The hitmen, the Chicken, the cad and the underwear model

Forty years ago today, I covered the Major League Baseball All-Star Game in San Diego. I know I was there. It’s right here in my scorebook.


But I don’t remember a thing about the game. Now that I think about it, I don’t remember much about any of the games I covered – except the last one, the Sox-Yanks playoff – during my one year as a newspaper baseball writer.

Still, there are thousands of words in my memoir about baseball and baseball players.

I recount in great detail covering Jackie Robinson’s funeral in New York in 1972 and an awkward interview with another of my boyhood Brooklyn Dodger heroes, Duke Snider, in Montreal in 1975.

I write a lot about life on the baseball beat and relationships with those who resided within that world. About drinking and talking with Billy Martin and Joe Torre, Tony Kubek and Early Wynn; about friendships and clashes with the 1978 Blue Jays I saw nearly every day from spring to fall as a reporter for the Toronto Sun.

I was thirty-one years old that season. By then, as a journalist, I’d already gone through the holy-shit-I’m-standing-next-to-Willie-Mays phase – at Jackie Robinson’s funeral.

And, as a fan and a man, I’d survived the awakening that I was older than many of my favorite players, like Fisk and Lynn and Rice on the Red Sox, who had replaced the carpetbagger Dodgers as my team.

So, when I showed up at that all-star game in San Diego, it was just another day at the office.

Yet, through the lens of history, it looks a lot more interesting than it was at the time. From the distance of decades, I have a greater appreciation of some of the players on the field that day.

The best of the best were the hitmen: Rod Carew, perhaps the most talented batsman I ever saw; George Brett, who evoked memories of Ted Williams at the plate; Pete Rose, brimming with menace and fury.

The starting pitcher for the American League was Jim Palmer, the brilliant right-hander and budding underwear model.

Jim Palmer

Palmer, Carew and Brett were among seventeen future Hall of Famers on the rosters. (We’ll leave the question of Rose’s absence from Cooperstown for another time.)

The featured attraction, if you watched the game on ABC with Keith Jackson, Howard Cosell and Don Drysdale in the broadcast booth, was Ted Giannoulas, the pride of London, Ontario, making his U.S. national television debut as the San Diego Chicken.


But, like I said, I don’t remember much about that day.

Not Captain & Tennille singing The Star Spangled Banner. (Or if anyone performed O Canada in recognition of the teams from north of the border, the Blue Jays and Expos.)

Not Ray Kroc, the hamburger man who owned the hometown Padres, throwing out the first pitch.

Not Dave Winfield, the young Padres outfielder, getting the loudest ovation when the players were introduced.


Not Carew’s two triples. Not Steve Garvey’s leadoff triple – three triples in one game! – in the bottom of the eighth. Or Garvey’s dash home on a wild pitch by Goose Gossage to score the go-ahead run.

What I now most recall about Garvey, of the Dodgers, is that he was nicknamed Mr. Clean and had a Hollywood marriage with TV personality Cyndy Garvey …


… until he was caught as a big league philanderer.

Meanwhile, the National League won, 7-3, its seventh all-star game victory in a row. It would win four more to run the streak to 11. (From 1959 to 1982, the American League won only twice.)

The game was played in two hours and thirty-two minutes – the modern equivalent of about four innings of a Yanks-Sox game at Fenway Park.

Ten runs were scored and no home runs were hit – the modern equivalent of a total eclipse of the sun.

I’m getting all this – the stats, not the equivalencies – from my scorebook and online sources.

I don’t have a copy of my story from the next day’s Sun, but I bet it included a line on the only Blue Jay in the game, Roy Howell, batting against Steve Rogers of the Expos, grounding out to first.

Canadian content.

Now that I think of it, I do remember the hotel bar, outside, on a marina, and having lunch on an aircraft carrier the day before the game.

Thirteen years later, I covered another all-star game, at the SkyDome in Toronto in 1991, as a feature writer for Canadian Press.

I don’t remember a thing about it.

My book, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available in paperback and Kindle editions from and Amazon Canada.


Not a banner year

On this Fourth of July I’m having second thoughts about putting the American flag on the cover of my book, The Expat Files, in the time of Trump.

It seemed like a good idea when I conceived the design, the Stars and Stripes commingling with the Maple Leaf above a photo of me as a young American in Canada.

Book Cover

This was the cover when the book was published about six months ago. But then a well-meaning friend spotted a distortion in the reproduction of the photo and volunteered to fix it.

He succeeded in sharpening my visage but futzed with the flags, the U.S. banner all but obscuring the Maple Leaf.

