I really wonder where my beloved domain of community journalism is headed.
We all know why print journalism is like a lobster about to hit the boiling water. When the internet came along, having a website was prestigious and getting people to hit it an ego trip. The newspapers started giving away the stories for which consumers traditionally paid, and didn’t mind doing so.
When consumers get something for nothing, they aren’t likely to start paying for it.
I learned that the hard way when the owners of the minor league baseball team I administered in Glens Falls, N.Y., started giving away tickets in wholesale bunches. Ownership’s theory, since it was in the Burger King business, was that we would cash in at the concession stand; that empty seats don’t buy hot dogs and sodas.
What they didn’t consider is that the price of admission has almost no overhead and once you give it away, people lose respect for the product. Even if you get $1 a ticket, you’re still making consumers open their wallets. The ticket has some value.
Giving tickets away at the bottom of Burger King bags was like saying the game had no value. Giving the hard work of reporters away was like saying their work has no value. People said, “Why should I pay for the paper when I can go on line and get the information free?”
So how did the newspapers compensate for the dramatic downturn in revenue? Did the CEOs take pay cuts. Nooo! They cut back on reporters, cutting off the resource that enticed consumers to subscribe. They froze their wages, sending them to the exits to find better means of using their skills to make a living.
The papers in major cities, while they may be hurting, continue to thrive, but what of the small-city dailies that were the heart and soul of their regions for over 100 years? Some have perished. Others altered their philosophy, choosing to hire so-called reporters at bargain-basement prices and filling their whittled-down publications with the worst kind of trash.
Reporters are now paid paupers’ wages and asked to work well beyond the traditional 40 hours per week. The papers get what they pay for. Many of the new guard are egomaniacs who resort to filling sports sections with stories about THEIR favorite teams and telling readers what THEIR winning percentage is in picking college football games.
Some actually solicit controversy, providing an online forum for anonymous readers to rip on high school coaches and athletes. They publish inane readers’ comments while high school athletes toil in anonymity.
Where does that leave the legitimate need for local information? America On-Line started its Patch websites, which continue to evolve. Folks interested in local news and sports are beginning to understand that Patch is becoming more reliable than the dailies and timelier than the weeklies, although the weeklies certainly have their place. There are some great ones in the region.
Many fine journalists are now working for Patch and doing great jobs in a number of communities. Whether the model that AOL has established can be profitable is yet unknown. Consumers with an interest in local news better hope so. I hope so for the sake of all the terrific writers/reporters who used to populate daily newsrooms and always did their jobs thoroughly.
Some journalists I know have set up their own websites to share information. I wish them well and respect their intentions. Perhaps they can find a way to earn some cash for the time they are putting in. There aren’t enough hours in the day to make a living, write stories and solicit advertising on a medium that seems more difficult to sell, particularly in an economy with businesses failing in alarming numbers.
The bottom line is that the business of community journalism is evolving. It’s likely to continue evolving for years to come, long after I retire my laptop. My concern is that the awesome young athletes who give their hearts and souls for their schools will get proper recognition, not a litany of either no information or misinformation with error-filled reports and misspelled names.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
BACK IN NEW BRITAIN, AND LOVIN' IT
To my dear friends in New Britain:
It hasn't been easy driving through the city since late last November, knowing that I was no longer writing stories for y'all. My writing comes from the heart, and you know the thousands of stories I wrote over 15 years at the Herald, speak to the passion I have for the kids, the coaches and the people who make sports news in the city.
Well, I'm back, but don't look in the Herald for me! I'm writing for a weekly paper, the New Britain City Journal, that was started by Robin Vinci and is doing very well. The NBCJ hasn't had much in the way of sports so we decided that collaborating was a win-win proposition.
Below is my first effort for Robin and her loyal readers. You'll see plenty on New Britain football, that wonderful boys soccer team that Matt Denecour has assembled, and all the other fall sports. I still have my ear to the ground with the Rock Cats and perhaps we'll connect on them next season. Look forward to hearing from you.
The intangible characteristic that depicts sports tradition in New Britain as time-honored beyond most is best described by a French saying that has found a niche in English because English scholars cannot find a better way to say it.
Je ne sais quoi.
A less elegant way of saying it is that when it comes to sports, New Britain has that “certain something.” Translated literally, it means, “I don’t know what,” but since I wrote sports in New Britain on a daily basis for 15 years, I DO know what. I don’t know exactly why, but I’ll give you the particulars.
It has to start with New Britain High School football.
I first felt that je ne sais quoi on Nov. 24, 1999 at Manchester High School. It may seem unusual that I never felt it to such an extent at Hurricane-charged Veterans Memorial Stadium, but such eerie forces generally cannot be explained.
The Hurricanes of Coach Len Corto – the steamrolling ground game provided by senior Chris Bellamy and sophomore Justise Hairston, the leadership of able quarterback Mike Donnelly, a couple of Madigans and thundering fullback Steve Wysocki – were on a roll. They dropped a 27-26 decision at Southington in the season’s second game, but just whipped up unmercifully on people for the next seven weeks.
In my heart and mind, New Britain had the best team in the state, yet with the Manchester game on the horizon, the Hurricanes needed help to get into the Class LL playoffs and the prospects were too far-fetched. Three undefeated teams and several once-beaten squads had mathematical advantages in the CIAC ratings race that only a series of unfathomable upsets could change. Help wasn’t coming.
The game against Manchester had already begun. My wife Lisa, a 1973 NBHS grad with a heart of (maroon and) gold, was in attendance. I never saw her so excited for a game, and that certainly shaped my emotional composition.
Far off in the distance, at the other end of the parking lot, it rose like a crescendo. The New Britain High School Golden Hurricane Marching Band had run into some Hartford traffic, but the unmistakable sound of “Bingo” pierced the night air.
