Here’s To You, Old Blue Eyes: Happy 100th!

To say my musical taste is eclectic is to say leopards have spots.

I love bopping down to Harlem to listen to my favorite band, Casa Mantequilla, and my favorite singer, little brother Hawk Smith, explore Latin/Carib/African/Spanish rhythms with the brilliant Brendan Malone & Co. But my bucket list very much contains wishes to see Springsteen, Sam Smith,  Lady Gaga, Tony Bennett. And Wynne Evans in any opera. I want to see Mark Llewelyn Evans as Henry Higgins, Audra MacDonald in any darned thing she wants. I want to hear Al Vosper, Brendan Malone  and Alfie Boe play guitars together.

I’ve traveled across an ocean quite often, thank you, to see Alfie, someone I’d never heard sing a note 'til five years ago. Now I cannot imagine life without that gorgeous voice and crinkly nose smile brightening each day. And not only is there one tenor named Boe, but two, with Michael and his angelic voice at one beautiful end of the scale, and Alfie at the other, with a world of beautiful music in between, just waiting to be discovered. 

Haven’t heard of some, or any? That’s okay. It’s a play list of a most personal nature. Everyone should have such a play list, one filled with dreams come true and dreams still in the making ... Hawk singing Gershwin, Alfie singing in the Grand Canyon! Dreams, imagination, a love of music, those are all anyone should ask of his or her heart while walking down one’s own magical, musical roads.

All that said, I now set aside the rest of this salute to the one who first led me to take a step, open an ear, and open my heart -- body and soul.

Francis Albert Sinatra. Old Blue Eyes. The Chairman of the Board. The Voice. Mr. S. Or, as Jimmy Durante delightfully preferred, Da Throat.

Of the many co-contributors to the soundtrack of my life, no one can better lay claim to the original compilation than this man. Saturday, Dec. 12, 2015, would have been Frank Sinatra's 100th birthday. That means he accompanied me in the musical sense for six decades, with a wink and a ring-a-ding-ding, balancing a cocktail glass in one hand, and generation after generation’s musical GPS' in the other.

Yes, he was a ruffian, A tough Jersey boy, and darned proud of it. That pugnaciousness got him out of Hoboken and across the river to New York, which beckoned to him from across the Hudson throughout his formative years. If he could make it there, he could make it anywhere ... 

Make it there, he did. The City That Never Sleeps was the launching point from which he perfected his hold on the bobbysoxers and the brawlers who wanted to be him. 

Sinatra talked a mean game, about booze and, yes, broads; inheriting and advancing the lexicon of the original Chairman of the Board, Humphrey Bogart. 

Sinatra was hip before the word was even coined, piping red hot and blue-note cool all at once. 

Who ever pulled that off, for over 60 years?

Frankie, that’s who. He was fresh in a way the crooners he sidled up to, then lapped, were not. At the start, he was a wise guy, street-smart, able to relate to kids looking for a different path into the mid-century. In the crucial war years, his music comforted widows and loved ones on the homefront and GIs overseas. He galvanized political movements in Hollywood that championed Civil Rights. He attached to the excitement of JFK’s Camelot, further aiding a generation’s break from the tired, tried and true. 

And he stuck, through several retirements and encores, until the final curtain, in 1998.

In all, it was a mean package, a carefully-crafted brand before there was branding. And before there was the tilted fedora, the Cary Grant-worthy wardrobe, before there was the entourage and the need to create a city called Vegas in his honor, there was the sound. 

And, oh, what a sound.

I’ve always contended that if they gave Oscars for leading performances in song, Frank wouldn’t have just one Oscar, but perhaps hundreds. Because he so occupied a song, he made each interpretation an individual bravoura performance Olivier would have appreciated. 

Has there ever been a better cure for the glums than a Sinatra ballot, a saloon song?

The iconic One For My Baby, One More For The Road. I’m A Fool To Want You. Angels Eyes. Only The Lonely.

There was never a possibility that you could be as down as the poor slob in a trench coat and cockeyed brim crying in his Jack Daniels in the dead of night in a lonely dive, the pain etched into a 

face that seemed to rival the saddest basset hound. These moments were best seen and heard; thank heavens for YouTube! 

And as you watch, no matter how down you are, somehow, that Sinatra low was the kick-in-the-butt you needed to hear to get your carcass in gear. 

Was he a blues singer? He was a pop singer. But he studied at the feet of the masters, especially the royal court: The queens --  Sarah, Ella, Carmen -- The Duke, The Count. The phrasing, the cadence, the rhythm. How could the blues not seep into his music, into his pores? And when you mix in the heartbreak along the way (ah, Ava), the timbre was added and The Voice aged like fine wine.

The resulting body of work found in the ballads alone remains perhaps the greatest testament to his talent. So, Frank, while I never really drank, I’ll make an exception on your 100th. This one's for you, sir!

The ballads must always be juxtaposed with Swingin’ Sinatra, the Come Fly With Me, Ring-A-Ding-Ding, I’ve Got You Under My Skin Kid. Quincy Jones, producer for some of the greatest performers of the 20th Century, such as Michael Jackson, calls Sinatra the greatest pop singer in history. Q knows pop. And when he raised the baton on The Best Is Yet To Come, with Frankie and Count Basie and his band, he had to know there was never a more apropos title, because the best was yet to come.  

My Kind of Town. Night And Day, All Or Nothing At All. Luck Be A Lady. Witchcraft. Vegas couldn’t hope to contain all that cool; it rather chose to capitalize on it. And the party, with Dino, Sammy, Peter and Joey was on!

Personally, some of my earliest memories involve my mom and dad tuning the Hi-Fi in to Sid Mark's Friday With Frank, a forever-Philadelphia radio show staple now in its 59th year. That is but one of the many ways in which you connect me to my past, my parents.

Mom, a talent who auditioned for the great Duke Ellington, often dueted with you as Dad spun your platters. Dad would croon, too, but, being tone-deaf, he knew enough to give way to the master. He just absorbed and, dare I say, saluted, often with your drink of choice, a Jack Daniel’s!

