Swing and a Long-Held Grudge

Tonight Ryan Howard hit his 49th home run of the season. In doing so, Howard set a new single-season home run record for the Philadelphia Phillies, surpassing Mike Schmidt's 48 home runs in 1980.

Michael Jack Schmidt was the Phillies' starting third baseman for more than 16 seasons. He was a 3-time MVP, 12-time All-Star and was the World Series MVP for the Phillies one-and-only championship in 1980. He won 10 Gold Gloves and 8 home run titles. When he retired in 1989, he was seventh on the all-time home run list with 548.

As a young boy growing up in suburban Philadelphia, Schmitty was my childhood hero. I collected Mike Schmidt's baseball cards. My favorite number was 20 (his jersey number). I wished I could grow as moustache. I watched Phillies games just so I could wait for him to come to bat. Every kid on my little league team imitated Schmidt's batting stance (and trademark butt-wiggle). And we argued about who would win in a fist fight: Mike Schmidt or Superman (Answer: Mike Schmidt).

In April 1987, Michael Jack hit his 500th home run at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. It was a huge milestone in Philadelphia sports history. The day he hit it, my brother Jason and I were at home watching the game on TV. In the 6th inning, the Phillies were losing and our mother dragged us out of the house to go buy shoes. My brother's Bar Mitzvah was coming up and I guess shoes were a higher priority. After picking out just the right pair of junior wingtips, we returned to the car and tuned in the game on the radio. Andy Musser and Chris Wheeler, the Phils' radio broadcasters, were talking excitedly describing the big moment that had just happened. Schmitty had hit number 500. Not only that, it was a game winning shot. It was one of the biggest moments in my hero's career and I was in a shoe store.

To celebrate Schmidt's accomplishment, a commemorative video was released fittingly called "That Ball's Outta Here: The Mike Schmidt Story." It followed Schmidt through the first part of the season as he chased the 500 mark. It showed him on the phone with his wife, fielding questions from the press at his locker and taking extra BP before games. The first time I watched the video, at the moment when they show Schmidt silently swinging in slow motion, connecting for the historic blast, I started to cry. I still get choked up just thinking about that scene. Watching the video was the closest I would come to reliving that moment. Did I mention I was in a shoe store at the time?

When the video went on sale, Schmitty was scheduled to make an appearance at our local video store to autograph copies. I begged my mother to take me along. I had never gotten a chance to meet my hero in person. Here was her chance to make-up for the shoe fiasco. After much pleading, my mother decided I would stay in school that day. I wouldn't be meeting my idol.

My mother still went on her own to the video store. When I got home from school that day, she talked about what it was like to meet him -- how broad his shoulders were and how he seemed so tall even while sitting down. From a bag she pulled out the commemorative video she'd gotten him to sign. In dark, bold writing, it read "To Jason, Happy Birthday. Mike Schmidt." My brother's birthday was coming up soon and my mother had thoughtfully gotten him a personalized autograph. I thought it was so cool that Mike Schmidt knew it was my brother's birthday. I couldn't wait to see my personalized copy of the video, too.

This may come as a surprise, but there was no personalized autograph for me. There was only one copy of the video and it had my brother's stupid name scribbled all over it. My mom said not to worry. She had also managed to get him to autograph a small 4x6 photograph she'd taken of him at a Fuji Film Photo Night at Veterans Stadium a couple years earlier. Wow. I couldn't wait to put it on display in my room.

It was then explained to me that the small autographed photo was to remain inside the video's box, which conveniently lived in a cupboard in my brother's room. I was not allowed to have it.

From time to time, I would go into my brother's room, take out the video and peek at the small autographed photo inside. It reminded me of my mother's own story about her father's Babe Ruth autograph. As a young girl, she would go into her father's desk and pull out an old program with the Babe's signature on the cover. But someone else in the family had made off with it. To this day, she doesn't know where it is.

