Officer Brad Fox

Hi gang. Hope you had a good summer. I haven't written since July, huh? I suck. Wait, no I don't. Negative self-talk is just that, negative. Too much of it can lead to self-fulfilling prophecy of poor performance and an unfavorable self-image. It's better to correct your mistake, and move on. Dont' dwell on your errors or short-comings.

A quick update on that July post- I wrote a private Facebook message to Jay a few weeks ago, and as of this morning he has not written back. I sure hope it's because he doesn't check FB regularly. It has to be, right? If someone came out of the blue and had possession of a very personal piece of your, uh, personal history, wouldn't you respond? Anyway, I'll let you know if I hear from him.

Today, I want to write about something horrible that happened. There's no smooth way to segue into this.

Brad Fox was a police officer in Plymouth Township, PA and the older brother of my college roommate, Jim and he was killed in the line of duty on September 13th. 

The last time I "wrote" about this, it didn't go as well as I would have liked. It was a text message to Jim saying how sorry I was and that I was glad to have met Brad. Those parts were fine. But I also said something about finding peace in the memories of his brother. This was literally the morning after it happened. The wound was far too raw to be talking about memories. That's like seeing a guy get his arm chopped off and immediately wishing him luck with physical therapy.

Jim wrote me back a few days later, thanking me for the message. I'm don't think it bothered him. Jim always sees the best in people (unless they're a NY Rangers fan). But I was annoyed at myself. The news hit me pretty hard and I should have waited a few hours for the shock to wear off. I wonder if part of me thought that since I'd experienced the sudden loss of my father, I was extra-qualified to offer condolences and should do it right away.  I know my intentions were good, but no two losses are the same. There's no Loss Club that you join where you automatically know how someone else feels.

Before becoming a cop, Brad was a Marine and served two tours in Iraq. When we met a few years ago, I remember thanking him for his service and saying something about how I could never do it on account of me being a complete pussy. He chuckled at my civilian guilt, but then he said something to the effect of, "It's a job, like any other." I didn't agree with him, but I really admired his outlook and his bravery. He didn't flaunt it. He wasn't one of those asshole Marines. You know the type. 

To survive war, only to be victimized in his own country is disheartening to say the least. Here's the account of his death. But if there's a bright side to this tragedy, it's the incredible support that the Fox family has received. Jim told me it's been more than they ever could have expected. Here's the official Facebook page if you'd like to learn more.

Oh, How Times Have Changed

If you lived in or visited Penthouse C at 75 Jackson St in Hoboken, NJ between October 2006 and January 2009 or if you've been to my current residence, the subject of this post will be familiar to you. If you don't fall in to  any of these categories, I encourage you to read on nonetheless. You might find it interesting.

But first, a story no one has ever heard. Because I'm going to make it up right now. And, begin.

Friday, May 9th 1986 was a fine spring day in New York and Jay had the world by the balls. At least to the extent that a junior analyst could. The previous year, his firm had somehow escaped major penalties relating to a massive check-kiting scandal, and the Crash of '87 was still about a year and a half away. As far as Jay knew, this was a new beginning for banking giant E.F. Hutton, but it was actually much closer to the end. Something did begin that night though, and it would change his life. Whirlwind romances can do that.

After work, he and a few of the guys on his trading desk made the short trip from their office at The World Trade Center down to South Street Seaport to unwind with a few too many. Unlike most of his peers in those days, Jay had no appetite for cocaine. He'd tried it, sure. Who hadn't? But even as the drug tightened it's grip on the world of high finance, it just wasn't something he enjoyed.

So when his buddies went off for a toot, he found himself alone with his beer. This ritual was taking place on most Friday nights now and sometimes on the odd Thursday and it always involved Jay being forced to abide the deluded rants of the coke fiend. Or fiends, in his case. Usually he'll drink enough gin to tolerate them, but tonight he'd only had a few beers and that just wouldn't do the job. A quick cab ride back to WTC, the PATH train to Grove Street Station in Jersey City and with luck, he could be in his apartment in less than a half hour. He stood up to finish his pint, and in doing so, bumped into a woman causing her to spill her chardonnay. Their eyes met. They were in love. Her name was Leslie.