Their late-night sessions, often fueled by that wee bit of the nectar of the gods, would awaken me and I would join them in front of that big honkin’ Hi-Fi that rivaled any 300-pound wooden dining room server. 

All The Way. In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning. I Get Along Without You Very Well. You Go To My Head.

Often I'd fall asleep again, my head nestled on my father's chest as the three of us lay on the living room floor, in front of those huge built-in speakers, the Voice washing over us with love songs and ballads and beauty.

And now, nearly two decades after your death, you continue to remain stubbornly relevant, as if to prove to all the 15-minutes-of-famers what staying power really means.

My little guys grew up with your voice in surround-sound at home, but now, as young men are immersed in hip-hop. Yet you connect me to my present and their present, because the "dawn" has arisen for their generation. Josh and Christopher -- my son and my godson -- have discovered the timeless gold in the notes, the message and in-the-moment raw passion of each heartfelt verse. 

September of My Years. This Was My Love. Cycles. I Have Dreamed. Old Man River. 

The tenderness and vulnerability found in the many layers within the ultimate tough guy has opened their eyes in magnificent ways. Frankie, you occupy a song, and they relate, because that’s what the

rappers who put their lives out there in verse do the same. Thus, the ultimate interpretation. As Alfie said, you can ask an audience inside the bubble with you. Frank gave master courses in just that. It’s a talent that garnered an Oscar for acting, and broke hearts when singing. 

They get it, as Josh (28), tells me after he being lost in the moment, time and again.

I think that’s called art. Timeless art. So, when we celebrate 150, let’s do this, again. And we’ll lift another, Mr. S. I’m riding this one out with you. We may have to do it Nice ’N Easy, but I’m all in, sir, All The Way.

Sammy Davis, Yes, You Could! Thanks For The Memories

On this day, December 8, on what would have been your 90th birthday, I would like to say "thank you" to one Sammy Davis, Jr.

Thanks, Mr. D, for the inspiration I found in your life story in "Yes I Can," my favorite book as a child. 

Thank you for matching an ideal with reality by being so charming and forthcoming in an interview in 1982. That remains the absolute highlight of my career and I cherish the experience beyond all other interviews I've done.

Lastly, thank you for sharing your many gifts and so much love with this nation while enduring the slings and arrows of being a black man in a country that didn't always love you back. You walked a harrowing path, or should I say danced along it, for decade after decade.

You made history, by integrating Miami Beach's entertainment scene, Vegas, by headlining on TV shows.

Local citizens' counsels' heads exploded, Klan klaverns threatened, TV sponsors rebelled, but you never stopped pushing forward. You integrated an industry, a mindset, with the force of your talent and willpower, all 100 pounds of nothing but astounding energy and grit, grace and humor.

How you did it I will never, ever know. Walking through the back doors of joints, through the kitchens of hotels and casinos, down back alleys rather than on red carpets. Entertaining in places where you could pull in patrons by the thousands, but not pull up on cover on a bed in a room you were barred from sleeping in, or sip from one drink in a bar or restaurant you could not patronize. The color green was appreciated; the color black was ostracized, spit upon, dehumanized. Dance and sing for us, oh, talented one, then get on to the back of the bus. With a smile.


Underneath that smile, there was a determination that made a giant out of a 90-pound flyweight. When your pending marriage ti Mae Britt was announced, the South rose up again. Even over 100 years after the Civil War, a marriage between a black man and a white woman could bring hatred to a boil, and worse. And fo
r a celebrity, the repercussions were immense. Through in politics, and the third rails were everywhere.

You, Frank Sinatra, Peter Lawford and your gang (yes, Marilyn Monroe, too) were famously Kennedy Men. And because you were, The Rat Pack became a campaign issue an issue in a presidential candidate.

And you became a target. Literally. The Klan and other bigots hiding behind sheets and anonymity threatended violence. And they made it necessary, in your eyes, to prepare. You already carried guns, on the hips, holstered and at the ready --

sixshooters were part of the show as you performed flashy gun twirling tricks and quick draws you used to awe John Wayne with. You’d always dreamed of being a western movie star, of outdrawing the bad guys. Little did these real bad guys know that if they acted on their hatred, this cowboy in the white hat had real bulltes in those sixshooters, ready to protect his territory on stages from Miami to Vegas. If they attempted to drag you from, or kill you on a Miami or Vegas stage, they would have met not Big John, but Little Sam. Lord have mercy!

Your battles were many, your allies, too. Mr. S -- he was always there. He told his TV sponsors that if they wanted to walk, they could, because he was going to have you as a guest on his television show, come Hell or high water. This was no small thing in the 50s. It’s a major reason I love him as I love you.

Not all was perfection. In your book, “Yes I Can,” you described Frankie’s tears when he told how JFK’s camp asked him not to stand up for you at your wedding. You understood and stood by your friend the way he could not bring himself to do so for you.

How that must have hurt. But you persevered, time after time after time, through insult and injury, indifference and indignities. You did so because you loved what you did, and refused to be swayed from doing what you loved. The stage was your solace, where the only colors that mattered where the shadings of the footlights, the sequences, the greasepaint.

So when I think of the piddling pitfalls I must endure, and at times, when think I cannot, I often think of you, Mr. D. I think back to when I curled up while reading your story. I think back to 1982 when you flashed that smile while recounting your life, the ups, the downs, the “kicks,” and the licks. Then I look at my stuff and realize, by comparison, this ain't nothing.

I got this.

Yes I Can.

Yogi, The Love For You Ain’t Ever Gonna Be Over

Yogi Berra said it ain’t over til it’s over. It’s over. Yogi died last night at age 90. With him goes one of the last notable links to an age of innocence, charm, civility, dignity and quiet heroism.

Heroism. That is a concept so often overused, and just flat-out  misused in sport. Having a great game after an off-field controversy, be it an arrest or locker-room contra-tempts, is often labeled the stuff of heroes. 

Nonsense. 

