Tantalizingly Close

It’s a favorite pastime of sports fans to compare great athletes of different generations. Perhaps it’s the safety of debating ultimately unanswerable questions that keeps us passionate. For every stat that seems to point to one guy, there’s always the counter argument: “yeah, but he never had to play against…”

But on Monday night at Madison Square Garden, Roger Federer did play Pete Sampras, and just as it was the one time they played on the pro tour and the three times this past November they played similar exhibitions in Malaysia, it was riveting, it was decided by a narrow margin, and it got us no closer to answering the question: which one of these two geniuses of the court is the greatest to ever play?

In fact, it was an evening that probably did more to fuel the debate than to settle it. In tennis years, ten is a whopping number, and Pete Sampras is ten years older than Roger. Oh, but can he still play! Six years of retirement haven’t done anything to temper the lightning in his right arm, and I’m sorry, but exhibition sportsmanship isn’t the reason the mighty Federer has a tough time with Pete’s serve. There just aren’t other guys on today’s tour––on any day’s tour, for that matter––who do what Pete can do. With all due respect to booming serves like Andy Roddick’s, there’s a silkiness to Pistol Pete’s delivery that’s just mesmerizing. And then, though not quite as quick as he was in those glorious years of the 90s, he’s on the net, attacking, pressuring, knocking down volleys like a gunslinger shooting cans. Indeed there’s a depth of talent after Federer in the men’s game today, but there’s no one with the specific kind of firepower that Pete Sampras still seems to have in ready supply.

In the end, though, it was Federer. Any other outcome would’ve seemed phony. Much of the evening seemed about the show. Whether they were trying hard to or not, Sampras and Federer kept it close, treating us to a some wonderful rallies that, in fairness, might have ended a little sooner had this been the U.S. Open.

But you don’t get to be Roger Federer or Pete Sampras without a competitive drive ultimately impervious to any notions of exhibition play, and with a set each in hand, the level of play started to rise noticeably. Whatever nerves apparent in Pete’s first few games were gone, replaced by a familiar rhythm of spellbinding serving pulled straight out of 1997. A few laser beam forehands later and Sampras had raced to a 5-2 lead in the deciding set––a call to arms for Federer, who responded as Roger Federer.

And as they came round the final turn deadlocked at five-all, then six-all and into the tiebreaker, they just played. And suddenly the question of who’s the greatest faded away, yielding to a far more compelling question––what if? What if instead of the ten years––the near miss so incredible that even the men in question understand the importance of exploring it––they had met both in their prime, battling for the lawn of the All England Club and spotlight of New York at night summer after summer? What if Roger Federer and Pete Sampras had really gotten to play each other? For a fleeting few minutes, it was simply breathtaking.

Roger On The Hill

Watching the Roger Clemens/Brian McNamee showdown on Capital Hill yesterday was surprisingly riveting theater. Whenever you get to watch crusty old congressmen utter phrases like “the palpable mass on his buttocks” you know you’re in for some good TV. It’s obvious to anyone with even a cursory knowledge of this story that one of these guys is lying under oath. As Representative John Tierney pointed out to Mr. Clemens, there were real inconsistencies even within his own deposition from last week. Then Representative Dan Burton took his allotted time to scathingly point out many of the very many instances that Mr. McNamee had lied in the Mitchell report and all throughout this sordid saga. For much of the proceedings, neither of them seemed particularly credible, like a couple of kids in trouble for something bad that happened on the schoolyard––both in the wrong, and both making up new and increasingly preposterous stories about what really happened to avoid punishment.

When I set out on the nearly five hour journey of watching this ultimate display of what sports writer Mike Lupica smartly called real “reality television,” I thought I cared who’s being truthful and who’s not, but a couple of hours in, having polished off a large bowl of popcorn and gotten over my natural, culturally-cultivated thrill of celebrity-in-trouble curiosity, I found myself growing quite angry.

