Reggie Jackson is right, there should be two Halls

I actually agree with Reggie Jackson about something.

Reggie and Ian O’Connor of ESPN-New York where having an otherwise nonsensical conversation about whether Yankee pitcher Andy Pettitte would have a clear path to Cooperstown if he would beat Cliff Lee in the ALCS game that night, which, of course, he did not.

O’Connor’s a Jeter-obsessed Yankee hack of the highest order, and it’s laughable that Pettitte would be in the Hall of Fame with his 3.88 career ERA, steroid confession, a mere three All-Star Game appearances and complete lack of awards.
And this goofy discussion included this line:

“But Jackson also believes there should be a second Hall of Fame for the real Hall of Famers. In other words, he believes there are too many ballplayers enshrined in Cooperstown, men who were too mortal on the playing field to be sculpted into bronze baseball gods.”

The problem is, Yankee hacks think all of their players – at least those deemed “True Yankees” -- are fit to be enshrined, even Derek F. Jeter! And because some of these hacks actually hang around long enough to get BBWAA ballots, a number of unworthy players have found themselves with plaques.

Reggie’s right. There should be two parts to the Hall of Fame. One would be for the Seavers, Aarons, Robinsons and the rest of the greatest players. The other would be for Yankees who are otherwise undeserving, but were enshrined anyway.

Reggie, the career leader in strikeouts, his underwhelming .262 batting average, and his abuse of a fan’s glorious Hall of Fame autograph ball, would be in the latter.

Alas, he’s hardly alone. When the Hall curators decide that they are too busy planning the Mike Piazza exhibit and need me to help sort out this new wing, here’s who I’d start ripping off the wall:

Phil Rizzuto: Let’s get this one out of the way. Rizzutto has 38 career home runs, just 1,588 career hits and a weak .272 average. Plus he’s got just 149 career steals. So he wasn’t fast, couldn’t hit for power and couldn’t hit for average. That must be why it took 38 years after his career ended before the Yankee hype machine could convince enough people on the Veterans Committee that Rizzuto was something more than a just an average player on a stacked team.

Joe Gordon: Gordon’s stats are even more pedestrian than Rizzuto’s. He retired in 1950, but he must have done something to make the numbers more convincing over the next 59 years to get him elected in 2009. That’s impressive, considering he died in 1978. And his plaque is among the most confusing. Sometimes the Hall lists the player’s nickname after his formal name, like “The Franchise” following George Thomas Seaver. But this one reads Joseph Lowell Gordon, “Joe,” “Flash.” Did the Hall really need to add “Joe” after a guy named Joseph?

Tony Lazzeri: Lazzeri played between 1926 and 1939. He was added to the Hall in 1991. If you have to wait 60 years before you think someone is worthy, he’s probably not worthy.

Earle Combs: A centerfielder, Combs is another guy the Vets snuck in 30 years after he stopped playing. He played only 11 years – just one over the minimum to be considered – because he was injured crashing into a wall in 1934 and into a teammate in 1935. Guess that’s good news for Jason Bay and Carlos Beltran.

Red Ruffing: Ruffing’s an unusual Yankee enshrinement because it took only 20 years for him to be elected. About the best you can say about his 3.80 ERA is that it’s slightly better than Andy Pettitte’s.

Rich Gossage: If Gossage was so good, then why did he bounce around to eight other teams? Oh, and so you wouldn’t be confused, the Hall noted that this guy named Richard also went by “Rich.”

Bill Dickey: The Yankees retire everyone’s number. I’m sure Boone Logan’s already planning his number retirement ceremony. But it took so long for the team to retire Dickey’s No. 8 that they had already given it away to Yogi Berra, who went on to glory as a Met.

Waite Hoyt: Typical Yankee induction, meaning that it took 32 years for mystique and aura to convince enough Veterans Committee that his .359 ERA and lackluster .565 winning percentage were something worthy of keeping company with Walter Johnson and Cy Young.

Herb Pennock: Pennock has 241 wins, which at least is one more than Andy Pettitte. And his 3.59 ERA is the same as Waite Hoyt’s. Guess that makes him your typical undeserving Yankee.

Lefty Gomez: Amazingly, it took only until only recently for the Hall of Fame to take action against a Veterans Committee that seemingly never met a Yankee it didn’t like. Gomez doesn’t even have 200 wins, and was slipped into the Hall after 29 years.

Whitey Ford: Like Pettitte, Ford’s a confessed cheater. From his Wikipedia entry – and you know Wikipedia is never inaccurate: “After his career ended, Ford admitted to occasionally cheating by doctoring baseballs in various ways, such as the "mudball," which could only be used at home in Yankee Stadium: Yankee groundskeepers would wet down an area near the catcher's box where Yankee catcher Elston Howard was positioned; pretending to lose balance on a pitch while in his crouch and landing on his right hand (with the ball in it), Howard would coat one side of the ball with mud. Ford would sometimes use the diamond in his wedding ring to gouge the ball, but he was eventually caught by an umpire and warned to stop; Howard then sharpened a buckle on his shinguard and used it to scuff the ball. Ford admitted in several interviews to doctoring the ball in the 1962 All Star Game at Candlestick Park to strike out Willie Mays.”

Mickey Mantle: Look, Mantle and Ford were known to be inseparable. If Ford was a confessed cheater, Mantle was, at best, an aider and abettor. Perhaps, when sober, Mick was the mastermind behind all the cheating. Mantle took those dark, dark secrets to the grave, so we'll never know for sure. I'll just assume the worst.

I’ll concede that Lou Gehrig was a decent enough player, and Babe Ruth gets in, no doubt on the strength of his fine seasons with the Red Sox and Braves. Manages McCarthy and Huggins are in because, well, you have to let an occasional manager in or they all get a little cranky. DiMaggio had a nice little hit streak that he parlayed into a lot of positive pub.

Casey Stengel was probably furious that there’s a Yankee cap on his Hall plaque cap instead of his properly glorious Mets cap. You can’t see Yogi Berra’s cap logo, so I’m assuming it’s the properly interlocking orange NY.

So that leaves, what, five legitimate Yankees in the Hall? At least Reggie – and possibly Pettitte and Jeter – will have plenty of company in their new wing.

Yes!

The booing of Derek Jeter

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.
Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quite of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember alleged Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn’t wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.
The scoreboard flashed this international call for mass booing.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously pre-meditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of '09 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog.

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings.

Panic leads to a personal best

Next year, I’m going to double-check what time the Susan G. Koman Race for the Cure starts.

I’ve been preparing for the 5K race for about year, curious if my daily running and dropping the 60 pounds could help me smash my previous best of 26.58. That came in a small church race last year.

I’ve been running between six and eight miles a day for most of the last year, and I’ve been hitting 25:30 in practice runs, so I was hoping to at least hit that mark.