U.S. flag cover

During the time the publisher was changing the cover, the book was not for sale. And, I was told, changing it again would make the book unavailable for up to another three weeks.

So, I decided to live with the new cover, while thinking it might as well be an image of a bald eagle devouring a beaver.

One consistency on my Amazon page since the book appeared is this ad: Customers who bought this item also bought … Fire and Fury: Inside the Trump White House, by Michael Wolff … #1 New York Times Bestseller.

Which has had me thinking that although I mention Trump only a couple of times in the last chapter, I should have titled my book The Origin of the Species and put that priceless combo the Orange One and an orangutan on the cover.


My conundrum with the cover and disgust with the current occupant of the White House does not mean I am ashamed of being an American. It’s who I am and will always be.

I’m happy I was born in the United States – not Bangladesh or Bulgaria or Britain.

I love New York, my hometown, and San Francisco and Boston, the coast of Maine and the Everglades, the canyons of Utah and the high country of Montana, the Sonoran Desert and the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest.

But, at times, I’ve despised my government’s policies – on race, the Vietnam and Iraq wars, its token commitment to heath care and education while providing welfare for the wealthy at the expense of the needy.

And I’ve despised some of its leaders – Nixon and Kissinger, Nancy Reagan, Dick Cheney.

But I’ve never before feared the death of American democracy, my country in mortal peril.

I knew when Trump was elected that he was stupid, nuts, a liar, narcissistic, bigoted, boorish, sexist, immoral, unethical, childish, petty, mostly incoherent, barely literate, probably a criminal …

And I knew that most of the Republicans in Congress shared his ignorance, malevolence and soullessness.

But the speed with which their governance, their tyranny, is taking the USA back to its darkest ages is disorienting and frightening.

James Comey was not far off when he likened the president to a crime boss. But he failed to note how many Republicans in government serve as Trump’s lieutenants, soldiers and button men.

These are the Goodfellas cheering as the Scofflaw in Chief aligns with murderous dictators, allows the kidnapping of children at the border, and prepares to plant another right-wing cultist on the Supreme Court.

And they all follow the timeworn Republican playbook of wrapping themselves in the flag.

“Sinclair Lewis said, ‘When fascism arrives in America it will come wrapped in a flag, carrying a cross,’” actor Bradley Whitford, forever playing Josh from The West Wing, said on the Bill Maher show last week.

“Trump literally hugs the flag,” added Maher.

“Yeah,” said Whitford, “he’s humping it, he’s assaulting it.”

Me too, said the flag.

When I was in elementary school in New York City, we started the day saying, “I pledge allegiance to the flag …”

We sang the national anthem, The Star-Spangled Banner, a song about a flag.

But I would learn that it’s the same flag American Nazis carried alongside a swastika when the first America First crusade gave allegiance to Hitler in the 1930s.


That the KKK has waved throughout its homicidal history in the name of racism.

KKK - American Flag

That the John Birch Society displayed during its campaign to impeach Chief Justice Earl Warren, a Republican, because his Supreme Court mandated school integration in the 1950s.

Impeach Earl Warren - B&W

That hard-hatted Nixon supporters weaponized when they attacked kids rallying for peace in New York after the Kent State massacre in 1970.

Hardhat riot

That white supremacists paraded with in Charlottesville last summer.

Charlottesville - Flags

If a flag is only a symbol, too many times its been attached to dangerous politics and deranged leaders.

Trump&Kim - flags

Maybe the cover of my book should be illustrated with the Empire State Building beside the CN Tower, or a saguaro cactus in a snowbank, or a pastrami on rye smothered in poutine.

The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism is available in print and Kindle editions from and Amazon Canada.

Nightmare on Bouverie Street

Forty-nine years ago today, I flew across the Atlantic at my own expense to begin a job that didn’t exist.

Other players in this episode were: Franz Cyrus, the bureau chief for United Press International in Zurich; Danny Gilmore, UPI’s European news manager; my Swiss-born first wife, Anita, and our daughter.

Here’s what happened during two memorable days in 1969, as recounted in an excerpt from The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism:


On July 1, Anita and I and baby Kate, now nearly seven months old, took off from Kennedy Airport – and came down for refueling in Bangor, Maine, in a thunderstorm. As the plane wobbled and bounced through the clouds, I screamed and puked. Once on the ground, I told Anita we were getting off.

“We can’t get off here,” she said.

“Why not? We’ll take a boat or something. There’s no way I’m going up again in this plane.”

