You Live, You Learn

Time to put all of my post-its into one blog.  Enjoy!   

Sir Bacon

My father-in-law doesn’t like eggplant.

I learned that today.

He is Korean.

And Californian.

And is in town visiting.

During lunch he informed us that he doesn’t eat eggplant.

And hasn’t since 1952.

“That’s all we ate during the war,” he said.

And he got sick of it.

Sixty years ago.

It’s funny what you learn.

And when.

*****

I learned that you never know who you are going to meet at 7/11.

The other day the guy in front of me bought two packages of Marlboro 100s.

A Penthouse Magazine.

Face Down.

And a beef stick.

He told the cashier.

“I’ll bet you didn’t recognize me without my Wendy’s uniform on.”

Who knew Wendy’s paid so well.

*****

A few months back I took my family to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall.

My youngest daughter asked if my oldest daughter was going to be a Rockette one day.

My wife said, “she’s not going to be a Rockette.”

“She’s going to be a rocket.. scientist.”

*****

I spent an entire week in the barracks of Cooperstown with my son and his 12-year old baseball team.

I learned that one of the boys wants to be a youth pastor when he gets older.

He asked me who my favorite Christian artist was.

“Is Lil Wayne Christian?”, I responded.

How would I know.

I’m Jewish.

*****

I learned that time can erase a lot from your memory.

When I got to Cooperstown I had forgotten about a trip we made there when I was in my teens.

I was there with my mom, dad and brother.

It got so hot in our hotel, we opened a window.

A short time later, a bat flew in.

Not a baseball bat.

Even though we were in Cooperstown.

A real bat.

Dracula-ish bat.

While I dove under the covers, my brother smashed it with a tennis racket.

Like he was Bjorn Borg.

Brother-1, Bat-0.

*****

I learned that having a peanut allergy can be dangerous.

And humiliating.

When you walked in the mess tent in Cooperstown, there was a roped off area for the kids with a peanut allergy.

The thought was right.

But it looked like they were eating in jail.

*****

I learned that I really got along well with one of the dads.

Who is also an assistant coach.

“I wish we would’ve got to know each other better over the last five years,”  he told me.

“Because we are alike.”

The next thing I knew we were taking a shower together.

In the community shower.

With 10 other dads.

I’ve never met.

I learned that bathing suits were required in the boys showers.

But optional for the men.

*****

I learned that some men like shaving in the shower.

Even the community shower.

Even the guy who had more hair on his back.

Than he did on his face.

Or his head.

*****

I learned that Cooperstown Dreams Park is run by a dictator.

Those were his words.

Not mine.

I asked him why we couldn’t wear our own team hats with the uniform they provided.

“I don’t want the teams to look like a gigolo in Atlantic City.”

He also told us that the boys need to wear their pants pulled up to the knees.

So they don’t look like “thugs.”

Sir, Yes Sir!

*****

I learned that there is a new theatre for performing arts in Oneonta, New York.

“Good bands are coming this year,” I was told.

“The Wailers were just here -- Bob Marley’s old band.”

“Blue Oyster Cult is next.”

“Oooooooh”, I thought.

“I hope they play Burnin for You.”

Who's next, The Knack?

Weekend at Grossinger's

Grossinger’s Resort.

Grossinger’s Resort.

Grossinger’s Resort.

Did I mention -- GROSSINGER’S RESORT.

Those two words changed my blog.

For at least a day.

You see Sunday I wrote a blog about my recent trip to Cooperstown.

And in that blog I mentioned that my father and I went to Grossingers Resort in upstate New York when I was 12.

Then I made the smooth, almost seamless transition to the trip I took with my 12-year old son last week to Cooperstown.

In upstate New York.

Those are the types of segues that win Pulitzer Prizes people.

But what does this have to do with my blog.

Well, here’s what.

Monday night I was watching Goldmember in the basement with my kids.

At some point between Mike Myers costume changes I picked up my iPhone and clicked on sitemeter.com.

That’s the software that shows me who is reading my blog at that exact second.

(It’s so addicting.)

Well as soon as it loaded, I immediately noticed something abnormal.

The number of eyeballs on the blog had gone bonkers.

Now when I say bonkers, I’m not talking youtube bonkers.

Or even perezhilton bonkers.

Sir Bacon is still a local mom and pop operation.

But at 10:30pm ET on Monday night, I had dozens of readers on my website.