Ostensibly, the point of this congressional hearing was to protect national health––the health of young American athletes who look up at their heroes and think it’s okay to cheat and it’s okay to take drugs. The committee led hard with that idea at the outset, but that wasn’t what went down at all. Today congress conducted a very public celebrity witch-hunt. Is Roger Clemens a liar and a cheater? That was all they were out to determine, and the worst part is, they didn’t come away with a verdict.

Representative Elijah Cummings spoke for many jurors of the court of public opinion, though, when he told Clemens: “It’s hard to believe your story. I hate to say that. You’re one of my heroes. But it’s hard to believe you.”

My issue is that with all the problems facing our nation today––oh, say, the sub-prime mortgage crisis to name one––can anyone honestly believe that this was a good use of Congress’s time and American tax dollars? If they think Roger Clemens broke the law by taking illegal drugs and perjuring himself, indict him. Try him in court. That’s what they’re there for. Roger may well be the best pitcher of his generation, and one of the greats of all time, but that shouldn’t grant him Congress’s time. If the government is worried about what the kids will think, they should think about the message a fiasco hearing like today’s sends. A star––even a rule-breaking star––gets special treatment, even at the heights of government.

Baseball needs to be cleaned up, that much is clear. But let’s let Bud Selig deal with his own mess. Congress should be more worried about the millions of Americans losing their homes.

Out of the Shadow At Westminster

You could almost see the World War I Flying Ace darting about high above the action at Madison Square Garden Tuesday night––artfully dodging his Sopwith Camel between the retired banners of Messrs Leetch and Giacomin.  Finally––finally a beagle took the top at Westminster.  And that’s a long way from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.

Uno is a hound with leading-man good looks, which, to be fair, is what we all knew it would take for a beagle to win.  My heart goes out to beagles––they live in the perpetual shadow of a legend.  Few people are as charming, dynamic and debonair as Snoopy.  How could we ever expect another dog to be?

When I was a boy, Snoopy was my best friend.  My Snoopy––and with all due respect to loved imposters everywhere––is the Snoopy.  He still is.  For anyone curious about the recluse star, he’s aged gracefully.  He still looks smart in his blue loungewear sweat suit.  He’s grown a little more modest about showing off his legs in summer and only dons his shorts on truly hot days, the––well, how can I not?––dog days of summer.  His wit is sharp as ever, acerbic and insightful.  His ego was never a hindrance, and I wish I could tell you that he’s embraced a tad more humility in his later years, but I’d be lying.  He still corresponds regularly with his publisher, but alas remains unpublished.  The writers’ strike was hard on him, as the world famous screenwriter had only just begun his masterwork with the promising opening: “Fade In.  Exterior - Dark and Stormy Night.”

He misses acting, he tells me, but he doesn’t miss the long days on set.  He remembers the Halloween Special particularly, still becoming quite agitated by the memory of that especially fierce battle with the Red Baron.  That night in the pumpkin patch has always been the one he felt got away.  He likes that I’ve chosen writing as my career, mostly because it means I’m around a lot of the time.  He doesn’t talk as much since we moved out of Mom and Dad’s place some years ago, or really, since Mom stopped tucking us in at night, but when something important is going on, he’s sure to weigh in.  He likes my wife, and in some sense I think he’s relieved to know that there’s someone else to help keep an eye on me.  He keeps to himself most days, puttering with one project or another in the back bedroom, but I think we both take comfort knowing the other is there.

I didn’t make a big fuss when Uno broke through Tuesday night for beagles everywhere, but I’m pretty sure I heard a voice in the other room call out: “I told you I’d get you, Red Baron.”

The Bonds Obsession

There’s a reason I don’t watch much Court TV, and I was reminded of that this morning watching SportsCenter. Barry Bonds has finally been indicted, which means a lot of things, but mostly, it means, that for the foreseeable future, I will be shortchanged of highlights that really matter.

With all due respect to the intelligent and articulate legal analysts who are getting more face time on ESPN lately than we ought to care about, I’m left wondering: why?

Barry Bonds is indeed a disgrace. He’s not the only one. OJ’s back in court. Michael Vick’s saga is ongoing and appalling. Pacman Jones is still trying to sort out his involvement in a messy little situation that involved a shooting in a strip club. Classy.