Over the next year, the young couple would run in all directions. They ate mussels in Leslie's hometown of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. They went to the dog track. Back in Manhattan, they visited the newly opened AT&T InfoQuest Center where they learned about microchips and fiberoptics, among other things.

In November they scored the hottest ticket in town: Steve Winwood at Madison Square Garden for the Back in the Highlife tour. Jay hosted his annual Christmas party. They went ice skating, they went to the Guggenheim, they saw a performance by The Paper Bag Players (Maybe one of them had a nephew or niece or something). They celebrated Valentine's Day '87. They played with a dog. They nursed one another back to health. It was a magical love affair and truly an unforgettable year.

  

















Yes, I know the story gets a bit rushed after they meet. First, it's a whirlwind. Second, it's based on a piece of art (with plenty of poetic license thrown in). As you can see, it's made up of many elements. To highlight each one would have made for quite a long tale and that's not really what this is about. This is more about the story behind the story. And another one behind that.

My roommates and I found the piece on October 1, 2006. I remember the date because it was the day we all moved in together and we were walking home after celebrating. It was with the trash on the curb, but it was wrapped in plastic. That and the period specific red frame caught our eye. One of us said, "We need some art. Grab it." We hardly looked at what it was.


When we got back to The Penthouse, we were amazed. This thing was crazy. What a bunch of random stuff.

Sorry for the glare.

Almost every person who visited our place for the first time was fascinated by it. We spent hours studying it, and I swear that I still find new details. Needless to say, I was able to claim it when we all moved out in January 2009. I was just kinda like, "I'm taking the art," and no one really argued. I don't even remember if I was the one who spotted it in the street that day. 

So now it hangs above the dinner table in our apartment, and is often the subject of alcoholically enhanced conversations and I'm very glad it does since it's pretty much the only interesting thing we own. Besides the pole.



Epilogue
We found Jay on Facebook. That's not a sentence that would have made sense in 1986. Not even the InfoQuest Center could have predicted the way social media would change our society. 

He and Leslie didn't make it. He's married to someone else and has three daughters. We figure Leslie made this for him and he lugged it around for 20 years before he finally decided to get rid of it. 

I can't decide if I want to contact him. I'm incredibly curious, but I don't want to risk somehow ruining the mystique. What do you think I should do? What should I say to him, if anything? Let me know in comments or on FB.

Meet the Mets

In honor of the team's 50th anniversary this year and because I feel like it, I'm writing about the New York Mets.

People sometimes inquire about my allegiance to the Mets. "Why the Mets?" they ask. "The Mets suck." they state. The genesis of my fanhood is their World Series win in 1986. I was in kindergarten, but I remember. Kind of. I definitely remember my old man leaving the house for one of the World Series games wearing a trash bag as a poncho. He must have owned an actual rain coat, so I don't know what the trash bag was all about. I always thought he went to the famous Game 6, but the only day that precipitation was reported during a Mets home game during the Series was Game 7. Maybe he saw the Mets win the Series. All I know is he brought be back this pennant.

However, there's another story I always give to explain/defend my Mets fanhood. One day I got called out of my first grade class at Ridge Elementary to find that my dad had surprised me with tickets to that day's game at Shea. He said "We're going to the game, son!" or something to that effect. I remember being ecstatic. My first Mets game!

(Full disclosure- This was not my first baseball game. I was brought to a Yankees game a few years earlier. I was way too young, and it was way too loud and I hated it. I cried. So that's why I hate the Yankees, I guess. Interestingly, I also cried at my first New York Giants game because my dad underestimated the bathroom line and left me alone in my seat for like a half hour. I freaked out, but it did not effect my love of the team. You never know with kids.)

Back to the Mets game. I remember it being hot. Really hot. I remember the ice in my soda melting almost immediately. I remember both of us being surprised that one of the Pittsburgh Pirates (the Mets' opponents that day, and my dad's favorite team) was wearing long sleeves under his jersey. I remember we sat on the third base side, but not sure what level. I want to say we sat in the Inner Field Box, but it easily good have been Outer Field Box. I know it wasn't the Loge level. I remember bragging about "box seats" to my friends. Box seats were a big deal. I remember seeing Straw up at bat! Number 18! That was my dog. I would go on to write a report on him in 4th grade, not long before he was traded to the Dodgers. But I don't remember who won, or any details from the game itself.