At a time when on some nights I don’t even have one.

Readers from Port Saint Lucie, Florida.

Amarillo, Texas.

Mattawa, Washington.

Bixby, Oklahoma.

Warrenton, Virginia.

And the Czech Republic.

And MANY others.

So I put on my Inspector Clouseau hat to get some answers.

That’s what journalists do.

Well it turns out every single one of those readers had found Sir Bacon from the same exact place.

The yahoo search engine.

By searching for the same exact words.

Grossinger’s.

and

Resort.

I hear Grossinger’s is huge in the Czech Republic.

I did some snooping to see if Grossinger’s was in the news last week.

Nothing.

My friend said maybe Howard Stern mentioned Grossinger’s on his show.

Nothing.

Maybe the return of Fear Factor is being shot at the Grossinger’s Resort.

Nothing.

Now the initial surge into sirbaconville certainly caught me off guard.

But what really blew me away was how it continued.

For the next day-and-a-half.

And during that time I had literally 20 times the amount of readers I usually get.

And 99% of the readers found me by searching for those same two magical words.

“Grossinger’s” and “Resort”.

Now the fact that hundreds of people -- from all over the world --were all searching for a resort in upstate New York at the same time is a little funny.

And the fact that they all stumbled across my blog by doing that search is a little bizarre.

But here’s where it gets flat out creepy.

Oliver Stoney if you will.

According to wikipedia, Grossinger’s Catskill Resort Hotel closed its doors.

In 1986.

25 years ago!

(Cue the Halloween music.)

Now I’ve been writing this here blog for the last 18 months.

And I’ve been constantly blown away by how many people have found it.

And I thank every single one of you for doing so.

But it’s not like I’m advertising Sir Bacon on the Super Bowl.

This is a word of mouth thing.

And the fact that anybody has found me still blows me away.

But how is it that casually mentioning a hotel in my blog.

A hotel that closed its doors 25 years ago.

Can increase my audience by 20 times.

That makes no sense.

If it’s really that easy...

I’ll be writing a blog on Grossinger’s Resort every Monday.

The 1959 Edsel Ford every Tuesday.

My favorite M*A*S*H* episodes on Wednesdays.

I’ll have a million followers by Thursday, right?

Thank you Grossinger’s.

RIP.

Quite A Parent

There were a lot of high points in Cooperstown last week.

There were a lot of low points too.

The 18-0 loss.

The 15-2 loss.

The 22-0 loss.

The 16-2 loss.

The 6-5 loss.

In extra innings.

Don’t forget the 15-0 loss.

Those were all low points.

But the lowest of the lows for me was when I got called out by an umpire.

It didn’t happen on the field.

Or in the dugout.

It happened right in the middle of the complex.

We had just finished the 15-0 loss when I decided to give my son a piece of my mind.

Timing is everything.

It had nothing to do with the 15.

Or the 0.

Or the loss.

It had to do with his character.

He had done something that I really had a problem with.

And I felt like he needed to hear what I had to say.

So I pulled him aside and started chewing.

Unfortunately mid-chew an umpire walked right past us.

“Son, are you having fun?”, he said.

“Not at the moment,” I responded.

“Yeah.  I can tell,” said the umpire.

Who just kept walking.

Not much of a conversation.

But it said a quattuordecillion words.

If you knew what I was mad about, I have no doubt you would understand why I felt the way I did.

And you might even agree with my choice of feedback.

But despite my effort to pull my son aside.

My lecture was way too public.

For me.

And I’m sure for him.

I wasn’t looking for an audience.

And I definitely didn’t need someone to officiate.

But the whole thing ruined the rest of my day.

I can only image what it did to my son.

I’ve never claimed to be the father of the year.

Well there was that blog back in February.

But I really didn’t mean it.

That was sarcasm.

But to publicly make my son feel bad.

Even if the public was just one guy.

That was terrible.

I deserved to be ejected.

The guilt I had was stomach-aching.

The pain I felt was heart-breaking.

I know what I said was right.

I also know the way I said it was oh so wrong.

Being a parent is the hardest job I have ever had.

Well working in that law office was a hard job too.

But they fired me before I did too much damage.

Parenting is the one job that keeps on giving.

Giving you love.

Giving you a headache.

Giving you a second chance.

Or a third chance if you need it.

Fortunately my son bounced back pretty quickly after the tongue lashing.