As Bellamy, Hairston and Wysocki were in the midst of rolling up over 250 yards and nine touchdowns, I felt a trickle down my cheek. Wow, I knew I cared, but I didn’t know I cared that much. “Bingo,” and the band marching into the stadium has some deep-seated ethereal effect on me.
Well, New Britain’s 58-0 victory wasn’t enough for a playoff berth. The Hurricanes had outscored their foes 316-12 over the final six weeks, and that wasn’t enough either.
Masuk, Fairfield Prep and eventual champion Greenwich finished their seasons undefeated. Southington notched the fourth and final spot despite losing to Cheshire on Thanksgiving Day. New Britain was a staggering seventh in the ratings, but that day the Hurricanes sealed the number one slot in my heart.
Five years later, as Coach Jack Cochran drove the ’Canes toward their third ‘LL’ title in four years, I had another experience that convinced me just how special New Britain football is.
The date was Nov. 30, 2004. New Britain ventured to Kennedy Stadium in Bridgeport to play Bridgeport Central in the semifinals. I got there good and early as I always try to do and was introduced to a man who personifies extreme dedication to NBHS football.
Eugene Johnkoski, 79 at the time, had relocated to Palm City, Fla., from the Hardware City in 1994. He missed his New Britain football so much that he would return home every fall to take his place among the Willow Brook Park faithful.
I can’t recall exactly what Mr. Johnkoski told me that chilly night in Bridgeport when I asked him why he did this, but it was something along the lines of, “Je ne sais quoi.”
It hasn't been easy driving through the city since late last November, knowing that I was no longer writing stories for y'all. My writing comes from the heart, and you know the thousands of stories I wrote over 15 years at the Herald, speak to the passion I have for the kids, the coaches and the people who make sports news in the city.
Well, I'm back, but don't look in the Herald for me! I'm writing for a weekly paper, the New Britain City Journal, that was started by Robin Vinci and is doing very well. The NBCJ hasn't had much in the way of sports so we decided that collaborating was a win-win proposition.
Below is my first effort for Robin and her loyal readers. You'll see plenty on New Britain football, that wonderful boys soccer team that Matt Denecour has assembled, and all the other fall sports. I still have my ear to the ground with the Rock Cats and perhaps we'll connect on them next season. Look forward to hearing from you.
The intangible characteristic that depicts sports tradition in New Britain as time-honored beyond most is best described by a French saying that has found a niche in English because English scholars cannot find a better way to say it.
Je ne sais quoi.
A less elegant way of saying it is that when it comes to sports, New Britain has that “certain something.” Translated literally, it means, “I don’t know what,” but since I wrote sports in New Britain on a daily basis for 15 years, I DO know what. I don’t know exactly why, but I’ll give you the particulars.
It has to start with New Britain High School football.
I first felt that je ne sais quoi on Nov. 24, 1999 at Manchester High School. It may seem unusual that I never felt it to such an extent at Hurricane-charged Veterans Memorial Stadium, but such eerie forces generally cannot be explained.
The Hurricanes of Coach Len Corto – the steamrolling ground game provided by senior Chris Bellamy and sophomore Justise Hairston, the leadership of able quarterback Mike Donnelly, a couple of Madigans and thundering fullback Steve Wysocki – were on a roll. They dropped a 27-26 decision at Southington in the season’s second game, but just whipped up unmercifully on people for the next seven weeks.
In my heart and mind, New Britain had the best team in the state, yet with the Manchester game on the horizon, the Hurricanes needed help to get into the Class LL playoffs and the prospects were too far-fetched. Three undefeated teams and several once-beaten squads had mathematical advantages in the CIAC ratings race that only a series of unfathomable upsets could change. Help wasn’t coming.
The game against Manchester had already begun. My wife Lisa, a 1973 NBHS grad with a heart of (maroon and) gold, was in attendance. I never saw her so excited for a game, and that certainly shaped my emotional composition.
Far off in the distance, at the other end of the parking lot, it rose like a crescendo. The New Britain High School Golden Hurricane Marching Band had run into some Hartford traffic, but the unmistakable sound of “Bingo” pierced the night air.
As Bellamy, Hairston and Wysocki were in the midst of rolling up over 250 yards and nine touchdowns, I felt a trickle down my cheek. Wow, I knew I cared, but I didn’t know I cared that much. “Bingo,” and the band marching into the stadium has some deep-seated ethereal effect on me.
Well, New Britain’s 58-0 victory wasn’t enough for a playoff berth. The Hurricanes had outscored their foes 316-12 over the final six weeks, and that wasn’t enough either.
Masuk, Fairfield Prep and eventual champion Greenwich finished their seasons undefeated. Southington notched the fourth and final spot despite losing to Cheshire on Thanksgiving Day. New Britain was a staggering seventh in the ratings, but that day the Hurricanes sealed the number one slot in my heart.
Five years later, as Coach Jack Cochran drove the ’Canes toward their third ‘LL’ title in four years, I had another experience that convinced me just how special New Britain football is.
The date was Nov. 30, 2004. New Britain ventured to Kennedy Stadium in Bridgeport to play Bridgeport Central in the semifinals. I got there good and early as I always try to do and was introduced to a man who personifies extreme dedication to NBHS football.
Eugene Johnkoski, 79 at the time, had relocated to Palm City, Fla., from the Hardware City in 1994. He missed his New Britain football so much that he would return home every fall to take his place among the Willow Brook Park faithful.
I can’t recall exactly what Mr. Johnkoski told me that chilly night in Bridgeport when I asked him why he did this, but it was something along the lines of, “Je ne sais quoi.”