“I didn’t know you were afraid to fly,” she said.

“I wasn’t – until about twenty minutes ago.”

She went off to talk to a stewardess. I stayed with Kate and began gathering our carry-on.

Anita returned with a cup filled with scotch. “Drink this,” she said. “You’ll calm down.”

I gulped some scotch and looked around the cabin. A few passengers were staring at me. Some had been screaming and puking too, as the plane rocked and rolled. But they didn’t seem ready to get off.  I felt embarrassed enough to settle back into my seat with my family and my scotch.

We landed at Gatwick airport just before midnight. The tourist bureau in the terminal sent us to the nearby Russ Hill Hotel, in Surrey.

Russ Hill Hotel
Found this postcard from 1969.

The night clerk opened the bar for us, illegally poured us a couple of beers – I never did figure out England’s drinking hours – and fixed some thick-cut ham sandwiches on pumpernickel. I was starving after having my appetite arrested by fear.

The next morning, we took a taxi to Heathrow where Anita and Kate caught a flight to Zurich. Her father would pick them up and drive them to her parents’ home in Bern.

I went into London, after the tourism bureau at the airport got me a reservation at the Cadogan Hotel, near Sloane Square.

Cadogan Hotel


I checked in, left my bag with the porter, had the doorman hail a cab and rode to Bouverie Street, off Fleet.

I took a rickety lift to the UPI office and asked for Mr. Gilmore. He invited me to his office and asked, “Who are you again?”

“Ken Becker. From New York. Franz Cyrus told me to see you on my way to Zurich. He offered me a job there.”

“I know nothing about this,” Gilmore said.

He asked me to wait in the newsroom while he phoned Cyrus. I stood alone, amid the clatter of the teletype machines. Men in white shirts and ties, their sleeves rolled up, pounded on typewriters, cigarettes dangling from their lips. A London fog of smoke rose and settled near the high ceiling. I loved it. I couldn’t wait to start working here, to be back in the news biz.

Gilmore came out and led me into his office. “I’m afraid there is some misunderstanding. There is no job for you with UPI in Zurich. All we have in Zurich is an inner-Swiss service – in German, for Swiss papers. There is no UPI correspondent there. And there can’t be one there unless I hire one.” He paused.

“And, if I wanted a correspondent in Zurich – which I don’t – I wouldn’t hire you because such a plum position – if there was one – would be for a seasoned reporter transferred from another bureau.”

“But,” I pleaded, “Mr. Cyrus told me to stop and see you, that I would get some training here and then start working in Zurich.”

“That’s not what he says. He says he has been in touch with you but never offered you a job.”

“But I packed up my wife and baby in New York and we came here – she’s on her way to Switzerland now. What do you suggest I do?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I found a cab on Fleet Street and told the driver to take me back to the Cadogan.

That was far from the end of my story with UPI, or my adventure in Europe. Pick up a copy of The Expat Files, available in print and Kindle editions from and Amazon Canada.

Habla usted Inglés?

People were freaking out recently when they learned the U.S. border patrol set up a roadblock on Interstate-95 in Maine to check the citizenship of drivers and their passengers.

One of those expressing bafflement bordering on outrage was Senator Angus King of Maine, on NBC’s Meet the Press last Sunday: “Do we stop American citizens in the middle of a highway and ask for their papers?”

Yes, senator. Been going on for a very long time. Legal within 100 miles of the border.

I’ve run into one of those checkpoints in Arizona – I’ll tell you about it later – where it’s commonplace and seems acceptable to use any means to snare people who don’t habla Inglés.

But the practice inside the northern border was alien to many who reasonably assumed it was an extension of the Provocateur in Chief’s anti-immigrant hysteria.

And hundreds took to the Twitter barricades to protest.

“This is outrageous,” began one of the more cogent tweets. “Essentially this out of control agency is harassing US citizens with a demand of ‘Papers please!’”

The checkpoint in Maine was up for about eleven hours last week in the southbound lanes of I-95 near the town of Lincoln, about 90 miles from the Canadian border.


“We need to know what … country you’re a citizen of,” a border patrol agent told a reporter for the Bangor Daily News who was questioned.

I’ve had my share of hassles at the U.S.-Canada border. But in my forty-plus years of living in Canada and crossing over – from coast to coast – I’ve never encountered the border patrol, much less been stopped at a checkpoint.

Yet, all the times I’ve visited my daughter Kate in southern Arizona since she moved to Tucson in 2002, I’ve found border patrol vehicles as ubiquitous as cop cars in downtown Toronto.