I thought the race started at 9 am, so I rolled up to the Rivertown Crossing mall around 8:20 thinking I'd have plenty of time to stretch and get ready. But I pulled up and saw that they were already herding racers to the starting line. It started at 8:30!!! My heart sank. Then I started to panic.

I found a parking spot at the Meijer store next to the mall, and sprinted all the way over to the far parking, where the race starts. I got there just as they where they were starting the National Anthem. Stuck way in the back, I was behind the walkers, people pushing strollers, people walking their dogs and much older folks.

I tried weaving and moving up, but it was slow going, even as the race started and people started moving. Luckily, the race was based on chip time. A chip is attached to the sneaker and records only the time between when you cross the starting line and then the finish line, as opposed to the actual start of the race, which is called gun time.

But there was still a ton of congestion as I approached the official start, and breaking out of the pack seemed tougher than an obstacle course.

OK, I might have jumped over someone's dog. I apologize for that. But really, why are you bringing your dog to a race? Is that the best place for Fluffy? If he needs a walk that badly, take him around the block where he's not gonna get jumped over. But I digress.

Most of the first mile was a divided four-lane street with a grassy median, so I tried to find a clear route by going on the side, popping up the curb and on the median to pass people, especially people pushing strollers, which are too large to jump over. After clearing the dog, the thought did pop in my mind.

Turning the first corner onto a two-lane street, I tried again to stick to the far side. Sometimes the sides offer some room to air it out, and sometimes people head over there and just stop dead. I was weaving around people like a running back looking for a hole in the line.

The RunKeeper app interrupts the music at every mile so a voice can tell me the distance and the pace. At the end of the first mile, I was running a 7:13, which I have not done since college.

With the racers spreading out, there was a little more room to run in the second mile, and tried to keep the pace and even make up some time. I did notice I was passing a lot of people, and there were not a lot of people passing me, which is unusual. I credited that to starting in the back and just moving past the slowest people. But the end of the mile, the app announced I was at a 7:09 pace.

Having run this race five or six times in the past, I have a good idea where the mile markers are and how much is left. I started to feel like I was running out of steam.

Usually I'm totally into the music, and I put a lot of thought into the race playlist, with fast-paced, inspirational God rock. But this time it I was so angry at myself and focused on trying to get around strollers, dogs and walkers that I wasn't really listening. But as I was losing energy, the Newsboys song "Stay Strong" came through the headset. It's kind of been my personal anthem this past year through some difficulties and the weight loss effort, and the message came just when I needed it.

I decided I was going to try to keep the pace best I could, even if it meant dropping at the finish line and crawling over to the people handing out bananas and Panera Bread bagels. And I could see the finish line off in the distance. At the three-mile mark, the app said the pace was 7:14, and I was thinking that there were three seven-minute miles in there and I might be doing pretty good.

Usually there is big clock at the finish line, but not this time, at least that I could see. Crossing the line and looking at the iPhone, the app read 22:49. No way. The race of my life.

Seeing this, I bounced -- not crawled -- over to the bagels and bananas, and even had some yogurt and other samples, then waited for preliminary results to get posted.
I saw the "Males - 46-50 category," and started at the bottom, because I'm usually somewhere in the lower third. I couldn't find my name and wondered if the chip malfunctioned, since I crossed the finish line on my way into the race when I was running to make the start and heard a beep. Good thing I had the app to know the time.

But I kept moving up the column, and there I was, near the top! I was No. 8 out of 55 in the age category. They had me listed at 23:00.47 for the chip time, and 26:33 for the gun time.

Overall, I was No. 127 out of 2,276 timed runners -- there were 5,600 participants overall when the walkers and dog people are included – No. 99 out of more than 600 males. That time is about four minutes better than the personal best, and two minutes better than my goal.

I don't know if my panicking added adrenaline, or weaving around people actually conserved energy that I used later, or if I would have done even better had I not screwed up the start time. Maybe it was the inspiration from wearing my Faith and Fear in Flushing shirt for the race, calling on the powers of Tom, Gil, Casey and Jackie, whose retired numbers were printed above the 3353 on my pinned-on bib.
Whatever the cause or inspiration, I'll take it!

Now, all that said, run in a Komen race if you ever get the chance. It's a great cause, and very emotional as you see all the breast cancer survivors in their pink shirts, and all the people running with names of loved ones who are fighting the disease, or who they have lost. Lots of tears, but a lot of nice tears. There are people in that race who are celebrating a lot more than beating their personal best, and it keeps things in perspective.

Cheering Frank Thomas, charming security and confronting Derek Jeter

We don’t set out to have adventures. Stuff just happens when Will and I get together for a ballgame.

You have to remember that Frank Thomas is one of our favorite players. He was a slugging rookie for the White Sox – whom both of us claim as a secondary team – and came up the year we were hired at the Flint Journal and became friends.

Of course, the off-told story of the magical misty night at Tiger Stadium only sealed the deal.

So Will grabbed tickets the day the Sox announced they were retiring The Big Hurt’s number on Aug. 29. And the opponent for this destined-to-be-glorious day? That would be the Evil Empire. Will certainly has no love for the Yankees, and my open loathing is legendary.

This day is best told with photos, and in multiple parts.

We arrived at the park bright and early because the team announced with was distributing Frank bobble heads, and we didn’t want to leave empty handed. An hour before game time, the line was already massive.

This brought back unpleasant memories of a Sox WinterFest, when sought Frank’s autograph and waited and waited in line, only have Frank replaced by two other signers as we were within two cattle-chute turns. No offense to then-manager Gene LaMont and the legendary Minnie Minoso, but our disappointment was immeasurable.

We did not want a repeat, and were only somewhat comforted by the stacks and stacks of bobble head cases on the other side of the rail. This fear would not go away until a bobbling giant Frank head with the mega-watt smile was in our hands. We passed through the gates and obtained without incident.

Here’s where things get a little ugly. The Sox have a lame policy that limits people with upper deck tickets to the upper deck. This stinks, because it’s not like we’re trying to steal seats. We like to get a look at batting practice and check out all the cool features in the stadium, very few of which are in the upper reaches of the park which is among the highest and steepest in baseball.

Having experienced this segregation last year, we knew that we could indeed mingle with the hoity toity people below by going to the guest services window and asking for a shopper’s pass.

Upon our banishment to the upper deck, we immediately went to the window and asked for the pass. I assumed this was a mere formality.

“It’s too busy now,” the power-tripping clerk said. “Come back after the fourth inning.”

Both of us realized that fighting with this guy was pointless. But we would not be denied, instead relying on our smarts and charm. Being denied was not going to be an option.

First we went to the guy working the elevator. He said we couldn’t go on, but if we walked down the endless ramps on Gate 3, we might be OK.

After descending, we came face to face with a kindly woman, and told our tale of woe. We just wanted to go to the team store, see the statues, then head back up to our seats. First she said, “Sorry, guys.” But I said we were told by the guy at the top of the ramps that we could do this if we walked all the way down. I looked as pitiful as possible, clutching my Frank bobble box to my chest, and looked wistfully beyond at the field level concourse. Sniff.