Try fighting for your country. Like so many from The Greatest Generation, Yogi did just that, participating in the invasion at Normandy, combing  beaches for the wounded and dying who fought on D-Day. That is heroic. Winning, and winning, and winning as a ballplayer, that was icing on the cake that made his legend as a Hall of Famer and Yankees great complete. 

HOFers Yogi Berra and Gary Carter

Yogi was a national treasure, larger than life, because of his contributions to his country and the game, and, not to be forgotten, the American lexicon, thanks to his many Yogi-isms. 


You know Yogi if only because of his Yogi-isms, many of which grace “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.

• "On his approach to at-bats: ``You can't think and hit at the same time.''
• On selecting a restaurant: ``Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded.''
• On economics: ``A nickel ain't worth a dime anymore.''
• On the 1973 Mets: ``We were overwhelming underdogs.''
• On how events sometimes seem to repeat themselves ``It's deja vu all over again!''
• On baseball attendance: ``If people don't come to the ballpark, how are you gonna stop them?''
• On a slipping batting average: ``Slump? I ain't in no slump. ... I just ain't hitting.''
• On travel directions: ``When you come to a fork in the road take it.''
• On pregame rest: ``I usually take a two-hour nap from 1 to 4.''
• On battling the shadows in left field at Yankee Stadium: ``It gets late early out there.''
• On fan mail: ``Never answer an anonymous letter.''
• On being told he looked cool: ``You don't look so hot yourself.''
• On being asked what time it was: ``You mean now?''
• On being given a day in his honor: ``Thank you for making this day necessary.''
• On a spring training drill: ``Pair off in threes.''
• On his approach to playing baseball: ``Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.''
• ·On death: ``Always go to other people's funerals. Otherwise they won't go to yours.''
• On learning: ``You can observe a lot by watching.''
• On his team's diminishing pennant chances: ``It ain't over `till it's over.''
• On the fractured syntax attributed to him: ``I really didn't say everything I said.''

Yes, Yogi, there was truth in most everything you said. You cannot argue the logic. It’s Yogi’s logic, crytic and fall-down funny at the same time. Proud to say that I heard two: “Home openers are exciting, whether they’re at home or on the road,” and “the runs and rains were pouring in buckets!” Oh, Yogi, so true, so true. ...

Yogi transcended sports because of moments in which he turned heads and made us laugh, then think, then laugh, again. He left an indelible imprint on a nation’s heart, and did so with grace, wit, sincerity and humility. He was a most improbable-looking athlete, yet a great one who simply collected rings the way Elizabeth Taylor collected husbands. He was the charming good luck charm for an otherwise cold, killing maching that was The Bronx Bombers, a loveable Yankee who defied being demonized.

And, forget Ruth, and DiMaggio and Mantle. Berra, an 18-time All-Star and 10-time World champion,
made you wonder, how did the Yankees ever win before, or after him?

There never has been one quite like him, and like there will never be one, again. 

Yet, he was, in many ways, this slight man in a tiny compact package with a never-fading smile was a giant in my eyes for much more personal reasons. For Yogi simply was someone who refused to look down on any human being and, because of that, he welcomed this reporter unlike any manager I ever covered. 

No manager made me feel more immediately comfortable in his presence. Here he was, a Hall of Famer, a legend who could, on any given day, give Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford a run for their money on the popularity scale at a Yankee Stadium Old Timers game. Yet he  made an unknown reporter from a distant land (Hartford, Ct.) feel  at home every single day I was assigned to cover his team. I never once felt that I was in the company of royalty, which many a Yankees legend does to this day. Yogi was always, always, always a down-to-earth person, the antithesis of “celebrity.” That made his stardom all the brighter in my eyes. I cherished his friendship, which lasted from the moment I met him at the start of the turbulent 1980s til the end. 

I think one of the things that awed me the most about Yogi was this well-kept secret of his, revealed only when the eyes twinkled. He knew stuff, but was so comfortable in his own skin he did not feel the need to prove the intelligence within. And believe this: Yogi was wise beyond what the popular narrative will have you believe. Yogi may not have been the had the most dexterity when it came to verbal game-play, but he was far from being cartoon character that was his public persona, someone filled with unintended witticisms rather than wisdom. 

No. For those who bothered to listen reveled in how Yogi turned that accepted belief on its ear. Yogi participated in panel discussions that his wonderful museum that bears his name on the campus of Montclair University in New Jersey. Even when not on panels, Yogi was often seen in the wings, hanging on every word, absorbing, listening, learning. He loved to quiz you in conversations, about journalism, especially. And his recall about every aspect of his career was simply amazing. And that career spanned most of the 20^th Century. Remember, he passed away 69 years to the day that he made his major-league debut with the Yankees (Sept. 22, 1946).  

Yogi Berra, Ralph Branca and Roy Campanella

Quite often, Yogi’s museum, under the wonderful guidance of David Kaplan, would mirror the issues of the day. One of my favorite moments at the site occurred when the displays saluted the contributions of African Americans in baseball, and Yogi toured the museum with Larry Doby, his fellow Hall of Famer and Montclair neighbor. The two friends witnessed the breaking of the color barrier in 1947, by Jackie Robinson in the National League, and Larry Doby in the American League. Yogi was one of the players who never saw color, and welcomed the destruction of the game’s color barrier. He and Doby and their families remained friends for decades after, the shared pride of Montclair. The lessons taught that day were as invaluable as they surely were in ’47.

The wonderful thing about a day of remembrances is that so many will talk and write lovingly about Yogi in ways that would likely make Yogi smile, but shake his head in wonder. He might wonder, too, when the salutes will finally end, but to that I say, “Yogi, they won’t. This time, the love and affection for you ain’t ever gonna be over.” 

God bless. Thank you for everything, my friend.  

Atticus, Scotty, where have you gone?

I know they’re fictional, but Atticus Finch, now Alexander Scott? 

