Cicadas and Crickets

As I was wandering around this morning—a refreshingly pleasant one for a change—I heard their harmonious buzz. Cicadas by day, crickets by night—that can only mean one thing. It’s the waning days of summer—official summer at least. I've only heard the faintest sounds of crickets so far, but I well remember those melancholy insects chirping away on the still-warm evenings leading up to that dreaded first day of school.

With no school starting in a week or so for me—thankfully—I thought I’d tie up some loose summer ends. Recently, my nephew e-mailed me a link to an article, which quoted former ballplayers Rich “Goose” Gossage, a Hall of Famer, and Lou Piniella. They spoke of the contemporary game of baseball in very unflattering terms. To them and countless others—including yours truly—professional baseball has become unwatchable. And there are a host of reasons why. It’s just not the same game that we once knew and loved—not by a long shot.

After completing four books this summer—timely published to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the 1969 “Miracle Mets”—I feel grateful that I got to experience baseball when it was the American pastime, a game steeped in tradition and rich in history. I got to be a fan before analytics, home run-derby strategy (for lack of a better word), replay umpiring, five-inning starting pitchers, and four-hour games as the norm. And how do the powers-that-be address the way-too-long games: Make intentional walks—four pitched balls where anything can happen—an automatic free pass. Two minutes saved on that one.

My nephew, who came around to baseball and the Mets decades after my sworn allegiance, admitted that even he is finding today's games almost unwatchable. But as the 2019 Mets have suddenly sprang to life—and are in contention—he’s swallowing hard and hoping for another miracle. I’ve seen some clips of today's Mets’ game-ending antics—the ripping off of uniform shirts—and couldn’t help but wonder: “What would Gil Hodges say?” Once upon a time, third baseman Ron Santo of the 1969 Chicago Cubs, managed by none other than Leo Durocher, performed a bit of theater after every Cubs win. As he exited the field, he leaped high in the air and clicked both his heels. It was considered poor sportsmanship by most everybody in opposition back then—certainly by Gil Hodges and the Mets—and it eventually stopped as the Cubs imploded.

This summer also resurrected my interest in 1970s New York City politics. What an interesting time to be alive, here, and a kid. With the Tappan Zee bridge renaming in the news—as the Mario M. Cuomo Bridge with son Andrew the governor and wind beneath its wings—as the inspiration, I purchased a couple of old books from that bygone era, one chronicling the fiscal crisis when my fair city very nearly declared bankruptcy. New York City was seriously on the ropes back then, but I didn't notice. After all, I was a boy and living through what turned out to be the last of the old urban childhoods, the ones where all kinds of street games were played in the great outdoors and young and old hung out on stoops. Hanging out on the latter, by the way, is when I listened—ever so vigilantly and plaintively—to the crickets and their melodious swan songs to yet another summer.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

A Bridge Too Far

The late Mario Cuomo has been in the local news lately—or should I say Mario M. Cuomo, the “M” standing for Matthew. It seems that the New York State Department of Transportation has been patching over some bridge-access signs that were erected last year upon the opening and renaming of a new Tappan Zee Bridge, which connects Westchester and Rockland Counties. Only it’s no longer the Tappan Zee Bridge. It’s been officially renamed the "Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge" and some of the signs neglected to include that ever-vital “M.” How much will all this patchwork cost? Your guess is as good as mine, but it would probably be better spent filling potholes.

This is the same bridge, by the way, that had been originally named to recognize the Tappan tribe, who once inhabited the region. The bridge also incorporated the Dutch word for sea: zee. And it had such a nice ring when combined: Tappan Zee. But it is now—if one is to believe the signs—the Governor Mario M. Cuomo Bridge—not so nice a ring. One footnote here: In 1994, former Republican Governor Malcolm Wilson’s name was added to the Tappan Zee’s familiar moniker, but nobody that I knew ever referred to it as the “Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge.”

Further background: After the Tappan Zee’s original structure—completed in 1955—was deemed hopelessly unsound, the powers-that-be opted to raise an entirely new structure. The replacement bridge was built alongside the original, while the latter remained open to traffic. But politicians being politicians can never leave well enough alone. They love nothing more than rewarding their own: the political class. Governor Andrew Cuomo, son of Mario, and cronies in the state legislature voted to change the new bridge’s name. Of course, their constituents weren't consulted. And let history be damned, too. As for the cost of changing countless access road signs approaching the bridge, few in government sweat such things.

Now, trust me, I have no political ax to grind here. I am a fan of Mario Cuomo from way back. I first encountered him in the old neighborhood when he was running for New York City mayor in 1977. I was fourteen when I first laid eyes on this up-and-coming pol. He seemed especially genuine back then, a first-generation Italian-American family man, like my father, from one of the city’s outer boroughs. In the “Cuomo for Mayor” pamphlets being passed out that day—along with pin-back buttons championing his candidacy—were pictures of the man’s brood, including oldest son Andrew and youngest son Chris, who was only seven at the time.