The only time we ventured to Mexico, I ran into the border patrol going down and coming back.

We took the long way south, pausing in the tiny hamlet of Arivaca before entering Ruby Road, 35 miles of dirt and rock through the Coronado National Forest.

Ruby Road

The road rose and fell and twisted around tall craggy mountains. Driving at about 15 mph, I nearly collided with a speeding border patrol vehicle coming at me on a hairpin turn.

When we finally arrived in Nogales, Arizona, we left my rental car in a parking lot and walked two blocks, through unattended turnstiles, into Nogales, Mexico.

Nogales - Turnstiles

No federales in sight. The only Mexican to note my entrance was a teenager hawking pharmaceuticals. “You need Viagra, mister?”

We did some shopping, haggling in the local languages of commerce – English and U.S. dollars.

Nogales - Me

After dinner, we walked out of Mexico, stopping momentarily at a desk where a U.S. Customs’ agent was chatting with a friend.  “U.S.A.?” she asked, barely looking up.

We nodded – and walked into the United States.

Heading back to Tucson on I-19 after dark, about 20 miles from the border, we ran into a roadblock – the northbound freeway closed off, vehicles forced onto an exit ramp.

San Diego CBP Patrols California -Mexico Border

At the top of the ramp were border patrol agents with guns and dogs. They’d planted a U.S. flag, an eerie Iwo Jima tableau in the Arizona desert.

The agent took one look at me, a middle-aged white guy in a baseball cap, and waved me through with a shout: “Colorado, go!”

I went.

It took me a while to figure out what he meant, recall that my car had Colorado plates.

There’s more on my visit to Nogales – “I give you two blankets and a bottle of tequila for your daughter” – and many other adventures in my memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, available in print and Kindle editions from and Amazon Canada.

When I was a king in Queens

Sixty years ago today, I graduated from elementary school, sixth grade – Grade 6 in Canadian.


I recall more about my time at P.S. 184 in Queens than all the years at all the schools that followed.

I can picture the gym, where we started the day saying the Pledge of Allegiance, which added the words “under God” when I was in third grade in 1954, and where we were among the first to get the new polio vaccine the next year.

I can see the auditorium – the framed reproduction of Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy on one side and a Goya portrait of a child in red on the other.

And the assemblies there, presided over by the principal, Mrs. Lloyd, a fiery redhead who’s favored admonition was “woe betide,” as in, Woe betide the student who misbehaves in my school.  

Some famous people addressed us in the auditorium. One, actor Jimmy Stewart, wearing his uniform as a colonel in the air force, took the stage and talked about the importance of service to the country.

I remember having a crush on my fourth grade teacher, Miss Gratz, who got married during the school year and became Mrs. Rosenthal.

And my fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Beamish, who adored President Eisenhower – had his framed photo in our classroom – and imparted a passion for civics, history and geography.

5th Grade
That’s me, with the pompadour , in the second row, on the far right. 

Sixth grade was the best. We were the oldest. Masters of our universe. Titans of the schoolyard.

In the classroom, our teacher, Mrs. Schenker, instilled an appreciation for English, for writing well and speaking grammatically.

6th Grade
This time I’m in the top row, the short kid in the middle.

Like all students in New York City public schools, we took IQ tests to determine who qualified for SP – Special Progress – and go on to skip a year of junior high. I, and all my best pals, made the grade.

In the following excerpt from my memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, I look back on my school days, starting in 1951, after my family left the Bronx, where I was born:

We moved to Clearview Gardens, a large labyrinth of two-story redbrick apartments, one family of post-war up-and-comers atop another, in Bayside, Queens.Clearview

The greatest academic and social achievements of my youth were earned in elementary school, at P.S. 184. In class, I gained a grasp of all I thought I would ever need to know – basic arithmetic, how to read and write, all the important dates in American history: 1492, July 4, 1776, December 7, 1941. I could find every state and most countries on a map.

My report cards were uniformly outstanding and, in sixth grade, I was elected school president and “king” of the school – my picture in the Long Island Press, alongside the queen, Roberta Kirsch, wearing our capes and crowns.



But then I went to junior high, skipped a grade, moved to Plainview, a sterile suburb for the aspiring nouveau riche on Long Island, and sleepwalked through high school …  

In the fall of 1963, I went off to college at the University of Toledo, in Ohio. I never attended classes, woke up around noon, went to Franklin’s, a nearby coffee shop. This is where I was having a breakfast BLT when a girl came in shrieking, “President Kennedy’s been shot.”