A few years ago, when I was visiting my parent's house, I went into my brother's old room and for old times sake took out the video. The autographed photo slipped out of the box and fell into my lap. I looked at it for a moment, placed it on the bed and put the video away. I carefully slid the photo into an envelope and put it in my suitcase. The next day, I left with the autograph quietly tucked away. No one in my family would realize it was gone until they came to my home years later and saw it on display, in a frame, being enjoyed.

I've met and had meaningful encounters with a fair share of famous people in my life -- from Bill Cosby to Cal Ripken, Jr. But I don't ask for autographs. Autographs are for kids. Rather than asking people to scribble their name on a piece of paper, I prefer to strike up a dialogue. In my opinion, it makes for a far more memorable connection. How can someone have any respect for you if the first thing you do is ask them to write their name down? But because I've never had personal contact with my boyhood hero, Schmidt's autograph is the only thing I have.

So to my family members that would like the autograph back, I'd like to remind you of the 10-year old boy wiggling his butt and swinging a wiffleball bat in the middle of the living room. If you really want the autograph back, I suggest you schedule a personal audience for me and Michael Jack. Then I will gladly give up the photo. Until then, happy shoe shopping.

Yonder Piggly Wiggly

This weekend I drove myself to the grocery store to buy a few things. First I stopped and picked up a sandwich for lunch. The bill was $4.11. I paid for it with a five dollar bill. The cashier handed me my receipt and a bulky handful of change which I stuffed in my pocket. After quickly gulping down my lunch, I ran into the market. Grabbing just an armful of items from the shelves, I made my way to the checkout.

I usually avoid the express lanes because I often find them slower than the regular ones. What happens is that a dozen people, all with "10 items or less [sic]," swarm the express lane. Meanwhile the regular lanes always have shorter lines and I believe they move faster. Scanning and bagging the groceries is quite fast. It doesn't take that much longer to ring up 20 or 30 items than it does 10. It's the transactions, with people writing checks, fumbling with the credit card machine or sifting through purses for exact change that really drag things down. I'd rather take my chances behind one person with a huge cart full of food, than 8 people who might be writing checks.

But this weekend, I saw the express lane had only a very short line and I thought I would give it a shot. To my surprise, I was quickly at the front having my few items scanned. The total was $13.35.

In addition to avoiding express lanes, I almost always pay for groceries by credit card. But because I was in an express lane, I thought I would be considerate and pay by cash. That's always the fastest way, right? Especially if I have exact change.

So I reached down into my pocket knowing that I had a sizeable amount of change. But the coinage had become intermingled with my car keys, the paper receipt from lunch and an alarming amount of pocket lint. I was able to fish out a few coins: a quarter and a penny. Nervously, I reached in again, pulled out my keys and the receipt and set them on the counter. With the obstacles clear, I was able to get out the full collection of change. Sorting out a quarter, nickel and dime, I handed them to the cashier. I then reached into my bill fold to hand over the correct amount of cash. This is when I realized I didn't have as much money with me as I'd thought. After buying lunch, I now only had a five and three ones. I was five dollars short.

I felt mortified. I apologized to the cashier and asked for the change back so that I could pay by credit card. I was now one of those people holding up the express line. As I reached in for my credit card, I turned around to express my contrition to my fellow customers waiting behind me. That's when I noticed her. It was Betty.

Betty was my friend from the local post office. Betty was the line nazi who was mean to her customers. I recognized her immediately. She was wearing a blue USPS shirt and a name tag that read, "Betty."

I nodded at Betty. She gave me a sharp stare and flicked her tongue.

"Sorry about this," I said to her.

"Uh huh. Just keep it moving," she barked.

"I'm just going to..."

"Stop talking and start paying," she interrupted.

Turning back to the cashier, I put away my credit card. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a slip of paper I've had folded up in my wallet for emergencies just like this. I knew I had to do it for all the people in my ZIP code who have had a run in with Betty. I unfolded the paper, picked up a pen and said to the cashier:

"I'll just pay by check."

