Announcers

Looking back, one weekend in June was a couch potato sports fan's paradise.   Television covered the Belmont Stakes – third leg of racing's Triple Crown – as well as the Men's Singles championship of the French Open.

At the historic racetrack in Belmont, New York, (just outside Manhattan on Long Island) California Chrome was picked to be the first Triple Crown winner for decades.  However, Belmont is a notorious swamp for favorites and this year did not disappoint. Chrome's failure was no fault of her own, she was just worn out from repeated high stress competition in a relatively short span. One good thing came out of this race however. That was the opportunity see and hear the great Bob Costas in action.  Costas stands firmly at the top of the Communicators Hall of Fame.  He never misses a beat. His delivery is flawless. His is delivery without error or mispronunciation, and certainly no “fillers” like “y'know” and other verbal garbage.  He is at the blessed end of a spectrum where ex-jock Phil Simms routinely tortures listeners, one and all.  Which moves us to his on-air partner Jim Nance who consistently narrates the action with style and grace. Nance is a competent and genial life preserver for Simms who would have certainly gone down for the third time without him. Simms is not the only jock who stumbled in the broadcasting booth.  Football legend Red Grange never could get the name of his own announcing partner Lindsey Nelson right – calling him “Lisley” throughout.

The day after The Belmont coverage television sports panned over the seas to Paris and the French Open tennis championship where the fearsome duo of Rafael Nadal and Novak Djokovic were battling for the Singles title yet one more time.  It was arguably one of the best tennis finals ever. Covering play in the announcing booth were John McEnroe, Mary Carillo and Ted Robinson.  This trio have been there and done that before. The three of them know the sport very well (and McEnroe and Carillo have championship titles to prove it.) But Robinson gushes like he is watching a May pole dance. Carillo, who rarely shuts up, gets mixed up in her delivery reminding me of the sign-off on the old Bugs Bunny cartoons “Th..the..tha...that's all Folks! Where are Costas and Nance when we need them?

The fault lies less with the men and women calling the match than it does with the American Way of doing it.  The Brits have it right- let the play on the courts speak for itself.  Their on-air people make comment only when they have to.  This gives their words extra value and enriches the viewers/listeners appreciation of the game. Here in the good old USA where broadcasting is drenched with advertising commercials ad nauseum, such seconds of silence would be especially appreciated.

An Appreciation

Praise for a lawyer is rare enough these days.  I understand that. There is so much litigation in our world, we are sick of lawsuits and yes, many a lawyer him/herself. But like pedophile priests, the black brush of infamy from the few touches the many good. There are plenty of exceptions to this universal disdain of lawyers. 

I have honorable lawyer nieces and a nephew whose professional competence and personal ethics are noteworthy.  I am relatively sure that you too can point to model counselors in your own circle of friends and acquaintances. For now let's forget about the bums and bounders and highlight a positive member of the bar.  His name was Paul Derounian and he left us last night.

Paul was my lawyer and far more than that.  He was at my side when I was facing big professional and personal challenges. His steadiness and counsel were invaluable. Most of all I valued his belief in the goodness of others while he searched for win-win solutions. His “contact list” ranged from waiters and doormen to the high and mighty.  His law practice included executives, blue chip corporations and more than a handful of major celebrities. They admired his legal know-how and trusted him, as I did.

Second marriages are fraught with challenges.  Good people get hurt. Where children are involved the stakes are even higher.  When I hear someone say “I had a good divorce” it comes from the mouth of a fool.  There are no good divorces, only those that are less painful than some others. Paul was my best man when Joan and I married. That should give you another sense of why I held him in such high esteem.  At any rate, I always called him “the best man.”

Paul was no stranger to limos, the Hamptons, Hollywood and Vegas in addition to the corporate boardrooms of Manhattan and elsewhere.  But he took everything in stride just as he did in relating to the doormen and waiters I mentioned earlier.  Impeccable manners, respect for others, always. People instinctively knew that he valued them individually.

Paul was married to Liz, a strikingly attractive lady of intelligence and warmth in addition to her outward beauty, which once led to a memorable moment in Atlantic City. The Derounians had invited us to a casino for the opening night of one of his show business clients.  As Liz and Joan, who is attractive in her own right, were walking to our table all eyes in the room were on Mrs. Derounian. Joan turned to Liz and whispered “I just hate it when all these men stare at me!”

As is always the case, we grieve for ourselves when we lose a dear friend.  It is certainly true with me. My consolation comes from recalling the 1001 good memories I have of Paul Derounian.

He was truly The Best Man.

World War One

2014 marks one hundred years since World War One began.  It was called “the war to end all wars”, which of course it wasn't since it was followed by World War Two and a string of other disasters. Still, this first worldwide war remains a horror story unmatched in the saga of mankind. As we all know now, wars truly are hell for those who have to fight them, for those who lose the men and women who fight them, and for the communities with their most precious asset, the human resource of energy, creative juices and dreams for tomorrow, that will be forever lost as well.