I passed most days either drinking beer bought with a counterfeit ID – I was only sixteen – or alone in my dorm room, listening to a tape of Carl Reiner interviewing Mel Brooks, the 2,000 Year Old Man.

I did come to the attention of the university’s administration a couple of times. Once, when I was placed on academic probation for scoring across-the-board incompletes the first term. And a second time when two FBI agents questioned me in the dean’s office about a purloined calling-card number I used to phone my girlfriend, the voluptuous Laura, in Brooklyn. The G-men were not impressed with my you-can’t-pin-that-rap-on-me-copper routine. I fessed up and paid the tab.

Anyway, I flunked out, or dropped out – How do you grade a student who never goes to class? – and went home to Plainview.

* * *


My adult education commenced a few years later when I began reading everything I could get my hands on, as well as on the job as a reporter.

And, throughout my forty-plus years in journalism, I was guided by a lesson I learned at P.S. 184, from the librarian who told us: “We never guess, we look it up.”

The Expat Files is available in print and Kindle editions from and Amazon Canada.

Father’s Day

My dad, Hy Becker, would have been 99 years old today. I don’t know how he would have felt about my portrayal of him in my memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism. But I know he was pleased with a long story I wrote about him a long time ago, as I recall in this excerpt from my book:

One night, in the bathtub, I was reading Russell Baker’s memoir of his childhood, Growing Up. It was sweet and funny and evocative of his formative years in Virginia during the Depression.

In the steamy bathroom, soaking in the tub, I had an inspiration. I would call my dad and interview him about growing up in New York in the 1920s and ’30s, before I came along. I didn’t know much. I wanted to know more.

My dad and I did not always get along. When he managed our little league baseball team, he was hardest on his son. Through my teenage years, he became more and more competitive, asserting his status as the alpha male in the house.

My parents were very different people. My mother read books and was a devotee of the Broadway musical theater. Her son would be weaned on show tunes. My first of many Broadway shows was Bells Are Ringing, with Judy Holliday. For my twelfth birthday, my parents gave me tickets – to take my sister – to see West Side Storyat the Winter Garden Theatre.

Dad was a working stiff who liked to play softball during the summer months and poker with his cronies year-round.

After I left home, I tried to improve our relationship. I invited him to Montreal, when I was working there, for a father and son weekend. Took him to an Expos game. Took him out to dinner at a Spanish restaurant down the street from my apartment, where I was a regular and got the VIP treatment. Took him to the press club in the Mount Royal and introduced him to my colleagues. He didn’t drink much. Jews aren’t boozers. But he seemed to accept his son as the exception.

He seemed especially proud of me when I was on the baseball beat. It would have been his dream job – other than pitching in the majors – when he was a young man. I got him tickets to Yankee games when I was in New York covering the Blue Jays.

Baseball was the strongest bond between us. That’s where I took the story after I interviewed him on the phone a couple of times in early 1983.

The piece ran about five-thousand words. I called it Red and Me since I flashed back and forth between his baseball career and our baseball relationship. I particularly loved his tales of playing ball in the sandlots of the Bronx, the pictures painted of the borough of my birth in the years before the war.

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.

During our interviews, dad was Red again. He may have been in his sixties, yet he was back in the spotlight, on the pitcher’s mound. He seemed happy. Then, never one to hide his emotions, sad when he told me about the day his dream died during a mass tryout for the Giants at the Polo Grounds in the summer of ’41.

The young men were arbitrarily divided into groups of ten or fifteen 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 to go home. “They never even saw me pitch,” he’d tell me, more than forty years later. “I was fast, I felt sharp, and they never even saw me pitch.”

I would give the story to my dad for his birthday later that year.

* * *

That was 35 years ago today. Hy Becker died twelve years later, on March 15, 1995, at the age of 75. I read an excerpt of Red and Me at his funeral in Florida.

The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism is available from and Amazon Canada.

Anthony Bourdain on blasting bunnies and chowing down on reptiles

Anthony Bourdain, who was found dead in France today of an apparent suicide, was a gifted gonzo writer as well as a bad-boy TV star. My first taste of Bourdain was a 1997 novel called Gone Bamboo, a whacky tale of a CIA-trained assassin and rival Mafia hit-men on a Caribbean island. In 2001, I wrote this travel column for Canadian Press on another Bourdain book:

Anthony Bourdain is a famous New York chef, best-selling author, and chauvinistic carnivore.