I believe we sat in the circled section.

It bothers me that I don't know what game it was. I've investigated it before, but not that thoroughly. Kind of like homosexuality. Wait, what?

But now it's time to get thorough! About figuring out which game I went to, that is. So I was in first grade from September 1987 to June 1988. Since again, it was hotter than hell that day, we can rule out it being at the end of the '87 season. In 1988 the Pirates made their first trip to Shea for a three game set from June 20-22. Was I really in school that late in June? I must have been. I cross referenced the New York weather for that period, and sure enough, it was hotter than ballz. I ruled out the game on the 20th since the high temp at LaGuardia was a mere 85 degrees. The next two days would reach 95 and 98 respectively so that means it was either June 21st or 22nd.

I have a vague recollection of seeing #16 Doc Gooden. Maybe that's just wishful remembering, but I'm going with it. So that means it was the game on 6/22/88, a 3-0 Mets victory! I feel so much better now. I hope you do too.

I love men. G Men that is! And my dad!

It's been just over a year since I wrote about professional team sports and exactly a year since my dad died. It's hard to believe it's been that long since both these things occurred. Let's revisit them today.

As you must know, (televised) sports are a big part of my life, so for it to have been this long since I wrote about them is astounding. 

Or is it? While I haven't written about sports, I've read about them almost every day. Earth to Matilda, there is a lot of brilliant sports writing on the internet. So brilliant, it made me think, "What's the point of me writing about them?" This negative attitude was partly compounded by the unearthing of a story I wrote in 8th grade that is on par with my most recent prose, in  both style and complexity.

The other problem is the three teams I pretend to know anything about (Giants, Mets, Liverpool FC) are three of the most well covered and passionately supported teams in their respective sports. You could read about these teams in hundreds or even thousands of other places. In fact, the whole internet is saturated with inane blogs about God knows what, just like this one. So why write anything at all? Why do anything at all? It's all been done. 


Ah ha! Ah ha! 


That's the point. It hasn't all been done and said. The world changes every second and there's always another point of view. There's always another story to be told. Plus, I crave the spotlight, however dim. So let's go for it!


Last year, I predicted that the Giants would defeat the Eagles at home 31-24, clinching the NFC East. Of course, that was the Matt Dodge punting to DeSean Jackson game, and the Giants went on to squander their next to chances to make the playoffs.

Well this year we're in baby! 

Side note: Who runs New York?? Woo! I went to Giants/Jets on Christmas Eve and the vibe at MetLife was fairly good natured. At least before the game, since both sets of fans secretly felt like their team kinda sucked. It was slightly less good natured after the game when the Giants faithful got their swagger back. It really was great to shut Rex's fat mouth.

He's actually doing a Globtrotters-style slide dribble with Felix Jones as the ball.

Anyway, after beating Dallas, which was just as sweet, we're in baby! A year ago, I wrote that the Giants were running the ball and rushing the passer well. This year, we're rushing the passer well! Yes, the pass rush disappeared for about 5 games after a strong start, but it's back now. This can be attributed to the return of Osi (he's still good!) and the continuted growth of the man-child, Jason Pierre-Paul. What can I say about JPP that hasn't already been said? He's an athletic freak who had a huge breakthrough about half way through the season, and now he'll play in the Pro Bowl. And guess what: HE'S STILL LEARNING! He's sharpening his instincts like an adolescent wolf who just joined the hunt. 

In other team news,

Eli: Elite

Cruuuuuz: Sick

Nicks: Still sick, despite the drop against da Skinz and the way he holds the ball like loaf of bread when he's running.

Rookie FB Henry Hynoski: Sooo fucking sick. You see those first down catches and a hurdle against the Cowboys?

Bradshaw/Jacobs: Not too sick this year, but they're showing signs of sickness. I've been really unimpressed with new center David Baas and the run blocking overall. O-Line, LB, and the secondary need help. Even without the injuries that have crushed these areas, they need upgrades.