“OK, you can go.”

We scooted away before she changed her mind, and headed right for the centerfield area.


The Sox have a bunch of cool things out there. There’s the famous shower -- and it works, so be careful unless you want to get soaked.

Then there are a number of statues of Sox greats. Unlike the Tigers, the Sox have these at ground level where fans can touch them and pose and get an up-close view.
Minnie Minoso is a Sox hero, and we were thrilled to meet him -- even though we were waiting for Frank. The Minoso statue is pretty sweet.


We liked the detail on the Carlton Fisk statue, including the logo on the batting helmet. Naturally we had to recreate the infamous confrontation with Deion Sanders.

There are statues of Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio attempting to turn a double play. I say attempting, becuase I am clearly safe.
We shunned the statue of former owner Charles Comiskey. How come Bill Veeck doesn't get a statue. Probably because Veeck would never stand for the way upper deck fans are treated at this ballpark.

There's a concession area high above the batters' eye in centerfield. Jim Thome reached it with not one, but two epic blasts.

Then we moved into the Fundamentals area. You are supposed to have a kid with you to get in this area, and it’s strictly enforced at the upper deck entrance. But adults in the field level can walk in un-kidded, yet another injustice.

Se we entered from below, and it’s pretty cool. Kids can try to race a giant cutout of Scott Posednick, and he apparently loses more races than a minor league mascot. There are batting cages and a pitching area where you try to knock down a moving cutout of a Sox catcher with your fastball.

Mickey is the sidewalk art from this year's All-Star Game in Anaheim.

There’s also a little field where you can field grounders. This looked like a lot of fun, but we didn’t want to push our luck any more than we already had.

Finally we made our way back to the upper deck for lunch. I will give the Sox credit here, they produce the best-smelling hot dogs ever, with large grills piled high with sizzling onions. And the entire concourse is decorated with photo murals with key players in Sox history, like Tom Seaver, represented twice.
Our attempted banishment to the upper deck was not without pleasures. The dogs and onions smelled wonderfully, and our grillers had a lot of nice things to say. The murals were worth exploring, and we found at least two references to Tom Terriffic.


Having secured both a victory over oppression and lunch, we settled into our seats, which were in the highest, deepest part of the ballpark, in fair territory in left field. No matter, as we were happy to be there.

Sadly, the sound system in our section was not working, and it was tough to clearly hear the on-field celebration. Lots of Frank’s former teammates were on hand, to wish him well, and his portrait on the outfield wall was revealed, as well as his framed jersey with No. 35, never to be worn by another member of the White Sox.



It was tough to hear what Frank was saying as he addressed the fans. He seemed to get kind of weepy, which was nice. I’m also pretty sure that he thanked Will and me by name. We could have asked people in sections with a functioning sound system if they heard Frank mention us, but we didn’t want to risk disappointment, as we were having too much fun.

Frank then threw the ceremonial first pitch to Carlton Fisk, and it was time for the game against the Yanks and the vile Derek Jeter.

Clearly, we needed to make a statement of sorts, and our treatment of Jeter will be detailed in the next post.

Two Big Franks, one huge weekend

"I spent 10 years in New York, and they were the best 10 years of my life.”

If you had to guess which Met told me that, would you ever guess Frank Howard, our former coach and manager?

The West Michigan Whitecaps have a Tiger Friday promotion where the team invites a former Detroit Tigers player to make an appearance, sign autographs and generally bask in the glory that comes from the kind folks of Grand Rapids.

Typically we see players from the 1984 champs, but the last Friday of the season brought someone unexpected.

Howard was a legendary slugger during his days with the Dodgers and Senators, but he much of his mashing magic was gone by the time he appeared in Detroit for 1972 and 1973. That didn’t stop Tigers fans from lining up for his bobble head and signature.

He was the NL Rookie of the Year in 1960, and finished with 382 home runs, even more impressive when you consider that he played most of his career in the pitching-dominant 1960s.

He gets major props for his upper-deck bomb off Whitey Ford to break a scoreless tie in Game 4 of the 1963 World Series, helping the Dodgers sweep the Yankees.

Once he homered 10 times in 20 at-bats, with at least one in six straight games.

After his stint with the Tigers, Howard went to Japan, but hurt his back swinging in his first at-bat and never played again.

He later managed a poor Padres team in the strike-shortened 1981 season.

Of course, I was more interested in Howard’s time with the Mets. He came with George Bamberger in what was hoped to be a resurgent team finally rising from another dark period, and things were looking up at least spiritually the next year when Tom Seaver arrived back home.

Alas, things were not quite ready, and Bambi bailed. The team named Howard to be the manager for the last 116 games. He went 52-64, with a .448 winning percentage that was certainly better than Bamberger’s .348.

But the Mets opted to bring up Davey Johnson for 1984, setting the table for the championship.

Howard came back as a Mets coach for the 1994, 1996 and 1996 teams, after stints with the Yankees in 1989, 1991 and 1992.

While Howard is well-known for his power, he’s also famous for being one of the nicest guys in baseball. So I looked forward to meeting him, and unabashedly donned my game-used Rick Trlicek batting practice jersey and blue Mets cap, which would set me apart from all the Tigers fans in the yard that night.

Tigers invited for the Friday night promotions typically start signing autographs just after throwing out the first pitch at 7 p.m. and continued until 8:30. The gates opened at 5:45, and Howard was already in place, ready to go.

I hopped on line with my Mets history book, standing some professional autograph types – ick – and some nice collectors, who shared stories about their various encounters with players.

The line, we noted, was barely moving. This was not an entirely bad thing, since we had a great view of the field and the game didn’t start until 7 p.m.

Some friends of the collectors came by after they had their items signed. “It’s taking forever,” he said. “Howard talks to everybody.”

I approved.

We inched closer, and were about four people away when some Whitecaps employees came over to escort Howard down to the field.

“Don’t go anywhere,” Howard said, holding out his hands. “I’ll be right back.”

Standing up, Howard seemed every bit the 6-foot, 8-inches he is said to be, but he looked thin and seemed to have a little trouble moving. Down on the field, he tossed balls underhand to three kids, who in turn fired to home plate.

He returned to the table in time for the National Anthem, stopping the line to stand and face the flag, hand over heart. Again, I approved.


When my turn arrived, I placed the treasured Mets book before him, turned to a page I’ve designated for managers, coaches and general managers. Jerry Manuel, Howard Johnson and Omar Minaya are already on the page, along with Whitecaps manager Joe DePastino, who had two glorious at-bats with the Mets in 2003.

Howard looked up and extended his hand. It was huge.

After thanking him for the signature, I asked which he enjoyed more, coaching the Mets or managing for that half-season-plus. I’m not sure he heard me well.



“I spent 10 years in New York, and they were the best 10 years of my life,” he said, pointing to my jersey.

