Sitting in the clubhouse, Right in the front row!

The legendary Milwaukee Brewer (and ex-Phillie) Bob Uecker died today. Hard to say what he was most famous for - his announcing, his hysterical appearances on The Tonight Show as a guest with Johnny Carson, his TV commercials, his movies or TV shows.

In this article in The Athletic, this line stood out to me for personal reasons, because I can attest to it: "Uecker was a fixture in Brewers clubhouses, as much a part of the fabric as the clubhouse attendant or bench coach."

Back around 1979-80, I took a vacation, first visiting my sister Judy in Vermont, then driving to Maine for a few days of camping by myself at Acadia - alone except the night I asked my lunch waitress to dinner and to my delight, she said yes.

Heading south, I decided to take in a game in Boston at Fenway against the Brewers, my first time there. After the game, I went for a walk around the inside of the stadium and in the concourse behind third base, I noticed a stream of reporters filing into the Brewers' locker room, so I surreptitiously jumped in line and followed them in.

Seeing their slugger Gorman Thomas at his locker, I went over and sat next to him, telling he was my friend Jim Daly's favorite player and engaging in general small talk particularly about his memories of being a kid and going to major league games. At some point he asked me why I was there and I told him I had sneaked in. So he gave me another minute or two before he kindly said he needed to get going. So I thanked him and looked around the clubhouse to see who else I might talk to or what else I could do to prolong my stay.

Seeing a big spread on a table in the middle of the room of meatball sandwiches among other things, and not having eaten since breakfast, I moseyed over and made myself a nice big meatball sandwich.

Leaning up against the table, halfway through the sandwich, surveying the room, I looked in the manager's office and made brief eye contact with the aforementioned Mr. Uecker, quickly looking away so as not to get his attention, but then quickly looking back to see him nudge one of the other people in the room and point at me saying something I couldn't hear. Moments later, he came out of the room, came over to me and asked me who I was and why I was there.

So I told him the truth and he gently told me I'd have to leave...which I did. And that is my riveting Bob Uecker story.

RIP Jimmuh

Jimmy Carter has long been a hero of mine, even before I met him, primarily because of his insistence on pairing foreign aid to any country's record on human rights.

Many years ago, 1997 to be exact, Colin Powell organized a Volunteerism Summit in North Philadelphia. Current, former, future and wannabe Presidents Clinton, Carter, Ford, GHWBush, Gore and their wives were there, along with Powell, Nancy Reagan, Arlen Specter, Mayor Rendell and various others, including LL Cool J. We all first met on the pockmarked Simon Gratz High School football field, where I stood about 10 yards in front of the stage furiously taking photos until I ran out of film (remember that?!).

Eventually, we were all shepherded into buses to be ferried to our assigned North Philly post were we would be clearing litter-strewn lots, painting buildings, etc.

As my bus slowed to a stop to let us off, I saw out my window that President Carter was holding a mini-press conference half a block away. As soon as my bus came to a stop, as the leaders were directing us to a different assignment, I, pretending not to hear them shouting at me to stay with my group, hustled over to join President Carter's group.

I got there just in time to see President Carter begging away (forcefully) fro the assembled media because he wanted to get to work. And when I saw where he was headed, I, also semi-forcefully, made sure I was as close to him as I was allowed and to my surprise, I eventually found myself painting the outside of a dilapidated North Philly building, virtually and almost literally elbow to elbow with him, each paint roller in hand.

My two enduring memories of my interactions with him that day came first when we were directed to a place where there was some rather beautiful graffiti on the side of the building. When the (ex-)President came to that spot, he paused and looked at it and asked me whether I thought he should leave it alone or he should paint over it.

I commented that it really was pretty enough to leave alone but was otherwise non-committal. President Carter paused, stared at it for a moment longer and soon started framing it with his roller, filling in all around, and leaving it for all to see.

My second memory is when we were all sitting on front steps of row houses, finishing up the boxed lunches provided to us. There were two attractive young college-aged looking women who wanted to have their pictures taken with President Carter. I vaguely remember that one of them wanted to sit on his lap, and even may have, though what I remember even more than Jimmy's big toothy grin as the two college girls fawned over him, was his wife Rosalynn standing to the side, watching, not smiling, until finally she said "OK, enough of this. Time to get back to work, everyone!"

Years later I drove around North Philly hoping to remember correctly the location of the building President Carter and I had painted together and after some circling around in parts of the city many would never go within 20 blocks of, I found the spot. It had since bulldozed to the ground, nothing in its place.

I am tempted to list all the incredible achievements of his presidency as outlined here, but if you need to be reminded, either open that link, or let me know and I'll copy and send it to you. It's worth it. He really was a great President...and by all counts as great a person.

Though certainly the punishment wouldn't have fit the crime

If Joe Biden hadn't pardoned his son, I think Hunter's punishment should have been to be put in a cell with Donald Trump and Rudy Giuliani.

 

Thank you, Senator Schatz! Asked who the Dems should look to as a Presidential nominee in 2028, he said: "I think whomever we nominate has to talk like a normal person. A person who is real. If you had them over for dinner, you could understand what the hell they were talking about. And so I think we are looking for someone who can plausibly fit in as a human being all across the country. I don’t know who that’s going to be. But the challenge is going to be, how do you maintain your progressive values and not sound like you just got your post-doctoral thesis in sociology.”

I've been saying this for so long that my original examples of appealing politicians who speak like the rest of us were Ed Rendell, John McCain and Joe Biden.

Enough with…Existential crises! Inflection points! and Blue ribbon ad hoc stopgap measure bipartisan blabbityblahs! Sound like a normal person — like the guy at the end of the bar.

Like, dare I say it, Donald Trump.

 Yet another reason I'm glad we elected Barack Obama in 2008: So we won't have to refer to Elon Musk as our first African-American President.

Roll over, Bill Shakespeare

By popular demand, by which I mean 100% of my responders...and very possibly, readers..., and by which I mean, well, Niece Becca, I am going to post the poem, if one can even call it that, that I referred to a few posts below when I was writing about um, checks post, poetry.

As a reminder, this was what I wrote while on my 4871 mile bike trip from San Francisco in 1982 passing through LA, San Diego, Flagstaff, Oklahoma City, Kansas City, Chicago, Detroit, Toronto, Burlington VT, home, and finally around the field in Veterans Stadium before completing the last 60+ miles to Atlantic City.

God?

God? Why do you put the wind in my face

instead of my back

 so you could help push me along?

(A gust of wind on my back)                                

God? Why do you keep the sun so bright 

when my water bottles are dry 

and the next town is 25 miles away?

(A small cloud covers the sun)                            

God? Why do people throw things at me as they pass

and miss me with their cars

 by only a foot or two?

(A car slows down as it passes and the people inside              

 ask me if there is anything I need)            

God? Why do I carry on these running

 conversations with you,

 if I keep telling people that I don't believe in you?

(A gust of wind on my back)                         

Perfect sense

I remember when my kids were born, holding them, thinking they were perfect in every way, and with Cheryl and me as parents, and having been born into such an amazing extended family, they would grow up to be perfect humans. And I think it’s safe to say I was not the only parent thinking my kids were and would grow up to be perfect.

And yet we know, as humans, no perfect little ones grow up to be perfect big ones. At least not by the time they learn to talk, no matter what Pink sings:

Pretty, pretty please
Don't you ever, ever feel
Like you're less than
Less than perfect

Pretty, pretty please
If you ever, ever feel
Like you're nothing
You are perfect
To me

On the other hand, after reading any obituary or going to any memorial service, by the time we die, you’d think Pink, and we parents, did indeed have it right.