Thursday, August 18, 2011
A LITTLE HARD-HITTIN' IN THE GREEN MTNS
We’re cruisin’ Route 4 West in Vermont, just entering Killington at the junction of Rte. 100 after visiting Queechee Gorge and Woodstock, and we’re hungry.
We see this down-home lookin’ sign. It’s a smilin’ pig with sunglasses, fork and knife in hand, sayin’ something to the effect that if you like BBQ, don’t go any farther. Well, we’d had burgers, we had shrimp at Pagliacci’s in Plainville before we left and it’s been less than a week since we went to Manchester (CT) for Pepe’s apizza.
Ribs. Yes. Time for ribs, and we’re gonna follow that little piggy all the way home.
The place was called Back Behind Restaurant, and it’s a good thing. You’ve got to go back behind a red caboose to find it down in a little hollow. Might not have found it otherwise. Lots of cars there, always a good sign. Always remember when you’re going to a place you don’t know – if none of the locals are eating there, why the heck should you?
I walk in the place and for those of you who know anything about yours truly, baby you know what I like. There’s an old-fashioned décor, 50s and earlier. I look on the wall and staring back at me is a photo of Errol Flynn, lookin’ handsome as he ever did.
I ask a few teenagers in front of me in line, ‘Who is this guy, kids?’ One of ‘em said Matthew McConaghey. The other said she couldn’t remember his name but he was in the first Harry Potter. Heaven forbid on both accounts. Try watching a real movie, like Robin Hood, The Sea Hawk, Captain Blood. Try understanding what acting is all about, brat.
I look a little further and there’s Bogie and Ingrid Bergman, doin’ their thing in “Casablanca.”
Ricky Nelson is playin' on the juke box. "It's a Young World." Perfect!
Ricky Nelson is playin' on the juke box. "It's a Young World." Perfect!
We sit down and the owner comes to the table and tells us about all the homemade stuff they do. I look in the menu and see that her name is Zendzian. Hmm, Zendzian, Zendzian. I know that name from somewhere, I think during my time writing sports for the New Britain Herald. Well, I’m a year and a day from being 60 so you can’t expect the memory to be that sharp.
The waitress -- why do they call themselves ‘server’ now. Sounds like the thing that always used to break down when the Herald computers stopped working – brings out a crock of homemade coleslaw and freshly baked bread.
I went it to the lav to wash up and whose pic is on the door? Mr. James Cagney, of course. Yankee Doodle Dandy. Awesome, this is my kind of place. On the door to the ladies’ room is noneother than Paulette Goddard, intriguing brunette who lit up men’s fancies in a bygone era. Man, I couldn’t have decorated the place any better if I did it myself.
I was jonesin’ for an ear of local corn for a week, wondering why most restaurants wouldn’t just buy a bushel and make folks happy. Sure enough, they were dealing in roasted corn with special butter. I had mine with maple butter. Hey, man, this is Vermont where maple syrup is in every store.
Unbelievable. I was smiling for the first time since I walked out of the West Hartford Press knowing I wouldn’t have to work there anymore.
Lisa had St. Looey style ribs and I had the baby backs. Both fall-off-the-bone good. Smoked right in their backyard. You can smell ‘em smokin’ as you drive by.
The owner is talkin’ to some other people and darned if she isn’t from CT.
I said, “You from New Britain?”
She proundly answered, “Hard-hitting!”
“I used to write sports at the Herald.
“Bart?”
“No, my dear buddy Bart came before me. I’m Ken. Ken Lipshez.”
“Lipshitz?”
“No, not the furniture store people. Not the doc in Rug Rats or the teacher in that Boston high school sit com. How do I know your name? For some reason, the first name Kurt comes to mind.”
“That’s my husband’s nephew.”
“Holy shit. Small world.”
I think Kurt Zendzian played sports at Newington.
Turns out her name is Gerry Zendzian and her husband’s is Conrad. She went to Mary Immaculate Academy. They came to VT about 10 years ago and started firing up BBQ right behind Bear Mountain. I’ll bet those skiers can’t get enough of that wonderful stuff when snow covers things up here.
We had no room for dessert. We just smiled and rubbed our bellies as we made our way back to where we are staying – Mountain Top Inn in Chittenden, VT – where you look out the window of your room and see a panoramic view of a lake framed by the mountains of the Green Mountain State Forest.
Only two days but it’s been great. I wonder if Gerry Zendzian needs a kitchen boy.
Friday, July 8, 2011
MATT HURLOCK: THE LEGACY LIVES ON
The sad news jumped off the page like a knife between my ribs. Cancer caught up with Matt Hurlock Wednesday.
Hurlock was 39. His work with student-athletes in Coventry was legendary. My respect for his accomplishments as coach of the girls volleyball team was immense. Not only did he lift the Patriots to the heights of Class S (7 championships), his teams consistently flirted with the No. 1 spot among state high schools large and small.
I first met Matt in 2006 when his Coventry High boys basketball team had the dubious task of trying to derail the Berlin juggernaut led by Doran Mitchell. His Patriots had the higher seed in a quarterfinal matchup at Plainville's Ivan Wood Gym, but Berlin cruised by 31 points. The Redcoats went on to win what was temporarily known as a Class III state title.
When Hurlock's volleyball teams were sparring with the great Southington squads for state recognition, he was a sports writer's dream, responding to all inquiries and answering questions thoughtfully. His response always reflected his innate desire of promoting his hard-working youngsters and the sport of volleyball, for that was the essence of Matt Hurlock. He helped kids.
