A Swiss-American who also lived in Canada for a spell, she’s traveled the world and built a successful business called Kate’s Magik in Tucson, Arizona, blending essential oils, while launching and maintaining a singing career.
But let’s start at the beginning.
In the fall of 1968, her mother Anita and I were living in Livermore, California, where I was a reporter on the Herald & News.
I also reviewed movies playing at the local Vine theater. That’s where we were, as I pick up the story in this excerpt from my memoir:
On the night of December 4th, after an hour and a half of staring at Jane Fonda’s pointy tits in Barbarella, as the credits were rolling, Anita nudged me and said, “I think we better go to the hospital. My water broke about an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“You have to review the movie, don’t you?”
We rushed home, grabbed the suitcase that had been packed for a week, called the doctor and, after midnight, hit the freeway. Since Anita had started her pregnancy with an obstetrician in San Francisco, that was where we were headed. I pointed my Mustang west, toward the Bay Bridge and Children’s Hospital in the city, about forty miles away.
Katherine Lisa Becker arrived at about 4 a.m. on December 5, 1968. We would call her Kate. She was supposed to be Katharine, like Katharine Hepburn, but I couldn’t spell.
Over the next year or two, we moved to my hometown of New York and to Anita’s hometown of Bern, Switzerland. It was just the beginning of Kate’s travels. And she seemed to take it all like a champ, a happy and exuberant kid.
Then, it was back to Gotham, where I landed a job with United Press International.
Since I worked a lot of night shifts at UPI in New York, I’d spend days with our daughter, taking her to the playground or nearby Flushing Meadows Park, site of the 1939 and 1964 World’s Fairs.
I took her to the U.S. Open tennis at Forest Hills, where my press pass gave us a place on the players’ patio. After she insisted on going to the bathroom on her own, she emerged holding hands with Evonne Goolagong.
“Does this child belong to you?” asked the teenage Aussie star.
“Yes,” I replied, “is everything okay?”
“Of course, we had a lovely chat.”
Kate and I would often go to lunch at McDonald’s – we were addicted to the fries and managed to choke down the cheeseburgers – or just hang around the apartment.
Kate was four when her parents split up. She and her mom moved to Bern in early 1973. The next couple of years, I spent vacations with my daughter in Europe.
Anita’s father, Hermann, let me borrow his second car, a Citroen Deux Chevaux, an ugly little beast that rattled and wheezed from Bern across the Alps, into Italy. We drove past the beautiful Lago Maggiore and on to Verona and Venice.
Kate was only six, but she never complained about our wanderings in the back streets of Venice, or my prolonged stop admiring Titian’s Assumption of the Virgin in an off-the-beaten-track Franciscan church. She seemed happy with the reward of chasing pigeons while I smoked and drank in the Piazza San Marco.
By the time we got to Florence, however, she was bored – we said hi to David, raced through the Uffizi in about four minutes, hightailed it for the Mediterranean coast, and checked into the Grand Hotel in Viareggio …
Kate and I spent the night at the bar. The bartender took a shine to Kate – she was a charming child – and kept the Shirley Temples coming while her old man ventured from Campari and soda to scotch. We probably ate dinner as well.
In the morning, we walked on the beach but it was a cold October day and we didn’t get far. After more than a week on the road, the ugly little Deux Chevaux chugged back over the Alps to Switzerland.
Starting the next year, Kate flew unaccompanied to North America for visits. Then, when she was fourteen, she came to Canada to stay, in suburban Toronto, with Linda and me and baby Jodie.
We enrolled Kate in Clarkson High School. She was hard to place, since she had not had much of an education in Switzerland.
She spoke English with a cute Swiss-German accent. Spelling and grammar were not her strong suits. She studied my Oxford dictionary and filled the margins with notes.
I insisted she start in a class with students her own age – she’d be fifteen in December. I didn’t want her feeling alienated in school, as she had been in Bern. Kate would excel at drama and find an ally in her drama teacher.
We got Kate through high school and a bit of college before she was off on her own, her wanderlust in full bloom. She would marry for the first time, in May 1989, the ceremony in our backyard.
Over the years, as Kate moved on, she’d come to Canada to visit with us, or meet up when we were on vacation.
And we’d go to visit with her, first when she lived in New York and later in Tucson, her home for the past sixteen years.
This week, Kate and her mom are in San Francisco, back to where her journey began.
My book, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.
During a cleanup of my home office this week, I rifled through a box of old photographs. Among them was the only shot I have of my dad and me (above), plus some of me as a kid that fit in a story I wrote a long time ago and shared in this space just before Father’s Day 2016.
Here it is again, with pics inserted and a bit of tinkering with the copy:
My father was a left-handed shortstop. When I was a boy, and he was in his early thirties, I’d tag along to his softball-league games on Sunday mornings.
Watching him field ground balls, seeing him go to his right, deep into the hole, I often feared his legs would tangle and he’d topple trying to pivot and throw. But he never did. He always made the play.
He was such an exceptional ballplayer that his left-handedness did not restrict him to first base or the outfield. Besides, he had experience.
When he was ten, at P.S. 106, in the Parkchester section of the Bronx, his English teacher, Mrs. Busch, coached the school’s baseball team.
In class, Mrs. Busch honored the rules of the New York City school system – she forced her left-handed students to write with their right hands.
But on the ballfield, at St. Raymond park, she championed the unconventional.
“Never mind that you’re left-handed,” she told the skinny, little red-haired boy. “You’re the best ballplayer in the school and you’re my shortstop.
It was 1929, the year of the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, the stock market crash, the dawn of the Great Depression. But my father’s horizon extended only as far as Jerome Avenue and 161stStreet, to Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth Built and still inhabited.
When my father wasn’t playing ball he was watching the Yankees: Ruth, Gehrig, Dickey, the double-play combo of Leo “the Lip” Durocher and “Poosh ’Em Up Tony” Lazzeri.
For four bits, my father would scramble for a place in the centerfield bleachers. On summer weekdays, he would grab a free seat in the upper deck, with thousands of other kids, guests of the Yankees’ benevolent despot, Colonel Jacob Ruppert.
Every boy on every sandlot in New York City dreamed of playing on that holy turf in the West Bronx.
When Hy Becker graduated grammar school, after the eighth grade, Mrs. Busch wrote in his autograph book: My wish is to someday see you in a Yankee uniform.
“I really thought I’d be a big league ballplayer,” my dad told me years later.
* * *
The photograph shows a knobby-kneed toddler in bloomers, holding a tiny baseball bat in a left-handed stance.
It was snapped in July 1948, at a bungalow colony in Rockland County, north of New York City.
On the back, in my mother’s script, it reads: Kenneth at 20 months.
I have no recollection of the time or place. But I know who positioned me in that left-handed batting pose.
I was born in the Bronx and lived my first five years there, on Walton Avenue, a dozen or so blocks from Yankee Stadium.
I retain only two recollections from that time: Playing catch with my mother on the sidewalk in front of our apartment building; my dad and I walking hand-in-hand along Jerome Avenue, toward Yankee Stadium, on a sunny Sunday morning.