As a sometime military historian (junior grade, to be sure) this century anniversary prompted me to take a very close look at the years from 1914 to 1918. That time was so horrific that my extensive reading of it was exhausting. To have actually been on the ground in the combat situations of trench warfare remains incomprehensible to modern minds. Years back I was fortunate in having face-to-face conversations with veterans of that war. Saying that I regret not having more such opportunities is to state the obvious. Now of course such meetings are impossible.

The next best thing in educating and informing yourself of that terrible history is to read the firsthand memories of those who were there in the fighting.  Here we owe a huge debt to the historian Lyn Macdonald. She had the foresight two decades ago to interview dozens of British WWI soldiers while they were still with us. I recommend two of her books “1915, The Death of Innocence” and “Somme. The first gives you an idea of what civilization was like as it transitioned to sheer madness. Somme takes you through the campaign that bled dry the flower of youth of the British Empire and scarred the souls of its people to this very day. In 2014 we are rightly outraged over a single death. Just imagine a casualty list of 60,000 men being killed or seriously wounded in a single day of that fighting!

Yes, I do think that parents should have some awareness of those terrible times so that their children and their children's children are not totally oblivious to the fact that World War One changed civilization forever.  What was more or less the same for hundreds of years was never to be that way again.

The literature on World War One is legion.  The average reader cannot take it all in. The challenge is to select a few books such as these two I've mentioned by Lyn Macdonald, and perhaps include the classic “Memoirs of an Infantry Officer” by Siegfried Sassoon, then take it from there. Or not.

Each reader will form his or her own opinion after reading these materials.  Mine is the terrible dehumanization that resulted from weeks and months of living in muddy knee-deep filth, wet and shivering, scared to death while awaiting whistles to go over the top. More often than not it was the last sound many ever heard.  After one big battle a staff officer in well-polished boots drove up in a staff car close as possible to the battlefield of a place called Passchendaele. Staring at the muddy horror he sobbingly cried: “Good God, did we really send men to fight in that?'”

The answer was “Yes”. And they did it time and again.

Mountain Greenery

“In a Mountain Greenery, where God paints the scenery” (sorry atheists, but who else?). These great Lorenz Hart lyrics were penned to a catchy tune composed by Richard Rodgers in a long ago revue called Garrick Gaieties, Second Edition (1926). 

I am writing to you this day from the glorious mountains of North Carolina where we are escaping the blistering heat and humidity of our Little Florida Hideout.  It is quite true that the jabs we directed at our Northern friends during this past winter's terrible days of cold, snow, ice and sleet have come back to haunt us. Florida summers are very hot and humid, our version of northern frigidity. Now it is the Reillys on the tip of the spear. It reminds me again of the repeated warnings by my late, sainted mother to “never make fun of others or it will happen to you.” As in the case of giggling at male pattern baldness, it did.

My own experience with mountain ranges like the Poconos and the Catskills are one thing (or two), but North Carolina is something else.  And so are the people who inhabit them. Very friendly folk, helpful and virtually always well mannered. When wife Joan went over a mountain to buy The New York Times (limited readership here) she introduced herself and chatted a bit with the lady behind the counter.  As she left this lady said “you have a very nice afternoon, Miss Joan.” Try that in Bayonne, let alone Brooklyn. Also everyone waves, all the time.  And not the index finger version we so often see in the big cities.

Yes, you experience a certain culture shock when you transition from the Northeast to the mountains of North Carolina, but I suggest it is a positive one. There is much to be said about taking one thing at time instead of attempting to multitask 24/7.  Up North the use of the term “Redneck” trips quickly off the tongue. (God only knows what those good 'ol boys in their pickup trucks with rifle racks hanging down from the rear windows really think of we Northerners.)  Like most Yankees who have been raised on stereotypes, I wondered if “Redneck” and “Hillbilly” are one and the same.  At least judging from the men and women we have met here in the mountains, I think not, but would be hard pressed to explain the difference in detail.  I just know that we like the mountain men and women.

Part of our family, Bill and Michele, loves to hike, and hike and hike with a little bit of rock climbing thrown in.  I left such things at Fort Benning over 60 years ago, but all is not lost.  With a cool beer in hand, it's easy enough to watch them go at it from a rocking chair well placed out on the front porch.

We are partial to roadside fruit and vegetable stands even though they have first-class supermarkets here.  Joan stopped by one stand the other day to inquire about their potatoes, tomatoes and corn. An elderly man in a rocking chair went into a patient explanation based on his own long lifetime of farming each. Great info from a nice guy.

The eternal lesson here, taught to me once again, is to accept people individually and not as groups.  Finally, I'm getting it.

Bar Car Closing

There are sad days in our lives.  The Last Call on the last bar car on the old New Haven railroad is surely one of them.  While we cannot in good conscience compare it to “The Day of Infamy”, made immortal by Franklin Roosevelt (and the Japanese pilots who bombed Pearl Harbor), it's right up there in the category of dismal times. In the real lives of we “Mad Men” who rode out of Manhattan on our way home to the bedroom communities in West Chester and Connecticut it is much more than a simple end of an era. Yes, it was all so long ago but yet not quite so far away.  Memories have lives of their own.