Hurlock, who according to my esteemed Hartford Courant colleague and treasured friend Lori Riley had the unthinkable volleyball record of 208-19, took a program that languished in the obscurity of one of the state's more obscure conferences (the small-school dominated North Central Connecticut Conference) and built a firm foundation based on work ethic and pride. The Patriots were 6-12 in his first season -- 2001 -- but were atop Class S two years later when the seeds he planted and nurtured with tough love blossomed beautifully.
I ventured to the Patriots' gym for matches with Southington in 2008 and again last October, when the knowledge of Hurlock's fight for life became public. In between those decisive Coventry victories, the Blue Knights ended the Patriots' 84-match winning streak in October of 2009.
Hurlock could have been sullen like so many successful coaches who hit a bump in the road. With his players shedding tears by the gallon, he was extremely respectful of the Southington players and the work of their magnificent coach Rich Heitz.
Hurlock displayed the same poise when he learned of the illness that would take his life. He leaves his wife Julie and their two young children, but leaves them with a legacy that should fill them with unparallelled pride. Matt Hurlock galvanized a community around a simple volleyball net and some lines on a gymnasium floor. In my book, that qualifies him as a miracle-worker.
Matt Hurlock's selfless enthusiasm has been infused in those he touched -- players, parents, assistants and fellow coaches alike. His family should know that his spirit will live on in the hearts and minds of all those he met. Count me among them.
Hurlock was 39. His work with student-athletes in Coventry was legendary. My respect for his accomplishments as coach of the girls volleyball team was immense. Not only did he lift the Patriots to the heights of Class S (7 championships), his teams consistently flirted with the No. 1 spot among state high schools large and small.
I first met Matt in 2006 when his Coventry High boys basketball team had the dubious task of trying to derail the Berlin juggernaut led by Doran Mitchell. His Patriots had the higher seed in a quarterfinal matchup at Plainville's Ivan Wood Gym, but Berlin cruised by 31 points. The Redcoats went on to win what was temporarily known as a Class III state title.
When Hurlock's volleyball teams were sparring with the great Southington squads for state recognition, he was a sports writer's dream, responding to all inquiries and answering questions thoughtfully. His response always reflected his innate desire of promoting his hard-working youngsters and the sport of volleyball, for that was the essence of Matt Hurlock. He helped kids.
Hurlock, who according to my esteemed Hartford Courant colleague and treasured friend Lori Riley had the unthinkable volleyball record of 208-19, took a program that languished in the obscurity of one of the state's more obscure conferences (the small-school dominated North Central Connecticut Conference) and built a firm foundation based on work ethic and pride. The Patriots were 6-12 in his first season -- 2001 -- but were atop Class S two years later when the seeds he planted and nurtured with tough love blossomed beautifully.
I ventured to the Patriots' gym for matches with Southington in 2008 and again last October, when the knowledge of Hurlock's fight for life became public. In between those decisive Coventry victories, the Blue Knights ended the Patriots' 84-match winning streak in October of 2009.
Hurlock could have been sullen like so many successful coaches who hit a bump in the road. With his players shedding tears by the gallon, he was extremely respectful of the Southington players and the work of their magnificent coach Rich Heitz.
Hurlock displayed the same poise when he learned of the illness that would take his life. He leaves his wife Julie and their two young children, but leaves them with a legacy that should fill them with unparallelled pride. Matt Hurlock galvanized a community around a simple volleyball net and some lines on a gymnasium floor. In my book, that qualifies him as a miracle-worker.
Matt Hurlock's selfless enthusiasm has been infused in those he touched -- players, parents, assistants and fellow coaches alike. His family should know that his spirit will live on in the hearts and minds of all those he met. Count me among them.
Monday, July 4, 2011
WHAT JULY 4 MEANS TO ME
The fixated motorist flies by on the right. He weaves in and out of traffic, totally obsessed with his own needs, caring nothing about those around him.
One car he passes nearly swerves off the road. The elderly gentleman was stunned. He remembers when he had some maverick in him but his energy was spent in a different way.
His knuckles weren’t always gnarled with arthritis. It didn’t seem that long ago when things like bifocals and hearing aids were foreign to him.
This man didn’t have the chance to freewheel around when he was trapped between puberty and maturity. He was on a transport carrying him and others his age onto the shores of Normandy, an agent of the free world trying to hold back the sinister arm of tyranny during the dark days of World War II.
The motorist is impervious to the benefits of living in the land of the free. He takes it for granted, pushing safety laws to the limit to satisfy his own needs.
It’s July 4. America is celebrating its 235th birthday. The aging WWII vet is the latest in a long line of freedom fighters dating back to the early days of the American Revolution, when so many gave their lives so that future generations could be free.
Does the motorist, or any of his generation, ever take the time to comprehend how our freedom evolved?
Greedy athletes line up against greedier team owners over financial matters in two of our major professional sports.
The athletes in the NFL and NBA get more and more. The owners want more and more. Lawyers and agents instigate more and more so they can get a bigger piece of the pie. The people pay more and more, making the football and basketball arenas playthings for the wealthy.
None of them give a hoot about the people.
Do any of them stop on July 4 to pay their respects to those who have made it possible to get ridiculously wealthy playing children’s games? How many of them even know the significance of the date?
I wish I could answer that they do, but I don’t think so.
The night crackles with the sound of fireworks going off all around.
The Fourth of July. They have it circled on the calendar in their minds. Fireworks, boom, yeh!
But do they know why they’re shooting off fireworks on this day? How much do they know about what they’re celebrating?
Some of them may remember the history book highlights, no matter how vague or even misleading they may be.
Paul Revere made that ride, right? President George Washington, first man in the White House? Not exactly. Ben Franklin? Five dollar bill, but there are many more reasons he’s pictured there other than flying a kite.