We stop at Macombs Dam Park, across 161stStreet from the stadium. We sit on a bleacher bench along the first-base line.
A game is in progress, between teams of black players. My dad points to right field. “Your dad used to pop them over that fence all the time.
“Son,” he adds, caressing the back of my neck, “most of the big league parks are set up for left-handed hitters.”
It is now afternoon and we are inside the stadium, between games of a doubleheader. We are standing at a field gate, just up the line from the Yankee dugout.
My father is talking with a player in a Yankee uniform. “Son, this is Eddie Lopat. We used to play ball together.”
But I’m not interested, tugging at his trousers.
“I don’t want to talk to him,” I cry. “I want to talk to Joe DiMaggio.”
* * *
My father was born in Brooklyn on June 12, 1919, the second son of Henry Becker, a first generation American of Russian-Jewish origin, and Bessie Becker (nee Agran), a Polish immigrant.
He was named Hyman and denied the option of a middle name. When he was four, his family moved to the Bronx, where he would live for nearly 30 years and always be known as Red.
In 1933, Red left P.S. 106 and enrolled at DeWitt Clinton High School. He chose the all-boys school because of the reputation of its baseball team.
Clinton would afford him citywide competition, some of the best school-league baseball in the country.
When my father entered high school, Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg was batting .300 in his rookie year with the Tigers; Frankie Frisch, the “Fordham Flash,” was the player-manager of the “Gas House Gang” St. Louis Cardinals; Gehrig was in his ninth full season with the Yanks.
All three would go on to the Hall of Fame. All three were products of the schoolyards and sandlots of New York City. When the baseball season finally came around at Clinton, the school discontinued its sports programs. The Depression, it was reasoned, was no time for games.
My father would remain at Clinton, however. Some days he would forget his homework. Some days he would forget his civics book. He never forgot his baseball glove.
At lunchtime, he would meet his new friend, Joe Lobel, and they would toss a baseball. My father was teaching himself to pitch. Joe was his catcher.
Red was still short and skinny – he’d grow to no more than five-foot-six – but he could throw a baseball with great velocity. And he had developed a snapping curveball.
He and Joe worked out together day after day, through the winter of 1933-34. In the spring, they played together in the school’s intramural league.
They became best friends. (Thirteen years later, Joe married Red’s kid sister, Emma.)
On their intramural team was another southpaw, though he played mainly first base in those days.
Edmund Walter Lopatynski would change his name to Eddie Lopat and spend a dozen years in the Major Leagues, eight of them as a successful pitcher for Casey Stengel’s great Yankee teams of the late 1940s and early 1950s. He would win 21 games in 1951 and pitch in five World Series.
At family gatherings, going back as far as I can remember, my Uncle Joe would take me aside and confide: “Your dad was as good as Lopatynski and better than most of them other guys that made it.”
Red and Joe also played together on a sandlot team called the Mactes (pronounced Mack-tees). My father never knew where the name came from. He figured it was Indian.
They called their home The Valley, a dusty ballyard in the recesses of Crotona Park in the Bronx.
Their coach was a man named Pop Babbitt. He had watched the boys for several weekends and decided to take them on. He raised money, bought them uniforms and booked their games.
Pop Babbitt told the boys he was a representative of the hat-blockers union. My father later learned that kindly old Pop was a well-known racketeer.
The Mactes of the 1930s fielded a pretty good ballclub. Red was the ace pitcher, Joe the catcher, Meyer “Mike” Feig at first, David “Doodo” Rosenbaum at second, Jerry “Lover Boy” Zucker at short, Louis “Sleuch” Marino at third; an outfield of Irving “Sloppy” Levy, Harold “Bucky” Bachner and George “Flash” Sosa.
Every weekend, April through October, the Mactes and similarly organized teams travelled the parks and playgrounds of New York.
They came into neighborhoods and hustled ball games. The players each would chip in a couple of bucks, whatever they could afford, in some cases a week’s salary, and bet on themselves.
Pop would cover bets from all comers. By game time, Pop would be holding a couple of hundred bucks, a lot of money in those days.
The action was particularly crisp at a rocky pit of a ballpark on Vyse Avenue in the Bronx. Tall apartment buildings surrounded the field.
Middle-aged men and women, mostly immigrants from Eastern Europe, sat and watched the games from rickety fire escapes. Boys in short pants pressed their faces against the chain-link fence. Girls in Sunday dresses perched on wooden benches.
A ballgame was an entertainment for the neighborhood and the neighborhood turned out.
The Mactes archrival was a team called the Beltonas, (pronounced Bell-toe-nas), another squad of Bronxites that sported the superior double-play combination in Harold Grossman at second and Milton “Mickey” Rutner at shortstop.
Grossman and Rutner also played for James Monroe High School, the Bronx alma mater of Hank Greenberg. Rutner’s exploits at Monroe earned him publicity and attracted big league scouts.
He went on to make a career of professional baseball, mainly in the minor leagues. His Major League career amounted to 12 games with the Philadelphia Athletics in 1947. His lifetime Major League batting average was .250. I wonder if my father would have swapped his successful business career for 12 games with the A’s.
The Mactes also played against a team that wore the uniform of McElhenney’s Bar and Grill and had a star pitcher named Harry Feldman.
My father did not admire Feldman’s stuff. They had their share of duels and Red usually came out on top.
But old man McElhenney knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a scout for the Giants. Harry Feldman pitched for the Giants for six seasons, through the war years, appearing in 143 games.
I know my father would have gambled his future against a chance to pitch six seasons in the Polo Grounds. That’s what he was hoping for when he went to a tryout in 1941.
* * *
My father was born a Yankee fan. In his father’s house there was no choice. A stubborn and opinionated man, my grandfather would not condone the least act of rebellion.
A printer by trade, he survived the Depression without major discomfort. He fancied himself rather prosperous, taking the wheel of his sleek 1929 Chevrolet on weekends, cruising to ballparks to watch his son Red play.
Between games of a Sunday doubleheader, he’d take the family to the Hunts Point Dairy Restaurant on Southern Boulevard in the Bronx. After lunch he’d return Red to the ballpark for the second game.
My dad remembers when his father as young and vigorous. I remember my grandfather only as an invalid.
In 1941, he was injured in a subway crash and taken to a hospital where he was told he had bone cancer.
He left the hospital, abandoned his business and went home to die.
He took to his bed and stayed there for 27 years, smoking cigars and following the Yanks on radio and TV, until he died in 1968 at the age of 76.
My dad did rebel in 1939, becoming a Dodger fan. He liked the style of the team’s new player-manager, Leo Durocher, the same “Leo the Lip” who’d played shortstop for the Yankee teams of my father’s childhood.
The Dodgers were a scrappy bunch with colorful names – Goody Rosen, Cookie Lavagetto, a pitcher with an alien moniker, Van Lingle Mungo.
My grandfather, of course, mocked the Dodgers, Dem Bums.
In 1951, my father and I watched the deciding playoff game between the Dodgers and Giants, on the television in my grandfather’s apartment on Featherbed Lane in the Bronx.