I noted that he was often paired with fellow-coach Jim Frey for fantasy camps, with the “Jumbo Franks” playing the “Small Freys.”

“Jim Frey was one of the best baseball men I’ve ever met,” he said.

I thanked him again and headed down to my seat, peeking a very clear and neat signature.

The Whitecaps proceeded to take care of the Lansing Lugnuts, 2-1, inching toward another playoff spot.

I peeked back later, after 8:30, and saw the line was still there, and Howard still signing. Jumbo Frank wanted to make sure everyone got their moment and signature.

Pretty classy.

Two days later, I caught up with Will to honor our other favorite Frank -- Frank Thomas -- and our adventures will fill the next post.

Sometimes you CAN judge a book by its cover!

Here’s one I never saw coming.

Sitting at work one day, I got a call from a man identifying himself as Kal Wagenheim, who said he had a question for me.

As a reporter, usually I ask the questions, so I was intrigued.

Wagenheim said he was a former New York Times reporter who now writes about the Caribbean and sports biographies. He called my home first, and my wife game him my work number.

He told me that he wrote one of the first biographies about Roberto Clemente published after his death in that plane crash bringing relief supplies to earthquake victims.

As I’m sure Wagenheim will affirm, reporters are somewhat skeptical people, and I confess to searching for him on Amazon as we spoke. And sure enough, there were books about Clemente, Babe Ruth and Puerto Rico, written by him.

Now I was really, really intrigued.

He told me that there is a group of Clemente fans who gather in New York every year on the birthday of the Hall of Famer, to discuss his life and legacy. He said that people in the group enjoyed his book from 1973, but it has been out of print for a while. The group was hoping he could issue an updated version, and found an interested publisher.

“Now, what does this have to do with you, you’re wondering,” he accurately stated.
Wagenheim said he was searching for a photograph for the book, and searched “Clemente” and “Hall of Fame” on Google, and saw a photo of a Clemente statue he liked.

He contacted the Baseball Hall of Fame for permission to use the photo, and the nice folks in the baseball library looked at it and said it wasn’t one from their archives.

“It’s from a blog,” he told me, retelling the conversation. “You have to contact the author, someone who goes by ‘Mets Guy in Michigan.’”

Wagenheim said he looked around the blog for a while and found my name – which I don’t really hide – and looked me up based on what he could find on the site.

He told me he liked the angle and lighting in the photo and asked for my permission to use it.

Naturally, I was honored.

We talked for a little while about growing up in New York and working for newspapers, and I had a wonderful time. It’s not like I get too many opportunities to pick the brain of a New York Times reporter who loves baseball.

I remembered the photo and the statue, which I wrote about several months before. It was taken during a glorious weekend. Will and I had our baseball card column in the Flint Journal, and the editors allowed me to apply for credentials to cover the 1994 All-Star Game FanFest in Pittsburgh.

It was my first time attending such an event, which is a fantastic celebration of all things baseball. Of course, there was a cloud hovering over the game at the time, with the strike looming. But it also was just before Ken Burns’ epic “Baseball” documentary.

Burns hosted journalists for breakfast to discuss the project, and former players attended. I sat with Joe Black, who starred for the Brooklyn Dodgers and also in the Negro Leagues. I knew he also played for the Baltimore Elite Giants of the Negro Leagues – and that the name was pronounced e-LIGHT. Black told me I was the first white guy he ever heard pronounce it correctly. Buck O’Neill also attended the breakfast, and walked to every table to introduce himself.

Part of the All-Star Game’s festivities was the unveiling of the statue, and it’s pretty special. Roberto is depicted just after a swing, dropping the bat and headed to first base. The base of the statue contains containers of dirt from three fields where Clemente played -- —Santurce Field in Puerto Rico, Forbes Field, and Three Rivers Stadium.

I took a walk from the convention center to Three Rivers and caught the statue in late-afternoon light. I’m hardly a great photographer, but as my kids will tell you, I believe in quality through quantity, and a statue will never groan when you say, “Just one more.”

I though the shot was marred by some people walking in the background. But it is kind of nice.

I e-mailed the photo to Wagenheim, and then heard from the folks at Markus Wiener Publishers , who asked if I could scan it again and send them a higher resolution photo, which was easy.

I’ve since learned that Wagenheim also writes plays and screenplays in addition to writing and translating books, which is impressive because I sometimes struggle to write in one language, much less two.

This week a package arrived, with “Clemente! The Enduring Legacy,” written across the front, superimposed over a full-bleed version of my photo. The graphics folks were able to remove the people in the background.

I get a photo credit inside the cover, but more special is a nice note from my new friend, Kal.

Injured Ryan Howard is latest victim of Hallmark curse

No one believes me. But the evidence continues to mount.

You know Ryan Howard, the slugging first baseman for rival Philadelphia Phillies? The guy with the underserving All-Star Game selection, made by his own manager?

That would also be the same Ryan Howard who has been seen on crutches and was placed on the disabled list last week after spraining his ankle. He’s not expected back for two or three weeks, but he might as well go to a safe house, or enroll in the witness protection program seeking a new life somewhere in Idaho.

That’s because Ryan Howard is doomed.

Howard, it has been disclosed, is the unfortunate victim selected to be this year’s Hallmark baseball ornament. And as history has proven, anyone picked to hang with the tinsel is instantly tagged for injury or worse. (See Braynt, Kobe)

Yes, it’s the Hallmark Curse.

Usually the ornaments are unveiled around this time of year, and my co-worker was a little stunned when I suddenly pumped my fist up in the year and yelled, “Yes!”

It was a nice balance to last year around this time, when I started banging my head on the desk at the sight of Johan Santana cast in plastic.

There are several interesting things to note here besides my office behavior.

First, it appears that Howard is wearing Phillies colors, but there is no indication of Phillies logos anywhere on the painted-on uniform.

Perhaps Hallmark is trying to protect Howard, thinking cloaking his team affiliation would somehow ward off the curse.

Perhaps it’s a hedge in case Howard is suddenly traded, which has been the case in the past, as you’ll see below.

Perhaps it’s because someone at Hallmark realized that no one would ever want to celebrate the joyous Christmas season by looking at freaking Phillie on their tree. Talk about a mistletoe buzz kill. Might as well invite the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come to the party

Or, perhaps, Hallmark could no longer afford paying the licensing fee demanded by Major League Baseball.

Even more interesting was the notation that the Howard ornament was the last in the “Day at the Ballpark” series, which started in 1996. My guess is that Hallmark either decided it had killed enough careers, or the Major League Players Association started protesting.

In case you doubt, let’s review the past array of yuletide terror.

1996: Nolan Ryan

The series started out with Ryan, a safe, reasonable choice. Except Hallmark goofed up by depicting Ryan as a Texas Ranger instead of as a Met, which is the way the whole world remembers him. Nolan since has tumbled so far down the chain of respectability that he was tapped to become the Rangers’ new owner. Note that the McFarlane folks are wise enough not to repeat this error. They company’s upcoming Ryan Cooperstown figure in fact shows him at his peak form, helping the Mets win the 1969 World Series.