What about Thomas Paine? Daniel Morgan? Nathaniel Greene? There may not be one in 100 who knows about any one of them, and one in 5,000 probably couldn’t identify them all, but there almost certainly would be no speeding motorists, no professional athletes and no fireworks on Fourth of July without any one of them.
Who are they? If you can get out your Google to find out when the latest stupid movie with robots and fire is coming out, you can Google them.
So, what’s the point?
Well, maybe it’s because U.S. history resonates deeply with me. Maybe it’s because you start to think about your own mortality when your age reaches grandfatherly proportions and you want to pass on what you’ve learned. Maybe it’s because things haven’t exactly gone well for me lately and I’m looking for some sort of escape.
It’s probably a little of all three, but I decided that I would take a good portion of time this Independence Day to reflect on those who have sacrificed so I could grow up basking in the glow of freedom.
I attended an afternoon of patriotic music and festivities Sunday that the Farmington Historical Society graciously staged. A troubadour with deep historical roots named Tom Cullinan sang songs including “Rally ’Round the Flag” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” He spoke reverently about those who have served our nation, who numbered eight at the event.
I sang when I knew the words. The thoughts that passed through my mind dampened my cheeks. One woman had the foresight to bring two young boys. Hopefully the event will be etched deeply in their minds so they can pass the spirit along to the next generation.
Independence Day. The Fourth of July. The day means everything to me, it should mean everything to you and I don’t mean the procurement of fireworks, scoffing multiple burgers and keeping the beer cold.
One car he passes nearly swerves off the road. The elderly gentleman was stunned. He remembers when he had some maverick in him but his energy was spent in a different way.
His knuckles weren’t always gnarled with arthritis. It didn’t seem that long ago when things like bifocals and hearing aids were foreign to him.
This man didn’t have the chance to freewheel around when he was trapped between puberty and maturity. He was on a transport carrying him and others his age onto the shores of Normandy, an agent of the free world trying to hold back the sinister arm of tyranny during the dark days of World War II.
The motorist is impervious to the benefits of living in the land of the free. He takes it for granted, pushing safety laws to the limit to satisfy his own needs.
It’s July 4. America is celebrating its 235th birthday. The aging WWII vet is the latest in a long line of freedom fighters dating back to the early days of the American Revolution, when so many gave their lives so that future generations could be free.
Does the motorist, or any of his generation, ever take the time to comprehend how our freedom evolved?
Greedy athletes line up against greedier team owners over financial matters in two of our major professional sports.
The athletes in the NFL and NBA get more and more. The owners want more and more. Lawyers and agents instigate more and more so they can get a bigger piece of the pie. The people pay more and more, making the football and basketball arenas playthings for the wealthy.
None of them give a hoot about the people.
Do any of them stop on July 4 to pay their respects to those who have made it possible to get ridiculously wealthy playing children’s games? How many of them even know the significance of the date?
I wish I could answer that they do, but I don’t think so.
The night crackles with the sound of fireworks going off all around.
The Fourth of July. They have it circled on the calendar in their minds. Fireworks, boom, yeh!
But do they know why they’re shooting off fireworks on this day? How much do they know about what they’re celebrating?
Some of them may remember the history book highlights, no matter how vague or even misleading they may be.
Paul Revere made that ride, right? President George Washington, first man in the White House? Not exactly. Ben Franklin? Five dollar bill, but there are many more reasons he’s pictured there other than flying a kite.
What about Thomas Paine? Daniel Morgan? Nathaniel Greene? There may not be one in 100 who knows about any one of them, and one in 5,000 probably couldn’t identify them all, but there almost certainly would be no speeding motorists, no professional athletes and no fireworks on Fourth of July without any one of them.
Who are they? If you can get out your Google to find out when the latest stupid movie with robots and fire is coming out, you can Google them.
So, what’s the point?
Well, maybe it’s because U.S. history resonates deeply with me. Maybe it’s because you start to think about your own mortality when your age reaches grandfatherly proportions and you want to pass on what you’ve learned. Maybe it’s because things haven’t exactly gone well for me lately and I’m looking for some sort of escape.
It’s probably a little of all three, but I decided that I would take a good portion of time this Independence Day to reflect on those who have sacrificed so I could grow up basking in the glow of freedom.
I attended an afternoon of patriotic music and festivities Sunday that the Farmington Historical Society graciously staged. A troubadour with deep historical roots named Tom Cullinan sang songs including “Rally ’Round the Flag” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” He spoke reverently about those who have served our nation, who numbered eight at the event.
I sang when I knew the words. The thoughts that passed through my mind dampened my cheeks. One woman had the foresight to bring two young boys. Hopefully the event will be etched deeply in their minds so they can pass the spirit along to the next generation.
Independence Day. The Fourth of July. The day means everything to me, it should mean everything to you and I don’t mean the procurement of fireworks, scoffing multiple burgers and keeping the beer cold.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
TURNAROUND IS FAIR PLAY FOR CATS
Many of the New Britain Rock Cats’ names are the same.
Nobody signs high-priced free agents to improve Double-A baseball teams, so that isn’t the answer. There hasn’t been an influx of talent deemed to be can’t-miss major league. Neither have the parent Minnesota Twins significantly altered their philosophy of promoting young players to this lofty level on the game’s developmental scale, such as the New York Yankees and Toronto Blue Jays are prone to do.
So how, then, can a team that finished buried so deep in last place among Eastern League teams in 2010 that even an archeological dig couldn’t locate it have reversed their fortunes so quickly? The New Britain Rock Cats were 44-98 last year. The stately EL hadn’t recorded a team that unsuccessful since the Utica Braves tortured fans in central New York with a 37-101 debacle in 1943.