Over the course of a one-hour edition of SportsCenter today, I counted just under 40 minutes of coverage pertaining to legal news. A few minutes more if you include contract talk. It’s sort of funny after all the palaver about his disrespectfully timed announcement during the World Series that A-Rod’s new mega deal isn’t the top sports story today. And it’s sadly ironic, that with Bond’s further fall from grace, A-Rod is now baseball’s great shining hope. With 518 home runs, the game can’t wait to see Moneybags slam the 245 more necessary to replace Bonds as the all time leader.

What saddens me, though, is that with all these miserably disappointing icons dominating the airwaves, we seem to have forgotten the good guys.

On Monday night in a ceremony in Toronto, four of the most respected men in a generation of sports were rightfully inducted into Hockey’s Hall of Fame. This year’s class was led by Mark Messier, who for anyone who’s even heard of hockey may just go down as the single greatest leader in the history of team sports. He is a mensch and a role model––a skating, breathing portrait of what a sports hero should be. This ceremony was not covered on American Television.

In July, Pete Sampras was inducted into Tennis’s Hall of Fame in a tearful, wrenching ceremony that saw the greatest American Tennis player to live break down repeatedly, talking about the love and support his parents and wife showed him over the course of his life and career. If you wanted to see this wondrous moment, and weren’t one of the handful of subscribers to the Tennis Channel, you could log in via an obscure link on the tennis hall of fame web site.

Watching sports is indeed an odd fascination. We root for strangers we will likely never meet simply because they’re wearing a jersey we’ve decided represents us. Players come and go on our favorite teams, the vast majority of whom we will ultimately only remember as nameless cavalry. But there are, of course, the exceptions. And it’s the exceptions that give us fervent rooters the chills. Those players whose personal stories accompanied by on-field, on-court, or on-ice heroics captivate our hearts. They are three-dimensional people who come down off the great flat-screen in our local sports bar, sit down with us and tell us their stories. They become our friends. They impact our lives, and they justify all of the emotional energy we pour into rooting for what would otherwise be just a shirt. They give those jerseys soul. They give them meaning. And in so doing they give us meaning.

And when they come home to Madison Square Garden, as Messier did last week, just to watch a game with Matthew Von Dollen, a fifteen-year-old from the Make-A-Wish Foundation who’s endured eleven invasive brain surgeries in his life-long fight against a seizure disorder, they are deservedly cheered with a long, loud, impromptu standing ovation. Just a small family of 18,200 saying hi to their dear old friend, Mark.

Barry Bonds, you have a hell of a swing, but where the heart’s concerned, it don’t mean a thing.

From the Archives: Writer’s Assistant Needed

With the circuit of holiday celebrations upon us again, it’s time to review highlights of seasons past. One moment in particular, not two years into the new century, deserves special attention.

In December 2001, former prep school classmates Damon Lopez-O’Dwyer, Abby Schwartz, and Kara Cohen reacquainted over the wassail bowl at the lovely Susan Dunn’s holiday party. Over the course of increasingly candid conversation, Lopez-O’Dwyer, an aspiring screenwriter, but still living at home with his parents some three years after college, confessed that the overload in his life had reached an unmanageable high, and that he was thinking of taking on an assistant. Schwartz, well into her third cup of eggnog bluntly stated her displeasure in her current employment as a legal assistant. Perhaps, she rather brazenly suggested, this chance meeting was a sign. She had, after all, always admired the kind of varied work Lopez-O’Dwyer was doing. Cohen, also still a resident of her parent’s apartment, and not at all content in her “dead end” job in the Human Resources department of Scant, McDougal and Wadsworth, was quick to rally support for the proposal, even offering herself for the position. “I want that job!” she announced. Schwartz, exhibiting a natural business savvy, and a somewhat petty side, told her that she had thought of it first and that Cohen couldn’t have it. Shrewdly, Schwartz created the position on the fly of “Assistant to the Assistant” for her friend, Cohen. What follows is a transcript of the emails between the three subsequent to that chance meeting at Susan Dunn’s.

