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)

Spring Reading

According to BrainyQuote—which, I realize, offers no guarantee of authenticity—Abraham Lincoln once said, “The things I want to know are in books; my best friend is the man who’ll get me a book I ain’t read.” Whether Honest Abe actually said that or not—he was, after all, eminently quotable—doesn’t matter. I nonetheless just finished reading one of my favorite books of all-time, Lincoln and His Generals by T. Harry Williams. I’ve read it on multiple occasions through the years because—for me at least—it reads like a gripping novel. In this instance, a compelling historical one with a colorful cast of characters like no other.

Personally, I’ve always found books on the American Civil War somewhat more engaging than ones on the American Revolution. The very bloody conflict of the former somehow resonates in a way that the latter—defining as it was—doesn’t on the printed page. Perhaps it’s the images we’ve all seen—from photography’s infancy and Matthew Brady’s prying lenses—that makes the difference. Washington, after all, crossed the Delaware unimpeded by photographers. His freezing men at Valley Forge weren’t asked to strike a pose for posterity. Also, the men and women in the Civil War era more closely resembled—in overall appearance and manner—us. No powdered wigs, cravats, and knee breeches. Shave off a few of those straggly beards and—voilà—modern man has arrived.  

This literary stroll down memory line prompted me to re-watch The Civil War by Ken Burns. I was initially struck that the documentary was made some thirty years ago—time really does fly—and that many of the individuals who supplied voice-overs for the intriguing ensemble from General Ulysses S. Grant to George Templeton Strong to Mary Chestnut are no longer among the living. When it originally aired on a local PBS station, I remember watching it over and over. I even purchased the companion book and eventually the VHS box set, which I subsequently sold on eBay. Wow, so much has happened in the past thirty years. For one, VHS tapes and their players are obsolete. Still, all these years later, I’d like to think that General William Tecumseh Sherman sounded just like playwright Arthur Miller. With a face like his he deserved a voice like that.

Sherman, by the way, said of Abraham Lincoln in his memoirs: “Of all the men I have ever met, he seemed to possess more of the elements of greatness, combined with goodness, than any other.” Envision this: Lincoln walking daily—unescorted and often unnoticed—to the telegraph office at the War Department to receive war dispatches. That was about as technologically advanced as the Information Age was in those days. No smartphones, Facebook, or Twitter accounts. The sixteenth president didn’t have the luxury to nastily tweet about his predecessor, James Buchanan, or about his legions of incompetent generals, starting with George McClellan. But, then, Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have taken that low road because he was at once great and good. At this point in American history, I’d settle for a little good and worry about greatness another time.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Nobody Is Home

What lessons did I learn this Easter holiday? For one, I learned that a few people could get together for several hours and not once check their phones.” Once upon a time we placed calls to friends, family, and acquaintances and sometimes announced, “Nobody is home.” I learned, too, that they could chat with one another and reminisce without background distractions like blaring televisions or loud music. If the assembled have something to say and maintain attention spans longer than thirty seconds, it's still—believe it or not—possible. But this reality bite wasn’t all I uncovered this past week...

Although I’ve come to this conclusion a time or two before, this festive interlude reinforced the obvious. Marked changes of routine and eating habits for fifty-something men and women can have deleterious consequences. Dining at different times of the day and consuming atypically large proportions is a recipe for indigestion and worse. The latter was my unfortunate fate. While I appreciate diner fare, for instance, cups of soup on top of heaping helpings of everything—like piles of canned peas and carrots, family-sized amounts of mashed potatoes, and bread baskets—is an awful lot of food. Multiply all of this by three and expect the worse on day four. Oh, and throw a couple of pizzas in there...

I saw many Cricket games being played on the Van Cortlandt Park flats this past Sunday. While I may be a subscriber to BritBox and a big fan of British shows—especially their mysteries—the game is still incomprehensible to me. Even Sergeant Lewis playing it didn't help.

The old Putnam railroad used to run through this part of Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx. I can remember some train traffic there in the line's waning years. Now it's a walking, running, and bicycle nature trail. "Watch out for trains" has been replaced with "Beware of puddles and mud."

It's that time of year...

The people ride in a hole in the ground. This is the hole.

You are about to enter another dimension. A dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind.

You are about to leave that dimension and be stuck in reality.

A reality where the old...

Is being consumed by the new.

A reality where the hot dog vendor is soliciting tips. Here's one from me: "Stop yakking on the phone while servicing your customers!"

It's Washington Square Park reality. There's an artist somewhere in the picture. She's kneeling and has a little dog beside her. I don't know what her story is. It was raining on her paper and the old gal was at once unmoved by the bad weather and sending out unapproachable vibes to passersby.

Reflection time: Why are certain politicians talking about things like convicted felons having the right to vote and slavery reparations? It's the same old primary story. Folks, it's time to channel Charlie Sheen here and think: Winning!