Recently, while out with his family, Chris—the host of a daily CNN program— was called “Fredo” by some insignificant moron. Chris, though, went berserk and said that “Fredo” was a slur for Italians on par with the “N-word.” While Fredo was at once the youngest and least intelligent son of the Corleone family in The Godfather, the comparison was invidious. Papa Mario was a gifted wordsmith and orator who used just that phrase—invidious comparison—at some point. I remember it for some reason. Nevertheless, Chris had a point. The contemporary thought police overlook Italian slurs. Movies with ridiculous Italian stereotypes are still cheered on at the Sundance Film Festival. But, then, my father loved The Godfather and The Sopranos.” A second-generation Italian American fellow I knew quite well referred more than once to an Italian male as a “stupid gindaloon.” It’s the only time I ever heard that one, but I accepted the fact that there are, in fact, living and breathing stereotypes in our midst. And, get this, no safe spaces were required. Sadly, we live in an age of pathetic crybabies who, evidently, need to be offended to validate their existence. Why not laugh instead of crying. But it’s also a dim-witted, vulgar age with a loutish, ignorant man-child in the White House serving as a role model for far too many. It’s the worst of both worlds right now, born of one another.

So, back to the more innocent and gritty but oh so real 1977, when the fourteen-year-old me rooted for Mario Cuomo in a crowded Democratic primary field of candidates looking to unseat the hapless but well-intentioned incumbent, Abe Beame. He came in second to Ed Koch, who didn’t get the necessary 40% to avoid a mandated run-off election against Cuomo two weeks later. Koch won the run-off and prevailed in November. They were both close contests against Mario M. Cuomo, who had secured the Liberal Party nomination in the general election. Ed Koch, who frequently campaigned with his beard, former Miss America Bess Myerson, complained at one point that the Cuomo campaign had plastered signs along a heavily trafficked thoroughfare in a blue-collar section of Queens that read “Vote for Cuomo, Not the Homo.” The unforgiving Koch carried this grudge to his grave. Cuomo denied then and later in his life, too, that he had anything to do with the posters, which would have backfired on him were he actually behind the smear. Well, now they both have bridges named after them. Ed Koch has his name affixed to the Queensboro Bridge.

At the end of the day, politicians should just leave well enough alone when it comes to renaming things. Changing the name of the Idlewild Airport in Queens to the John F. Kennedy International Airport worked out, but that was more of an exception to the rule. We’ve got enough discord in society without compounding it with controversial, largely unpopular name changes. And it’s not a Democrat or Republican thing, or liberal or conservative one. It’s just that in this instance, the new Tappan Zee Bridge should be called what the old one was called for over six decades. It’s what virtually everybody will call it anyway.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

September Mourning

This morning as I plodded along with my malfunctioning C-Leg hopelessly locked in “safety mode,” a stranger blurted out: “Give it up, Man! Go to Jesus.” I wondered what exactly he was suggesting that I give up? This unplanned meeting of the minds resurrected a memory from a year ago. It’s when I spotted Him riding a bicycle, which I guess is more appropriate for this day, age, and place than a donkey. I haven’t seen Him since, but then He probably is pretty busy.

In my less ethereal travels today, I encountered a bus driver enjoying a cigarette break. A woman passed by and said to him: “Those things will kill you, you know that!” He politely smiled between puffs of his poisonous pleasure, but uttered nothing in response. I then witnessed an impatient automobile driver—pretty commonplace around here—who was all bent out of shape because he had to wait a couple of minutes for a school bus to pick up a little girl. Even with its protruding “stop” sign blinking away, the guy blew his horn over and over and—when I caught of glimpse of him—angrily foamed at the mouth. It was a very annoying spectacle, but somehow a representative snapshot of my contemporary summers.

Summers come and summers go. And they aren’t what they used to be. Of course, it’s that perspective thing again, which I’ve written about time and again. Forty years ago, I was playing stickball games in ninety-degree humid weather on steamy asphalt—doubleheaders sometimes. Some of us played in heat-absorbing jeans. There was no such thing as a stickball-specific wardrobe. And we never brought along any liquid pick-me-ups, like water, to our games. Granted, there was no such thing as the bottled stuff back then, but we could have at least carried a small cooler or cooler bag. Well, there’s no use crying over spilled Hi-C.

After our games, it was not unusual to arrive home lost-in-the-desert parched—craving something cold to drink. Iced tea was very popular at my house in those days, while my neighbor pined for, in his words, ordinary but nonetheless very special New York City “H2O.” After quenching our respective thirsts, the player boys typically returned to the great outdoors for some stoop sitting and—what has become a lost art—conversation. Stop...get out...look around.

The serious downside of those youthful summers was that they came to an end. If it were 1979 rather than 2019, I would be captive to the calendar by now. And as the days grew noticeably shorter, I’d take note of the sun’s shadows, which increasingly painted a more autumn portrait than a summer one. And while it might still be brutally hazy, hot, and humid, the 3H’s charms were decidedly less so in the last weeks of August. Really, there was nothing more depressing than going to school on a blistering hot morning that turned into a blazing hot afternoon. It was an unnatural pairing—like skiing in July.

I notice that a lot of schools start earlier nowadays. When I was a kid, going to school in August was sacrilege. I don’t exactly know the reasons for these accelerated schedules. They seem especially popular in colleges. Once upon a time, the new school year began after Labor Day and not a day sooner. September mornings became September mourning—the sorriest of feelings as I recall.

Well, the 1979 summer is in the books and so are dozens more. But at least now there is no more September mourning for me. I have given that up, Man. Stop...get out...look around.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)