Lopez-O’Dwyer to Schwartz and Cohen: Subject: assistant position:

Over the past couple of days I have talked to a lot of people about our proposed arrangement. To be frank, there were a lot of naysayers. “Damon, is one assistant going to be enough, even if that assistant has an assistant?” the skeptics asked me. I mentioned the idea of adding an intern if need be, but still the responses were not entirely supportive. Some people opined that in order to truly get this engine running clean I would need to look into changes on a bigger scale. One consultant proposed moving to larger office space; yet another suggested investing in an alarm clock. In the end, however, I just felt like I wasn’t ready to rock the boat that way. After careful consideration, I am ready and excited to go forward as discussed. Let me rehash some of those points and expand on them for you to review.

The kind of work we do is assorted. I’m looking for an assistant, and an assistant’s assistant, who can answer the phone when I’m snacking, or distract my parents from noticing when I’m napping during the day. I’m looking for a goal-oriented person who isn’t afraid to take initiative such as going on-line to download pirated music, even if I haven’t asked her to do so.

There is a fair amount of filing involved with the position, which will inevitably involve trips back and forth between my room and the laundry room. I need an assistant who is familiar with Tide and Bleach with Color Guard. There will be days when I might need Tylenol, or days when Advil would be better suited to remedy my drinking headache. Knowledge of these medications is crucial. And by “knowledge” I mean knowing where in the medicine cabinet they are located.

There will be days when my collaborator, Nick Garfinkle will be in the office to write with me. And by “write,” I mean snack, watch movies, play Nerf basketball, shoot darts, lunch, pass out in a midday nap so as to rally for the evening drinking session, and eventually congratulate each other on writing a short scene despite the obvious obstacles to our work: snacking, lunching, darting, hooping, movie-watching, and napping etc. On those days, we will need happy, eager faces around to laugh at our jokes and retrieve pillows that may have fallen to the floor as a result of over exuberant napping.

The job of “Damon’s Assistant” is a job for someone who can handle a variety of tasks and who can react quickly to unexpected occurrences, such as the phone ringing before noon.

Let’s talk about compensation. Abby, I will provide you with a MetroCard for your commute and taxi fare on later nights. During the day, full refrigerator privileges are yours, and the kitchen staff will be happy to stock the larder with anything additional that you may require. As for benefits, we are talking full dental and healthcare. This will of course mean that we must marry for legal purposes.

Kara, as we decided, you are entitled to half of what Abby gets. You will be given a MetroCard each month, as soon as I have sharpened my scissors and cut one in half. On later nights, you will be given taxi fare, but you must promise only to sit on one side of the cab. (You’ll be on the honor system here.) Your dental plan is unusual, there’s no denying that, but I’ve noticed that most people only use half their teeth. Before you call me stingy, however, please note that I’ve found a nifty little loophole for you re: healthcare. You can be fully covered if you divorce your parents and let Abby and me adopt you legally. (Know this, both your mother and I will support you and love you in anything you choose to do. We want nothing but the best for you, and are so proud of everything you’ve accomplished already. You are our angel.)

Now I realize there are probably a few loose ends yet to be tied. I await any questions you may have, but I am confident that we have stumbled upon a mutually rewarding situation here.

Sincerely,
Damon Lopez-O’Dwyer

Schwartz to Lopez-O’Dwyer, cc: Cohen, re: assistant position:

Thank you for your memorandum. Outstanding questions are these:

1.) Titles. How are Kara and I to address you? Damon? Mr. Lopez-O’Dwyer? Yo? Babycakes? This issue, I feel, is a particularly sensitive one seeing that we will not only be co-workers but also family. It might be a little odd, I must say, if, when accompanying you on a social engagement (being paid overtime, of course), I were to call you “Mr. Lopez-O’Dwyer” though you are my husband. Also, I would normally expect Kara to call me Ms. Schwartz. If she is to be my adopted child (and yes, darling, your father is right––you are our little pumpkin pie), this might also prove strange in a real Freudian kind of way. Your expert advice in this sticky matter, boss and hubby, would be most appreciated.