Harper Lee has turned lovers of 20th Century American literary classics  on their ears by revealing that era’s most iconic fictional hero -- Atticus Finch -- is a racist. How? Well, it seems Finch, the cornerstone of her universally praised bestselling novel, “To Kill A Mockingbird,” the man who stood against a mob, and then against the policies and bigotry of a segregated South when defending a black man against trumped up raped charges (of a white woman) grew into a Ku Klux Klan-loving white supremacist. This revelation comes in Harper’s just published“Go Set a Watchman.” 

The author’s second-ever novel, written before “Mockingbird,” but published 55 years afterward, has hit all those who set their moral internal compasses after the required reading about Scout, Jem, Boo, Tom Robinson and, alas, Atticus hard. Very hard. Who could read the book and come away unmoved? Seeing the movie, well that only sealed the deal, for who could not fall in love with Atticus, as played by Gregory Peck, all over, again? I still rise every time when he passes from the courtroom, having lost a case but won one for humanity. Now I am to believe that man became a racist? I cannot believe I am the only one who is reeling, and anxious to read. 


Even without picking up “Watchman” (been waiting so long, Ms. Lee!), it is so perfect that you have somehow perfectly used the mid-20th Century to capture the discontent of 21st Century America. St. Louis. Selma. South Carolina. The burning of black churches throughout the South. The tears of black mothers who cry into pillows as they wonder why the lives of their children seem not to ever matter as much as those of other races.

Yes, fiction meets reality, and it stings.

Then, in the case of Bill Cosby, fiction covered an ugly reality and, as it peels away, that hideous nature of a harmful predator who was protected by fame, fortune and hubris takes your breath away. And reminds me, as an African American, of a time when we, when I was so hungry for a hero, for someone on a big screen or little screen, who looked like me, that fiction was better than nothing.

Can anyone who did not come of age in the 1960s as an African American child possibly know the impact that “I Spy” had as Alexander Scott, aka  Scotty, aka Bill Cosby, played equal partner to Kelly Robinson, aka Robert Culp, the first universally accepted black-white buddy pairing that did not require the African American to play a buffoon? Scotty was the trainer, Kelly was the internationally ranked tennis pro. Both were American spies of the first order, again, equals, partners, best friends. A first. Early television technology may not have been ready -- to watch on color TV, you had to choose who you wanted to be green, Cosby or Culp; they couldn’t maintain their natural colors at first,  because TV producers could not figure it out! America was ready, however, warming to the comedic give-and-take that helped launch Cosby’s record and movie career, and eventually a gargantuan television career unequalled to this day.

Cosby was my hero, a fellow product of Philadelphia, the city where I was born, and Temple U., where I would eventually matriculate. Cosby put my school on the map, once a seemingly impossible task in an area that boasted the laudable University of Pennsylvania, Villanova and St. Joseph's. 

What a thrill it was to see him at any sporting event in Philadelphia, to hear his wit and wisdom at any graduation as he spurred generation after generation of Philadelphians to go forth and represent, just as he had.

Now this. Cosby as serial seducer and likely rapist, by his own warped admission in a deposition in which he blithely hangs himself on his own words. Today, the New York Times detailed the deposition Cosby gave in fending off one of many civil suits. He did not fend off, though, but rather admitted an M.O. which detailed his acquiring drugs, including Quaaludes, to knock down women’s defenses so that he could have sex with them. [NY Times, http://nyti.ms/1Lj8qfe]

How did President Obama -- father of two teenage daughters -- firmly put it at his news conference the other day? "“If you give a woman or a man, for that matter, without his or her knowledge, a drug, and then have sex with that person without consent, that’s rape. And this country, any civilized country, should have no tolerance for rape.”
What he did hurt who knows how many women. And what he did hurt how many followers who literally saw in him a second father, a hero, a cultural barrier breaker who would not take no for an answer. Who knew that that last characteristic could mean such ugly things on low, disgusting levels. 

Jackie Robinson's contributions to baseball and country continue

Major League Baseball’s first-ever Civil Rights Game on Jackie Robinson Day was a match made perfect when it was set in the hands of the Dodgers.

Jackie Robinson’s powerful legacy, the Dodger team history, and baseball’s lead role in shattering segregation in this country are inextricably linked. For Robinson’s story can no more be limited to its importance to baseball than can the history of the Civil Rights movement overlook the tremendous impact made by Robinson’s becoming a Brooklyn Dodger, and the first African American player in the modern Major Leagues, on April 15, 1947.

The surviving icons of the successful integration of baseball  -- Rachel Robinson and daughter, Sharon; Dodgers 1949 rookie of the year Don Newcombe; Hall of Famers Sandy Koufax, Frank Robinson and Vin Scully -- were at Dodger Stadium to honor the husband, the father, the teammate, the friend, the mentor that was Jackie Robinson.

Frank and Barbara
Robinson, Dave Winfield
and Lloyd McClendon.
Robinson was baseball’s first black
manager. McClendon is baseball’s only African American
manager this season.

That unique extended royal family of Dodgers and fellow barrier breakers were joined by other greats, such as Hall of Famers Dave Winfield Jaime Jarrin, and baseball’s hierarchy, including Commissioner Rob Manfred. All figuratively linked arms with present-day uniformed personnel -- the Dodgers and Seattle Mariners who saluted No. 42 from the baselines on the diamond in Chavez Ravine, and the other 750 Major Leaguers who, on this day donned Jackie’s number, 42.

In a goose-bump-raising pre-game ceremony, Mrs. Robinson was escorted to the mound by Mr. Koufax as -players from both teams looked on, warmly applauding.

Rachel Robinson and Sandy Koufax

By serving as a proverbial honor guard for Mrs. Robinson, the army of No. 42s at Dodger Stadium that included Don Mattingly, Lloyd McClendon, Jimmy Rollins, Robinson Cano, Clayton Kershaw, King Felix Hernandez, were a living testament that Robinson lives on.

He is burnished in all our memories, either through real-life witness, or through the benefit of the many clips showing No. 42 running like a Olympic sprinter, sliding like a freight train, slashing historic hits. Still shots of his signing the contract offered by the visionary club owner Branch Rickey,  shots with teammates who were willing allies are indelible.