It took me a lot longer.

But we both moved on.

And enjoyed the rest of our time.

Together.

The timing of my most recent parental failure was especially disappointing.

We had just finished our game against a team from Tennessee.

That was the 15-0 loss.

Honestly it could’ve been 150-0.

They had kids who were big enough to eat our players.

Their third baseman stood six foot something.

Must’ve weighed 200 something.

And he’s 12.

I didn’t see him say a word during our entire game.

He let his bat.

And his glove.

And his right arm.

Do all his talking.

There is no doubt we will see him play for a very long time.

Unfortunately his mom will not.

She was working in the local post office last October.

When a father and son walked in.

With a gun.

They were there to commit a robbery.

When they left, two people were dead.

Including the mother of the third baseman.

We were told they got away with $68.

But they didn’t get far.

Fortunately they were caught.

But that’s hardly a happy ending.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to the third baseman.

I don’t really know what I would’ve said.

But I was thrilled to see his dad at the game.

Cheering.

And smiling.

And supporting his boy.

The way it should be.

Yes They Can

There have been a lot of success stories in the history of baseball.

Too many to count.

But the story of Jim Abbott may be my favorite.

At 6-foot-3, 200 pounds, Abbott was a standout pitcher.

And quarterback.

At Flint Central High School in Michigan.

Where he hit .427 as a senior.

With seven homers.

He played his college ball in Ann Arbor.

At THE University of Michigan.

Where he became the first baseball pitcher to win the James E. Sullivan Award.

As the top amateur athlete in the United States.

He represented our baseball team in the 1988 Olympics.

Where he pitched the final game.

And we won the gold.

He was the Big Ten Athlete of the Year.

Selected in the first round of the draft.

Made it to the majors. 

Without playing a game in the minors.

Won 87 games.

Pitched a no-hitter.

For THE New York Yankees.

In Yankee Stadium.

Oh, did I mention...

...Jim Abbott was born without a right hand.

I can’t remember the first time I saw him pitch.

But I can remember thinking there was something wrong.

Turns out everything was right.

As right as right could be.

Abbott was an inspiration to anybody who ever saw him play.

An inspiration to anybody who ever tried to play.

An inspiration to anybody who was ever told, “no you can’t.”

Abbott can.

And he did.

And how he did it was truly amazing.

This from a book titled, “Beating the Breaks: Major League Ballplayers Who Overcame Disabilities" by Rick Swaine:

Abbott pitched with a right hander's fielder's glove perched pocket-down over the end of his stubbed right arm. At the conclusion of his delivery, he would deftly slip his left hand into the glove and be ready to field the ball. After catching the ball, he would cradle the glove against his chest in the crook of his right arm and extract the ball with his left hand, ready to make another throw. 

You had to see it to believe it.

I hadn’t seen anyone do it before Abbott.

Or anyone since.

Until last week.

Before our games started in Cooperstown, there was a series of skills events.

To see who was the fastest.

To see whose arm had the best aim.

To see who could hit the most home runs.

And to see which team could fire the ball around the diamond in the shortest amount of time.

It went like this...

Pitcher to catcher to third to second to first to catcher to shortstop to right field to second base to center field to third base to left field to catcher.

That’s 1-2-5-4-3-2-6-9-4-8-5-7-2.

If you are scoring at home.

Or even if you are alone.

The winning time was an amazing 20 seconds.

Our team didn’t win.

And neither did the team from Ohio.

But there was something about that Ohio team that caught my eye.

It was their second baseman.

Right after he caught the ball, I saw it.

I saw him flip the glove from one hand to the other.

At lightning speed.

And then he threw the ball.

Perfectly.

To its next destination.

At first it looked like a mistake.

A moment later I knew I had seen this before.

I ended up sitting next to their coach at lunch a few days later.

I told him how impressed I was with their second baseman.

He said thanks.

And then informed me that the second baseman was his son.

His son who was born with a condition similar to Abbott.

He told me that opponents have tried to bunt to his son.

And his son always makes the plays.

Just like Jim Abbott.

And he told me that his son is a very good hitter.

Just like Jim Abbott.

And he told me his son has a great attitude.

Just like Jim Abbott.

We spoke for a few minutes.

Until the food ran out.

And then he headed out to his game.

To watch his son pitch.

A game his team won.

Just like Jim Abbott.