But as the 2011 season veered through the month of May, neither horrors of the past nor a disproportionate slew of player transactions due in large part to injury at the major league and Triple-A levels have deterred our Cats. With the month at its halfway point Sunday, manager Jeff Smith had his boys tied for first place in the Northern Division at 22-13.
New Britain’s humble skipper doesn’t have a Narcissistic bone in his body. He doesn’t take credit for success any more than he should be blamed for last year’s failure. The one-time Rock Cats catcher provides the kind of even-keel leadership for which the large majority of players yearn.
The answer is multifold. Smith talked about the defense. He praised the starting rotation and the bullpen. He loves the way his hitters are approaching their at-bats. But he said a huge part of the equation is the intangible qualities of peer leadership and clubhouse chemistry.
“The big thing is we’ve had some guys step up with good leadership and it’s been a fun start to the season,” Smith said May 13 after the Rock Cats vanquished the struggling Red Sox farm club, the Portland Sea Dogs, in a crisply played 2-0 game before nearly 7,300 at New Britain Stadium.
“There are a lot of guys. The returning guys – (first baseman/left fielder Chris) Parmelee’s been real good out there, we have a lot of pitchers who have stepped up. I think the addition of Mike Hollimon, too, has been terrific for this team in the clubhouse and on the field, too.”
Hollimon, at 28, is older than the vast majority of Rock Cats past and present. After an All-Star season with Erie (EL) in 2007 and an 11-game stint with the Detroit Tigers the next year, injuries and subsequent surgeries on both shoulders limited him in 2009 and 2010.
He played independent ball last year after the Tigers released him in March. The Twins signed him in December, hoping he would add a veteran presence to a team that is always among the youngest and least experienced in the league. Hollimon was unaware just how bad 2010 was for the Rock Cats.
“When I saw the roster, in my head I was thinking we’ve got a chance to be really good,” Hollimon said. “Trust me, there are going to be a lot of guys from this team that are going to be playing in the big leagues. I was excited.”
He found that the team that broke spring training was a good group of guys.
“It’s mind-boggling because the chemistry in this clubhouse is fantastic,” Hollimon added. “I feel like everybody gets along. I don’t see any cliques. The pitchers aren’t staying with themselves. The infielders aren’t staying with themselves. Everyone’s together.
“I know for a fact that it’s a key ingredient for becoming a winning team. You have to pull for each other, and really pull for each other with your whole heart.”
With the chemistry in place, every aspect of play has been solid.
“It’s been a fun start, regardless of wins and losses,” Smith said.
Hollimon, Chris Cates and Steve Singleton have shared the shortstop slot. Combined with Yangervis Solarte at second, there’s strength up the middle.
Through Saturday’s doubleheader sweep of the Portland Sea Dogs (the Red Sox farm club), Solarte is second in the league in batting at .362. Parmelee, a 2006 first-round draft pick with a sweet left-handed swing, is eighth in the circuit at .326 and third in RBI with 24.
Outfielder Joe Benson leads in homers with four and Singleton, despite spending 10 days in Triple-A, has three.
“Regardless whether you get a lot of hits or not, one of the most important things is how you grind out at-bats,” Smith said. “Are you going to give them away? They’ve done a really good job. … The guys have kind of fed off each other and when you do that, it makes the lineup pretty deep.”
From a pitching perspective, right-hander Cole DeVries, 26, was 8-19 with a 5.15 ERA and gave up 26 homers in 206 innings in two years with the Rock Cats as a starter and reliever.
This year in the closer’s role, DeVries has converted all eight save chances and has a 1.59 ERA in 12 appearances.
“He’s been lights-out at the end of our games,” Smith said.
Staten Island’s Bobby Lanigan is 4-2 with a 2.61 ERA in seven starts to pace the starting rotation. Australian-born Liam Hendriks is 3-1 with a 3.66 and Steve Hirschfeld is 2-0 with a 2.08.
So how have the Rock Cats turned it around? It’s impossible to pinpoint one reason but there can be no doubt that Smith all his factors in place as May plays out.
Nobody signs high-priced free agents to improve Double-A baseball teams, so that isn’t the answer. There hasn’t been an influx of talent deemed to be can’t-miss major league. Neither have the parent Minnesota Twins significantly altered their philosophy of promoting young players to this lofty level on the game’s developmental scale, such as the New York Yankees and Toronto Blue Jays are prone to do.
So how, then, can a team that finished buried so deep in last place among Eastern League teams in 2010 that even an archeological dig couldn’t locate it have reversed their fortunes so quickly? The New Britain Rock Cats were 44-98 last year. The stately EL hadn’t recorded a team that unsuccessful since the Utica Braves tortured fans in central New York with a 37-101 debacle in 1943.
But as the 2011 season veered through the month of May, neither horrors of the past nor a disproportionate slew of player transactions due in large part to injury at the major league and Triple-A levels have deterred our Cats. With the month at its halfway point Sunday, manager Jeff Smith had his boys tied for first place in the Northern Division at 22-13.
New Britain’s humble skipper doesn’t have a Narcissistic bone in his body. He doesn’t take credit for success any more than he should be blamed for last year’s failure. The one-time Rock Cats catcher provides the kind of even-keel leadership for which the large majority of players yearn.
The answer is multifold. Smith talked about the defense. He praised the starting rotation and the bullpen. He loves the way his hitters are approaching their at-bats. But he said a huge part of the equation is the intangible qualities of peer leadership and clubhouse chemistry.
“The big thing is we’ve had some guys step up with good leadership and it’s been a fun start to the season,” Smith said May 13 after the Rock Cats vanquished the struggling Red Sox farm club, the Portland Sea Dogs, in a crisply played 2-0 game before nearly 7,300 at New Britain Stadium.