Pee Wee Reese, Ralph Branca, Roy Campanella, Newcombe, Jackie hugging, shaking hands, or simply standing on the field with arms around each other’s shoulders, showed a nation what was possible.  They defied and silenced racists. Their successes at living and playing as equals pulled the nation one major step closer to the Civil Rights era and this country’s last successful battles of the Civil War.

Every day, not just April 15, is Jackie Robinson Day in baseball, as far as I am concerned. And every day, he can be as young and vital and iconic as he was in 1947, as long as the game takes time to pause, remember and remind every youngster that comes into the Major Leagues what sacrifice, commitment and the indelible love of a cause as well as a game can produce.

Who is Alfie Boe?

My dear friend, Lisa Luisa Saxon wrote an essay after attending his first Alfie Boe concert. I'd like to share, because both she and her writing remain things of beauty to me:

By Lisa Saxon
Pacific Palisades, Ca.
Journalism teacher and former award-winning sports writer

I get it now. I really get it.
After Alfie Boe finished his soul-penetrating rendition of "In My Daughter's Eyes," at last night's benefit concert at Utah Valley University, I was on my feet -- giving him a well-deserved standing ovation. My dear friend Claire and my new friend Cheryl smiled broadly. In that moment, she knew I had been "Boe'd."
To be "Boe'd" -- it is not a noun, a verb, or a gerund. It is an interjection, a surge of warm love, an epiphany that affirms that we all are interconnected. Music does that. Alfie's music does it better, taking all of us on a spiritual journey that elevates us to a place far above whatever is troubling us, a place where we can separate ourselves from the chaos, disappointment, loneliness or hurt that can leave us paralyzed, indifferent, or worse.
Who is Alfie Boe?
He is a father, a kind soul, and a force who just brings people together. Claire and I have been friends for more than 30 years; we met while covering Major League Baseball in the early '80s. Our lives wound up taking us in different directions, until one day Alfie wound up bringing us together again. Claire posted on Facebook that she was heading somewhere to attend an Alfie concert. A few seconds after I "liked" the comment, Claire sent me a private message inquiring if I knew Alfie. My response was simple: I do not know him, but I know his music. And as the tears tumbled down my checks Saturday night, I came to know the real power of that music. When he sings, we heal. When he sings in concert, we find ourselves surrounded by others who have healed, are healing, or are waiting to be healed.
There are songs that speak to me at different levels. But I know that every song speaks to someone, which is why I was so happy when he boldly ventured off and recorded new songs, each of which surely will speak to someone somewhere the way "In My Daughter's Eyes" touches me. I hope he continues to take creative risks and record the music he feels he needs to sing.
Yes, I have been Boe'd, and I never want to limit that powerful, soulful voice to the place where it connected with me. He is on a journey. Let him take that voice to wherever it is that it needs to go, to wherever someone else is positioned to be "Boe'd."

"Let Them Wear Towels"

I wanted to share a fine documentary created a couple years ago, because it features some of the greatest sports journalists of the last 5 decades. That these journalists happen to be women gives it a perspective we’re not often asked to share.  The documentarians capture well the rough history, and how far we’ve come, as well as why we fought for the basic right to do the job we loved. Enjoy!

And I dedicate this posting to Alison Gordon.

“Let Them Wear Towels.”

http://youtu.be/mqMXDQYNZPQ

Alison Gordon: Friend, Mentor, Hero, Legend

Today, I experienced a roller coaster of emotions upon learning of the sudden death of my friend and mentor, Alison Gordon. Shock and tears soon followed, then the comfort of the common ground of admiration found within journalism circles began to soothe away the initial sting. Finally, came the laughter that most every anecdote about the sassy Ms. Gordon invariably brings began to remind how, if not why, she would want to be celebrated. 

Alison simply brought out the best in all around her, whether through humor, wisdom or a show of defiance and grace under fire. Back then, on the first front lines of the battles to break down barriers to female sports reporters, all those attributes were needed. All those attributes were found in that one dynamo known as Alison Gordon. 

With her death Thursday, at age 72, we were reminded of just how important a pioneer and barrier-breaker was the legendary reporter for the Toronto Star.

Now, as a wrote for ESPNW.com, I am often referred to as a pioneer. While flattering, I know that I was in the second wave, and that I benefited mightily from those braver souls who went before me, journalists like Alison. The daughter of a Canadian diplomat and someone who called the world her playground as a child, Alison was built to be bold, to make a statement. She was a natural to follow her heart, no matter how rough the road, in the proud tradition of press box pioneers Melissa Ludtke, Wendell Smith and Sam Lacy.

"To me she is a treasured friend and a great comrade at a time when I needed both," said Ludtke, the-then Sports Illustrated reporter who sued the New York Yankees for access in 1977, and won the landmark decision a year later, opening doors for all women reporters on the professional level. "She was funny and fierce and a damn talented writer and reporter who wanted nothing more than to do her job of reporting on Major League Baseball for the Toronto Star."

I don’t have to list an endless number of "firsts" rather than accomplishments on my resume, thanks to Alison. their resumes. Because Alison, like Melissa before her, took care of some pretty big ones for the franchise.

Photo: David Cooper, Toronto Star

Who was the first woman to cover a Major League Baseball team, full-time? Alison, when she took over the Toronto Blue Jays beat-writing duties for The Star in 1979. 

Who was the first woman accepted into  the Baseball Writers Association of America, as old and established an Old Boys’ Network as there was back in the day? Alison. She walked through that once fiercely manned virtual drawbridge marked BBWAA just as boldly as she had every press box that was adorned with signs reading "No Women Allowed.” And, when and if she faced push-back, she usually disarmed with well-turned witticism or a laugh, showing those more "prone to be horrified" not to ever take themselves, or the troglodytes, so seriously.

Humor was her hidden strength, the art of writing her sword. A noted humorist before moving to the baseball beat, Alison became an accomplished fiction writer after leaving sports. Who could not see the witty, mischievous author in Kate Henry, the reporter/sleuth and heroine of Alison's baseball-themed murder mysteries? One could sense there was twinkle in her eyes even as she named her novels -- "Dead Pull Hitter," "Safe at Home." Brilliant!

