something vaguely obscene, and all the infielders trotted to the mound and conferred for a few seconds. When they dispersed, the shortstop was the pitcher and pitcher was the shortstop. One of two black-suited umpires said, “Play ball,” in a disarmingly young voice, and on the first pitch the batter launched a pop foul that landed at my feet.

I picked up the scuffed ball. “Hey, a little help here!” the catcher called out from the other side of the chain-link backstop. So I threw the ball back onto the field.

Baseballs, after all, cost $14.99 each at Dick’s Sporting Goods – and the players here pay all the equipment costs. They aren’t millionaires, and the only people watching them besides me were a few family members and girlfriends. This was, after all, just a bar league game in Chatham, a few weeks after the Cape Cod Baseball League had ended play.

I had seen the ballpark’s shining lights in the distance on an ordinary Thursday night and had wandered over to watch 20 grown men dress up and play nine innings… just for the love of the game.

As this year’s MLB playoffs begin without Derek Jeter, I’m conflicted – perhaps as conflicted as the former Yankee shortstop himself – by his deification.

I’m a lifelong Yankee fan, and I’ve admired his play and demeanor for years. I don’t pretend to know Derek Jeter, the man. But I can promise you this: he is not, as seemingly every sports reporter or announcer has claimed, “larger than life.”

Life and baseball are larger than Derek Jeter.

If we really want to honor his legacy, maybe we can all try this week to give someone else just a little help here.

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A Taste for Something Different

“Variety is the spice of life,” was the advice I often received, non-ironically, from my grade school teachers at St. James in Totowa, New Jersey.

I’m thinking of these Franciscan nuns, all dressed alike, on the eve of my birthday tonight.

I confess I must have let them all down because I have worked at the same company, been married to the same woman and lived in the same house for more than two decades.

But still, I am thankful for it all. Just two weeks ago, for instance, I was walking hand-in-hand with my wife down a dark, silent road under the breath-taking light of thousands of stars.

We were on Cape Cod, a long way from the virtually-starless light-polluted skies of suburban New Jersey. I was excitedly pointing out constellations, and I was so animated that my wife was laughing at me.

The Cape has become a favorite haunt of ours. And why? Because I seemingly have no taste buds.

One day, years ago, I was standing in line waiting for soup at the Aramark cafeteria in the Verizon building. It was New England Clam Chowder Day, always my favorite.

“You’re not going to actually eat that crap?” boomed a Boston-accent from behind me. It was Peter Thonis – the same boss I had for a dozen years.

“What?” I said. “I like this!”

“That’s not clam chowder,” he hissed.

A few days later, I challenged him to tell where to get real clam chowder. So he turned over a scrap of paper on his desk and drew a map of Cape Cod. He embellished it with various points of interest, and my wife and I decided to take our two daughters to the Cape that summer using Peter’s rough drawing as a treasure map.

The Cape turned out to be a magical place where natural laws ceased to exist. Our first day there we were traveling due north on Route 28 South, and we stopped for lunch at a dive called Moby Dick’s.

I ordered the soup. “Ha, they serve it in a cardboard container here too!” I said to my daughter Maddy, who looked at me, as she so often does, with confusion.

But when I took my first spoonful, I got a look on my face that concerned Maddy even more.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” she tugged at my sleeve. I think she thought I was about to cry.

I smiled and shook my head.

“Maddy,” I said, “THIS is clam chowder.”

Sometimes, even a simple life can be full of wonder.

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Real Life: More Poignant Than Salinger

In Real Life: Love, Lies & Identity in the Digital Age by Nev Schulman

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


“Life is that happens when you’re busy not looking down at your smartphone.” That’s a quote @NevSchulman comes very close to using in channeling John Lennon in “In Real Life: Love, Lies & Identity in the Digital Age.” And – despite the fact that I work for Verizon and have both respect and wonder for the power of mobile technology – I believe this comes very close to the core of many of today’s relationship problems.