Much has changed in 60 years. In commuter jargon “Metro- North” has replaced “the New Haven.” People from all walks of life, not just bankers and advertising toppers, are dressed to suit their own fancy, women mingle co-equally with men. Back in the 1960s and 70s, men wore narrow ties and lookalike suits, suits smelled of cigarette smoke for days, women in the bar cars were rare birds indeed. Males lived two lives even as the bar car was a constant among them, enabling them to transition from one to the other. The witty ad guy went from Madison Avenue smoothie to “Daddy's home!” And it all happened in just over an hour thanks to a few pops on the swaying iron horse. People did not die in those days. Faces were locked in perpetual late -30's mode.

One of the great moves was to purchase a small handful of rose buds at Grand Central Station for “the wife”, she who stood ready in her kitchen to greet the returning warrior at the end of the day. This less than noble and surely less than expensive (50 cents) gesture earned one the title of “hero for a half”. Women were mostly chained to the drudgery of homemaking. How they managed to survive it all is a tribute to both their patience and perseverance. Ultimately however they were freed from that lifestyle to compete on a more or less level playing field in today's world.  Hooray for them!        

In the long ago, stalled trains were a constant.  The sight of dozens of frustrated commuters getting off between stations to slip and slide down snow covered hillsides to thumb their way home on the Connecticut Turnpike was not a rarity. The flames in Harlem during that terrible riot, thank God, was. There is much nostalgia surrounding the demise of the commuter train bar car from Manhattan. But still we Americans are forward thinking. With or without our cocktails-on-wheels, no one wants to go back to getting there by Conestoga wagon.

Spring Break

Coming over the bridge from the real world to our little retiree island in the sun one can feel an immediate change.  Gone for the most part are troubles and cares, replaced instantaneously with a sense of serenity. 

Our retreat is called Singer Island and named for Mr. Singer of the sewing machine company, not for a singer of songs named Bing Crosby.  Crosby used to vacation here too, but that's another story.

Within Singer Island is a special community named Palm Beach Shores, or “PBS” as we natives call it. It is in truth an island within the island. We have our own police department, fire department and a town hall staffed for the most part by friendly hardworking people. We have a private beach manned by highly qualified guards, ready in a heartbeat to meet whatever challenges fate may usher in. And every year fate ushers in a challenge referred to as “Spring Break.”  Long ago this interlude in school calendars was the Easter vacation.  However in today's politically correct environment of super sensitivity to anything and everything, Easter vacation is gone, and we pass over Passover as well.

Now we have “Spring Break” which as witnessed here in Florida, runs from New Year's day to the following Christmas eve. We have an uninterrupted stream of pasty faced Yankees determined to scorch themselves before they return to their classrooms in the frozen tundra. We, the bronzed ones, smirk at them before we revisit the dermatologist’s office where modern-day Vikings slash and burn us before we return to our cabanas on the beach. Spring Break seems endless. Just as one liberated group of schoolies departs, another arrives. There are of course other holidays during the school year. So if you add them all together your kids are rarely in the classroom. As for college age men and women, well dear old dad and mom are forking out big time dollars for smallish face time with teachers. No wonder we lag behind the rest of the world where school and studying is rightfully viewed as the ticket to success.

The American Way is play, play, play.  Unhappily in a very competitive world, someday we will be paying a heart-stopping bill for this Spring Break fun in the sun.

New Faces

Where is Leonard Sillman when we need him?

Mr. Sillman was famous for several things, most especially for introducing new talent to the world of entertainment. Sillman's “New Faces” musical reviews spanned decades and featured such stars-to-be as Henry Fonda, Imogene Coca, the hilarious Paul Lynde and many more. The two biggest words for us these days are New Faces.  Most of us are bored to tears by seeing the same array of personalities in the magazines and on television. And I'm not just talking about Kim Kardashian and her famous-for-being-famous posse of sisters and mother.

As but one example, the tennis season is in full flower right now and here we go again with Mary Carillo, Mary Carillo, and yet more Mary Carillo.  Many of us remember when Mary from Queens teamed with John “The Brat” McEnroe to win the (1977) French Mixed Doubles.  Ancient history you say?  Well yes, this was way before yellow tennis balls flew over the net but that duo did warm the hearts of those who love stories of unknowns capturing a crown. After a while Mary was sidelined from playing on the tennis tour when her knees gave out; she then embarked on a career as a sports commentator. She knows her stuff about the game but familiarity does breed viewer contempt. There is a statute of limitations with viewer's patience in seeing and hearing the same old - same old whether it is from Mary or others.

Think of the Clintons, Good Ol Burger Billy and Hillary Eternal.  Few indeed are those who want to sit through another 100 years of either. And that goes for yet another Bush or two. Buckle up, folks, we are destined to suffer more and more, and more. This is where Leonard Sillman could have rescued us just as the cavalry did in the old shoot-em-ups at the Saturday matinees. Unhappily Leonard rode into the sunset a while back, leaving only his tombstone that reads “Here lies Leonard Sillman: Straightened out at last.”

                

Too bad for all of us. More than ever, we need New Faces.