It was that human touch that made the litany of achievements but a small part of Alison's story. Toronto was a safe harbor because of Alison, the person, Alison, the friend, Alison, the mentor. Her razor-sharp wit taught me so much, especially how to shrug off the louts with a "didn't land a punch” attitude. Our conversations were not pity parties, but wonderful opportunities to compare notes, laugh at the insanity of certain portions of certain clubhouses. And behind the humor was an immense resolve. And when she did not cave or sink to the level of those who tried to torment her, she made all of her peers proud.

"I saw how a certain Detroit Tiger treated her and lost respect for him for life," said Mike Downey, formerly a columnist for many a newspaper, including the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and Detroit Free-Press. "Alison had all the class he lacked."

Those Alison covered saw the depth of character and strength, as well.

"She was relentless," former Blue Jays outfielder Lloyd Moseby told the Toronto Star. "A lot of women that are in the profession right now should be very thankful for what Alison did and what she went through. She took a beating from the guys. She was a pioneer for sure."

Moseby told the Star there was a core group of players that always resisted. Such could be said of every team in the early days. Back then, though, demonstrating your disdain of women was tolerated, if not encouraged, by certain franchises. So, yes, it could be so lonely, and frightening, at times, because the possibility of physical threat often seemed barely contained by the angry, ugly words that were often spewed in your direction.

"We had four or five guys that really rallied around not letting her in the clubhouse, but I don't think Alison gave a damn, to tell you the truth," Moseby told The Star. "She could have very easily taken the words that a lot of guys said and took it to heart and went back to her bosses and said, 'I'm not doing this. I don't get paid to take abuse.' But she never did. She kept showing up. And it was amazing, really. I'm just proud to have known Alison."

I join Moseby in that sentiment. Countless journalists are doing the same today, as well.

"I just remember being so happy when the Blue Jays came to Yankee Stadium; her energy was infectious and just having her there made my step a bit lighter," said Ludtke.

Even after leaving the beat after five seasons, Alison still could rock the SkyDome, and the sports world. For it was her view from the seats that led to the eye-witness account of a couple having sex behind the wide-open windows of the SkyDome Hotel, which overlooked the Blue Jays' outfield.

"He was corpulent, hairy and nude," Alison famously recounted in The Star in 1990. "She was blonde, buxom and wrapped non-too-securely in a towel. They were both old enough to know better than to sit in arm chairs pulled up to the window.”

Not only did she land on Page One, the next day, but in headlines around the world. Priceless! 

So, thank you, Alison Gordon. Thanks for the laughs, thanks for lighting the way. The torch you helped kindle shall never dim as long as reporters of all stripes smile at the barriers while kicking them down.

Going Home: Chicago Bids Farewell To Mr. Cub

Hall of Famers Lou Brock, Billy Williams, Henry Aaron and Frank Robinson filled the middle of an All-Star roster of mourners Saturday, as baseball royalty joined Chicago and national dignitaries in saying goodbye to Ernie Banks.



Hall of Famers Ferguson Jenkins and Joe Torre, were also in attendance at the services in the vast Fourth Presbyterian Church. They were and joined by sprinklings of Cubs players and personnel from several generations, as the one and only "Mr. Cub" was remembered by friends and family. For a second day, baseball fans also were drawn to Mr. Banks’ closed casket adorned with a flag bearing his No. 14, needing, wanting one more chance to say thank-you and farewell to their hero, who would have turned 84 today.



"His durability and consistently made him a constant force...in the hey days of guys like Henry Aaron, Willie Mays and Frank Robinson," said Torre. But the Hall of Fame manager, like other speakers, spoke of the man, allowing his numbers to speak for themselves. "His story doesn't revolve around baseball," Torre said, adding later, "Ernie Banks is living proof that you don't have to wear a championship ring on your finger to be a pillar baseball and of life."


Torre, as he often does, summed up perfectly how wonderfully intertwined are Mr. Banks and the concept that is The Cubs: He made the confines of Wrigley friendly," said Torre.



The services Saturday featured many other speakers, of course, befitting Mr. Banks’ place in Chicago and baseball lore. Politicians did their due diligence. So, too, did The Rev. Jesse Jackson, who grew up in a city where Mr. Banks’ smile helped smooth baseball’s often rough passages to a more equitable America in the mid-20th Century.

Mr. Banks was the first African American to play for the Cubs, arriving in 1953 after the Cubs purchased his contract from the Negro Leagues powerhouse Kansas City Monarchs for $10,000. He broke the barriers that remained within the confines of the North Side team’s locker room six years after Jackie Robinson’s advancement to the Dodgers broke the major-league color barrier.

The efforts of all such pioneers, including Mr. Robinson, who shares a birthday with Mr. Banks, could not be overlooked. Chicago, The Second City, embraced Mr. Banks. And he embraced Chicago, making it is own. His arrival signaled a celebration of change, thankfully. But we should not forget: This was no small fete. As Jackson reminded the attendees. :Smiling faces can sometimes conceal what’s deep within,” he said, describing Mr. Banks’ demeanor as a thermostat that “helped control the temperature” of his times.



Mr. Banks transcended more than just a racial divide. He exuded an ability to love unconditionally, something generation after generation of Cubs fans, and players, needed to learn merely for purposes of survival.  Mr. Banks made the losing hurt less. He made the dream of winning shine through forever. He made being a Cub, and a Cub fan, reason enough to smile.



"People not only here in Chicago but people around the world recognize the type of individual he was,” longtime teammate Billy Williams said. "It's beginning to sink in now -- I've lost a great friend, you've lost a great friend."

Thus, the emotions that spilled over, as expected, along the route traveled by the funeral procession that carried Mr. Banks on his final journey to Wrigley Field. The procession, which  passed Daley, passed fans decked in Cubs hats, coats, blankets and tears,  ended at the iconic North Chicago ballpark on the corner of Clark and Addison.

