Buy Me Some iPads & Cracker Jack

I’ve been a Yankees fan for 35 years now, ever since that Sunday afternoon in June when my mother drove me to the ballpark in the South Bronx for the first time. It was Bat Day, 1977, and I was handed a wooden bat with Thurman Munson’s name and Burger King’s logo engraved on it. It didn’t matter to me that the Yankees lost to the Minnesota Twins that afternoon. As I stared out at the vast expanse of green before me, and as I heard the crack of bat against ball, I was hooked. A Yankee fan for life.

Since that day, I’ve chatted about the Yankees all the time with my mom, brother, grandparents, friends and wife. Even my dad, who grew up rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers and was deprived of the chance to bring his sons to the ballpark that sparked his childhood dreams, has come around to talking Yankees with us. And my daughters, despite their marked preference for Webkins and Glee, have their moments of joining in some pinstriped passion.

When talking baseball with others, it can be uncomfortable to share the fact that I’m a Yankees fan. There are, of course, those 27 championships to gloat over – 16 more than any other team in baseball history. With the Yankees sporting baseball’s highest payroll every year, it’s easy to assume that I’m a front-runner. Here in New York, Mets fans may have more misery, but they can always claim the integrity of sticking with their team no matter what the outcome.

Yet, I came of age in the 1980s, the one decade in the past five in which the Mets can clearly say they were New York’s team. I watched the Yankees go 14 consecutive years without making the playoffs, and saw the Mets claim a World Series title and a division crown during that same stretch. Had there been a Wild Card team during those years, the Mets would have made the playoffs six times in seven years. Meanwhile, the Yankees were stumbling along with a variety of managers, general managers and high-priced veterans. So I know what it’s like to see your favorite team implode in front of you while other local club gets all the press.

The past 17 years have changed that landscape quite a bit, though, as the Yankees have made the playoffs every year but one since 1995. It may seem a bit outdated to use the old cliché that cheering for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel. So to update it a bit for 2012, cheering on the Bronx Bombers is more like cheering for higher quarterly reports from Apple. Ho-hum. Buy me some iPads and Cracker Jack.

But with all honesty and understanding, I ask you this: What can I do? Must I feel guilty for the Yankees’ success? Should I stop rooting for the Yankees simply because they have won too often? Do I push aside my memories and toss that old Thurman Munson bat in the trash because of my adult awareness of economics? Is competitive imbalance enough reason to turn aside the rush of childhood joy that accompanies the sight of an interlocking NY? Aren’t all of our baseball passions much more about feeling 8 years old again than about thirsting for victory?

In recent years, Major League Baseball has taken important steps to level the playing field somewhat in terms of team revenue, thanks in large part to revenue-sharing and luxury taxes. In addition, changes to the way the game is played and scouted have turned baseball into a sport dominated by the best young players teams can find. The Yankees have won just one championship over the past 11 years, and their 2012 club is just like all the others they’ve put together over that time period – very talented, but with clear weak spots. They might win, and they might not.

So I’ll cheer for the Yankees in 2012, just as I always have. But at age 41, I’ve matured to the point where my heart no longer breaks if the Yankees’ season ends with a loss. Because I know that whenever my team loses, there are other fans, with their own passions and memories, who are delighted over their team’s victories. Last year, as the St. Louis Cardinals claimed their 11th championship, millions of Redbirds fans were glorying in their unexpected triumph. That’s pretty awesome to see, no matter what the team. This year, I’ve got my eye on the Royals from Kansas City, who have not made the playoffs since their championship season of 1985, and who are unveiling a team filled with some of baseball’s top young talent. It might not be this year for the Royals, but it may be quite soon. I’m also watching out for the Nationals of Washington, who have even more young talent than Kansas City, and could contend for the playoffs as soon as this season. Washington has only seen one baseball championship, and that was nearly 90 years ago. Perhaps it’s about time for a second.

A new baseball season is set to begin this week. I’m hoping to get to a couple of Yankees games this year, where I can see that big green field and hear those bats and balls connect. The season will unfold, and I’ll follow it like a novel I can’t put down. But no matter what happens in the end, it will have been worth it. It always is.