Remember Cop Rock?

In 1990, the Berlin Wall came down. The first President Bush was in the White House starting the first Iraqi war. Yours truly was in seventh grade. A postage stamp cost 25 cents. Julio Franco was a spry 33 years of age. Brian McCann was 7. And the Atlanta Braves finished the season with a record of 65-97, in last place, 26 games behind the NL West Champion Cincinnati Reds. (Remember when the Braves were in the NL West?) And the NL East was won by the Pittsburgh Pirates. (Yes, those Pittsburgh Pirates.) The Florida Marlins, Colorado Rockies, Arizona Diamondbacks and Tampa Bay Devil Rays didn't even exist yet.

In the fifteen seasons following, the Braves tallied up a record of 1431-931 -- a .606 winning percentage -- and won fourteen division titles by a total of 116 1/2 games. Only the strike-shortened 1994 season left them without a banner that year, even though they were trailing the Montreal Expos by six games at the time.

(Here's where I feel obligated to disclose that from 1991 through 2005, my hometown Philadelphia Phillies racked up a combined record of 1144-1218 -- a .516 losing percentage -- and only made it to the post-season once losing to the Toronto Blue Jays in the 1993 World Series. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.)

Here we are today at the end of August 2006. The Braves are 60-68, in fourth place and 19 games behind the division leading New York Mets. The Mets have a "Magic Number" of 20 to clinch the NL East. It will be the first time in 15 years that the Braves will watch someone else hoist their division's pennant. Even better yet, the Braves are only five games ahead of the last-place Washington Nationals. Any combination of Nationals wins and Braves losses, totaling 39, will mean the Braves finish in last place. Let's call this the "Black Magic Number." We'll track it throughout the next five weeks.

Braves fans old enough to remember powder-blue uniforms aren't unfamiliar with last place. Before their historic run, the Braves were pretty bad. Okay, really bad. They finished dead last four times between 1986 and 1990. Before 1991, the Braves only moved on to the post-season twice, in 1982 and 1969, since moving to Atlanta in 1966.

The Braves more than made up for those losing seasons with their unprecedented streak of domination since 1991. In that time, they've won fourteen consecutive division pennants. Fourteen. That's fourteen trips to the playoffs. But this is where their legacy will be a bit more hazy. Because baseball, ultimately, is about winning a trophy, getting a ring and staking claim as champions of the "world."

Of those 14-straight division championships the Braves won, only one yielded a World Series title. Yes, they made it to the world series on five occasions. But that's only five out of fourteen -- 36 percent. And of those five, only one ring. One. Even with a post-season record of 81-62 since 1991, the Braves pursuit of championships has been mired in futility. Especially in recent seasons where they have been eliminated in the first round five of the last six years. It got so bad, the Braves had trouble selling seats to playoff games in the last few years. Where else do you see empty seats during playoff games? (I'm looking at you, NHL.)

The phrase "high school hero, real life zero" comes to mind. The Braves are regular season bruisers, post-season losers. That empty mantle will be their legacy. Many will disagree. In a few weeks, or even days, the debate can begin. The Braves will not win the Wild Card. On October 1, at the conclusion of the 2006 regular season, the Braves will find themselves on the sidelines. Then history can decide if they belong in the company of the New York Yankees or the Buffalo Bills. One thing they won't have to worry about: being compared to the Philadelphia Phillies.

Brother, Can You Spare a Vote?

Baltimore has the longest red lights of any city in the country. It makes driving in this city really annoying. These red lights can lengthen your commute by over twenty percent and needlessly increases the waste of fossil fuels.

The extended red lights also create a very dangerous situation as people race between signals at breakneck speeds. Some drivers just run the lights all together. To combat this, the city has installed red light cameras at 50 intersections. So now, in addition to having the longest red lights in the land, Baltimore is also the red-light camera capital of the world. Receiving a commemorative photo of your license plate in the mail makes for a nice keepsake, but will also set you back a few bucks.