2.) Dress code. Usually, I wear thigh high boots, a mini skirt, and a c.1983 crop top. I assume this will be appropriate, but if I can be more casual, please do let me know. I hate getting all dressed up for work, and hope a relaxed attire might be one of the perks of working for a writer.

3.) Dietary concerns. I am a very strict Kosher Vegan, meaning I need separate plates for my vegetables and water. I hope you can accommodate. You probably should, seeing as I can sue you if you don’t. (Note: this does not preclude me from eating huge hunks of raw beef for lunch. Should you see me engaged in such a foray, ask no questions. Lunch is my private time.)

4.) Parents. Can I call your parents Mom and Dad or is that too unprofessional?

And finally, as we are so close to a formal agreement, I have outlined a few things for Kara to get to work on:

a.) Please start investigating interns. Requirements: tall, handsome, male, nice abs, sense of humor. (Not necessarily in that order.)

b.) Please get me a Blackberry. Get money from petty cash. (We have petty cash, right?)

With anticipation,
Abby Schwartz

Lopez-O’Dwyer to Schwartz, cc: Cohen, re: assistant position:

Abby, thank you for your timely response. I am excited to hear that you are still eager to join the team. We’re going to make this happen!

In response to your questions:
1.) Titles. Your point is a fair one. Given the unusual circumstances of our situation, we may have to “play things by ear.” I think that in the beginning, you should probably address me as either “Mr. Lopez-O’Dwyer,” or “Babycakes.” In time, we can work our way into more relaxed territory and you can begin calling me either “Big-D” or “The Lopez Express.” For instance, if I come into the office after being away for a time, you might both leap up and boisterously yell “Hoo-hoo! The Lopez Express rolling back into the station!” You might then offer each other vigorous high-fives. As for social situations, we should carry ourselves with an air of dignity and decorum. When we’re out, you might simply call me “Snookums,” “Love Doctor,” or “Wild Thing.” As for what Kara should call you, well, I’ll let you both work that out between yourselves, but may I be the first to suggest “Baba,” the Wolof word for mother. (Wolof, by the way, is the native tongue of Senegal.)

2.) Dress code. Sold! I’ve always dreamed of a wife with your fashion moxie.

3. ) Dietary concerns. That’s something you’ll have to take up with the kitchen staff. I trust Mother can accommodate you.

4.) My parents are your parents. Call them Mom and Dad, please, or you will break their hearts.

Petty cash. Interestingly enough, “petty” is, in fact, the only cash we have. When you need it, just look for the pocket-sized, leather folder on Dad’s dresser. You will know it is the petty cash file because it has his driver’s license in it.

And finally, dear wife, it sounds like from your description that you want to hire me as Kara’s intern––an intriguing notion indeed. My resume could benefit from that kind of experience.

Let’s keep open this line of communication as we dance towards the completion of a most exciting deal.

D.

Cohen to Lopez-O’Dwyer and Schwartz:

I am ready for my new position as “Assistant to Damon’s Assistant” and can begin almost immediately. I am opting for the top half of my teeth for the dental plan, being as those are exposed most.

Sincerely,

Kara Cohen

Cohen to Lopez-O’Dwyer and Schwartz, re: dental plan:

I am getting a wisdom tooth pulled in about two weeks. Is this covered in my dental plan?

Happy New Year to you both.

Kara Cohen

Lopez-O’Dwyer toCohen, cc: Schwartz, re: dental plan:

Kara,

Frankly, I hope you are having a top tooth pulled––it will save us all a lot of time and worrying.

On a personal note, I am thrilled by the scrupulous attention to detail evident in these early negotiations. If you two can bring just a small fraction of this vigor and doggedness to work with you in January, I am confident that this train will sail.