When Bobby Thomson hit the home run to beat the Dodgers, my father’s face turned ashen. My grandfather laughed. “Don’t matter, the Yanks would beat either one of them.”
He was right, of course – the Yanks won the World Series over the Giants in six games. But that was the time I too became a Dodger fan.
My dad tried to stick with the Dodgers after they abandoned Brooklyn for Los Angeles. But, over the years, the players changed and the distance remained the same. He gravitated to the Mets. I became a Red Sox fan.
* * *
My father’s crack at the big leagues came in 1941. He was 22 and had played seven seasons for the Mactes.
He had graduated from Clinton and worked at various meaningless jobs. One was making milkshakes in a storefront stand on 34thStreet in Manhattan, where he earned $8 a week and the owner taught him to cheat the customers by pretending to add ice cream – “just rap the side of the container with the empty scoop.”
He had developed an ulcer when he was 17 and it hemorrhaged two years later. It would leave him unfit for the army when the United States went to war, after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
That summer of ’41, Pop Babbitt called my father aside during a game in Crotona Park. It was a muggy city day and the crowd was sparse, a few kids sitting on the boulders that guarded The Valley.
“You’re never going to be noticed playing ball here,” Pop told my father. The old racketeer handed Red a clipping from the Daily News, announcing a mass tryout at the Polo Grounds.
“Why don’t you go down, Red,” Pop said. Red took the clipping, stuffed it in his pocket, and trotted to the pitcher’s mound.
When the day of the tryout came, he went to the Polo Grounds, joining hundreds of young men in mix-and-match uniforms and well-worn cleats, all hoping they’d somehow stand out.
Red was ushered into a group that surrounded Sam “Sambo” Leslie, a first baseman with John McGraw’s Giants and still a member of the organization.
Sambo, a Mississippian with the abhorrent nickname, passed around his big first-sacker’s mitt, letting the bush leaguers try on a big league glove. It would be the high point of the day for Red.
He thanked Sambo, found someone to throw with and went off on the sidelines to warm his arm.
Soon, the young men were arbitrarily divided into groups of 10 or 15 and assembled at the right field foul pole. Each group was directed to dash to the left field foul pole. When they arrived, most – Red included – were told go home.
“They never even saw me pitch,” he’d tell me, more than 40 years later. “I was fast, I felt sharp, and they never even saw me pitch.”
* * *
In 1951, my family moved from the Bronx to Bayside, Queens, to a new complex of two-story apartments called Clearview Gardens.
The young families that settled in Clearview were refugees from the Bronx and Brooklyn, young breadwinners climbing the ladder in the post-war boom.
They gave their wives mink stoles and themselves new cars with automatic transmissions. They gave their sons new bats and balls and gloves, and safe places to play.
Our ballpark was a vacant lot behind the apartments. We played hardball until we broke Mrs. Kiff’s kitchen window too many times. Then we switched to stickball.
Every spring, we sawed off old broomsticks and spent our allowances on a fresh supply of pink rubber balls, Spaldeens.
Our field was laid out with the foul lines stretching to the fence of a children’s playground in left and to the end of Mrs. Zimmer’s kitchen window in right.
A ball hit off the apartment-house wall was a ground-rule double. Onto the roof was a triple, over it a home run.
We played stickball from the first warm day of spring until the first freezing day of winter, then switched to football, snow or shine.
A basketball hoop erected by our dads in a parking lot accommodated a third sport. A spotlight allowed night games.
There were also more organized sports, provided by Tony DePhillips, a part-time bullpen catcher for the Yankees who owned a sporting goods store in Bayside and ran the DAC. (DePhillips Athletic Club), our Little League.
* * *
My father left the Mactes and stopped playing baseball when he was 23, when he met my mother. (He says the timing was coincidental).
That year, 1942, he’d taken a job as an usher in a movie theatre, the Loews Fairmont in the Bronx, and couldn’t make the Mactes weekend games anyway.
The disappointment of the tryout at the Polo Grounds also dragged him down. But the luster of those years never left my Uncle Joe, who never stopped telling tales of Red on the mound.
“Your dad was sneaky fast – ya know what I mean? – and he had a hook that was no nickel curve,” Joe told me in the early 1960s, when we were weekly golf partners – our families lived in neighboring towns on Long Island.
“There was this one game, in Crotona Park it was, and Red was as sharp as a tack. He was strikin’ ’em out like gang busters – I think he got ten of ‘em – and we only played seven innings in them days. I just sat back there and it was like playin’ catch – wherever I put the mitt, he hit it.”
We were sitting outside the clubhouse at Bethpage, waiting for our tee time. The sun was rising. I looked down the first fairway of the Black Course, sparkling with dew.
“That day he coulda beat the Yanks – and he was just a kid,” Uncle Joe said with a sigh. “Your dad woulda made it to the big league if anybody’d ever seen him.”
When my Uncle Joe died, my father lost more than his brother-in-law and boyhood chum. He lost his catcher and biggest fan.
* * *
I began playing organized baseball the summer of 1954, when I was eight years old. The DAC league played its games at Sylvania Field, on the grounds of the Sylvania Electric Company plant in Bayside.
Our team, sponsored by a bar and grill, was managed by my dad. He drilled us in fundamentals. Batters were pressed to make contact, to punch hits, not swing wildly from the heels.
“Get that bat off your shoulder,” was a recurring shout from my dad on the sidelines, generally followed by “a walk’s as good as a hit,” a cliché my father truly believed.
He made us take one strike to test the opposing pitcher’s control. He encouraged us to bunt for hits and sacrifice when a sacrifice was called for: usually with a runner on first and none out, always with runners on first and second and none out. He loved the squeeze play.
Infielders were expected to get in front of the ball: “Take it off your chest, knock it down, then throw ’em out.”
Outfielders were taught to turn their backs on the ball, never backpedal. He showed us how to use our gloves to shield the sun. No one – not even a first baseman – was allowed to catch with one hand.
The catcher was expected to stay on his toes, the better to throw his body in front of errant pitches.
On me, the pitcher, the manager was roughest. Not mean. Not unreasonable. Simply most demanding.
He allowed me to throw a fastball and a changeup, pitches that were, in my case, generally indistinguishable. He did not allow me to throw a curve.
“You’re too young,” he’d say “you’ll hurt your arm.” He demanded control. “Throw strikes, throw strikes,” would echo in my head through the years.
When I walked a batter, I could hear him sigh. The same when I struck out swinging at a bad pitch.
He wanted us to be a scrappy, hustling bunch. We won games on bunts that turned into four-base errors. We won games drawing walks with the bases loaded. We won games scooting home on passed balls and wild pitches.
He taught us the proper way to slide and we boasted the dirtiest uniforms in the league.
I won the league batting title with an average over .400. More than half my hits were bunts. My father was proud.
My pal Barry, my catcher, called me a “sissy bunter” and tried to swipe my trophy.
