VINSANITY!

I do a lot of reading.

Usually on my iPhone.

140 characters here.

140 characters there.

It keeps me quite busy.

But there’s nothing quite like the ink of a newspaper.

Or the staples in a magazine.

I subscribe to a bunch of publications.

I just don’t read them.

Well I don’t read them right away.

But eventually I will.

I get Sports Illustrated.

And Rolling Stone.

Sporting News.

And Entertainment Weekly.

ESPN the Magazine.

And... I’m sure there are others.

But they end up stacking up.

Way up.

Until I take a trip somewhere.

Then I read them all at once on the plane.

At least I look at the pictures.

Sometimes the news can get a little old.

But if a tree falls in the forest and nobody reads it.

Is it really old news? 

I just heard that Ella Fitzgerald died.

In 1996.

So sad.

What a voice.

A few days ago I picked up a copy of Sports Illustrated.

From August.

As I was perusing through the photos, there was this one story that grabbed my attention.

By the throat.

It was about the Los Angeles Dodgers.

And their poor excuse for an owner, Frank McCourt.

Apparently McCourt wanted a little help evaluating the broadcast team for his baseball team.

So he reached out to his season ticket holders to get their feedback.

You know, the people who come in the third inning.

And leave in the seventh.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m ok with feedback.

I used to get reviewed every year.

But there are some things you just don’t do.

You don’t tug on Superman’s cape.

You don’t spit into the wind.

You don’t pull the mask off the ol’ Lone Ranger.

And you don’t mess around with Vin.

Vincent Edward Scully.

Born this day.

84 years ago.

You may know him better as just Vin.

Well Mr. McCourt apparently thought it was time to put Vin Scully and his microphone under the microscope.

Vote two thumbs for yes and one for no?

I got a finger for you Frankie Boy.

Vin Scully has been the Dodgers announcer for the last 62 years.

Frank McCourt has been on this planet for just 58.

Vin Scully has been named the California SportsCaster of the Year.

29 times!

Frank McCourt has lived in the Golden State for just seven.

Of all the people in the world who needed to be evaluated.

Vin was not one.

McCourt on the other hand.

He should be committed.

Vin Scully is more than just a broadcaster.

He is an artist.

A painter.

He paints words with his mouth.

His voice is more soothing than a Ludens Cough Drop.

Vin Scully is the best voice to ever come out of my car speaker.

Sorry Adele.

There’s no one I’d rather spend the top of the fifth with than Vin Scully.

Or the 6th.

Or the 4th.

Vin Scully is the best storyteller this side of Mr. Rogers.

Sure he slips up from time to time.

These days.

Who wouldn’t.

Vin is aged.

Like an Italian Winery.

He got a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame when it was a cobblestone street.

Sure, if you are paying extra close attention, you might get a Luis Pujols.

Even though we all know its Albert.

Or maybe you’ll hear the same story twice.

In the same inning.

Or if you are really lucky, he might call Farmer John.

Farmer Jim.

But give the guy a mulligan.

He’s older than the dirt in the Dodger Stadium infield.

He’s broadcast like 50,000 games or something like that.

And that’s just baseball.

The Catch by Dwight Clark in 1982.

Vin Scully.

PGA Golf.

Vin Scully.

He hosted The Masters eight times.

But let’s not kid ourselves.

Vin Scully = Baseball.

Dodgers Baseball.

In the fall of 1988, Vin was working for NBC.

It just so happened that the Dodgers were playing in the World Series.

And with all due to respect to the late great Jack Buck.

It was Vin who immortalized the greatest home run in baseball history.

(Ok, the greatest home run in my baseball history.)

October 15, 1988.

Two words.

Kirk Gibson.

"High fly ball into right field, she i-i-i-is... gone!!

(67 Seconds of Crowd Cheering)

"In a year that has been so improbable... the impossible has happened!

"And, now, the only question was, could he make it around the base paths unassisted?!