“There are a lot of guys. The returning guys – (first baseman/left fielder Chris) Parmelee’s been real good out there, we have a lot of pitchers who have stepped up. I think the addition of Mike Hollimon, too, has been terrific for this team in the clubhouse and on the field, too.”
Hollimon, at 28, is older than the vast majority of Rock Cats past and present. After an All-Star season with Erie (EL) in 2007 and an 11-game stint with the Detroit Tigers the next year, injuries and subsequent surgeries on both shoulders limited him in 2009 and 2010.
He played independent ball last year after the Tigers released him in March. The Twins signed him in December, hoping he would add a veteran presence to a team that is always among the youngest and least experienced in the league. Hollimon was unaware just how bad 2010 was for the Rock Cats.
“When I saw the roster, in my head I was thinking we’ve got a chance to be really good,” Hollimon said. “Trust me, there are going to be a lot of guys from this team that are going to be playing in the big leagues. I was excited.”
He found that the team that broke spring training was a good group of guys.
“It’s mind-boggling because the chemistry in this clubhouse is fantastic,” Hollimon added. “I feel like everybody gets along. I don’t see any cliques. The pitchers aren’t staying with themselves. The infielders aren’t staying with themselves. Everyone’s together.
“I know for a fact that it’s a key ingredient for becoming a winning team. You have to pull for each other, and really pull for each other with your whole heart.”
With the chemistry in place, every aspect of play has been solid.
“It’s been a fun start, regardless of wins and losses,” Smith said.
Hollimon, Chris Cates and Steve Singleton have shared the shortstop slot. Combined with Yangervis Solarte at second, there’s strength up the middle.
Through Saturday’s doubleheader sweep of the Portland Sea Dogs (the Red Sox farm club), Solarte is second in the league in batting at .362. Parmelee, a 2006 first-round draft pick with a sweet left-handed swing, is eighth in the circuit at .326 and third in RBI with 24.
Outfielder Joe Benson leads in homers with four and Singleton, despite spending 10 days in Triple-A, has three.
“Regardless whether you get a lot of hits or not, one of the most important things is how you grind out at-bats,” Smith said. “Are you going to give them away? They’ve done a really good job. … The guys have kind of fed off each other and when you do that, it makes the lineup pretty deep.”
From a pitching perspective, right-hander Cole DeVries, 26, was 8-19 with a 5.15 ERA and gave up 26 homers in 206 innings in two years with the Rock Cats as a starter and reliever.
This year in the closer’s role, DeVries has converted all eight save chances and has a 1.59 ERA in 12 appearances.
“He’s been lights-out at the end of our games,” Smith said.
Staten Island’s Bobby Lanigan is 4-2 with a 2.61 ERA in seven starts to pace the starting rotation. Australian-born Liam Hendriks is 3-1 with a 3.66 and Steve Hirschfeld is 2-0 with a 2.08.
So how have the Rock Cats turned it around? It’s impossible to pinpoint one reason but there can be no doubt that Smith all his factors in place as May plays out.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
A ROSE GREW IN WEST HARTFORD
Passing stories from generation to generation is an inherent human trait, I guess. Whether the tales are exaggerated a little or a lot, history is built upon their foundations.
The desire to weave yarns seems to grow as a person ages.
I remember sitting on my grandpa’s knee listening to him spin anecdotes of his childhood in the Ukraine, how a Cossack on horseback swept through his town brandishing a sword and left a gash on his father’s neck. Great-grandma stitched it up with a needle and thread.
But before I digress as I’m prone to do, allow me to relate a West Hartford tale of my very own, which of course revolves around my beloved game of baseball.
The story begins Monday afternoon, May 2, at the first high school game I ever covered at the nicely maintained Hall High School baseball field in the far corner of that sweeping complex.
Hall, in its injury-depleted state, was hosting Newington, the details of which are available elsewhere within these pages. The Warriors’ Stephen Ranieri had a career day, logging a strong start on the mound and blasting a home run. Even in the wake of the hard-to-swallow extra-inning loss, it was hard for him to be too forlorn as he and his teammates did some groundskeeping.
With participation in baseball dwindling at the high school level, I found it particularly important to let Stephen – his mom stresses intently that it is not to be spelled Steven – know that I appreciated his effort. As I began to recognize his love for the game, I decided to tell him about the first time I covered a baseball game at the Hall complex.
First, I went into my wallet and extracted a baseball card of myself when I was general manager of the Eastern League’s Glens Falls Tigers in 1988. The card, thinned and frayed at the edges by more than 20 years on my person, displayed a scrawled autograph across the bottom still very visible.
I asked Stephen if he could identify the autograph. That wasn’t fair. A 17-year-old baseball fan lives in the land of Derek Jeter and Big Papi, far different from the one I lived in when I was a teen awestruck by the game. I would have recognized the autograph in a heartbeat, with that bulbous “P” at the front of the first name and the equally bulbous “R” beginning the last name.
Well, the game that day wasn’t baseball in its truest form.
I was working for the Bristol Press at the time. My days working as an administrator in the Eastern League were over. My attempts to find myself professionally hit a few dead ends so I decided I wanted to go back to my roots. Sportswriting was something I wanted since I sat on grandpa’s knee.
Bristol sports editor Keith Freeman had given me a few freelance opportunities when he saw that Pete Rose was coming to West Hartford to participate in a benefit softball game organized by the late, great sports promoter Syd Conn. West Hartford is well outside Bristol’s jurisdiction but Keith knew how much I loved Rose and the Cincinnati Reds, so he gave me the chance of a lifetime. The date was August 25, 1991.
The game was played in a roughed-out diamond fanning out from the southwest corner of Chalmers Stadium. There he was, larger than life, aptly decked out in a red jersey. His playing days had ended in 1986 and his managerial reign three years later. He was a little thicker around the middle, but still looked like he could step up to the dish from the right or left side and rifle a base hit into a gap.