But, he writes in his new book, “for my entire professional career, I’ve been like Michael Corleone in The Godfather, Part II, ordering up death with a nod or a glance. When I want meat, I make a call …

“Every time I have picked up the phone or ticked off an item on my order sheet, I have basically caused a living thing to die. What arrives in my kitchen, however, is not the bleeding, still-warm body of my victim, eyes open, giving me an accusatory look that says, ‘Why me, Tony? Why me?’ I don’t have to see that part.”

At least not before he took his act on the road, traveling the world to write A Cook’s Tour: In Search of the Perfect Meal.

cook's tour

Bourdain has now been up to his elbows in the butchery of a pig in Portugal, chowed down on a Mexican resort’s pet iguana, blasted bunnies in Scotland, and slurped down the still-beating heart of a cobra in Vietnam.

This is extreme sport for the wine-and-food-tour set. Bourdain approaches his itinerary with a heart-of-darkness hunger honed on Joseph Conrad novels and Francis Ford Coppola movies.

“I wanted adventures,” writes the executive chef at Les Halles in Manhattan and author of Kitchen Confidential. “I wanted to see the world – and I wanted the world to be just like the movies.”

He trips from Portugal to Spain, France to Britain, Russia to Japan, Cambodia to Vietnam, and across North America, gorging on cuisine and culture, drinking too much wine and vodka, awaking ill or hung over before spilling his guts into the story.

His arrival in a Portuguese village is greeted with the slaughter of a pig. Bourdain first stands dumbstruck, a bit queasy, as the critter’s throat is slit. But he soon joins the festivity.

“God help me, I assisted, stepping right in and putting my hands inside the warm cavity, pulling away heart, lungs, tripe, intestines, liver and kidneys,” he writes. “I felt bad for that pig, imagining his panic, pain and fear. But he tasted delicious.”

In Mexico, Bourdain is treated to a corn-husk-wrapped treat, after his host sacrifices the hotel’s iguana mascot. “When I unwrapped my tamale, I found I had been honored with the head and forearm  – still on the bone. The texture was like chewing on G.I. Joe.”

He goes hunting for rabbits in Scotland, and finds himself surprisingly skillful with a shotgun. “To my shock and no small amount of dismay, I’d blown the spine out of something that had once looked very much like Bugs.”

The piece de resistance is served in Vietnam, where a snake handler cuts out the heart of a live cobra and presents it to Bourdain.

“I bring it to my lips, lift my head back and swallow. … The heart still beats … and beats … and beats. All the way down.”

Ken Becker is the author of The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, available from and Amazon Canada.

Notes from the cave

paul simon

I was reminded the other day that Paul Simon is on his farewell – “Homeward Bound” – tour.

Got me thinking that so many of Simon’s songs begin like the opening lines of every great story – you want to know what happens next.

The Mississippi Delta

Was shining like a National guitar.

I’m following the river,

Down the highway,

Through the cradle of the Civil War.


One and one-half wandering Jews.

Free to wander wherever they choose.

– Hearts and Bones

Let us be lovers, we’ll marry our fortunes together.

I’ve got some real estate here in my bag.

So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner’s pies.*

And walked off to look for America.

– America

From the next line –  “Kathy,” I said, as we boarded a Greyhound in Pittsburgh – I tripped into Kathy’s Song and wondered: Who’s Kathy?

Turns out she was a 16-year-old girl Simon met – he was 22 – when he was living in England and playing folk clubs in the early 1960s. A photo of the young lovers illustrates the cover of The Paul Simon Songbook (1965).

Paul & Kathy


* Mrs. Wagner’s single-portion pies were sold across the East and Midwest states until the bakery went out of business in 1968.

Mrs. Wagner's Pies

* * *

I could stomach only the first fifteen minutes or so of the Showtime documentary called The Fourth Estate, chronicling the New York Times’s coverage of the Trump presidency so far.

Such bullshit – editors and reporters obviously performing for the cameras. Then again, even if all these super-serious men and women are on the level – How can you not laugh, gag or rage at Trump? – it’s not like any newsroom I’d want to be in.

Guess not much has changed since I was a copyboy at the Times in the mid-1960s. As I recall in my memoir: The Times was insufferably full of itself and its perceived place in the world.

* * *

Recent headline:


If the Schnorrer in Chief has a guiding doctrine, this is it – the presidency for fun and profit.

* * *

Watched the first two Godfather movies after reading the passages in Jim Comey’s book comparing Trump to a Mafia don. Biggest difference: the Trumps are a family of Fredos.

* * *

Bill Maher, on his HBO show, does a bit called: “I don’t know it for a fact, I just know it’s true.”