Following a similar game plan from last week, the Giants will beat the Falcons 27-20 on Sunday. Then on to Green Bay! Woop! Woop!


We'll save in depth analysis of the Mets and LFC for another time. I'm too depressed to talk about the Mets, but the Pool cruised to a 5-1 victory over Oldham Athletic in the FA Cup today, with captain Steven Gerrard scoring from the penalty spot and Steward Downing netting his first goal for the club.


In a silky-smooth segue, the old man passed a year ago yesterday (1/5). I can't talk about, or think about, or play sports without thinking of him. I mean, I can, but you get my point. There's a strong connection!

It's been kind of a weird year. I was pretty pumped on 2011, but got thrown off track, early on. I can't believe it's been over a year since I heard his voice. Here's something that sucks: I had old voicemails he'd left me, and I was going to listen to them when I was ready. But then I updated my phone and *poof! they were erased! Bummer! So I never got to hear those again. I didn't mourn Steve Jobs for this reason. Also because I never met him. I know he made great products, but dang.


So dad, I miss you. You're with me every time I play golf and despite iTunes updates, I can still hear your voice.

What's new?

Hello friends. Have I really not posted here since August? That's pretty bad. Let me get you up to speed. 

The major event in my life over the last few months was my wedding. It was something. I don't really know what else to say about it. It really was...something. When I think about the day, it's almost like recalling a sex dream. Some details are crystal clear, while others are hazy, but either way you feel like you should have enjoyed it more at the time. That doesn't mean I didn't have fun at my wedding, because I most definitely did. See for yourself.

(A quick aside in regards to that footage: I know it was my wedding and I don't need to defend my actions, but I feel a little sheepish. Baaaah. The bottom line is that I simply cannot help myself. Last year, I sang B and the J's at a friend's wedding by request. I was asked, leading up to my big day if I would be singing again. My response was, "No. No one is singing at my wedding." Well you can see what happened. I knew the song would get played at some point that night, but neither bride nor crooning groom knew it would be played during the cake cutting. The song came on, and I just took off. My dad would have loved it and that makes me happy, then sad for a sec, then happy again.)

So yes, I had fun at my wedding. In fact, and I don't mean to brag, but a few people said it was the best wedding they'd ever been to. That's serious talk right there. But hey, our DJ killed it and the dance floor was full almost all night. Plus we had a great food, so what else do you want? Well, there are just a couple of things I would have changed. 


First, I wish Ria and I had been able to visit with more of our guests. We only made it to two (two?!) tables. We both felt bad about that. Along the same line, I can't believe I didn't introduce my grandmother to Ria's oldest uncle. They both speak Italian, and it would have been fun for them to meet. Probably. Also, maybe I would have drank a bit less because like I said, certain details are hazy.






As is often the case, after the wedding came the honeymoon. We visited Italy's beautiful Amalfi Coast. The food, the scenery, the people, all fantastic.

Fantastic.

So what else? Well, I've been spending a lot of time on my future advertising career. This term my team's products are The Golf Channel and Panama hats. Yes, just Panama hats in general. Did you know they actually come from Ecuador? Swear to God. I don't have anything to show you from those campaigns yet, but here's one for A&W Root Beer from last term.

CW: Scott Jones    AD: Joshua Sun

This and the other pieces of the campaign are trying to evoke some childhood nostalgia by playing off terms typically associated with alcoholic beverages. In this case, "buzzed." 


And I'm sure we'll all be more than buzzed over the holidays. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Great Equalizer

The other day, I decided to play nine holes at the executive course near my home. If you're unfamiliar with that term, an executive course is shorter, cheaper, and usually in worse shape than a regulation golf course. To help you remember this, just remember what a shitty job our nation's executives have done. By the way, that was business joke, not a political one, lest you think Barak isn't still my dog. Because he is. 

After getting an awesome parking spot, I realized I forgot my wallet at home. Giving up a money spot is bad enough, but it was made more painful when I saw mustachioed douche in a red Boxter waiting to claim what was mine. Each blink of his turn signal, dagger of light cutting through my soul. To be fair, it was my fault. To be even more fair, it was actually a Carrera convertible. I decided I wasn't meant to play golf that day, so I made a sandwich instead.