But the oil companies and the City of Baltimore aren't the only ones who benefit from the long red lights. The traffic back-ups caused by mistimed, lengthy traffic lights also make panhandling at intersections a big business in this town. Major intersections swarm with itinerants and vagrants, each with their own unique and gruesome disfigurement on display.

One of these major intersections is part of my daily commute. It's populated by these licentious degenerates morning, noon and night. They wander up and down the median begging for change. They seem to work in shifts. Every morning there is the same toothless hippie with long grey hair, an acutely swollen hand and a limp that would do Hugh Laurie proud. In my head I call him "Stinky." During the evening rush hour a gaunt woman with one leg wobbles on crutches. I think of her as "Hoppy." And late at night, an older gentleman with no apparent disability (unless you count poor penmanship as a handicap) paces with a crudely constructed cardboard sign in hand. I call him "Old Guy."

I never give money to any of them. And I can't believe anyone would. But the amazing part is that people actually do. I watch each day as people roll down their windows, toss out change or offer a cigarette. Obviously the panhandling pays off or they wouldn't be there every day -- rain, sleet or snow. I often wonder just how much it pays off. Luckily the traffic light is long enough to do some rough calculations.

This traffic light cycles approximately every two-and-a-half minutes. That's 25 times per hour. When I see people handing out money, it's often change, but there's paper money too. I don't think it's unreasonable to think that these guys can average fifty cents to a dollar per cycle. That's almost $20 an hour. And no taxes. Beats working for minimum wage.

I remember seeing a local TV news story once where they followed panhandlers after they finished working their corner. They walked a few blocks, got into their car and drove away. Some of them had pretty nice cars and were followed to their homes in nice neighborhoods. I try not to be that cynical. Some of these individuals do need help. And they really aren't harming anyone. It's just an annoyance. But, again, they're not the last ones benefiting from the Baltimore's traffic patterns.

This morning I was surprised to see this same corner occupied by a new kind of recalcitrant: a politician.

During the morning rush hour, a middle-aged guy in a dress shirt and a tie stood on the corner and waved to commuters. He was campaigning for District Attorney. His shirt sleeves were casually rolled up and he was holding a large sign bearing his name. The sign was very large. He may as well have been wearing a sandwich board.

People paid him no attention. No honks of support. No friendly cheers. No one rolling down their windows to ask about his plan to stop panhandlers or catch the light pole thieves.

Meanwhile, I can't help but wonder what happened to "Stinky." How did Mr. Polyester get to take over the corner? Did he show up really early? Did he submit an application for a city permit to reserve that corner a week in advance? Or did he simply pay "Stinky" twenty bucks to go away?

It was a nice change to see someone a bit less scary standing next to my car this morning as I waited for the light to change. I was, however, just as reticent to make any eye contact with the guy. I wonder how much of an impact that campaign stunt actually had. It probably would have been more productive as a campaign fundraiser. Heck, he already had the cardboard sign. All he's missing is a good limp.

Don't Play with Your Art

Have you been to the Smithsonian and seen some of your old toys behind glass? There's even a National Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York where you can vote for your favorites.

Well, here are some guys that really do get their toys put on exhibit. I guess my parents spent too much time encouraging me to get a real job. Meanwhile, look what these artists can do.

Check it out, Mom, I'm making a living with:

• Legos


• Dominos


• Etch-a-Sketch

Fly West, Young Man

I recently flew Midwest Connect (operated by Sky West Airlines). Looking at the airline listings in the terminal, I realized it would be very easy to get mixed up as to which "western" airline you're on. I mean, look at all these airlines with similar names:

America West
Midwest
Northwest
Sky West
Southwest
Transwest

It's really confusing. Is the west really that appealing? Doesn't anyone travel east? I mean, you have to travel east eventually, right?