So, so, so fitting, that last trip to Wrigleyville: for Mr. Banks graced that hallowed ground for two decades and made it clear with every declaration, right to his dying day: there was no place else he would rather be.


But now he graces a higher league, where games will never have clocks, where the sun shines for all eternity. As Joey Banks, one of Mr. Banks' twin sons, said, "move over, Honus Wagner, there's a new shortstop in Heaven."

“Michael Nelson Trout, You Get Out Of That Bed Right Now!"

Jeff and Debbie Trout, with Angels GM Jerry DiPoto

There is a river of cynicism that runs through every journalist. You get paid to look at most everything through a jaundiced eye. It’s the nature of the beast if you’re dissecting everything in order to keep ‘em honest!

So when a Mike Trout sends word that he is too sick to collect his American League Most Valuable Player Award from the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America, your first instinct is to smirk. ... Until he sends his parents in his place!

That is what the flu-ridden Trout did Saturday night. And, promised his linebacker-like dad, Jeff; and resolute mom, Debbie; Trout was, indeed, really, really, really ill!

Must have passed the age-old kiss-to-the-forhead test. You know, the one that moms administer to check your temperature. Imagine if he’d failed you would have heard the admonishments all the way from their South Jersey home. “Michael Nelson Trout, you get out of that bed right now, Bubba!”

Clayton Kershaw’s Very Impressive Double Slam Dunk

What’s more impressive than a pitching resume that garners not only a league’s Cy Young Award, but an Most Valuable Player Award?

A pitcher who seems truly humbled not only by the honors and grateful for the recognition by peers, fans, but insistent upon thanking the writers who voted him this rare double slam dunk.

Such is Clayton Kershaw, who came to the annual banquet of the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America to pick up his impressive catch of trophies.

Now, we writers are used to no-shows. We are used to reasons for declining to attend that are far less impressive than Kershaw’s would have been. Derek Jeter, for instance, set to receive the chapter’s biggest honor -- The Joe DiMaggio Toast of the Town Award -- said no. Period. Oh, well. ...

Kershaw could have bailed, too. He did not, however, arriving in New York on Saturday for the evening event just one day after being with his wife, Ellen, as she gave birth to the couple’s first child in Texas.

Kershaw intended to travel back in order to return to his wife and baby daughter immediately following the dinner. But his sense of what was right and in the moment, led him to spare a few hours to say thanks.

He was tired, but almost giddy, accepting handshakes from children to Hall of Famers. When he thanked Ellen for the huge role she plays in his life, Kershaw’s California-cool cracked for a moment and he choked up. He apologized to the audience, reminding he had, after all, just had a baby. “She makes it all worth it,” he said in a near-whisper.

Can you say “standing ovation?”

What was just as amazing was how the arguably dead-on-his-feet pitcher mesmerized the audience. His speech was simply one of the best I’ve heard on such a platform. If it was given at Cooperstown upon his induction into the Hall of Fame, it would, by now, be the stuff of legend.

Kershaw had us at hello, of course, especially after the awards' presenter, Sandy Koufax, dazzled us with tales of Kershaw’s character and content. And, oh, yes, that singularly spectacular season, in which he went 21-3 with a 1.77 ERA in 27 starts. 

Kershaw then proceeded to cause jaws to drop and hearts to melt, one after another, as he proceeded to thank every human being who participated on a daily basis in preparing him for the season of his life. Clubbies. Trainers and others on the medical staff. Weight-room attendees. Coaches, both of his hitting and pitching, and fielding (he is an infielder waiting to be discovered!). Front-office personnel and owners were shown appreciation.

He thanked Don Mattingly, joking first that he’d see Donnie Baseball everyday exiting the weight room following one of his “old man” workout routines. The New York crowd, fully familiar with the Don Mattingly who warmed their hearts for so long, roared with laughter. Then Kershaw spoke in terms that showed how much Mattingly means to him as a friend and skipper: “To Donnie, thank you for staying the same. When I want to flip out or lose my cool, you’re always there to talk me off the ledge.”

Then came the roster. One by one, Kershaw thanked his fellow Dodger players from 2014. Didn’t matter if they’ve now exited left. Matt Kemp, Dee Gordon, every single reliever, every fellow starter, his bullpen catcher, his infield, his outfield. He made the crowd laugh again when he thanked Yasiel Puig for doing things on the field he’d never seen before. Then he gave everyone pause by saying Puig is the most amazing talent he’s ever seen.

Perhaps the most intriguing, and surprising thank-you came at the end. Kershaw thanked the St. Louis Cardinals, the playoff nemesis who’ve hung four losses and a 7.15 ERA on Kershaw in their last four postseason encounters. "Thank you for reminding me that you're never as good as you think you are."

That may have been true in a bad stretch or two in October. But, as Sandy Koufax said after extending apologies to the other pitchers on the dais, Clayton Kershaw is the best pitcher in the game right now. And he’s not to shabby a person, either.

Talk about a solid-gold double slam dunk!

Thoughts Of The Summer Game On A Snowy Winter’s Eve

After several years’ absence, I had the privilege of attending the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America’s annual banquet.

The reasons for the return of the prodigal former chapter chair were three-fold:

I miss my fellow ink-stained wretches, from whom I learned so much about the craft and life these last 35-plus years. I miss writing for newspapers. I miss the organized chaos of the press box that builds and builds, then settles into intense quiet as gifted reporters pound out prose, hour after hour, day after day, game after game, season after season. Most people can hardly take the pressure of preparing even a page of an annual budget. Writers and photographers hit deadline around the clock, thanks to The Internet. Electronic journalism is electrifying. So, too, is print. Hope the world remembers that before it is too late.

The second reason for my return I can sum up in two words: Sandy Koufax.

Third, I once again was lucky to see baseball’s magic as it appears through the prism of a young child’s eyes -- my beautiful young nephew, Emery. More, much, much more on Emery’s banquet debut in a moment!

As for Mr. Koufax ... One of baseball’s greatest pitchers was one of the honorees, joining Vin Scully and former Cubs pitcher Bob Hendley as winners of the “Willie, Mickey and The Duke Award.