About 20 hours later, wallet in hand, I drove back to the course and, you're not going to believe this, scored the same parking spot I was forced to give up a day earlier. A sign! My first hole-in-one was only minutes away, I was sure of it. Now, I usually play the back nine at this course but today I decided to hit the putting green first, and play the front nine instead since it looked less crowded. And for the first three holes, it was.

I think I started bogey-bogey-par. I think. 

I definitely made par on the challenging 92 yard 3rd and that's when I realized the player I'd been staying ahead of was going to catch me. The log jam ahead allowed me to hit a few extra putts before it was my turn to wait at the fourth, a robust 291 yard par 4. As I sat, contemplating my place in the universe, a black woman with kind eyes walked over the hill, looking a little unsure of herself. 


"It looks like we're going to be waiting a while. You're welcome to join me. I'm Scott."

"I'm Nita." 

We shook hands and I was surprised by the firmness of her grip. As I learned a little about Nita over the next few hours, it made sense. I only could imagine how many handshakes she's exchanged over the years.


"I'm not very good." she said.


"Neither am I. I just have nice golf shoes." (Which I do, thanks Matt and Annie.)


"How long have you been playing?"


"Off and on since I was a kid."


"Well then, you're good. I've only been playing for about nine months."


She told me that she picked up the game just for the challenge of it. "I feel like if I focus on something, I can do it. Plus it's good for business. Customers want to play golf, so I figure I should try to at least be respectable at it."


Finally, we were able to tee off. The pressure was on, since Nita was convinced I was a young Sam Snead. Predictably, I hit a low hook that went nowhere.


"I told you I wasn't any good, Nita."


"Hit another one. We're out here for practice."


Love this woman. I accepted her offer, and hit it off the toe a bit, but it went straightish, just barely into the right rough.


"Woah! I didn't even see that one, it went so far!" God bless her, I only hit it 200 yards. Again, I love this woman.


She hooked her first tee shot, just like I did, but she was able to poke her second attempt into the fairway. My second shot went over the green, leaving me with a tough down hill chip shot, that ran well past the hole. Two putts for bogey. I forget how Nita did. She was actually pretty handy with the putter even though she seems to aim right and putts across her body. She also holds the putter below the grip. Later, I would try to get her to take a more conventional stance, but she found it uncomfortable. 


The next hole was a fun little down hill par 3 with a bunker protecting the front right, 114 yards or something. 

We had another wait, so I asked her what kind of business she's in that made her want to pick up golf. "Well I retired as VP of Volvo last year, now I run a consulting firm." Woah. The round took on a new complexion. At least for a bum like me. She wasn't a player, but she was a player. Ya dig? She was with Volvo for 30 years and worked her way up the ranks to VP of Human Resources, reporting directly to the CEO. Growing up in Virginia, she was a child of the civil rights movement and thinking about the obstacles she had to overcome to get where she was absolutely blew my mind.

"What club do you hit here?" she asked. "Uh, I've got this 54 degree wedge, it's more lofted than a pitching wedge. It's like a sand wedge." 

 "Now what do you mean by lofted? Does that mean it's heavier?" Wow, she really was new to the game.


"Well it is a bit heavier by nature, but loft refers to the angle of the club face."


"Wow, you can hit a sand wedge that far? Go for it."


Now, Nita hits driver on every hole, so I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that she was surprised by my length. Anyway, I hit a nice high one to within 10 feet.


"Oh my gosh, that was beautiful!" Nita exclaimed. "It looks so pretty when you get it way up in the air like that!" I liked impressing her. Even more so, now that I knew she was somebody.


"Thanks, Nita. I hit that one pretty well." Yes, she pulled driver and hit a pretty good one just left of the green. I'd already established that she was ok with me offering tips here and there, but there was no way I could begin to explain the intricacies of the short game. She was on her own. And so, she skulled it across the green. I just missed my birdie putt and tapped in for par. Nita was into me for a Finski. Easy money. Just kidding.


After another par 3, we got to another driving hole. But again, they're all driving holes for Nita. I hit one solid, but a little left. Nita was in awe. Her drive was ok. She hit a few duffers and it looked like she was getting discouraged. 