In fact, there is not a single airline servicing North America that uses the word "east" in its name. There used to be Eastern Airlines, but they went defunct around the time Punky Brewster got cancelled.

Imagine what would happen if some of these airlines merge and become something like "North-Southwest Airlines" or "Midsky West Airways." I'm waiting for North by Northwest Airlines: each flight would cruise approximately 50 feet above Cary Grant's head.

Drew Barry-no-more

We have a subscription to Netflix. And it is the greatest thing ever. If you're not familiar with Netflix, perhaps I could interest you in a flight on a hydrogen-filled dirigible.

As I was saying, Netflix is awesome. But managing that queue of movies takes some skill. For example, I try to be sure that at all times we have at least one film both my wife and I can enjoy, plus one so-called "chick flick." This means a movie starring Drew Barrymore and one of the Wilson brothers. For every "Crash" we need a "Home Fries."

Given the way Netflix works, these fluff movies eat up valuable real estate on the queue. Real estate that's so valuable, I'd even consider having a separate DVD subscription service just for my wife's movies. I'd call it: Chickflix, of course.

A service like Chickflix would hopefully offer more than just your traditional mail-order DVD rental service. I'm thinking I could go online and schedule delivery of my wife's movies for the nights that I'm working late. Perhaps the movie could come delivered in a decorative envelope including chocolates and recipes for quick, quality home-cooked meals. Maybe even a personalized card from me could be included saying "Thank you for being so wonderful." Now that would be worth $19.95/month.

Just What Wolfgang had in Mind

In 1788, when Mozart composed his Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, he wrote for the orchestral instruments he knew: violins, violas, celli, double basses, flutes, oboes, bassoons and horns.

Discussion continues about whether or not the additonal clarinet parts should be included in contemporary performances of the work. Clarinet parts do exist for this symphony, but their origins are somewhat suspect. You see, Mozart didn't have access to modern clarinets. He wrote for either the basset horn or early other ancestors of the "licorice stick" we know today. And he wasn't particularly fond of the way they sounded.

One thing Mozart certainly didn't have in his musical arsenal was a pair of rollerblades. If he had, Wolfie surely would have thought to utilize his empty wine bottles (of which there would have been many) and create the perfect instrumentation for his music. This combination of roller blades, wine bottles and asphalt is undoubtedly the truest realization of Mozart's music. However, 53rd Street in New York aint exactly Kartnerstrasse in Vienna, if you know what I mean.

Who Still Uses Audiotapes?

From Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point:

[I]f there can be epidemics of crime or epidemics of fashion, there must be all kinds of things just as contagious as viruses. Have you ever thought of yawning, for instance? Yawning is a surprisingly powerful act. Just because you read the word "yawning" in the previous two sentences -- and the additional "yawns" in this sentence -- a good number of you will probably yawn within the next few minutes. Even as I'm writing this, I've yawned twice. If you're reading this in a public place, and you've just yawned, chances are that a good proportion of everyone who saw you yawn is now yawning too, and a good proportion of the people watching the people who watched you yawn are now yawning as well, and on and on, in and ever-widening, yawning circle.

Yawning is incredibly contagious. I made some you reading this yawn simply by writing the word "yawn." The people who yawned when they saw you yawn, meanwhile, were infected by the sight of you yawning -- which is a second kind of contagion. They might even have yawned if they only heard you yawn, because yawning is also aurally contagious: if you play an audiotape of a yawn to blind people, they'll yawn too. And finally, if you yawned as you read this, did the thought cross your mind -- however unconsciously and fleetingly -- that you might be tired? I suspect that for some of you it did, which means that yawns can also be emotionally contagious. Simply by writing the word, I can plant a feeling in your mind.

Lap It Up

I was at the pool this week, swimming in the lap lane. During a pause between lengths, an older gentleman approached me from the top ledge of the pool. He was in his 70s, carrying a large duffel bag and wearing a full polyester warm-up suit. Keep in mind, the temperature outside was roughly equivalent to the equatorial temperature on Mercury and he's wearing long pants and a jacket.