"You know, I said it once before, a few days ago, that Kirk Gibson was not the Most Valuable Player; that the Most Valuable Player for the Dodgers was Tinkerbell. 

But, tonight, I think Tinkerbell backed off for Kirk Gibson. 

And, look at Eckersley—shocked to his toes!

"They are going wild at Dodger Stadium—no one wants to leave!"

And no one wants you to leave.

Happy Birthday Mr. Scully.

The Blame Game

I have this friend.

Really.

Real person.

And two days ago I found out that this friend has a friend.

And this friend is a friend of a guy.

A guy who has been involved with major college football for a LONG time.

Well about five years ago, this friend (of a friend of a friend) was looking to hire someone for a job.

That someone was Jerry Sandusky.

Yes, THAT Jerry Sandusky.

Well this friend wanted to know more about Sandusky.

So he spoke with an assistant coach at Penn State.

Mike McQueary.

Yes, THAT Mike McQueary.

And in 2006 when McQueary was asked about Sandusky he responded that “(Sandusky) likes little boys.”

Yada yada yada.

Sandusky didn’t get the job.

If you haven’t figured out by now, my blog is not the New York Times.

And I don’t have two sources for what I just wrote.

And yes, it is possible that some of my t’s where not dotted.

And my i’s were not crossed.

Or whatever.

But here’s the point....

In 2006, according to my source, Mike McQueary was contacted to be a reference for Jerry Sandusky.

2006.

Four years after McQueary stumbled across Sandusky in a Penn State shower.

Molesting a boy.

A boy McQueary thought was 10-years-old.

His testimony, not mine.

And this background check came four years after McQueary didn’t tell the police about what he saw.

According to the police, not me.

But in 2006, McQueary didn’t hesitate to tell a man on the other end of the phone that Sandusky “likes little boys.”

It makes me wonder how many other people McQueary might’ve told.

Other than the police.

AFTER THE FACT.

It makes me wonder how many other people might’ve known.

BUT DID NOTHING ABOUT IT.

It makes me wonder how many other people might’ve decided to let Sandusky run free.

AND CONTINUE TO ABUSE INNOCENT CHILDREN.

Mike McQueary is a football player at heart.

Back in the day, he was the starting quarterback at Penn State.

And football players are tough.

But it has to be eating away at McQueary that he let a child molester get away with this crime.

Crimes.

At least I hope it does.

How many innocent victims could he have saved?

If he just would’ve broken that code of -- what happens in a Penn State shower stays in a Penn State shower.

Clearly McQueary wasn’t afraid to talk about what he saw.

He just didn’t talk to the right people.

He talked to his dad.

He talked to Paterno.

He talked to the school’s athletic director.

And VP of business and finance.

And none of them told the true authorities.

And if he was willing to tell someone four years after the fact, how many other people did he tell along the way.

I guess he was hoping someone else would take the ball and run with it.

You know, the football mentality. 

When I heard this news a few days ago, it made me wonder how this friend (of a friend x2) felt.

Guilty would be my guess.

Guilty would be my hope.

He found out in 2006 that Jerry Sandusky “likes little boys” and he did nothing about it.

Nothing.

Like so many others.

What would you have done?

That’s easy to say now.

When I first heard of the McQueary shower observation, I tried putting myself in his shoes.

Ok.

I’m 28... grad assistant at Penn State... trying to start a career... at 9:30pm on the night of March 1, 2002 -- I walk into the Lasch Football Building to drop off some gym shoes... I see a grown man doing things to a young boy that no one would believe.

And they really wouldn’t believe it when I see that it’s Sandusky, the longtime Penn State assistant coach.

I stand there long enough to watch what the man is doing.

Or how else would I really know what is happening.

Then I leave.

Maybe I tried to stop it.

Maybe not.

But I pass this info onto Paterno, the legend.

The 75-year-old living legend (and 40-year friend of Sandusky).

Done.

I’ve done my part.

Go Lions!

For nine years I remain silent.

Publicly.