The indomitable Rose pride was evident in his actions and his words but it was his showmanship which provided the gathering with another perspective of Major League Baseball’s all-time hit leader.
At one point, his team – Conn’s Kings – being waylayed by Peter Pan Café, Rose blurted out, “Where’s (former Reds closer and Southington native Rob) Dibble when I need him?” When a youngster dropped a ball he had just autographed (at no charge), Rose quipped, “Hey kid, do you eat with those hands?” Vintage stuff.
Rose’s banishment from Hall of Fame induction by late Commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti because of his gambling addiction was in the news. His words that day reflected what has since become public knowledge, but at that time he was denying he bet on baseball. His confession came years later in his book, “My Prison Without Bars.”
“I believe deep down that the Commissioner of baseball (Fay Vincent at the time) understands that I made some mistakes,” Rose told me. “He’s a fair man, an honest man. I’m totally convinced of that in my mind.
“There’s no personal vendetta that the Commissioner has lodged against me. I just did some things I shouldn’t have done. I shouldn’t have bet on those other sports. I did it. I admitted to it and that’s why I was suspended from baseball. I think the Commissioner of baseball will be a fair man, though.”
Stephen listened to my abridged version of the story intently. His open-mouthed reaction to what I told him was of great reward to me. I learned that when you can no longer stroke a baseball like Stephen can, you have to resort to the only means available to an old sports writer – the stories. Grandpa, I know how you feel.
The desire to weave yarns seems to grow as a person ages.
I remember sitting on my grandpa’s knee listening to him spin anecdotes of his childhood in the Ukraine, how a Cossack on horseback swept through his town brandishing a sword and left a gash on his father’s neck. Great-grandma stitched it up with a needle and thread.
But before I digress as I’m prone to do, allow me to relate a West Hartford tale of my very own, which of course revolves around my beloved game of baseball.
The story begins Monday afternoon, May 2, at the first high school game I ever covered at the nicely maintained Hall High School baseball field in the far corner of that sweeping complex.
Hall, in its injury-depleted state, was hosting Newington, the details of which are available elsewhere within these pages. The Warriors’ Stephen Ranieri had a career day, logging a strong start on the mound and blasting a home run. Even in the wake of the hard-to-swallow extra-inning loss, it was hard for him to be too forlorn as he and his teammates did some groundskeeping.
With participation in baseball dwindling at the high school level, I found it particularly important to let Stephen – his mom stresses intently that it is not to be spelled Steven – know that I appreciated his effort. As I began to recognize his love for the game, I decided to tell him about the first time I covered a baseball game at the Hall complex.
First, I went into my wallet and extracted a baseball card of myself when I was general manager of the Eastern League’s Glens Falls Tigers in 1988. The card, thinned and frayed at the edges by more than 20 years on my person, displayed a scrawled autograph across the bottom still very visible.
I asked Stephen if he could identify the autograph. That wasn’t fair. A 17-year-old baseball fan lives in the land of Derek Jeter and Big Papi, far different from the one I lived in when I was a teen awestruck by the game. I would have recognized the autograph in a heartbeat, with that bulbous “P” at the front of the first name and the equally bulbous “R” beginning the last name.
Well, the game that day wasn’t baseball in its truest form.
I was working for the Bristol Press at the time. My days working as an administrator in the Eastern League were over. My attempts to find myself professionally hit a few dead ends so I decided I wanted to go back to my roots. Sportswriting was something I wanted since I sat on grandpa’s knee.
Bristol sports editor Keith Freeman had given me a few freelance opportunities when he saw that Pete Rose was coming to West Hartford to participate in a benefit softball game organized by the late, great sports promoter Syd Conn. West Hartford is well outside Bristol’s jurisdiction but Keith knew how much I loved Rose and the Cincinnati Reds, so he gave me the chance of a lifetime. The date was August 25, 1991.
The game was played in a roughed-out diamond fanning out from the southwest corner of Chalmers Stadium. There he was, larger than life, aptly decked out in a red jersey. His playing days had ended in 1986 and his managerial reign three years later. He was a little thicker around the middle, but still looked like he could step up to the dish from the right or left side and rifle a base hit into a gap.
The indomitable Rose pride was evident in his actions and his words but it was his showmanship which provided the gathering with another perspective of Major League Baseball’s all-time hit leader.
At one point, his team – Conn’s Kings – being waylayed by Peter Pan Café, Rose blurted out, “Where’s (former Reds closer and Southington native Rob) Dibble when I need him?” When a youngster dropped a ball he had just autographed (at no charge), Rose quipped, “Hey kid, do you eat with those hands?” Vintage stuff.
Rose’s banishment from Hall of Fame induction by late Commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti because of his gambling addiction was in the news. His words that day reflected what has since become public knowledge, but at that time he was denying he bet on baseball. His confession came years later in his book, “My Prison Without Bars.”
“I believe deep down that the Commissioner of baseball (Fay Vincent at the time) understands that I made some mistakes,” Rose told me. “He’s a fair man, an honest man. I’m totally convinced of that in my mind.
“There’s no personal vendetta that the Commissioner has lodged against me. I just did some things I shouldn’t have done. I shouldn’t have bet on those other sports. I did it. I admitted to it and that’s why I was suspended from baseball. I think the Commissioner of baseball will be a fair man, though.”
Stephen listened to my abridged version of the story intently. His open-mouthed reaction to what I told him was of great reward to me. I learned that when you can no longer stroke a baseball like Stephen can, you have to resort to the only means available to an old sports writer – the stories. Grandpa, I know how you feel.
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