Sandy, being ever the reluctant superstar, insisted beforehand that he was not there to collect, but to give, presenting the NL MVP and Cy Young Awards to Clayton Kershaw. But the audience coaxed him from his seat so that he could recount the game that inextricably linked him to Hendley and Scully -- the perfect game he threw, and won, in 1965, fending off Hendley, who merely tossed a one-hitter. The one-hit game remains a major-league record for offensive futility -- and brilliant pitching.

Personally, Sandy matters so much to me, and has since he caught my attention in 1965. That October, the best pitcher in the game led his Dodgers to the World Series by unfurling a second straight Cy Young Award campaign (he led the league in wins (26), ERA (2.04) and strikeouts -- 382; the highest modern day total at the time). Sandy then he stunned the sport when he declined to pitch the opening game of the Fall Classic because it fell on Yom Kippur. Sandy is Jewish, you see, and though not devout, he felt an obligation to honor his heritage, its history, its people. The world took note, and never forgot.

For that, and many other reasons -- such as a remarkable humility, priceless insight into an ever-evolving game, as well as sweet but whip-sharp wit and a gentle soul, Sandy Koufax is my 1-A hero to Jackie Robinson’s No. 1.

Jackie, Sandy, Larry Doby, as well as Ernie Banks and Tony Gwynn (the latter two Hall of Famers we lost during, then after the 2014 season) are cut from the same cloth. They represent all the right reasons adjectives like “class,” “character,” “charm,” “courage” should attach to any human being, whether famous or not.

So if you tell me there is one more opportunity to appear in the presence of a hero-turned-friend, I will be there.

Now, for the beauty of seeing this all reflected in the eyes of a child.

I used to love taking my boys -- son, Joshua; godsons Christopher and Troy, nephew Will -- to these events. They’ve grown up, and grown away, though, and I miss their company. But I do have a new baseball buddy -- my 12-year-old nephew, Emery, sweet little guy with an old soul, who not only likes baseball, but devours its history. He made his banquet debut Saturday and, perhaps sensing the depth and sincerity, most every baseball figure I introduced Em to took to this sharp youngster like an old friend.

Mr. Koufax, Clayton Kershaw, Buck Showalter, Bobby Valentine, Frank Robinson, Brett Gardner, Terry Francona, Bud Selig, Hall of Fame President Jeff Idelson, all carried on conversations and asked of Emery if he played baseball, and why; what are his positions, what team does he follow (the Yankees, the resident of Harlem and starting center fielder for

Clayton Kershaw and Emery

the Harlem Little League team said). 

When Jeff asked Emery who his favorite Yankees were, the response -- Babe Ruth and Yogi Berra -- was met with an impressed smile. Marty Noble, the veteran baseball writer, upon hearing Emery’s answer, high-fived my nephew. As I said, there’s definitely depth in this young man!

Buck Showalter

Emery got thumb’s up on his position choices -- center and short. Gene Michael certainly approved. Bud Selig gave me a knowing smile when I said “Money Ball!” 

Buck Showalter’s comment: “You must have some speed! Run track?” “Yes,” said Emery. Ca-ching! 

When told that Emery had already competed on the national level, in chess tournaments, Francona pretended to pout, saying “brains, too? Not fair!"

One more Emery story, and it still sends chills through me:

Willie Mays was my father’s favorite player, so, too, my brother, Hawk’s. So Emery -- Hawk’s son -- upon hearing that Willie Mays would also attend the banquet, made it is mission to meet the all-time great and get an autograph. Now there are a couple things Willie Mays does differently than other stars at such events. He does not hang out in the VIP room beforehand. Nor did he demand a seat at the dais after requesting a ticket (same with Frank Robinson). 

Instead, two of the four Hall of Famers in the sat room  sat in the audience of approximately 1,000 (Sandy and Cal Ripken Jr. and soon-to-be HOFer John Smoltz were a part of the program and therefore on the dais. 

Willie Mays 

Willie spent most of his downtime signing autographs. Surrounded by security, he sat at his dining table and signed what security accepted from children-only. Needless to say, No. 24 was swamped, rivaling the crowd that gathered in front of the dais seeking, and receiving Sandy Koufax’s signature!

Now, Willie does not sign paper, only baseballs. Emery took an autograph book. Not knowing Willie's policy, Emery went forward in about 10 different waves, only to be turned away when Willie tired. He’d walk back to out table, ever-watchful, then queue up, again, when he saw Willie starting to sign, again. Still, one fail after another. Still, one attempt after another. 

Not til his final attempt did he get a real chance, only to be told he needed a baseball.

As he turned to walk away, Marty Noble took Emery’s arm and walked him back to Willie and introduced him. Willie, who wasn’t doing much eye-contact with anyone, looked up, then started chatting with Emery. When told about the baseball dilemma, Willie pulled a bankroll out of his pocket ("Hundreds and fifties and tens," Emery told me in amazement.)

Willie peeled off a $10 and said he'd sign that for Em. Em, bless him, said he could not accept because it was too much. So Willie pulled out a $1 and signed it. Then the two center fielders continued to talk ball. Emery's one regret: he was so excited he forgot to tell No. 24 that his Harlem Little League team plays very near where the old Polo Grounds -- Home to Willie's old New York Giants -- used to stand. Talk about kindred spirits!

Emery also listened as well as talked. He hung on every word that the adults said to him. About baseball tools, about school, about life. 

He listened intently as ALS “Ice Bucket” crusader Pete Frates accepted a humanitarian award for his part in raising $100 million in donations last August. Frates spoke to a still crowd from a wheel chair and through a computerized speaking apparatus. I watched Emery as he watched the scene unfold on one of the large screens. Transfixed was the word that came to mind. As I said, an old soul in a young body. 

Lastly, like his parents, I was very proud that Emery refused to take the $10 bill. The smile he wore the rest of the evening, as he showed the likes of Tito and Buck the dollar bill, well, that was worth much more than $10. It was priceless!