1997: Hank Aaron

For years and years, Hank Aaron was listed first among baseball players in any alphabetical listing. That’s so appropriate considering his stature. Well, Hank’s magnificent home run record was swiped under a cloud, and, after this ornament came out, so did his listing in the Baseball Encyclopedia. The Hammer is now second to David Aardesma, a reliever on his fifth team in six years, currently sporting an 0-6 record for the lowly Mariners.

1998: Cal Ripken Jr.

The Iron Man, of course, set the consecutive games record several years before this ornament was released. The next season? Ripken went from playing in 161 games in 1998 to just 86 in 1999.

1999: Ken Griffey Jr.

It was hard not to love Junior in his Mariners days, at least his first run with the team. Sadly, two months after Christmas, Junior browbeat the M’s into shipping him to the Cincinnati Reds.

2000: Ken Griffey Jr.

After the whole trade debacle, Hallmark issued another Griffey ornament. It was actually the same pose, but with a new paint job. A bad one, in fact. It showed a solid red jersey with only a sleeve patch to indicate it was in fact a Reds uniform. And, of course, Junior has never been the same.

2000: Mark McGwire

This was he first two-ornament year. Hey, why mess with one player’s career when you can trash two? McGwire was hurt for much of 2000, but still hit .305 with 32 jacks and was rewarded with an ornament. The next season a broken-down Mac gimped with a .187 stick and 29 homers and four years later showed up before Congress not wanting to talk about the past.

2001: Mickey Mantle

The Mick was dead for six years when the ornament came out. To this very day, he remains dead. Pretty strong curse.

2001: Sammy Sosa

Sammy hit 64 homers in 2001, and then showed up on Christmas trees. He had one more decent season before going from King of the Windy City to corking bats, ticking off teammates and getting run out of town.

2002: George Brett

Brett was already in the Hall of Fame when Hallmark decided to test the curse and make him an ornament. But since he played for the Royals and no one cares about the Royals, he seems to have sneaked by undetected with no apparent ill effects.

2002: Derek F. Jeter

Derek F. Jeter went from being an over-rated, smug Yankee punk with no range to an even bigger over-rated, smug Yankee punk with even less range.

2003: Ted Williams

Poor Ted. Hallmark could not let him rest in peace. The year after he passed, Hallmark made him an ornament – and the sordid details about cutting off his head and freezing the body were revealed. Williams had a rep for being a little surly during his first life, so can you imagine what kind of mood he’s going to be in someday when they thaw his body and resurrect him and he finds out that Hallmark made him into an ornament.

2003: Jason Giambi

Giambi has sort of, kind off confessed to doing something improper after he came back spring training looking a lot smaller, and no one believed his initial claim that yoga was responsible. You’d think that Hallmark would try to avoid Yankees. Actually, I’m OK with the company using Bombers any time it wants.

2004: Willie Mays

Ahhh. Here we go. The Say Hey Kid. It’s all good. Except, of course, that the former Met is for some reason depicted as playing for some other team. And since then, he’s witnessed his beloved godson become the poster child for alleged steroid use.

2004: Barry Bonds

Speaking of Willie’s godson, Barry’s life pretty much went to hell after Hallmark dropped this present. He barely played the season after the ornament was released, and we all know what’s happened since. Does the trial start soon?

2005: Albert Pujols

Hallmark clearly tried to learn from its past mistakes and picked a picked a squeaky clean player from a great baseball city. The next season, Pujols broke down and missed three weeks of the season, losing just enough of the season to allow the now-jinxed Ryan Howard to pad his stats just enough for misguided sportswriters give Howard the MVP award.

2006: Alex Rodriguez

OK, let’s see. Since getting his Hallmark ornament, ARod confessed to PED use, dated Madonna, and was revealed to have a painting of himself as a centaur. He hit his 600th career home run this month, and no one cared. Even Yankee hacks like Bob Klapisch downplayed the accomplishment.

2007: David Ortiz

Hallmark robbed Ortiz of his power. Big Papi went from 54 homers to 35 to 23 to 11 last year. There was talk that the Sox were trying to find a way of cutting his slumping butt before he picked things up a little bit.

2008: Nomar Garciaparra

This was a surprise pick, because Nomar was already in decline when he was fitted for the tree. But 2008 was a nightmare. Battered by injuries – including one that mysteriously came when the Dodgers needed a roster spot for Manny Ramirez – Nomar played in just 55 games and drove in just 28 runs. He ended up with the A’s and a mere three homers last year, and now he’s just Mr. Mia Hamm.

2009: Johan Santana

There is no need to recount the struggles of the 2009 Mets, or Santana’s season-ending surgery right after this ornament was announced. Damn you, Hallmark.

So, Phillie fans, I feel your pain. Well, not the Phillie fan was sent to jail for “vomit assault.” Or the Phillie fan was felt the gentle sting of the taser when he ran on the field. And probably not the Phillie fan shown on television allowing his pre-K son to drink from a beer bottle.

Come to think of it, Phillie fans kind of deserve this. Way to go, Hallmark!

Correcting Sports Illustrated's hateable list of hated teams

Sports Illustrated can’t get anything right.

The magazine’s website created a list of what it thinks are the 25 most hated teams in sports. They got about 24 of them wrong. filling it with a bunch of football, basketball and hockey teams that nobody cares about. And they even included the loveable 1986 Mets!

Simply an outrage.

Now it’s my job to clean up the mess. But I’m only going to list 11 because I just don’t have all that much hate in my heart.

1) 2000 New York Yankees: Let’s see. The bat-chucking and allegedly steroid-using Roger Clemens stole what should have been the Mets third world championship. Clemens alone would be enough to inspire these strong feelings of ill will. But look at the rest of the roster. Confessed user Andy Pettitte and grand pooh-bah of steroid confessors Jose Canseco, Shane Spencer disgraced himself in his short stint with the Mets. Jim Leyritz had substantial legal issues of the most unpleasant manner. Mariano Rivera is, at best, a cyborg. Paul O'Neill was, shall we say, wound a little too tight. David Justice was married to Halle Berry and got dumped. And Derek F. Jeter is, well, all the things he is that makes him one of the only players I openly boo. Seriously, how could Yankee fans support this assortment of bad guys?

2) 1978 New York Yankees: Loathsome. Drunken Billy dissed Reggie and George, resigned in disgrace and five days later was dragged back at an Old Timers Day fiasco that saw Bob Lemon pushed aside for no apparent reason. Then you had Bucky and his corked bat poking one into the screen at Fenway, followed by another beat down of the hapless Dodgers.

3) 2009 New York Yankees: ARod confessed in spring training to PED use, then the team rolled into a new, overpriced stadium that has all the charm of Lenin’s Tomb without even the benefit of having a dead Lenin laying around. Of course it has a jet stream that turns Yankee fly balls into home runs.