So I was fascinated with the first half of this new book and the profound insights the author gained from his “Catfish” documentary and MTV show.

The collaborative narrative woven by Nev Schulman and Angela Wesselman rivals anything I’ve read about the fictional Glass family. I wonder, are the stories of today’s online relationships this generation’s version of J.D. Salinger?

The book's second half devolves into relationship and life advice, primarily for younger unmarrieds – all good stuff, but not as compelling to me as the poignant catfishing stories.

View all my reviews

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An Abject Apology to Stephen King

A Facebook post by James Patterson has just put more fear in my heart than any of the last three books I’ve read by Stephen King.

Mr. Patterson, whose books have sold more than 300 million copies, posted a snippet of a favorable review from an average reader. He wrote, “You might not know that I read the reviews you post about my books… Sometimes I’m tickled pink by the nice things people write about them.”

I am the very definition of an Average Reader, and lately I have been disappointed by one of my favorite authors, Stephen King, whose books have sold more than 350 million copies.

I’ve expressed this by recently posting three-star Goodreads reviews of three of Mr. King’s books. (All are the audible.com versions… I love listening to audio books during my commute.)

I’m frightened that should Mr. King stumble upon these reviews, he would think himself entirely justified to drive up to my house, ring my bell and kick me in the shins when I answer the front door.

To spare you a visit to Goodreads – where you can read the full reviews here – the following is a summary of my trilogy of disappointment:

1. Doctor Sleep – I enjoyed the book, but it was just too damn long. The audible.com version was divided into 3 chunks of 7 hours. I had gotten through about half the first part, then accidentally picked up the story halfway through the second part – and I was able to follow the story just fine. “You know,” I said to my wife, “Maybe… just maybe… Stephen King needs an editor.”
2. Mr. Mercedes - This was another entertaining read, but it lacked any extra touches that might suggest it was written by Mr. King. I kept checking to see if I hadn’t inadvertently been listening to a story by Dean Koontz. Who, by the way, has sold more than 450 million books.
3. Everything’s Eventual – To cut Mr. King some slack, I then listened to an anthology of older stories. Same result. The rub? Several stories seemed to go on and on without ending. You’d think the plot had run its course, but no. My oh-so-clever Goodreads analysis played this out by extending the review for another whole page to illustrate the point about how annoying it can be when things just… won’t… end.

If I’m really so clever, however, I should write a better story myself. But I know that unlike Messrs. Patterson, King and Koontz, I’ll never be able to touch more than billion souls.

I’ve sold zero books in my lifetime. On my very best day as a writer, I haven’t influenced as many lives as Mr. King has when he composes a grocery list.

Besides…

Halloa, Watson! What’s that? Is that someone ringing my front door bell??

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An Ode to Joy Rides (Reflections on the Night Before School Starts When Your Kids Are Grown)

Today, viewing all my friends’ Facebook photos of cute children dressed for the first day of school, I’m reminded that I’ve already taken my last joy ride.

A “joy ride” is a father-daughter outing on the last night before school starts. I invented it and, over the years, I dare say I perfected it.

Take, for example, this photo of the empty gazebo at Cooper’s Pond in Bergenfield, NJ.

Less than 20 years ago, on this same night in that same gazebo, you’d have seen a somewhat chubby dad dancing with abandon with a laughing little girl wearing her 101 Dalmatian onesie pajamas.

That would have been the first of my eldest daughter’s many joy rides.

Joy rides grew to become legendary — even epic — ending at dawn last year in a hot air balloon over central New Jersey before my youngest daughter returned to college.

I can’t tell you the details of all that happened in between — in part because Joy Ride, like Fight Club, involved a sacred trust summed up by three little words that will forever bind me to my daughters: “Don’t Tell Mom.”