* * *
On a warm October afternoon in 1955, the Brooklyn Dodgers won their first World Series. The final innings of the game were broadcast over the public address system in my school, P.S. 184, into my fourth-grade classroom.
After school, I ran to Oggie’s Delicatessen, where I had arranged to meet Barry, win or lose. Barry was from Brooklyn and as dedicated a Dodger fan as I was.
He was already there and we shouted and jumped up and down. He had seen the last inning of the game on TV and told me how Podres had jumped into Campanella’s arms. We imitated the embrace.
We bought two knishes, smothered with mustard, two huge dill pickles and a giant bag of Wise potato chips. We walked along Utopia Parkway, across the bridge over the Cross Island Parkway, and camped on a hill overlooking Little Bay. We sat there until dark, talked about the Dodgers and laughed at their victims, the Yankees.
When I got home, the celebration started all over again, this time with my dad.
Barry and I maintained our friendship for several years, though I’d stopped playing DAC ball and spent my summers as a counselor at a camp in the Catskills, where I discovered smoking cigarettes, drinking beer and the pleasures of going into the bushes after dark with Laura Yules.
In 1960, my family moved to Plainview, Long Island, where I finished my baseball career.
My sophomore year at Plainview High I played third base respectably and had an average year with the bat. I was on the junior varsity and figured I’d move up to the varsity my junior year.
It didn’t happen. I was the last player cut at spring tryouts and bounced back to the JV. After three games, I quit and joined the golf team.
My dad was disappointed, yet he seemed to know my interest in baseball had waned, that I’d peaked too soon – sometime between the ages of eight and ten.
* * *
My dad played softball well into his fifties. That’s when I first saw him play shortstop left-handed, in a league in Queens.
In the early 1960s, when I was home from college, we went out on the front lawn of the house in Plainview to have a catch.
“You think you can still pitch?” he teased.
He crouched down, gave a big target, and I tried to muster a hard fastball. It smacked his glove and broke his thumb. It never healed properly.
* * *
I met Eddie Lopat at Fenway Park in Boston in 1978, when he was scouting for the Montreal Expos and I was covering baseball for a Toronto newspaper.
I didn’t tell him how I’d snubbed him as a small child, how I cried for Joe DiMaggio at Yankee Stadium.
“You know my father,” I told Lopat, “you played together at Clinton – Hy Becker.”
“Never heard of him,” Lopat said. I found the remark hurtful and didn’t say another word to him.
When I told my dad, he said, “No one ever heard of Hy Becker. You should have said Red Becker.”
He never understood why I gave up the baseball beat after only one season.
* * *
In 1982, I played one game at first base for my newspaper’s softball team. I got two hits, a double and a homer.
A hard throw from the shortstop broke my thumb. It never healed properly.
* * *
My dad died in March 1995 at the age of 75. I tucked a baseball beside his left hand in his casket.
The story behind this story and more on my relationship with my dad is in my book, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.
One of the great mysteries of our time is how the cowardly creep now in the White House has yet to be publicly reduced to a quivering, blubbering blob of orange Jell-O.
How has someone with the intelligence, vocabulary and personality of a sewer rat spouted so much shit for so long without anyone throwing it back in his face on camera?
I realize he never puts himself in a tough spot, goes only to safe spaces, surrounds himself with fellow fools and toadies.
But whose fault is it that during news conferences and one-on-one interviews no one ever lays a glove on him?
The most revealing moment of the 90-minute Q & A – mainly A – with the media last week came when CNN’s Jim Acosta attempted to address the effluent in the room.
While POTUS was insulting the reporter – “You are a rude, terrible person” – and an aide was trying to wrest the microphone from Acosta, at least five of his colleagues were raising their hands. Call on me, Mr. President … Please, Mr. President … Pretty please, with sugar on top.
This was a time for White House press corps to be a corps. Fat chance. Not with this crowd.
I’ve been waiting for nearly two years for one of them to say: Mr. President, I have a followup question: What the fuck are you talking about?
Meanwhile, the media continue to bring a briefcase to a gunfight. After the administration pulled Acosta’s White House pass, CNN fired off a lawsuit and the reporter got his piece of plastic back.
The only hope is to change the cast. Rewrite the script. Put De Niro in Acosta’s role at the next presidential press conference. No way Agent Orange – using his same words – dismisses and gets away with dissing the Raging Bull.
POTUS: I’m not concerned about anything on the Russia investigation because it’s a hoax. Put down the mic …
De Niro: Fuck you.
POTUS: CNN should be ashamed of itself having you working for them.
De Niro: The United States of America is ashamed of itself for having a douchebag in the White House.
POTUS: You are a rude, terrible person …
De Niro: You are an ignorant, racist motherfucker.
POTUS: You’re a very rude person.
De Niro: Get down here and I’ll kick your fat ass back to Queens.
POTUS: The way you treat Sarah Huckabee is horrible and the way you treat other people are (sic) horrible.
De Niro: As if you give a shit.
POTUS: You shouldn’t treat people that way.
De Niro: We’re coming for you, scumbag. Tell your pal Putin and your brain-dead followers – like the one who sent me a bomb – that your days are numbered.
POTUS: That’s enough.
De Niro: You talkin’ to me?
POTUS: That’s enough.
De Niro: Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?
That last line, courtesy of Travis Bickle, would also be an appropriate followup question from the next reporter – besides Acosta, so far mainly black women – he attacks or insults.
My book, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.
Fifty years ago today, I walked into the scene of a family massacre in northern California.
Before the cops ordered me out, I’d looked down on the bodies of two little kids, their mom and killer dad, with his pistol at his side.
I was a few days shy of my 22nd birthday, only a couple of months into my first job as a reporter, with the Herald & News in Livermore, about an hour’s drive east of San Francisco.
I’d been covering mostly typical small-town tripe – meetings and petty crime – struggling with my unreliable two-finger typing and atrocious spelling, trying to learn AP style from a more experienced fellow reporter, Ron Iscoff.
I was chronically frustrated, periodically bored, and unsure I was even cut out for the news biz.
But, as I recount in this excerpt from my memoir, all that changed over a couple of days:
My education as a journalist seemed stalled until November 13, 1968. It was a week after Richard Nixon was elected president – I cast my first ever ballot for Eldridge Cleaver of the Black Panthers, who was the candidate of the Peace and Freedom Party.
On a Wednesday evening the next week, I was the only reporter in the office when a call on the police radio announced: “One-eighty-seven at 353 North I Street.”
I had learned the California police codes. I knew 187 was a homicide. I jumped in my Mustang and sped to North I Street. There was an empty cop car with lights flashing. I spotted a door wide open to a second-story apartment.
I walked in. The first thing I noticed was the place smelled like stale vomit. The second thing was that the television was on and, lying in front of it, on his stomach, was a young boy. He was wearing pajamas. He wasn’t moving.
I walked closer. The hair on the back of the boy’s head was matted with dried blood. I heard voices and followed the sound farther into the apartment.
I passed the small kitchen. Breakfast for four – untouched bowls of cereal, a quart of milk – was on the table. Entering a back bedroom, I saw three cops standing over a man’s body.