4) 1996 New York Yankees: Possibly the most stolen of all the Yankee championships. First, Derek F. Jeter got a cheap home run when the umpires amazingly failed to see Jeffrey Maier reaching into the field, a most infamous act. Then they went to the World Series against the Braves, known chokers in important games not involving the Mets. Jeter again benefited when umpire Tim Welke got in Jermaine Dye’s way as he went to grab a catchable fly. Then, Marquis Grissom was called out going to second on a passed ball when he was clearly safe, costing the Braves a run in the critical Game Six. Yankee magic or umpire assistance? Did the umpires get rings, too?

5) 1977 New York Yankees: Freaking Reggie, Freaking Billy, all in the season where the Mets break hearts by trading Tom Seaver.

6) 1999 Atlanta Braves: Chipper and his band of punks went to an undeserved World Series only because Kenny Bleeping Rogers couldn't throw a stinking strike, and then completely rolled over in the World Series to the vile Yankees.

7) 2008 New York Yankees: An entire season dedicated to a lie. And everyone knew it. The team and its willing accomplices spent the year paying tribute to a ballpark that was effectively torn down back in 1973, even getting an All-Star Game that should have gone to a more glorious ballpark in its final year – Shea, of course. And the patches on the back of the caps looked really stupid.

8) 2009 Phillies: They claimed a division title only because every Met but Daniel Murphy and the bat boy spent time on the disabled list, then completely rolled over in the World Series, giving the Yankees yet another championship and we’ll never hear the end of it.

9) 2001 Yankees: Stinking Roger Clemens went 20-3 at age 38 and no one was questioned whether he was juicing? Thank goodness Randy Johnson, Curt Schilling and Luis Gonzalez stepped up to stab the Yankees’ black hearts and prevent them from winning another undeserved World Series win.

10) 1988 Los Angeles Dodgers: It’s bad enough that Mike Stinking Scioscia destroyed the Mets season and Dwight Gooden’s career with one swing. But Dirty Kirk Gibson added insult to injury by stealing the Most Valuable Player Award that rightly belonged to Darryl Strawberry, sending Darryl into tailspin that eventually led to him in Yankee pinstripes, the ultimate uniform of shame.

11) 1991 Mike’s Upper Deck: They were the established kings of the Grand Blanc (Mich.) Parks and Recreation Coed Softball League, led by a surly female coach who never missed an opportunity to whine and berate the umpires. We were the upstart newcomers to the league and refused to play our assigned role of doormats. We were beating them in the fifth inning when it started to rain and the game was called. It should have been an official game. But no, they whined and whined that the game should be resumed and the league relented. We scored six runs in the first inning of the resumed game and claimed our victory – a second time. But I still hate those guys.

A plaque only a championship coach could love

I’ve decided there is a direct correlation to the beauty of a softball trophy and the actual achievement. And it doesn't go the way you might think.

You have to understand that I’ve been coaching coed softball teams for 13 years. I’ve presided over some decent teams and some teams where we all considered not getting hurt and still being on speaking terms at the end of the season an accomplishment.

The top prize has been elusive -- a lofty goal. Oh, we start each season thinking that we were going straight to the finals, and that the regular season was a formality intended as an enjoyable way to spend June and July.

The People’s Team came close -- twice. We founded the Flint Journal’s coed team in response to what we felt was the unfairness, elitism, and unpleasantness of the company’s men’s team. Our credo was that we would have fun and still make sure everybody played.

We won more than we expected, and one year, all the stars seemed to be in alignment and we went to the championship. The opponents, who had not won a game during the regular season, appeared with players we never saw before – really good ones. It did not end well.

That same summer, we went to what was once a casual tournament for newspaper teams, and again went to the finals. We went up against a team from one of the Detroit papers, stocked with players we were convinced had never seen the inside of the Detroit newsroom. That, too, did not end well.

We moved across the state in 1999, and I was very content to be just a player again. But the church team needed someone to take the helm when we had some many players that we could split in two.

The church team is named Know Mercy. I found out later that they picked the moniker because the team not only lost every game its first season, but lost by the mercy rule in each game. The players at the time thought the name was both accurate, and appropriate for a nice Lutheran church.

In the irst year with me at the helm, we earned this fine plaque:


Third place in the consolation round is another way of saying we lost the first game, then managed to win one or two against other teams that lost a game before getting sent home.

It's beautiful, with the little 3-D effect working there. It proudly hangs in the baseball room, not far from the Newsday front page of Jesse Orosco leaping for joy in 1986.

We were good in 2009, and cruised through much of the season. We have a great pitcher, some dangerous hitters and solid female players, which are the key in a coed league. The guys tend to balance out, and teams typically have a bunch of them. But the girls usually bat four or five times a game compared to twice or three times for the guys.

I thought we finally had a team that could go the distance. I mean I really thought we could do it, not the usual pre-season optimism. Alas a communication error prompted some players to arrive late to a first-round playoff game, causing a forfeit.

We marched our way through the losers’ bracket, getting to the final round. There’s a chance I carried on like Jesse Orosco after pounding our rivals in the last game. But deep down, we wondered if we could have gone all the way had we not goofed up that first round game.

The league director brought over the Consolation Championship plaque, and I had great expectations after the beautiful third place prize. We got this:



We were under whelmed. But still proud to accept. It hangs in my cubicle in the newsroom.

But that taste of near-victory led to greater expectations for this season. And with good reason. The second church team sort of fell apart, and two of the best players came to play with us. Most of the heroes from the year before were returning, and we picked up some new friends.

And there was another reason. My son was turning 18, which meant he was finally old enough to play on the same team as his dad. I got all choked up just thinking about it.

Things did not turn out entirely as expected early on. Some of our biggest guns had some other commitments and missed some games, out biggest was injured playing basketball and things just didn’t fall into place when they needed to. We lost some close games to good teams, and got pounded by some very good teams. We even had a tie game, which had not happened before.

We closed the regular season limping with one win, one tie and, well, more loses than we dared to count.

But I told the team we needed to shake off all that baggage and start anew. Most of the other commitments had been completed, my shortstop was declared healthy and things started to click.

We bounced a team out of first round, and squeaked around the team we tied in the second – our first winning streak of the season.

We caught fire. The defense flashed leather previously unseen. Our great pitcher tossed the first shutout in team history. We finally started getting runs in bunches.

Each win afforded new confidence. We faced our rival, the St. Matthew’s Monsters, in the championship game.

Throughout the week, teammates traded e-mail brimming with confidence. But I couldn’t help but think back to those two championship games in 1996, and the disasters that ensued.

We scored three runs in the first inning, and the Monsters replied with one of their own, on a contested call, I might add.

We nursed a 3-1 lead for most of the game, an unusually low score for coed softball. But we tacked on three more in the sixth, no help from the coach. “Mr. Clutch” was so nervous that I popped meekly to first base twice, nearly had the team bat out of order, and directed a player to accept a walk that she wasn’t entitled to.