I’ll play:

  • For every dollar Michael Cohen got to influence the don, the don got the don’s share.
  • The don trashed the Iran nuclear deal to raise the price of oil for his pal Putin and the rest of the Rooskies who have the U.S. president in their pocket.
  • The don initially had second thoughts on his summit with Kim Jong Un when he realized schlepping to Singapore would cut into his time on the golf course promoting Trump properties.

* * *

Watched The Hot Rock, with Redford, George Segal and the incomparable Zero Mostel. It’s set in my New York of the early ’70s, the last time I lived in Gotham – shots of the Twin Towers under construction and the Pan Am Building when it was still called the Pan Am Building.

Redford in Hot Rock

I went to the premiere at Radio City in 1972, a fundraiser for ex-GOP mayor John Lindsay’s lame bid for the Democratic presidential nomination.

* * *

Sarah Huckleberry dropped four interesting words during one of her bull sessions in the White House briefing room last month.

In dodging a question, she said her boss is “working hard to make this country better, whether it’s through building our economy, creating jobs, defeating ISIS, fixing our judiciary system …”

Fixing the judiciary system?

That’s supposedly the linchpin of the devotion to Trump for a big chunk of his supporters, especially evangelicals – appointing ideology-first judges who will blindly rule against abortion, gay rights and most other progressive advances of the past half-century.

Add the fixed judiciary to the current GOP control of the executive and legislative branches of the U.S. government and you have a right-winger’s wet dream – the promise of a white Christian version of Sharia Law made in the USA.

* * *

While the wannabe dictator wields his power in Washington, an exhibit of Norman Rockwell’s Four Freedoms is on display this summer at the New-York Historical Society museum on the West Side of Manhattan.


The paintings – Freedom of Speech, Freedom of Worship, Freedom from Fear, and Freedom from Want – were inspired by president Franklin Roosevelt’s State of the Union speech in January 1941.

FDR argued against American isolationism promoted by powerful America First war profiteers and Hitler sympathizers. He warned that freedom could be lost – as it had been in much of Nazi-occupied Europe – if the U.S. did not step up its aid of Britain and join the war against Germany.

I saw the paintings when they were at the Guggenheim Museum in New York after 9/11.

Once again, the message is clear:

Don’t it always seem to go

That you don’t know what you’ve got

Till it’s gone …

– Joni Mitchell

My memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is available from and Amazon Canada.


‘He’s gone’

My only son was born thirty-six years ago today. He died two days later. Here, in an excerpt from my memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism, is what happened:

Sean David Becker was born at 8:47 p.m. on Sunday, May 23, 1982 at the Mid-Maine Medical Center in Waterville. He arrived a couple of weeks early, but seemed to be a healthy six-and-a-half pound boy. I called our families and friends in New York and Toronto and spread the news.

I took Monday off and spent most of it with Linda and our baby. The new mom in the next bed was fifteen years old. Her mother, the new grandma, was Linda’s age, thirty-one.

On Tuesday morning, at about six o’clock, alone in bed in the house in the woods, I got a call from Linda in the hospital.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Are you okay? The baby?”

“I heard them screaming ‘Code Blue’ in the middle of the night. I didn’t know what it was. The nurses told me he wasn’t breathing.”

“Is he okay?”

“I’m not sure. They took him to Portland.”

I rushed to the hospital. Linda was getting dressed. I found out Sean had gone by ambulance to the Maine Medical Center in Portland, where he was in the only neonatal intensive care unit in the state. That’s where we found our tiny baby hooked up to machines, his eyes closed, barely moving, except for the occasional spasm.

His doctor, Douglas Dransfield, escorted us to a small, private room. He gave us the prognosis. Sean, he said, had stopped breathing the previous night in the nursery in Waterville. He had been resuscitated, but not soon enough to prevent brain damage. After arriving in Portland, he had had seizures. His vital signs were very weak.

If he lived, Dr. Dransfield said, our son’s mental capacity would be negligible. But, he said, it was unlikely our baby would survive more than a day if taken off the ventilator that was breathing for him.

“Does that mean he’s basically brain dead?” I asked.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. He said it was our call.

Linda, who had given birth fewer than forty hours earlier, sat in a chair and cried. I held her and asked the doctor to give us some time to talk. We didn’t have much to say. We knew what we would do. We told the doctor we wanted Sean taken off the ventilator. He suggested we find a hotel and someone would call us when the time was near.

“It could be hours,” Dr. Dransfield said. “It could be days.”