"Nita, you looked up on that last one. This time, keep your head down, and I'll watch where it goes. Deal?"


"Deal."


What does she do, but hit a nice high fade, landing it about 12 feet past the cup, then spins it back, leaving herself with a gimmie and yells, "Yeah motherfucker! That's what I'm talking about! King Kong ain't got shit on me!"


Ok, that's not what happened. BUT, she did get it up in the air nicely for her most solid shot so far. Landed just short of the green. 


"Good deal, Nita?"


"Good deal!"


We bumped knuckles. I really enjoyed helping her, but my best tip was yet to come. I'd noticed earlier that she was playing her driver and longer clubs too far back in her stance and I explained to her why it's necessary when hitting driver to play the ball of the inside of your left foot. Once she made this adjustment, she drove the shit out of the ball. Ok, not the shit, but much, much better. She said that her $175/hr lessons didn't help her as much as that little tip did. I joked that I'd start charging her on the back 9. Hilarious, I know. Golf humor.


So we had fun the rest of the day. I mostly played bad. I learned that her husband's uncle is the late Larry Doby. Blew my mind for at least the second time that day. Juanita Doby has led an incredible life and it was a true pleasure to spend a few hours with her. Where else but on the golf course would I have felt comfortable talking to such an accomplished woman? Where else but on the golf course would our paths have even crossed?

A Simple Solution

As we start the second half of the 2011 Major League Baseball season, we've seen a record(?) number of first half manager and player ejections with 119 (and a few more over the weekend). Tigers manager Jim Leyland had this to say about the current climate in MLB:

"For some reason, it appears to me that the tension level is much more than it should be between managers, players, coaches and umpires. I know Joe Torre (Major League Baseball's executive vice-president of operations) is trying to get it resolved, but right now the tension seems worse. I'm not just talking about us. I'm talking throughout baseball. I'm not criticizing anybody in particular, but I'm making the point that we all have to work together to resolve this situation because it's getting out of hand." 

Why is everyone so jacked up? First, there are some bad umps like Angel Hernandez who regularly miss calls, causing the wronged team's manager to lose his shit. I also feel like umpires are out of position quite a lot. And of course there are always going to the "bang-bang" plays when the ump has to take a guess. But the real issue is that umpires are under more pressure than they've ever been under before. With high def TV and the networks having every camera angle possible, the viewer can instantly see when an umpire has blown a call. I've heard that arguing managers will tell umpires things like, "Wait till you see the replay. You're gonna look bad." Actually, I heard this from Keith Hernandez during a Mets telecast.

There's Leyland. Arguments could be a thing of the past.

But whether a missed call is an egregious or honest mistake, there's an easy solution. It's so simple that it must have been thought of already. A 5th (or during the playoffs, a 7th) umpire who has both the home and away television feeds and can automatically correct a missed call on the field. We can call him The Overlord. Why do umps have to leave the field to review a tough homerun call? Just let The Overlord handle it. Blown call at first base by a normally reliable umpire that costs a young pitcher a perfect game? The Overlord steps in. He can flash his ruling on the scoreboard. Reviews wouldn't take more than 10 seconds would they? Again, the camera angles, slo-mo, and HD are so good now, you can determine the call in one, maybe two replays. The natural pace of the game allows for these calls to be corrected before the next pitch is thrown. If the call on the field is correct, nothing happens. Look at replays in tennis. They take a few seconds, they're exciting, and they're conclusive. Maybe MLB can borrow some of that technology. In fact, I believe Japanese professional baseball already has. They'd better, since you're allowed to berate the umpire without fear of ejection.

Why can't this work? Seriously, tell me. Unlike the NFL, baseball doesn't manufacture opportunities for ad revenue. That's why the NFL will never improve (shorten) their replay process. So MLB wouldn't lose anything by adopting my idea. And don't even give me the "human element" argument. Isn't that what starts wars? The human element is overrated. Now, I'm going to immediately contradict myself. I don't think things like K-Zone or Pitch Trax should be used to officially determine balls and strikes. I just don't. That really would slow the game down. But most other plays could be reviewed with minimal effect on game time.

Embrace The Overlord.