I will admit, without pride, that there was some underage driving involved. Also a memorable road trip with both daughters to Philadelphia. In later years, I recall the fleeting image of a man in dreadlocks with a parrot on his shoulder in Newark. But really, it’s best for all of us if I don’t elaborate because then I’d have to explain why my younger daughter once lovingly turned to me and said, “You’re despicable!”

On Joy Ride night, we ritualistically abandoned the laws of man. We mocked the concepts of getting a sensible night’s sleep or of minding our diets. And we sure as hell had fun because, in the immortal words of Aunt Joann (who somehow, without her knowledge, wound up as our muse), “The world is our oyster.”

Tonight, just a few minutes ago, I received a message from my daughter — the little girl in the gazebo. She sent a photo of something fun she was doing on her last night of vacation before starting work.

Her caption was simple: “Joy Ride 2.0.”

As for myself, far away from both daughters, I don’t know what I might do tonight. There’s only one thing I know for sure:

I won’t be getting a good night’s sleep.

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Why I Hate Yelp and Love My Wife

(With apologies to James Thurber -- and his short story, "What Do You Mean It Was Brillig?)

I was sitting with my iPad on the couch this morning, staring at the screen, when Nancy walked by.

"It looks like the elks are going to pay for the maps!" she said cheerfully.

It did not surprise me that they were. Living with Nancy, it would not surprise me if the elks not only paid for the maps, but also bought drinks for the caribou. No doubt hilarity would ensue.

Life with Nancy is always brillig; she can outgrade a mome rath on any wabe in the world. Only Lewis Carroll would understand my wife completely. I try hard enough.

I tried Googling this phrase and found myself at the Colorado Parks & Wildlife site. I could have continued, as I often do on lazy Saturdays, wandering the Internet. But I had no interest in obtaining a license to hunt elk.

So I simply asked Nancy to explain further -- and discovered the prosaic truth that she was referring to elks with a capital E and certain maps of interest to our local Historic Preservation Commission.

A typical Saturday: My mind sometimes works so fast that my body can't keep up with it.

Anyway, this evening, I wanted to go someplace different for dinner, so I suggested that we finally try Luigi's -- an iconic-looking small restaurant on a Ridgefield Park side street that we have driven past for years.

It was wonderful... in the sense that the food was terrific and the atmosphere was unique. For example, there was a large crucifix hanging in the dining room.

The waitress/bartender was friendly and charming, with a uniquely warm and melodic voice. The rest of clientele, gathered around the bar at the other side of the room, was engaged in a high-spirited, intelligent and witty conversation about first love, complete with obligatory references to "How I Met Your Mother."

I thought the place was so great -- and, truly, it was the best cheese tortellini I had ever eaten, and they had ice cold Peroni on tap, for God's sake -- that I immediately Googled it when we returned home.

Despite being a family-owned restaurant in business since 1948, Luigi's received mixed reviews.

I was, in fact, horrified by the litany of mean-spirited, semi-anonymous reviews -- not only for Luigi's but seemingly for all local restaurants. One woman, from stay-classy-Bergenfield, NJ, was upset that Luigi's didn't accept a "double take" coupon and yet managed to have dinner for three for $27.70. An unedited excerpt from her Yelp review speaks for itself:

"It was taking a little long for anyone to come take our order but then a lady shows up. Hispanic girl, fairly young, nice looking and somewhat friendly. She brings our drinks and takes our order. While putting our drinks on the table, She sort of bent down and I noticed that her blouse dipped down too low and she gave my husband a major peep show, LOL. It didn't even look like she had a bra from my angle. I pointed it out to my husband and we both laughed about the classiness of this chick. An anka tatoo front and center of her chest was visible and then no bra or so we thought."

Nancy, meanwhile, loved the waitress, and the experience, and the food. We had a great time tonight.

No, Luigi's is not Olive Garden.

And this is why I love Nancy.

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Not That I Have Anything Against Cats...

Post by Bob Varettoni.