Thinking Different

A few weeks ago, my brother and I took my girls to see the Jim Henson exhibit now running at the Museum of the Moving Image in Queens. The wonderful exhibit chronicles Henson’s entire career, from commercials and Jimmy Dean talk-show appearances in the 1950s and ‘60s through the mega-success of Sesame Street, The Muppet Show, Fraggle Rock and the Muppet movies in the final two decades of Henson’s life.

I saw this exhibit with Eric and the girls in late September – before the passing of Steve Jobs, before the release of the latest Wilco CD, and before the St. Louis Cardinals’ stunning World Series victory. But as I reflect on these very different events from Autumn, 2011, they all remind me of that very rare individual – the one who can visualize and create something that is not there. Jim Henson, Steve Jobs, Jeff Tweedy and Tony La Russa fit that bill – and for different reasons.

Henson is so well-known for his creative genius that Jobs placed him and Kermit the Frog on one of Apple’s “Think Different” ads in the 1990s. Take a single image from any Muppet – say, Kermit playing the banjo at the start of The Muppet Movie – and you find yourself shaking your head at the sheer ingenuity. Since his death last month, Jobs has been eulogized by many as his generation’s Thomas Edison for his contributions to the technological revolution in which we currently reside. As Guggenheim perfected the printing press, Jobs perfected the smartphone. Jeff Tweedy has led Wilco to a place where pop music defies categorization, and that is meant as the highest compliment. Is this band, now well into its second decade, a pop band? Rock? Alternative? Country? Roots? The more you search for a clean label, the more elusive – and hypnotic – Wilco becomes. And as for Tony La Russa, anyone who is willing to buck the status quo in baseball deserves some kind of plaque in Cooperstown. La Russa’s willingness to think different in how to use pitchers and position players alike – and his ability to win a World Series with the likes of pedestrian players such as Nick Punto and John Jay in his starting lineup – is puppetry at its finest.

Tony La Russa retired yesterday – more than 2,700 wins were apparently enough for the man, and he’s ready for something else in life. With his jet-black hair and his bowl haircut, La Russa looks a bit Muppet-like. He and Jim Henson would probably have a lot to talk about. La Russa would surely compliment Henson on his adroit use of lesser-known puppets such as Bunsen and Beaker. Henson would likely fine-tune the Cardinals’ “rally squirrel” to give it a more human dimension. Jobs would probably recruit them both for an iPhone commercial, complete with Wilco soundtrack.

Yes, the geniuses are out there, and they’re still changing the world. It may seem as if we’re living amid a whole lot of ordinary sometimes. But in spite of the reality-show nonsense and movie-sequel mania, there are still innovative entertainers creating great art for us all. And despite the copy-cat technology in your nearest Best Buy, there are still inventors changing the way we live. Somewhere beyond all those American Idol songs, there are also still musicians crafting truly new sounds. And way out beyond the SportsCenter highlights, there are women and men thinking about sport in ways that no one has dared to think before.

The exhibit in Queens is titled “Jim Henson’s Fantastic World.” As we scan the headlines and the cable channels, this world doesn’t seem all that fantastic sometimes. But if we look within, open our minds and think different, it can seem damn near amazing. Great enough to make a frog sing. Or a Cardinal cheer.

Steve Jobs, Willie Mays & My Bathtub

So tomorrow, when Steve Jobs slips on his black turtleneck and steps onstage in San Francisco, the information revolution will kick into yet another gear. The CEO of Apple will apparently be holding some sort of 10-inch tablet device in his hands – a device that might just take computers in a whole new direction, perhaps somewhere in between a laptop and an iPhone. Millions will surely flock to Apple stores, some to play with the thing, and many others to buy it. Countless companies will compete to promote their applications for downloading onto the new tablets.

It’s exciting, and a bit daunting, to see the extraordinary leaps that companies such as Apple and Google keep taking. What’s next? And how does what’s next change the world I’ve come to know? Will I be ready and willing to keep up? Or will I start to feel like my grandparents did when they were watching Bob Hope specials while I was tooling around with my Commodore 64?

I still subscribe to home delivery of two daily newspapers. I know it’s a lot of paper, and I know I could read the stuff on-line. But I like the feel of newsprint in my hands, and I like to turn the pages and find new stories on my own. We have seven bookshelves in our house, filled from top to bottom with hardcovers and paperbacks. I guess I could buy a Kindle or a Sony Reader and just download all those books. But I like attaching my little reading light onto the last 30 pages of my novel, and holding the book in my hands while I read at night. I don’t want my eyes to scan another screen in order to follow Christopher’s adventures as I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time. I want the kid’s journey in ink and paper, with a publisher’s logo on the back cover.