There’s a chance there was much pacing and angst. More than one player lovingly admonished, “Calm down, Chipper.”

We added a seventh run in the top of the seventh, the final inning. Up 7-1, I directed my son to run out to the outfield because I wanted him to experience what I thought was about to happen. Too nervous to field myself, I bounced all over the place.

Usually I can report the details of each play for our game notes. I have no recollection of what actually happened that inning, other than we shut the Monsters down then raced to the center of the infield to celebrate. It was, after all these years, a very good feeling.

After all the hugs, the league director walked over with a large plaque wrapped in plastic, offering his congratulations.



I’ve been told that it looks like something that escaped from a 1970s roller disco, Others said it looks like a bad 1980s sci-fi movie’s backdrop.

We have a tradition were everyone in the team signs the back of the plaque. We all passed it and posed for a photo. We pointed to the word, "champions" and overlooked the rest.

The plaque has made the victory tour. Pastor asked me to hold it up so the congregation could see. I think some people were a little frightened.

It’s also been to work, where it will probably be on permanent display since my wife said she doesn’t want in the house, much less in the living room, where I first suggested it hang in glory for all to see.

One person walked over to my desk and stopped in mid-sentence. “Boy, that’s, um, some plaque.”



And I smiled. Yes, it is.

To see more about our season and our cool collector cards, check out Know Mercy Softball

A brief encounter with the Evil Empire's 'Boss'

Yogi's safe, probably Torre, too.

No one reading this space expects a tearful good-bye to George Steinbrenner.

But I did have one encounter with the Yankees owner on a rather surreal evening at Yankee Stadium in 1987 that involved a Hall of Famer, a former U.S. president and a legendary sports nut.

I was standing in the back row of the Yankee Stadium, pre-presidential encounter, and the Yankee owner walked past.

"How you doing, boys?" he said to me and Rich, patting me on the back as he walked past.

The Crane Pool Forum guys noted that remaining Yankee legends should proceed with caution. The old saying is that famous deaths happen in threes, and the Evil Empire earlier in the week lost its voice -- though Mr. Shepherd will continue to be heard every time Derek F. Jeter walks to the plate.

Yogi, of course, is protected by his Mets aura, but Whitey, Reggie, Bucky and the rest of the, um, heroes in pinstripes, not so much.

An All-Star Game at Shea, and another reason to celebrate July 7

July 7 always will be remembered by Mets fans as the day of the only All-Star Game in Shea Stadium history. Ron Hunt ran out the play second base, the first Met player selected to be a starter.

But I'm also going to remember it as a day one year ago that an iPhone app changed my life.

You have to know that I’ve been overweight most of my adult life. I was a bit of a yo-yo dieter, losing a bit, getting frustrated when I couldn’t lose more, then falling back into old habits. I knew it wasn’t healthy, and I knew I had to change.

Then I discovered Lose It!, a free app that asks you to set a goal, and sets a daily a calorie limit to help you meet that goal. I’d record what I ate after every meal, adding up the calories. Then I recorded my exercise, which subtracted the calories I burned.

The app also has little charts and graphic to mark progress, which is key because it provides visual proof of accomplishment, like a box score.

The value here was not necessarily the app, but the education I gained because of it.
I used to think I was eating in a relatively healthy manner. But I was stunned when I learned the actual calorie count of some of my favorites. I used to think I was dieting if I ordered the foot-long roast beef sub, but passed on the cookie or chips.

And I learned how exercising every day — rather than just two or three times a week — makes a tremendous difference. I spend about an hour a day on the treadmill, though with the weather nicer I can run outdoors and paddle my kayak.

As I started to see results, I became more focused. Some might use words like "obsessed" and "annoying."

I set an initial goal of losing 20 pounds and blew past that in a little over a month.

Initially, 30 pounds was bold but realistic goal, 40 pounds a big audacious goal, and 50 pounds was a fantasy. Today I sit here down 60 pounds, hitting the mark in late winter and maintaining it since.

I was going to show a "before" photo, but it was depressing and a little scary. The "after" shots are so much more fun, especially when compared to a leatherback, which can join me on the treadmill.

Eating in restaurants has been a challenge. Chains are good about posting nutritional information on their websites, but I’ve also learned enough to know what to look for on a menu, and that it’s OK to bring some things home in a box.

I’ve also learned about the importance of portions, especially with snacks. A cookie once in a while is fine. Eating five of them, not so much.

I’m also ramped up the amount of fruit and vegetables I eat. We’ve always had healthy family dinners, but I make sure to pack an apple or a banana — or both — in lunch everyday. I also make my own lunches, and it's a good thing that I'm a creature of routine who can happily eat a turkey sandwich every day.

There’s a different mindset, to be sure. I often think, which would I enjoy more, the brownie or good news on the scale?

And there are some things I miss. Qdoba's three-cheese nachos, China City's sesame chicken and the aforementioned Jimmy John's sub are now just fond memories.

But I've learned a taste of a treat is as good as the whole thing, and running can be fun, especially with an iPod loaded up with "God rock" and 1980s hits.

I feel so much better physically — save for some sore knees once in a while — and I no longer duck for cover when someone brings out a camera.

Not long ago, I was in a store and picked up a 40-pound bag of bird seed, and thought it was pretty heavy. Then it dawned on me I was carrying around all that weight and half of another bag, and realized how difficult that must have been on my body.

I’ve heard that most people who lose weight gain it back over time. That might happen to me one day. But I can make sure I won’t head down that path today, and will take it one day at a time.

Making such a dramatic lifestyle change requires a supportive family, because I suspect I’m not as quiet as I hope I am when I rise a 6 a.m. and head to the treadmill. And buying new clothes was an expense we didn’t consider initially, and we all had to sacrifice. I’m grateful to have their backing even when I test their patience.

Now, I share this for a reason. As some of the people leaving comments on this blog tell me often, I’m not a rocket scientist or a brain surgeon. Yet, I could do this. If I can do it, so can other people.

And if you need someone to cheer you on, you know where to find me.

The Mystery of the Mets and Massapequa

You have to realize that I read almost no fiction.

The Harry Potter books are the rare exception, but I guess I’d rather learn about something real. This is a character flaw and I know it, like drinking too much Diet Coke.

So there can be no reason to expect that I would have purchased the old copy of Rex Stout’s “Please Pass the Guilt,” a Nero Wolfe book my wife asked me to read this weekend.

“You might like it,” she said. “It’s got the Mets in it.”

Sure enough, the lure printed in the dust jacket reads: “A new Nero Wolfe mystery at last – after a gap of four years – and it will be a delight to all Stout fans. The story is set in the summer of 1969, during that memorable period when the Mets were battling for the pennant and bomb scares abounded in Fun City.”

Curious, I started reading. A character introduces himself as “Ron Seaver,” which Wolfe sidekick Archie Goodwin immediately realizes is a combination of Ron Swoboda and Tom Seaver.