For nine years I let Sandusky run free.

Free as a pedophiliac bird.

And for nine years I get to be a coach on the Penn State staff.

Living the dream.

All while a nightmare is living inside of me.

Don’t get me wrong, Mike McQueary is not the victim here.

Not by any stretch of the imagination.

Any.

But knowing what we all know now it’s very easy for any of us to play monday morning quarterback.

Shoulda, coulda....

I just wish one person woulda.

Let There Be Cake

My mom and I celebrated her 82nd birthday a few days ago.

I took her out for lunch.

But it wasn’t easy.

The lunch part.

I arrived at her assisted living facility at 11:15.

As I said I would.

And I asked her where she wanted to go.

As I always do.

She said anywhere.

As she always does.

So I decided to take her to a great little breakfast place.

Right around the corner from where she lives.

Only one problem.

She’s 82.

And at 82, 11:15 is not breakfast.

11:15 is lunch.

6:15 is breakfast.

So when we got to that breakfast place we asked for their lunch menu.

That’s when they pointed to the back page.

My mom was in the mood for a little soup.

And a little salad.

Which was perfect.

Because one of the (few) lunch choices on the menu was 1/2 soup and 1/2 salad.

So that’s what she ordered.

Just one problem.

They were out of lettuce.

Really.

What restaurant runs out of lettuce?

A breakfast restaurant.

That’s who.

My mom was not thrilled with this revelation.

But at 82 you go with the flow.

So she ordered the 1/2 sandwich and 1/2 soup.

She wanted a turkey sandwich.

Only they didn’t have turkey.

Really?

Really.

Really!

By this point my mom had enough.

So we politely stood up.

Said thank you.

And headed back to the car.

Fortunately there was a Mexican restaurant a mile away that worked just fine.

We got seated immediately.

Which was good.

And within moments, she locked right in on what she wanted.

Tacos.

With rice and beans.

And to our surprise, they were actually in stock.

Ole!

Honestly I didn’t really care what was on the lunch menu.

I just cared that I was having lunch with my mom.

On her birthday.

It wasn’t too long ago that celebrating another one of my mom’s birthdays felt like a bit of a long shot.

In March, the doctors told her that they had found a mass on her kidney.

In April they called it Kidney Cancer.

Believe it or not, that diagnosis didn’t sit well with her.

It didn’t sit well with me either.

But while I remained hopeful.

And optimistic.

My mom did not.

In fact it sent her into quite a tailspin.

And what made it worse was the doctors recommendation.

Wait six months.

See if it grows.

And deal with it then.

Easy enough.

For them.

Not easy enough for her.

Six months is a long time.

Especially when you’re not sure if you have six months.

I had to talk her off the ledge several times.

Which is a lot easier than it sounds.

After all, she’s in her 80s.

Bipolar.

And she lives on the third floor of her building.

Thankfully I’ve never heard the doctors tell me I have cancer.

But she has.

Now.

And as hard as I tried to tell her I know how you feel.

I don’t know how she feels.

But I told her that worrying about things you can’t control is a waste of energy.

Pretty much the same advice she had given me when I was growing up.

But the shoe had switched to the other foot.

My parent needed some parenting.

And plenty of support.

Now she was the one who needed a shoulder to cry on.

And she was the one who needed the “everything is going to be ok” speech.

Even if I wasn’t sure that everything was going to be ok.

But despite some sleepless nights.

And sleepless days.

She made it through the six months.

Until it was time for that next cat scan.

Which took place a few weeks ago.

And after six long months, the result showed nothing.

Nothing.

... that’s good.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing had grown.

Nothing had developed.

Nothing.

My mom was unsure at first what the doctors were saying.

That’s the 82 kicking in.

But upon further review, reality set in.

In a good way.

She used words like “really happy” and “very exciting” and “good news.”

Words I hadn't heard out of her mouth in a while.

At least six months.

The doctor told her that she doesn’t need to come back for another year.

Giving her the best birthday present we could've asked for.