That’s not to say I can’t embrace technology; I am, after all, writing a blog. But life is always about balance, and I’d prefer to welcome the technology on my own terms. If I want Apps, I’ll get Apps. If I still want to clip my coupons from the Sunday paper, I’ll do that, too.

I think that Mr. Jobs and all the tablet-buyers would appreciate the newspaper we found today. It was uncovered while our bathroom was being demolished in advance of a much-overdue renovation. Somewhere beneath the old, cast-iron tub were a few pages of newsprint: One from the May 27, 1951 New York Times and the other from the May 25, 1951 Plainfield (N.J.) Courier-News. Both bear a yellowish-brown tint, and both are ripped all over.

But oh, there are some gems. We begin with The Times. A headline reads: “Chicken Now Vies with Beef as Food.” Reporter John Stuart tells us that the poultry industry has leapt into “fierce competition” with the beef industry for a place at American dinner tables. “The growth of chicken as such a factor can be illustrated by a few simple statements,” Stuart writes. “Sirloin steak was selling last week in New York retail markets, such as the nationwide chains, at $1.05 a pound. Chicken was 45 cents a pound for fat five-pound birds only twelve weeks old, tender enough to broil or fry and big enough to roast.”

The Times classifieds have some ads that Mr. Jobs might appreciate. One features the headline: “Electronics?” The rest reads: “To investor or organization now in allied field wishing to establish electronics business, we offer experienced technical and managerial personnel and fully developed product with civilian and military applications.” A different kind of app, perhaps, but still looking forward nonetheless.

We move on to the Courier-News. The headline “Bitten by Dog” follows with a brief telling us that “Ten-year-old Carol Adams … was bitten by a dog owned by Michael Lavelle … yesterday afternoon, it was reported to police.” Another brief tells us of a bicycle theft. Beside the brief, an ad encourages readers to convert their 10-inch television sets to 14-, 16- or 19-inch sets at “amazing low cost.”

The movie listings advertise “Kiddie Show” Saturday matinees as well as more adult films, such as “Where Danger Lives” with Robert Mitchum, or “The Bullfighter and the Lady” with Robert Stack. My personal preference is the Walter Reade Theatre, where, in person, “Bonomo’s Magic Clown and His TV Pal Laffy” will be appearing at 10 a.m. tomorrow. And, after the show, why not get something to eat? “Have You Tried Snuffy’s?” an ad asks us. “Tasty! Tempting! Shrimp ‘Caught from Snuffy’s Boat’ Try Them Fried or in a Cocktail.”

It was a different world, all right. And perhaps no story illustrates that better than a short piece in the Courier-News sports section. The headline reads: “Giants Call Up Mays.” It begins: “Willie Mays, 20-year-old Negro centerfielder, is slated to make his big league debut with the New York Giants tonight at Philadelphia. Alarmed by lack of power in his lineup, Manager Leo Durocher brought up Mays from Minneapolis in the American Association where he was hitting .477.” The article explains that Mays had 29 extra-base hits in 35 games at Minneapolis, including eight home runs and eight steals. Mays is, the article says, “reported to be a top flight speedster.”

Surely, issues of race led many sports fans of 1951 to overlook prospects such as Willie Mays, who would go on to become one of the best ballplayers in the history of the sport. But beyond that, it is amazing to see, six decades later, a news report so fuzzy on the details of a rookie who was hitting .477 in the minor leagues! In our world today, if a minor-league player were hitting for that average he’d be drafted in every fantasy baseball league imaginable, and he’d be blogged about and tweeted about every minute of every day.

But that was a different era, one old enough to sit beneath a New Jersey bathtub for three generations. My older daughter says she wants to take the newspapers with her to school tomorrow. I hope she does. And as she grows up and buys her Kindles and iPhones and – yes, Mr. Jobs – her tablets, I hope she’ll also remember the road that led her there. It's a Wi-Fi road now, but it was paved with newsprint.