“What the hell are you doing here,” shouted one of them, the chief of police, John Michelis.
“The door was open,” I said, straining to look beyond them, into a closet, where two more bodies – a woman and little girl – were slumped in a corner.
“Well, get the hell out,” ordered the chief.
I stood outside and scribbled in my notebook, every detail I could remember. I noted the uneaten breakfast as evidence of when the murders might have been committed. I drew a diagram of the apartment and where the bodies lay. I should have been repulsed by what I’d seen. But I was excited.
Iscoff showed up. We decided – he decided – that I would stay at the scene and talk to the cops and neighbors, and he’d go back to the office and work the phones.
We had the name of the family and a strong hint from the cops that Paul Cranfill, 27, had shot his wife, Lynne, 25, and their two children – five-year-old Bobby and two-year-old Cathy – before turning his pistol on himself.
We collaborated on a pretty good story that night – me writing and Iscoff rewriting – including most of those Ws: who, what, when, where. The next day we would try to figure out why.
We filled the front-page with an impressive amount of information gathered over only a few hours. The cops had told me that Cranfill’s brother, Carl, had come home at about 4 p.m., walked into the dark apartment – the lights were off and the drapes were drawn – and taken a two-hour nap on the living room couch, within a few feet of his nephew’s body.
He called the police when he saw the boy, apparently hoping he could be resuscitated – a word that sent me to the dictionary, since I was the world’s worst speller.
My uninvited walk through the crime scene gave us a good description of where the bodies were found. The cops told me it looked like a triple-murder-suicide and that all had been shot in the head. When I asked the chief if the breakfast dishes suggested the time of the crime, he confirmed it probably occurred that morning.
We got some good quotes from the owner of the small apartment complex – “they were a real happy family” and “excellent tenants” – and from Cranfill’s employer at an electronics factory, who called him “a good worker.”
We also learned that police had found a newspaper clipping on gun control. A neighbor who took target practice with Cranfill said he was “a good marksman.”
A search of the Herald morgue unearthed an article from the previous summer, when Lynne Cranfill had been featured as “Homemaker of the Week.” She had described her husband as “a kind person.” All this went into the story.
On the front page, the paper reprinted a photo that had accompanied the homemaker article, of Lynne Cranfill in the apartment with little Cathy and Bobby sitting beside her.
When the paper was put to bed that night, Iscoff and I had a celebratory drink and plotted the next day’s follow-ups.
For several more days, we shared a byline, alphabetically, me on top, and tried to get at what was in the killer’s head before he put a nine-millimeter slug in it.
We found out that Cranfill was a gun nut, that besides the murder weapon – a P38 semi-automatic – he also owned a .357 Magnum, a .22-caliber pistol and a .30-caliber carbine. He was also apparently nuts. A doctor told us Cranfill had a “paranoid-schizoid personality,” that he had been taking Thorazine, an antipsychotic tranquilizer, and that his family had been advised to put him in a mental hospital. His wife refused.
We learned that Cranfill was “up to his neck” in debt. “He must have owed well over $6,000” and had been planning to file for personal bankruptcy, a relative told us.
Iscoff and I had a good run with the story. The Cranfill tragedy wasn’t exactly the crime of the century but, for me, the rush was extraordinary, everything I’d hoped for when I stumbled into the newspaper racket. When it was over, I went back to covering meetings and checking the police blotter.
Chief Michelis, to punish me for invading his crime scene, called me into his office, sat me down for a good scolding, and showed me his photo collection of gunshot victims, mainly of men who had blown away their faces with shotguns. As Hemingway had, I thought.
Instead of puking my guts out, as Michelis had presumably expected, I asked questions about the story behind each picture.
* * *
What I now find repulsive is that Paul Cranfill shares a gravestone with the wife and kids he slaughtered.
The gravesite, at Memory Gardens Cemetery in Livermore, is about a mile and a half from the apartment where Lynne, Cathy and Bobby were shot dead.
The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism is available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.
Fifty years ago, one of my first assignments as a reporter provided a backstage press pass to a rock festival in northern California.
Wow, I thought, what a great gig this newspaper business, being paid to spend two days in the sunshine – peace, love, dope – listening to music and interviewing the folks who were making the music.
I was 21, a few weeks on the staff at the Herald & News in Livermore, only an hour’s drive east of San Francisco but a world away from the birthplace of the Beats and the hippies.
As I recount in this excerpt from my memoir, The Expat Files, that assignment was an inauspicious start to my career, missing a nearby “riot” while hanging out with the boys in the bands and my then-wife Anita:
She was very pregnant when she joined me backstage the last weekend in October for the San Francisco International Pop Festival, at the fairgrounds in the neighboring town of Pleasanton.
While Anita and I went home Saturday night, a couple of thousand people camped on the grounds for the next day’s show, which featured a new group that called itself Creedence Clearwater.
When I got back to the office late Sunday to write my story, my editor asked about the riot.
“The police say five-hundred people crashed the gates, the cops had to call for reinforcements.”
“I didn’t see anything, or hear anything about that.”
I wrote my story …
PLEASANTON – “You and your damn music. I have to exercise my horse and the track is swarming with dirty hippies,” an elderly cowboy said walking his horse up and down the sidelines.
Thus, another nail was hammered into the generation-gap casket as a result of the San Francisco International Pop Festival, held at the Alameda County Fairgrounds in Pleasanton this weekend.
I inserted info from the cops. It ran under the headline: Pop Festival Success Despite Youth Melee.
It really wasn’t much of a melee. No injuries. No arrests. Just a bunch of kids climbing over fences to get free admission to the show.
I guess gatecrashing was big news in Livermore. Or maybe my editors knew the locals disapproved of all those “dirty hippies” invading their peaceful valley.
Like today, 1968 was a time of great division in the United States (and elsewhere). Young versus old. Hippies versus straights.
And the people who ran the Herald leaned straight/right on most issues.
It’s one of the reasons I left the next spring. Went home to New York. Took a job on a magazine called Changes, which was going to be the East Coast answer to Rolling Stone.
It wasn’t. Only lasted a few months.
I moved on, was out of the country when Woodstock happened that summer, and was covering a terrorist trial in Zurich later in 1969 when the Rolling Stones concert at Altamont – in Livermore – descended to murderous chaos.
By then, my journalistic ambition did not include backstage passes at rock festivals, though the music of that time remains the music of my life.
Today, those music-makers are old – or dead, including two of the three who appear in my pictures published in the Herald.
Guitarist Erik Brann was only 18 when he played with Iron Butterfly that weekend in 1968. He died of a heart attack at the age of 52 in 2003.
Bob “Bear” Hite of Canned Heat was 25 when I interviewed him. He died of a heroin overdose during a gig at the Palomino Club in North Hollywood in 1981 at the age of 38.
The Herald & News is also dead. It was folded into a succession of regional papers and, after the mid-1980s, no longer had a newsroom in Livermore.
My book, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.