"Can I get in this lane, too?" he asked me.

"Sure. I think I'm done anyway," I said.

Sharing a lane with other swimmers, especially elderly ones, is not something that interests me. So I slid out of the lap lane, and rested along the edge of the pool. I then watched as this impressive specimen prepared for his leisurely swim in the neighborhood spa.

First, he stripped off his jacket. He wasn't wearing a shirt underneath -- big surprise. His torso was overly tan and covered in coarse white hair. Then he took off his pants revealing a knee-length, skin-tight Speedo. Unsightly bulges of extra skin squeezed out from the edges of the tight spandex.

This guy looked serious about his swimming -- certainly a force to be reckoned with. Then he reached into his large duffel bag and pulled out a large pair of goggles.

"Interesting idea," I thought to myself as my eyes burned from the blinding concentration of chlorine in the pool. Maybe I should get a pair of those (the goggles, not the Speedo).

Next, he reached back into his bag and pulled out a latex swimming cap. Okay, he doesn't have much hair, but I guess he wants to protect what little he has left. Or maybe he wanted to protect his head from the blazing sun. Whatever the reason, it didn't seem too unusual. A bit effeminate, but nothing to dwell on.

Then came the nose clips. They were stored in their very own buoyant protective case. I haven't seen a pair of nose clips since I was six years old when a friend of mine used to wear them in the pool along with his bright-orange inflatable arm floaters. I didn't think adults were permitted to wear nose clips outside of organized synchronized swimming competitions. Never-the-less, he removed the clips from of their case, snorted a few times and snapped them on. Even with the clips on his nose, you could still see long straggly hairs protruding from his pinched-off nostrils.

But he wasn't finished. He went back into the bag and pulled out the next surprise. A big blue pair of flippers. Yes, flippers. He sat down on the chaise and slipped each flipper onto his foot. FWOP! FWOP! He stood up from the chair, waddled back to his bag and reached in again.

Already sporting a knee-length Speedo, goggles, a swim cap, nose clips and big blue flippers, he finally revealed the last piece of equipment. Webbed gloves. No, not mittens. Webbed gloves. They looked like batting gloves with large pieces of material spanning each digit. He tightened the straps of each glove, slapped his hands together a couple times and began to make large circles with his arms.

Now, fully equipped and stretched, this part-man-part-amphibian waddled his way to the edge of the pool and jumped in, much like a Navy Seal would from the skid of a helicopter hovering 30 meters above a rough sea. Safe from the threat of enemy fire, he then slowly began swimming laps.

Why on earth does a grown man need flippers and webbed gloves to swim laps in the neighborhood pool? The pool is probably only 15 meters in length -- not exactly Olympic-sized. Isn't this cheating? I can often take a few strokes and glide to the other end of the pool. But this guy looks like he's ready to traverse the English Channel. Why did he stop at the flippers and webbed gloves? Why not a kickboard and a snorkel? Perhaps a small inflatable dinghy with a gas-powered motor? At some point, you may as well just get out of the water and walk your laps on the pool deck.

The guy probably swam about 30 laps in 10 minutes and hopped out of the water. He took off the gloves and flippers. Then the goggles, nose-clip and swimming cap. Luckily, the Speedo stayed on. After a quick toweling off, he slipped the heavy polyester warm-up suit back on, grabbed his duffel bag and left.

As I prepared to resume my laps, I wondered if I had really just seen that. Or was it a hallucination brought on by the chlorine fumes? Either way, I was glad I got out of his lane.

Whoa, Dude...

Okay, if you haven't seen this amazing optical illusion, check it out. This is really cool.

If you happen to be in a small room, or are too lazy to get up from your seat, try removing your glasses or corrective lenses. For those of you with 20/20 vision, just squint.