Loose Ends

I thought on this bleak, rainy Sunday afternoon that I would tie up—if you will—several loose ends and then some. For starters, what’s with the bashing of old Joe Biden from former fans of his? I’ve seen it play out on Facebook—from folks who had no problem supporting the man for vice president in the past. He was, after all, a mere heartbeat away for eight years. But now these very same men and women are demanding a proper apology be given to Anita Hill. (Biden was the chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee during the Clarence Thomas Supreme Court confirmation hearings.) But that all went down in 1991. What could Biden possibly say now that he hasn’t already said? And if he said what is so desired of him, how sincere would it be all these years later?

My advice is that the aforementioned just support whatever horse they have in the Democratic presidential primary race and get off their high horses in the process. Of course, if one wants to say that Joe Biden is a touchy-feely old geezer—and way past his prime as presidential timber—that’s another kettle of fish altogether.

I’m not talking politics here. It’s just increasingly annoying watching one and all sounding off day after day after day—ad nauseam—preaching to both the choir and those whose minds aren’t about to be changed. Give your social-media political agendas a rest—it’s been duly noted that you’re a patriot come hell or high water or not in other instances. Yeah, I get it: On this day in history the American government was a very, very bad boy. Like Stinky on The Abbott and Costello Show. And now for something completely different…

I just finished 108 Stitches by Ron Darling and—taking into account for what it is—recommend it. It’s effortless, entertaining reading for Met fans in particular and baseball fans in general. The author, by the way, is being sued for defamation and libel by a former teammate, Lenny Dykstra. It seems that Dykstra didn’t appreciate Darling’s recounting of his vile, racist-infused heckling of pitcher Dennis “Oil Can” Boyd during the 1986 World Series at Fenway Park. It’s interesting that Dykstra found no issue with Darling labeling him “one of baseball’s all-time thugs,” “a shitty human being” and “a criminal in every sense.” Darling doesn’t detail what exactly Dykstra said, and the latter has teammates—both black and white—who say they didn’t hear what the former claims in the book. But that doesn't mean it didn't happen. As far as I’m concerned, it all boils down to this: Who is more credible? A thug, shitty human being, and criminal or an intelligent and respected retired pitcher and broadcaster who has no reason to lie? 

Once upon a time, I loved the game of baseball. I was a Met fan extraordinaire and nicknamed "Mr. Met" in a Bronx neighborhood of predominantly Yankee fans. We all played baseball in the above park when it was a game and when we were game.

But a funny thing happened in the intervening years—something I wouldn't have imagined possible in my youth. I lost interest in the game, reaching a point where I could no longer even watch it. The anticipation of the new baseball season in springtime was once a one-of-a-kind feeling. I wish I could experience just a little of that now, but it's not possible. It just can't be manufactured.

In 108 Stiches, Ron Darling laments the current game's over-reliance on sabermetrics and analytics. He believes the day is coming—and very soon—when managers will not be former ballplayers, but essentially interpreters of data. He talks about the "constant maneuvering and manipulating of the usual baseball tactics" and how they "might often produce the desired outcome." Darling's conclusion, however, is that this approach is "making the game unwatchable." I've tried watching the contemporary game on more than one occasion—the game that I once so loved—and found it unwatchable times ten.

Ron Darling: "Today's young players don't seem to be connected to the game the way we were, the way players always were...until now." It's palpable. You feel it and see it in their behaviors, lack of loyalty, and eight- and nine-figure contracts. Sadly, there's no ride into the sunset here. Into the gloom it is.

At least some things never change—post-big rain mud puddles in this very spot.

Van Cortlandt Park is actually bigger than Central Park. Compared to when I was a baseball-obsessed kid, it's much better maintained now.

Yesterday, my journey began here in the basking glow of the park...

With the sun breaking through the overcast in the Bronx, I was unpleasantly surprised that it rained on me the entire time in Manhattan.

Lady Liberty is out there somewhere.

But, really, a little rain never hurt anyone...

In case you're wondering what soda does to your insides...

Say it ain't so...the Nathan's hot dog cart—which was in this spot for years—has been replaced by a generic wagon selling "fresh & tasty" Sabrett weiners. Do I smell indigestion in the air...

Sometimes it's worth seeking out special places like this vendor offering a "Taste of Royalty." I wonder: Is this what is served in the House of Saud?

Laughter in the rain before biting into that frankfurter.

There She is and, too, the Circle Line out there in the gloom—two of life's constants.

The Sunshine Express back to the Bronx is arriving.

It can be frustrating when your traveling companions are moving like Uncle Joe Carson. Time waits for no man and no woman.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)