Snapshots of a Decade

She wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts / She's cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers

It has been the soundtrack of our post-Christmas days, this bouncy pop song from Taylor Swift. Santa was kind enough to place an iPod Nano beneath the tree, so as soon as Daddy was able to place some songs onto Katie’s tiny orange device, Miss Swift has been gracing every room with her tale of heartbreak. Katie sings along passionately, and her little sister immediately follows suit.

The year in review. The decade in review. No matter what media outlet you’re reading, watching or listening to, you’re being fed a tidy synopsis of the most important events and personalities of the year, as well as the nine that preceded this one. For 2009, we get Taylor Swift, Michael Jackson, Tiger Woods, Derek Jeter and our beloved president, among others. For the ‘00s in review, we get everything from Jeter and Alex Rodriguez to Presidents Bush and Obama. We get Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden, as well as George Clooney, Scarlett Johansson and reality television. We get Nintendo and Apple, as well as Enron and Madoff.

It’s enormously difficult to sum up a decade’s worth of news, notoriety and nostalgia. You can try and capture it all, but you’re bound to miss something. And the truth is, when it comes down to life, we rarely frame our existence inside of ten-year spans. When they talk about taking life “one day at a time” in 12-step programs, they’re on to something. At its best, life is more about snapshots than grand re-caps. It’s made up of moments we can recall with 12-megapixel clarity, and sounds we can hear with Bose-speaker crispness. And the beauty of it is that no one can remember a moment in exactly the same way.

I can feel the Boston Globe special edition in my hands as I rode the North Shore commuter rail home on September 11, 2001, and read of the madness and chaos that had enveloped the city of my birth and changed the world in which I lived. I can see the flickering candles at every intersection in Salem, Mass., three days later, as my neighbors stood vigil on their street corners in a collective show of mourning and respect for their country. I can see the charred pieces of metal still standing in Lower Manhattan when I walked by the Trade Center remains 3½ weeks later.

I can see the glistening brown hair on the head of our first-born child, and I can hear her first cries as she entered the world and nestled in her mother’s arms nearly eight years ago. I can feel the arms of my wife as we embraced after losing a child in utero two years later. More than a year after that, I can see our younger daughter’s calm demeanor develop as she took her first quiet nap in the hospital’s nursery. As I held Katie up and pointed out Chelsea to her, I can still hear Katie’s first words to Chelsea. It was an impromptu song, or perhaps a prayer: “Twinkle, twinkle little star / How I wonder what you are ... ” I can still taste the tears that slid down my cheeks at that moment.

I can feel the strong left hand of my grandfather, as I held him and explained to him that the cancer had spread throughout his body. I can see the tears as he came to grips with the reality of his situation. I can hear his nasally, North Shore-of-Staten Island accent as we talked about the Yankees in those final weeks together. I can hear him greet me with the “Peanuts” nickname he’d always given me: “Hey, Chahlie Brown,” he’d say. “Come in and eat som’in’. I got soup in dee icebox. You can heat it up. And dere’s plenty o’ ginger ale, too.” I can recall sitting down and listening to him talk about my grandmother with love, knowing that he’d be with her again, soon.

I miss my grandfather. And my grandmother, too, as well as my dog and all the other family members I’ve lost in the last 10 years. I remember them in moments that I treasure in the very core of my heart, just as I savor the moments of birth that Amy and I have experienced during this ten-year span. Birth and death, ever intertwined: It was a spring afternoon in 2001 when I leaned forward and whispered in my dying grandmother’s ear that we were expecting. She was unable to respond at this point, but I asked her to watch over the kid. At night, when Katie is drifting off to sleep, I tell her stories of the great-grandmother she never met. She listens, every time.

Snapshots. I bought Amy a camera for Christmas; it was time. In studying up on all the point-and-shoots, I learned that more megapixels do not necessarily make for a better camera. If you’re looking to bring in as much light as possible, sometimes less is more. And when the light comes in, and the angle is right, you’ve got yourself one beautiful picture. An image to hold onto, no matter what the year.

We take stock this time of year, we make resolutions, and we reflect. More than anything, though, we hold onto the pictures that fill the photo albums of our minds and souls. This is where time really does stand still, and where a decade is just a word.

Dreaming ‘bout the day when you wake up and find / That what you're lookin’ for has been here the whole time ...

You said it, Taylor. Crank up that iPod. Happy new year.