We checked into the Hilton. I called my parents in New York and Linda’s mother in Toronto and told them the situation. I didn’t phone anyone in Waterville (where I’d worked as a reporter on the Morning Sentinel for ten months).

We went to the hotel bar, had a drink, telling the front desk to route any calls for us there. We were back in our room after ten o’clock when the hospital phoned. I answered.

“We think you should get down here,” the nurse said. “Do you want us to call a priest to administer last rites?”

“No, of course not,” I said. “Why would I want my baby to have last rites?”

Linda, raised a Catholic, burst out crying.

“Yes, please call a priest,” I told the nurse.

We jumped in a taxi and went to the same small room we had been in before. It was very dark. A nurse brought Sean in and placed him in Linda’s arms. She held our baby. I held her.

Sean hardly moved, barely seemed to be breathing. The nurse came back a couple of times to check his heart and respiration. The third time, she shook her head and said, “He’s gone.”

We sat there a while, a sad little family, our baby dead. It was 11:30 p.m., Tuesday, May 25, 1982.  Our son had lived fifty hours and forty-three minutes.

Linda fell back on her Catholicism, God’s will. As a nonbeliever, I had nothing to hold on to and nobody to turn to. I paced the halls of the hospital, went outside and screamed into the night.

Dr. Dransfield, who had been incredibly kind and inspired great confidence, had stayed the night with Sean. He came back to talk with us after our dead baby was taken away.

“You did the right thing,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

Linda didn’t say anything. She was weak and totally spent, going from new mom to grieving mom in two days.

I gave Dransfield permission to order an autopsy. We both wanted to know what killed Sean. We never found out, the results deemed “inconclusive.”

* * *

My thoughts about Sean are scattered throughout the book, including this passage in the final chapter:

I often think of my only son, wonder what kind of man he would have turned out to be. The only evidence of Sean’s life is a thick file stuffed with his birth certificate, hospital and post-mortem documents, correspondence with his doctors, notes and cards of condolence, a lock of his light brown hair, a footprint in faded purple ink, a photo, in black and white, of Linda holding our newborn, and a color photo of his grave.

The Expat Files is available from and Amazon Canada.

Bar talk: A tale of rape

Forty years ago this month, while covering the Blue Jays for the Toronto Sun, the most memorable story from a road trip to the West Coast had nothing to do with baseball, as I recall in this excerpt from my memoir, The Expat Files: My Life in Journalism:

I began the season hoping to get along with the people I was writing about.  At thirty-one, I was older than most of the players, but not by much. At first, they seemed to accept me more than the other writers.

I’d been a decent athlete in my youth and could still handle a glove and a bat without looking like a klutz. During pre-game warm-ups, I’d play catch or shag flies in the outfield.

The only player I socialized with was pitcher Dave Wallace. He was different from the others, more thoughtful and a lot smarter. I was about a year older. We’d both been born and raised in the Northeast. He was from Connecticut, and had graduated college. We’d talk about baseball but also about other things, books and movies and life.

Dave Wallace

Early in the season, on a day off in Oakland, I rented a car and took Wallace to Sausalito. I’d called my old hippie friend, Barry Ginsberg, who met me in the No Name Bar while Wallace had a look around the town. Thankfully, after Barry described in great detail being abducted by aliens, he had to go to work, as a chef at the nearby Trident restaurant.

Wallace joined me at the No Name and we settled in for the night. An attractive woman, a blonde about our age, sidled up to us at the bar. “You look like baseball players,” she said.

“He is,” I said.

“I hate baseball players,” she said.

“I don’t like them much either, except this guy,” I said, pointing to Wallace.

She was really drunk. And really wanted to talk. She said she was a stewardess for United Airlines and sometimes worked on charters for major league teams.

On one late night flight, she told us, at thirty-thousand feet, her crewmate had been dragged into a lavatory and raped. She said the airline insisted her crewmate not press charges, that nobody believed her, that everyone assumed she had initiated the event and only cried rape later.

I believed her story. I asked some questions, trying to identify the rapist. But she kept shaking her head and guzzling vodka. “That’s why I hate ballplayers,” she concluded, before staggering off into the night.

Wallace and I were quiet on the long drive back to the hotel in Oakland. We didn’t have a chance to talk much after that night. He was released by the Jays and, when no other team gave him a chance, he retired at the age of thirty.

The cerebral Wallace would go on to have an accomplished career as a major league pitching coach. I would turn the flight attendant’s tale of rape into the plot of a novel.

The Expat Filesis available from and Amazon Canada.