Let Us Now Praise Harper Lee: A Review of "The Mockingbird Next Door"

The Mockingbird Next Door: Life with Harper Lee by Marja Mills

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

After reading “The Mockingbird Next Door,” I admire Harper Lee even more -- and I didn’t think that was possible.

I can’t fathom why the celebrated author, now 88, says she never authorized the book. There’s too much detail here to disavow (the whole scene of watching “Capote” in her living room, for example). These details describe a smart, witty, engaging, opinionated and proudly unconventional woman who was born and raised at the right time, in the right place, and who had just the right artistic temperament, to produce what might be America’s greatest novel.

I love the Harper Lee portrayed in this book... the aging, lively and complex author who never wrote a second novel. And what difference does that make? If the Devil himself offered 10 million writers the chance to tell only one story of the caliber of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” he’d be able to purchase 10 million souls in a heartbeat.

I feel, in fact, embarrassed that Lee had to put up with the rest of us clowns in this new millennium. I cringed reading Marja Mills' description of watching the 2004 Super Bowl with the Lee sisters. Were those really erectile dysfunction commercials? Did they really just see Janet Jackson’s breast? There are the many cups of coffee Mills shared with Lee at McDonald’s, watching her neatly fold and refold spent packets of Splenda... going to senior exercise classes in Monroeville... waiting with Lee for a table at Bonefish Grill while surrounded by oblivious business-suited young professionals on cell phones.

Why did we drag down such a transcendent talent in her later years by surrounding her with such petty ordinariness?

I also read with interest about how much time Lee anonymously spent in New York, taking public transit and rooting for the New York Mets. I think now of all the times I may have passed her on the streets or ignored her on the 7 train when I worked in New York in the early 2000s. With respect to E.B. White, this gift of privacy bestowed for many years on Harper Lee is exemplary of New York City's true magic.

My quibble with this respectfully written book is that the author injects too much of herself in the telling. For all the time Mills reminds us what great storytellers Lee and her sister Alice were, we don’t actually get to read all those stories.

Apparently, many stories were kept off the record on purpose -- and, to me, this lends credence to the belief that Lee cooperated with its publication.

No matter. When it comes to Harper Lee and in spite of how much I enjoyed this book, I’m OK with keeping her life surrounded in a little mystery. I think we all owe her at least that much.

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Writing Lessons From Microsoft and Weird Al Yankovic

This week I have been humbled by Microsoft and Al Yankovic.

First came the “Hello There” memo that announced 12,500 layoffs amid a mountain of jargon.

Then came the parody video “Mission Statement” that seemed to reach into my computer to pull out whole phrases from my hard drive.

Rather than sue Weird Al for plagiarism, I think it’s time for me – and all corporate communicators – to respect the fact that we’re all just playing with loaded guns.

Real writing is dangerous. This hit home while reading Marja Mills’ new memoir "The Mockingbird Next Door":

• The first few pages quote Harper Lee’s description of Maycomb, Alabama, in 1932. It’s been far-too-many years since I last read those lines – and they still gave me goosebumps.

• I also remembered that my dad didn’t want me to read “To Kill a Mockingbird” in 8th Grade because, he thought, the book was “too dangerous” due to its depictions of racism and rape. I read the book in defiance, to prove to him I was a grownup.

As a dad myself, I sometimes recited poems to my little girls at bedtime. Their favorite was invariably the last poem ever written by Edgar Allan Poe, “Annabel Lee”:

• “We want to hear the ‘I was a child' one!” they’d excitedly beg in 1994.

• “Da-ad, do you know how depressing that poem is?” they protest 20 years later.

Yet it’s still a favorite poem and vivid memory for them; me too.

Real words crafted by real writers have meaning and resonance for decades.

The written word is so powerful that even the disguised phrases we sometimes use to communicate layoffs or express business concepts have incalculable impact on real people.

Perhaps the blank pages of all writers – even corporate communicators -- should include a warning label like those required on cigarette packaging… or like the dangerously evocative label on Woody Guthrie’s old guitar.