High fives all around,
The Lopez Express

The log over the next weeks is oddly quiet. Finally, some months later, there are these last entries:

Lopez-O’Dwyer to Schwartz and Cohen: Subject: Paths of Glory:

I must confess, it was bittersweet running into you both this past weekend at the lovely Susan Dunn’s Spring Frolic. Pangs of nostalgia stirred the harrowing memories of January’s most sour disappointment. To think that in the end––and before we could even begin––you both succumbed to the blandishments of corporate America.
No matter. I will rededicate myself to rising above unrequited assistantship.

With bulldog determination, I remain yours,
Damon Lopez-O’Dwyer

Schwartz to Lopez-O’Dwyer:

Dude, seriously. Are you still on this?
See you Saturday at Rebecca’s.
Abby.

Joe Torre and New York––It’s Only Just Begun

Today Joe Torre put on Dodger blue, finalizing the end of an era in New York. Perhaps, though, in the most important way of all, it’s an era that’s only just begun. There’s a photograph of my father as a boy, hanging over the railing at Yankee Stadium, his father behind him. You can’t see the field, but you don’t need to. It’s obvious from the look of wonder and wide-eyed excitement on my father’s face that legends are at play below. Mantle, Rizzuto, Yogi Bera.

My grandfather was a press photographer, and he was on a first-name basis with the players in those days. Sometimes he would take my dad onto the field when he took pictures of the team. It was the glory years of the fifties when battles between the Yankees and Dodgers defined an era. My dad grew up in Brooklyn, but there wasn’t a question in his mind––these Yankees were his team.

They still are.

“They don’t make teams like that anymore,” I’ve heard a comical number of times. “Year in and year out, the same guys playing together.” This has been his mantra for as long as I can remember––that and “nobody knows how to bunt anymore!”

Make no mistake, my dad is no old codger, unwilling to love a modern team. When Joe Torre arrived in 1996, he was thrilled by that magical season. I was overseas, and he excitedly sent me weighty packets of clippings detailing the fun I was missing in the Bronx. We had watched games together when I was a boy in the 80s, but it’s clear to me now that his main draw to the team then had been the voice bringing him the games at night. Phil Rizzuto’s passing this summer affected my dad––I’ve held onto the offering of clippings to prove it.

But during the Torre years, we finally had a team we could enjoy together. Sure, I had favorite players growing up––Mattingly, of course, and Mike Pagliarulo because I loved to say his name––but my “boyhood” Yankee heroes came along as I was finishing up my teens. Privately, dad might have wondered if they would ever come for me, but just in time, they did. And what a group they’ve been. Mo, Derek, Bernie, Paul O’Neill, Andy Pettitte.

I remember the day Andy left for Houston. I was useless. I felt like a ten-year-old whose dog had just died, or a thirty-year-old whose manager had just left for LA. Dad was disappointed too, but I can’t be sure how much of that was just watching me suffer. He’d already passed this rite with his Yankees. His words of wisdom and condolence were a wistful remembrance of a time when teams stayed together for decades. “The same players, year in and year out. Stengel’s guys. Now that was a team.”

If they’re lucky, every generation gets a golden year. If they’re exceptionally lucky, they get a golden run. Yankees fans of every generation have been exceptionally lucky.

“The new Yankee Stadium, I know, is going to be state of the art,” Joe Torre said, putting a poetic cap on his time in New York and on my boyhood team of Yankee heroes. “It’s going to be like no other new stadium. But that stay in the old one wasn’t too bad.”

Someday I’ll take a son of my own to the new Yankee Stadium. Maybe it will be Joe Torre Day. Derek will be there. Mo will be there. Bernie, Jorge, Paul and Andy will all be there. And I will drink in the memories. My son will probably understand in some distant way that these guys were very special. He’ll stand and applaud with everyone else, but in his heart of hearts he’ll be more excited to see his heroes waiting in the dugout to play. They will be his team. They will be his era. And I’ll be okay with that, because even though he won’t get it then, I’ll know that inevitably there will come a day when he’ll fully understand just what I’ve meant all those times I said: “Torre’s guys. Now that was a team.”