WASHINGTON (ENS) – President Trump recently discussed expropriating the hurricane-ravaged town of Mexico Beach, Florida, rebuilding it under a government contract awarded to his company, and renaming it Barron Beach after his youngest son.
“Look, I can do whatever I want – who’s going to stop me?” he said during a clandestinely recorded White House meeting with cabinet officers earlier this month.
“The Democrats are all talk and no action. Bunch of losers – no guts. I always win because they always choke like dogs.”
The president also proposed renaming every place in the U.S. that contains the word Mexico, as well as cities such as San Diego and San Antonio because they sound Spanish.
The meeting, soon after Hurricane Michael struck Florida on Oct. 10, was attended by Vice President Mike Pence, cabinet secretaries Kirstjen Nielsen (Homeland Security), Ryan Zinke (Interior), Betsy DeVos (Education), Rick Perry (Energy) and others.
Here is a transcript of the meeting, according to a recording provided by an administration source:
POTUS: Have you seen the TV?
PENCE: Which TV, Mr. President, you have several?
POTUS: The hurricane in Florida. What the hell you think I’m talking about? You got those beautiful beaches – not Palm Beach beautiful, but beautiful for the rednecks down there – and now they look like fucking Haiti.
NIELSEN: We’re doing everything we can, Mr. President …”
POTUS: How long to clean it up?
NIELSEN: It’s still a search and rescue operation.
POTUS: But we’re going to clean it up, right?
NIELSEN: It’s going to take a while, sir. The devastation is widespread.
POTUS: We should make it better. Build a nice big resort. You just clean it up and I’ll take it from there.
POTUS: You heard me. Clean up the mess. Get me the land and I’ll give it to my boys.
PENCE: What boys?
POTUS: Donnie and the other one.
PENCE: I don’t understand, Mr. President.
POTUS: Jesus! Don’t you people know anything about business? You bulldoze the crap away, clear the land, give my boys the money under some federal grant or some shit like that, and they’ll build a resort better than the trailer park or whatever shit was there before.
NIELSEN: But what about the people who live there?
POTUS: Pay ’em off.
PENCE: I don’t think we can do that, Mr. President.
POTUS: Look, I can do whatever I want – who’s going to stop me?
PENCE: We’ll have to get Congress to allocate the funds.
POTUS: What’s the problem?
PENCE: The other side …
POTUS (cuts him off, angry): The Democrats are all talk and no action. Bunch of losers – no guts. I always win because they always choke like dogs.
POTUS: And while we’re at it, I’m not thrilled that there are places in this country named Mexico. The kid told his mother that there are more than ten places across the country – besides that beach in Florida that looks like a shithole – named Mexico.
PENCE: What kid, Mr. President?
POTUS: My kid, the little one. After the hurricane, he did a school project on all the places in the United States named Mexico and asked Melania if I was going to do anything about that. Pretty smart, huh? So, Melania told me about it and she said the names of places are under the Department of the Interior. So, I ask you, what are we going to do about it?
ZINKE: Actually, sir, I think that’s a local jurisdiction.
POTUS: Well, I’ll just sign one of those executive orders banning places named Mexico. And we can start with that place in Florida, and since the kid thought of it, I think we should name it after him – after Donnie and the other one turn it into a nice resort.
PENCE: Your son. You want to rename Mexico Beach for Barron?
POTUS: Sure, it was his idea. (Long pause.) I wanted to name the kid Prince, but then Melania reminded me of that black singer named Prince – he worked for me, weird guy, I think he’s dead – so we talked about Duke, but that sounded too much like a dog, and Earl sounded like trailer park trash, so she came up with Barron.
DEVOS: True royalty, sir. And Barron Beach will be a testament to your administration that will live forever.
POTUS: The Trump International Hotel and Resort at Barron Beach. (Long pause.) Now what are we going to do about all these other places?
ZINKE: What other places, Mr. President.
POTUS: Like New Mexico. Change the name to East Texas.
PERRY: It’s west, sir.
POTUS: I know it’s out west.
PERRY: Yes, sir. But New Mexico is west of Texas.
POTUS: Whatever. And while we’re at it, let’s change San Diego and San Antonio and all those other sans. What the hell does san mean?”
PERRY: It means saint.
POTUS: What are we going to do about that? We shouldn’t have any places named Mexico because Mexicans think it’s okay to live here. It’s the same thing with those sanscities.
PERRY (chuckles): You want to rename San Antonio Saint Anthony?
POTUS: Why not?
PERRY: Heck, for one thing, all them Jews in Texas will be up in arms.
POTUS: Any of those Texas Jews on our side?
PERRY: Not many, sir, but our ladies sure like shoppin’ at Neiman Marcus.
POTUS: Betsy, this whole Mexico business got me thinking – and then I saw something on the shows about kids in our schools being allowed to speak Spanish in class and how that’s hurting the white kids who just have to sit there and don’t know what the hell they’re talking about.
DEVOS: I’ll take a look at that, Mr. President.
POTUS: Good. That’s enough for now. I’ve got some pressing business with Ivanka.
Keep an eye out for the next dispatch from the Expat News Service (ENS).
My book, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.
I’ve kicked my addiction to cable news. Maybe it wasn’t an addiction after all. Just a bad habit.
It’s like when I quit drinking four years ago. One day I woke up and found the taste of alcohol repulsive. (More on that later.) Same with cable news.
For more than a year, up until 10 days ago, I must have spent five or six hours a day switching between MSNBC and CNN. It’s always the same – the latest clip or tweet from the grotesque creature in the White House, followed by endless too-polite chatter confirming he’s an ignorant fool, corrupt to the core, and his party is evil.
It’s not as if they do anything.
I finally decided: No mas.
Maybe it was because I’d spent a pleasant three days going cold turkey with family over the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend.
Or maybe because when the last of our visitors were gone, I turned on CNN and saw wind-whipped, rain-soaked reporters hyperventilating about the weather in Florida.
Or, maybe it was the denouement of the Kavanaugh farce.
Whatever the reason, it seemed hazardous to my health. I didn’t have the shakes. No withdrawal symptoms. I just starting filling my TV time with movies – watched Molly’s Game for the second time, bathed in Sorkin’s words – and baseball.
It was reminiscent of my break from booze, coming up on four years now, as I recount in my memoir, The Expat Files:
Just after my sixty-eighth birthday, in late November 2014, I gave up drinking. I hadn’t planned on it. Hadn’t taken the pledge. It just happened.
I was sick in bed for about a week. Not sure what was wrong. Linda checked my symptoms on the internet. I either had an intestinal flu, kidney failure, or cholera. Didn’t go to a doctor. Didn’t get a diagnosis.
When I came out of it, I felt okay. That evening, as was my habit, I poured a glass of red wine. Tasted awful. That was it. Not a drop since.
Same with cable news. I can’t imagine I’ll miss Anderson Cooper or Don Lemon, Nicolle Wallace or Rachel Maddow.
I know I’m not any less informed. I still check the headlines. Dig deeper when I feel the need.