Later, there is a scene in which Goodwin visits a character and their attention is diverted because a game is on the television, with the Mets losing to the Pirates 4-2.

There is mention of Ralph Kiner talking, Ed Kranepool batting, and a blooper hit to left-center chased by Cleon Jones and Tommie Agee – spelled incorrectly as “Tommy,” showing some proofreader was a slacker, or worse, a Yankees fan.

They talk about Jerry Koosman having a good inning, Jerry Grote hitting a double, Bud Harrelson beating out a bunt, and Ed Charles making an inning-ending out.

Later, we know that Bob Murphy had replaced Kiner in the booth, and Goodwin tells his host, “Thank you for letting me see Cleon Jones make that catch.”

I scanned Retrosheet to see if Stout used a real game for the scene. Alas, it came from his creative mind. There was one Koosman game on April 16 against the Pirates in which the Mets trailed 4-1 at one point, but never 4-2 and Grote had the day off, resting in favor of J.C. Martin, who did at least double. Charles didn’t play, but Agee, Jones, Harrelson and Kranepool all appeared.

Save for some other scattered references about trying to get out to Shea to watch batting practice, that’s it for the Mets references.

Nero Wolfe solves his mystery, of course, but he doesn’t solve mine.

The book used to belong to a library, and on the inside of the cover is that little pocket for the card on which the librarian would stamp the due date. This one has another stamp – “Withdrawn and discarded” – and printed is the name of the library:

Massapequa Public Library

Massapequa, New York

Pyramid 8-4607

The Massapequa Public Library was like a second home when I was growing up. I’d bike over to the branch at 55 Central Ave. several times a week to read the Sporting News and news and music magazines.

But it’s my wife’s book. She reads only fiction – non-fiction is too much like being at work – and she’s from Illinois.

Rex Stout is one of her favorite authors, and she’s collected his books since she was a teen-ager. She’s had this particular book since high school, and believes that either she or her father found it in a used book store somewhere in Illinois. Her other Stout books from that era came from libraries in Illinois and Baltimore.

What are the chances that a girl from Illinois will come across a book that gives the Mets a fair amount of attention and once sat on the shelves in a Massapequa library? And then tell me the chances that this girl will someday meet in Missouri -- and later marry -- a devoted Mets fan who happens to be from Massapequa?

Surely a master storyteller like Stout would cast aside such a plot twist.

But truth, it has been said, is stranger than fiction.

World Cup fever gone, but it was a kick in 1994

Well, soccer fever has died down here in Michigan now that the very best soccer players in all of America have once again been booted out of the World Cup by the squad from an African nation roughly the size of Indiana.

I'm not weeping, mind you. The vuvuzelas didn't bother me as much as the sportswriters complaining about the vuvuzelas. How dare other countries have their own traditions.

And it's not the bad officiating. Detroit fans know all about bad officiating.

The charms of soccer are just lost on me. But that wasn't the case when the event was here in the United States in 1994, and I got to cover one of the games.

Here's a tale from the vault.

According to my oral surgeon, I was pretty excited about going to the match.

What is hyped as the biggest sporting event in the world came to the Detroit area, with three games to be played at the Pontiac Silverdome.

My editors at the Flint Journal allowed me — succumbed to my begging, actually — to be a part of the coverage. One of the fun parts about being a reporter is that we get to see exciting things up close, and I thought this would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Not that I’m a soccer guy by any stretch. In fact, it’s safe to say that I was a full-fledged soccer mocker. Growing up in Massapequa Park in the 1970s, it seemed the sport was shoved down our throats. And there was a whole elitist thing going, about how it was the world’s sport and we silly Americans don’t get it and need to get on board. Most of these people were new Yankee fans who knew a thing or two about jumping on bandwagons.

But reporters are curious beings and I wanted to see what the fuss was all about.

A couple weeks before the first game, I had to go through a special security screening to get a press credential that, for its time, was over the top. By today’s standards it was like boarding a flight to Atlanta.

Then I was able to attend a press conference where we were able to see the special grass that was grown outside on octagon-shaped trays in California then trucked to Michigan and installed in the Silverdome, where the Lions lost a lot of games on plastic turf.

We also were allowed to see the FIFA trophy up close. It was underwhelming.

Then I had to get my wisdom teeth yanked out. I’d never had a procedure like that before, and the only thing I remember was the oral surgeon putting some kind of tube over my nose and my saying that the gas that was supposed to knock me out wasn’t working — and several hours later waking up in my bed with my wife saying "Ick, change your gauze." I had no idea how I got there.

So I was still kind of sore when the big day arrived. The United States was playing Switzerland in the opening round game, and the hometown team was considered great underdogs.

We had actual sports guys covering the action on the field. My job was to write about everything else going on. And the fans from Switzerland were completely out of control. The Silverdome parking lot was an explosion of red and white, with singing and dancing, painted faces and flags.

People were walking around with cow bells, and I don’t mean Blue-Oyster-Cult-it-needs-more-cowbell cowbells. These things were massive. Somewhere is Switzerland, bovines were stealthily moving throughout their countryside because their bells were in Pontiac.

I looked for Swiss people who spoke English, and found one guy who didn’t mind talking to an obvious soccer novice. He spoke about the strengths and weaknesses of both teams, then leaned forward and spoke softly.

"Now I have a prediction for you. But I warn you, you might not like it."

"OK,let me hear it."

"Switzerland 4, U.S. 1" he said, then stood straight up with his chest puffed out, clearly expecting me to launch into a tirade. I’m sure he was disappointed that I didn’t.

I admired their fanaticism and patriotic fervor, which was a stark contrast to the Americans in the crowd.

I moved inside for the game, and the Swiss-induced bedlam continued, with more singing and chanting.

I’ve always thought soccer was pretty boring. A colleague at the paper wrote that it’s played on a field the size of Rhode Island with goals bigger than an airplane hangar, and people still can’t seem to score more than a point or two. And all that is true. But it was amazing to see the way the players could send the ball way down field, floating like it was a beach ball, and make it stop on a dime.

Predictably, there were only two goals. Georges Bregy of Switzerland scored first, and Eric Wynalda of the U.S. later. Sadly, I missed them both, having picked a bad time to use the mens room and grab a Diet Coke.

But a 1-1 tie was considered a sizable victory for the U.S., and I got caught up in World Cup fever, staying up late to watch some games, and even buying a U.S. jersey.

There's no way I’d attend another soccer game, but this was a fun way to dabble in a lesser sport for a short while.

But I'd love to be able to take some of the Swiss fans to see a Mets playoff game and let them see what real excitement is!

A week later I was back at the oral surgeon to get my stitches out, and he asked if I had a good time at the World Cup game.

"How’d you know I went to that?" I asked. "Did you read my stories?"

"No," he responded with a smile. "While you were knocked out, you kept repeating over and over, ‘I’m covering the World Cup next week.’"

Apparently I tried to drive home, too.