Sometimes it just makes sense to be in the catbird seat.

I encountered, too, a veteran New York City chef and restaurateur in my travels this week. He lamented the present business environment—the outrageously expensive landscape that makes it increasingly difficult to open a restaurant let alone survive in one. A thousand-dollar-a day rent in some spots—plus a $15/hour minimum wage—is not exactly a recipe for success.

While I support higher minimum wages, I also know that many businesses can't afford the extra costs. Large restaurants with sizable staffs and paying astronomical rents are doomed. And the first people to complain about the service in restaurants—when they cut back on the help—are the elitists who support policies that leave them no choice but to do so.

Four score and one or two years ago, my paternal grandparents ventured north from their Morningside Heights Manhattan neighborhood to Inwood Park, which is located in the northernmost tip of the borough. Meeting friends there, they picnicked on a little sandy patch under the Henry Hudson Bridge, even before the bridge was there. My father and uncle, then young boys, swan in the murky waters of the Harlem River Ship Canal, which were then quite dirty with raw sewerage floating to and fro. It's a much cleaner waterway now, which is something—at least—to be thankful for.

Just to the west of their personal beach—where my grandfather and a friend from the old country chilled their homemade wine in a natural spring in the hills—were train tracks. Back then the tracks hosted more than commuter trains. Heading into old New York, freight trains were often miles long. Now this commuter Amtrak train is making its way to the new Penn Station, which was erected after the razing of the original,architecturally beautiful one.

But everything old is new again—or will be at least. The contemporary Penn Station is a sorry mess and a pricey makeover is in the offing. 

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)

Epic Croissants and the Moment

While minding my own business on the streets of Manhattan last week, I learned of a boy named Zach’s humbling 1250 SAT score. This past weekend—about a-mile-and-half south of that discovery—I encountered a group of hipsters. Resting on a park bench in Washington Square Park, I noticed one of them carrying a small white paper bag. The mystery of what was inside became apparent when he exclaimed, “These croissants are going to be epic!” Well, these pretzels are making me thirsty. From that same park bench, I watched a father pushing his very young son back-and-forth on a swing. One hand kept the swing in perpetual motion while the other cradled a smartphone. Evidently, Dad had more pressing things on his mind than his toddler's obvious exuberance—like checking Facebook, Twitter, and Snapchat. I couldn’t help but wistfully recall past spring days—from an age before distracting technologies so completely choreographed so many lives. 

Once upon a time we could actually live in the moment on a pleasant April day. In the Great Outdoors, I like nothing better than being free from all the foolishness and fuss. I waste enough time on Facebook and aimlessly surfing the Internet while vegetating indoors, which—by the way—is where I confine my personal telephone conversations. Really, Zach's dilemma was none of my business. So, let's live in that moment...

And watch the grass grow here.

On more than one occasion, I vowed  to—never again—willfully give myself indigestion.

But a Nathan's hot dog from a street truck—cooked on a griddle—has this mystifying allure. I was even tempted to order the greasy French fries, but resisted. True, indigestion ensued, but it would have been a whole lot worse had I succumbed to the French fries.

Chief Justice Earl Warren once said, "In civilized life, law floats in a sea of ethics." It's too bad we don't live in a civilized life anymore.

In the Land Down Under, life is at once civil and uncivil. Civil one minute and uncivil the next. This is why it's vital to remain alert at all times. The unpredictable is so predictable.

There's a lot of finger pointing down there, too.

"There is no point in pointing fingers," said Hansika Motwani, "because there are three fingers pointing back at you."

New York City subway conductors would lose their jobs if they took the Indian actress's advice.

Point made.

I would like to believe that this act of vandalism is a joke that fell flat. But, nowadays, more often than not the joke's on us.

Not certain if this is the ultimate bad review or a bookmark?

The traditional New York City street-wagon frankfurter—famously wallowing in dirty water—has long been the Sabrett brand. They have lost their allure over time and, too, give me indigestion.

This youthful squirrel in Washington Square Park has got a lot to learn. It had what appeared to be a French fry or Cheez doodle in its tiny clutches, only to carelessly lose it in the pachysandra.

The New School is expanding in Manhattan. I'm old school.

Hey, Man, it's spring...enjoy.

During jury orientation in Bronx County some three decades ago, I remember this rather condescending warning about lateness: "You'll get the shock of your life" and be "turned around and sent home!" And the real kicker was that the tardy party would be "marked absent...and absent for the entire day." That meant that he or she wouldn't receive his or her daily jury-duty recompense, which was twelve dollars plus carfare in those days. Opening the above door and stepping out of it, I'd hazard a guess, would supply an even greater shock than getting sent home from jury duty.

 

I'm visualizing Robert Shaw in The Taking of Pelham One Two Three.

Coming home with the Fonz! Whoa!

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)