Feel confident that when I send my absentee ballot to Maine – the last state where I lived in the U.S. – I know who I’m voting for and why: Angus King is a smart guy and deserves a return ticket to the Senate, and I hope to help get rid of the only red stain in the House from New England.
I’ll tune in on election night and watch the results. And, if the Dems win the House and/or the Senate, I’ll raise a glass – of Pellegrino – wishing them good luck in toppling the Orange One.
After that? Who knows. I know I’ve visited this territory before.
There was a story this week that highlighted how Republicans and Democrats play politics by a different set of rules.
While the Letch in Chief and his court of eunuchs unashamedly promoted a suspected sexual predator for the Supreme Court, a rising Democratic star apologized for a theater review he wrote as a college kid.
Robert Francis “Beto” O’Rourke, hailed by some as the second-coming of Robert Francis “Bobby” Kennedy, is a long tall Texan who has brimmed with youthful vigor and no-bullshit eloquence in his Senate race against the odious Ted Cruz.
O’Rourke’s August speech standing up for NFL players who take a knee during the national anthem showed more guts than anything I’d heard from a politician in a long time. And watching Willie Nelson introduce a new song – Vote ’Em Out– at a Beto rally last weekend hit a soft spot.
But then, a couple of days later, O’Rourke faced the modern-day Dems’ dilemma when confronted with a piece of his past that might offend the zero-tolerance wing of his party.
Back in 1991, when he was a freshman at Columbia, Beto wrote a sophomoric review of a Broadway musical called The Will Rogers Follies for the student newspaper. It included this line:
Keith Carradine in the lead role is surrounded by perma-smile actresses whose only qualifications seem to be their phenomenally large breasts and tight buttocks.
An O’Rourke detractor, presumably an agent of the Cruz campaign, forwarded the review to Politico right in the middle of the shitstorm over Brett Kavanaugh’s Supreme Court nomination.
Politico sought comment from the candidate. A savvy campaign manager might have rolled the dice, told Politico to stuff it, that the story obviously had no news value.
But Beto took the bait. “I am ashamed of what I wrote and I apologize,” he told Politico. “There is no excuse for making disrespectful and demeaning comments about women.”
The quote made it a story. It fed a morsel to the beast of cable news and made for headlines in all the wrong places.
In the dingbat logic of 2018 politics, some drew a parallel between O’Rourke’s theater review and the allegation a shitfaced Kavanaugh committed sexual assault. After all, both happened a long time ago when they were teenagers.
The response from each man followed his party’s playbook: Kavanaugh denied everything and O’Rourke cried mea cupla.
Jeez, Beto, you were a 19-year-old Ivy League smarty-pants. It’s not as if you got stinking drunk, crashed a showgirl’s dressing room, and tried to rape her.
Besides, your appraisal of the actresses was endorsed at the time by New York’s most eligible adulterer whose girlfriend, Marla Maples, exhibited her qualifications when she landed a part in Follies en route to becoming the second Mrs. Trump.
Today, with the Republicans led by a confessed pussy-grabber who screwed a porn star without a condom, Democrats need to figure out how do the right thing without running scared.
It’s not the ’60s when JFK got away with comforting Marilyn between the sheets because the press didn’t look beyond the Do Not Disturb sign on the bedroom door.
It’s not the ’70s when the pious Jimmy Carter saw his campaign in a tailspin after he confessed: “Christ said, ‘I tell you that anyone who looks on a woman with lust has in his heart already committed adultery.’ I’ve looked on a lot of women with lust. I’ve committed adultery in my heart many times.”
It’s not the ’80s when one photo of Gary Hart with Donna Rice blew up his run for the Democratic presidential nomination.
By the ’90s, Bill Clinton could have saved himself, his party and his country a lot of grief if he said, Yeah, I got a blowjob. Next question.
Voters didn’t seem to care. His poll numbers kept climbing anyway.
But Bubba has turned into a political pariah in the era of MeToo.
Maybe that’s what Beto O’Rourke was thinking about when faced with phenomenally large breasts and tight buttocks earlier this week. That the political climate can get stormy in a flash for Democrats – just ask Hillary about the fealty of the left – while Republicans unflinchingly weather Stormy.
I’m just glad I’m not a politician and don’t give a damn what anybody thinks when they read a line in my memoir referring to “Jane Fonda’s pointy tits in Barbarella.”
While this year’s Boston Red Sox have been a joy to watch, I’ve got that old feeling that failure is inevitable in October.
I have zero confidence in their pitching, which reminds me of all those seasons when the best of times became the worst of times.
Or were the worst of times really the best of times? Was I a sucker for the angst – THE CURSE – before 2004?
Must be – since I took little pleasure when the Sox won two more World Series within a few years.
My favorite team was the 1978 edition, perhaps because I saw so much of Yaz & Co during my one year as a baseball writer, for the Toronto Sun.
Forty years ago today, I was in the press box at Fenway Park watching Fucking Bucky Dent – or, as some prefer, Bucky Fucking Dent – and the Yanks beat the home side in a one-game playoff for the American League East title.
As I recall in this excerpt from my memoir, The Expat Files, it was the final gut-punch in a season that began with great expectations in spring training:
I took a drive to Winter Haven, the Florida home of the Boston Red Sox. I had a rooting interest in the Sox since a visit to Boston in the fall of 1967, when they won the pennant on the final day of the season.
I fell in love with their star, Carl Yastrzemski, who seemed to come to bat in every crucial situation and come through with a home run or a game-winning double off the wall. I was disappointed when the Sox lost that 1967 World Series but also elated that I was engaged in baseball for the first time since the Dodgers left Brooklyn.
In Winter Haven, I watched Yaz in the batting cage, working up a sweat in the gloom of a foggy morning, under the watchful eye of the great Ted Williams. “This is probably the best hitting team I’ve ever seen,” Teddy Ballgame told me.
I received the same appraisal from the Sox manager, Don Zimmer, when I joined the Boston writers in his office that morning. Zimmer, a little Popeye look-alike, was derisively nicknamed “the gerbil” by his hippie-dippy pitcher, Bill “Spaceman” Lee …
On this day, the Sox manager was spitting confidence his powerful lineup would win the pennant after losing it to the damn Yankees the past two seasons.
I reckoned he was right. But, being a Sox fan, I assumed they’d find a way to blow it …
… Boston had collapsed over the summer, their fourteen-game lead over the Yanks evaporating in the heat of August and early September.
Since the Jays played their last twelve games of the season against the Yanks and Sox, I had a press box seat for the closing act.
Boston had regained its form to close within one game of the Yanks entering the final game on the schedule. When the Indians beat the Yankees and the Sox beat the Jays, Boston and New York were tied for first place. The division title would be decided in a one-game playoff the next day at Fenway …
The next morning, I caught a cab outside the hotel and asked the driver to take me to Fenway.
“Going to the game?” he asked.
“Yeah, it’s my job,” I said. “I’m a writer.”
“One in Toronto,” I said.
“Tough season for Toronto,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Last place. Another hundred losses.”
“What do you think of the Sox chances?” he said.
“I’m a Sox fan,” I confided, “so I guess I expect the worst and hope for the best.” He laughed in recognition.
We pulled up to the press entrance to Fenway. I checked the meter and reached for my wallet.
“Forget it,” said the cabbie. “I like you guys from Toronto. It was nice talking to you.”
It was a perfect New England day, blue sky, bright sun, a hint of fall in the air.
I found my assigned spot in the press box, dumped my typewriter and scorebook on the table, and went to the dining room. There was a choice of baked cod or roasted veal. I had the veal, with roasted potatoes and a salad.
The New York writers were there, of course, so the volume in the room was turned up a notch or three. By this time, after five years in Canada, I thought I’d lost my New York accent, a mission I’d been on since I left home in 1968. Somehow, I found it more seemly to be a know-it-all New Yorker without saying caw-fee.
I certainly didn’t want to be associated with loudmouthed New York sports fans, especially after seeing big-haired women at Yankee stadium coated with makeup, wearing painted on designer jeans and tight T-shirts that read Boston Sucksor Yaz Has VD.
Fenway was full early for the Monday afternoon playoff game, 32,925 crammed into the little ballpark. Yaz, ever heroic, hit a home run in the second inning and Jim Rice knocked in another in the sixth to give Boston a 2-0 lead.
But in the top of the seventh, the Yanks had a couple of runners on with two out when their most anemic hitter, Bucky Dent, came to the plate. He hit a fly ball toward the thirty-seven-foot-high Green Monster in left. Yaz, playing left field, seemed prepared to make the catch and end the inning. But the baseball gods, ever Yankee fans, lifted the ball over the wall.
That put the Yanks ahead and every Boston fan from Fenway to Fiji knew the game – and the season – was over. Sure, the Sox rallied a bit. But Yaz popped out, with the winning runs on the bases, to end the game and any suspense.
I watched that last half-inning from the stands, behind the seats along the third base line, sharing the inevitable pain with the Fenway faithful. Littered copies of an extra edition of the Boston Globe, distributed earlier in the ballpark, were illustrated with a six-inning linescore under the front-page headline: SOX AHEAD.
I made my rounds of the two clubhouses, the champagne and euphoria in the winners’ room, the beer and gloom of the losers. My story in the next day’s Toronto Sun was a Sox fan’s lament.
BOSTON – It wasn’t supposed to end that way. It wasn’t right to break the hearts of the people of New England, just when their spirits were starting to rise, just when their expectations were at their highest.
October in New England offers the promise of two things: The leaves changing colors and the Red Sox playing for the world championship of baseball. Now, one is dead.
I whined on from there and closed the story with a quote from Yaz. “The last three weeks, with our backs to the wall, we played like champions. But now, there’s just tremendous disappointment.”
The next day, I flew home to Toronto, called (the Sun), quit my job and packed the car. Linda and I drove to the coast of Maine to look at the damn leaves.
No matter what happens to the raving lunatic the Republicans are trying to put on the Supreme Court, it’s going to take a lot more than a flash of conscience from Jeff Flake and a blue wave in November to cleanse Washington of the rancid stench of the GOP.
Even if Brett Kavanaugh is sent packing – goes home, gets drunk, gropes the babysitter, blacks out, and wakes up at the Yale Club in Elba – there is still a long list of right-wing political hacks in black robes ready to step up.
They know the job description: Do the bidding of powerful bloodsucking billionaires at the expense of everybody else while conning the zealots and rubes – Jesus freaks, gun nuts, coal miners, Trump University alumni – by stripping rights from minorities and women.
(Most Republicans politicians don’t give a shit about fetuses. They just want the power to tell some teenage girl: You have to have that baby and when you can’t afford to house and feed the kid, you’re on your own.)
The GOP mantra was emblazoned on the jacket of The Third Wife last June when she went to check out children kidnapped at the border.
The message – I really don’t care. Do you? – could serve as a thought bubble in every cartoon of a Republican politician answering questions:
Have you ever considered right versus wrong? Don’t care.
Truth versus lies? Don’t care.
Facts versus bullshit? Don’t care.
Poisoned water in Flint? Don’t care.
Babies in cages? Don’t care.
Russians in the woodwork? Don’t care.
Even if the Democrats take the House – and the Senate – in the midterms, Putin’s Agent Orange will still be in the Oval Office.
Even if Robert Mueller brands the president, his family and campaign a criminal enterprise and subsidiary of the Kremlin, Dumbass Donnie won’t walk away without doing something batshit crazy – riling up hordes of ignorant, racist, paranoid, hair-trigger white folks.
Remember when he said “Second Amendment people” might take care of Hillary if he lost?
When Nixon finally quit, he said: “As president, I must put America first.”
When Gerry Ford was sworn in the next day, he declared: “Our long national nightmare is over.”
I remember Watergate well. At the time, the coverup seemed to take forever to unravel:
May 17, 1973 – Senate Watergate hearings begin; special prosecutor appointed the next day.
Oct. 20, 1973 – Saturday night massacre.
May 9, 1974 – Impeachment hearings begin.
July 24, 1974 – Supreme Court rules Nixon must surrender the tapes.
Aug. 9, 1974 – Adios Tricky Dick.
When the corruption and criminality became clear, it was Republicans who took the sharpest knife to Nixon. On the Senate Watergate committee, Lowell Weicker of Connecticut was perhaps the smartest and toughest questioner of all the president’s men in the witness chair.
The latest national nightmare has already lasted months longer – nonstop screaming meemies since November 9, 2016 – with no end in sight.
Forget the Republicans coming to the rescue this time.
The GOP side of the Senate committee running the Kavanaugh hearing, before the nothing-to-lose-lame-duck Flake engineered an investigation of the creepy judge, was unanimous in its indifference:
Alleged sexual predator? Don’t care.
Serial liar? Don’t care.
Crazed conspiracy theorist? Don’t care.
Rageaholic? Don’t care.
Even if Kavanaugh is replaced by a less vulnerable Republican reactionary, the court will still have a majority hell-bent on taking the country back to the Gilded Age, a shithole of corruption in a gold-plated outhouse.
Even if Trump is hauled off in handcuffs or a straightjacket, Pastor Pence – a more stable, dependable Republican stooge – will still be next in line.
Whatever happens, don’t hold your breath waiting for any leaders of the red team to turn blue. And that includes the onetime never-Trumpers.
Mitt Romney solicited – and received – the president’s endorsement in his current campaign in Utah for the U.S. Senate.
George Bush is campaigning for GOP candidates and calling senators to vote for his old pal Brett Kavanaugh.
Republicans First! America second.
Talk about a Red Scare. This is what you get from 50 years of fear-mongering – from Nixon to Reagan, Bush to Bush, the Tea Party to the Freedom Caucus. GOP uber alles.
One spark of integrity from one Flake won’t catch fire in Trumpistan, where Der Leader has warned of violence if the Democrats win the midterms.
Sounds like another call to those “Second Amendment people.”
P.S. – I have my absentee ballot and I’m going to vote anyway.
My memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available in paperback and Kindle editions from Amazon.com and Amazon Canada.