Turkey is a Fowl Bird

A couple of weeks ago, the air down here in Florida started to look and smell a little different. I commented to my wife, that if you weren’t aware of the temperature, just by the look outside it could be fall anywhere in the continental United States. At night, windswept clouds created a desert in the sky. There’s a crispness to everything brought on by the fronts pushing down from the north, as opposed to all weather being driven by the equatorial lows out of West Africa. In Florida, we don’t enjoy the nights by the fireplace, the first snowfall, or the opportunity to test our driving skills on black ice. However, we do get to celebrate the holiday season with the same enthusiasm as those to the north.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, a curious holiday, but one of great importance nonetheless. The first Thanksgiving school children are taught occurred in 1621, one year after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, in what soon would become the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. It wasn’t referred to as “Thanksgiving” per se. That first celebration might have been called “We’re really glad we didn’t die Day.” You see, forty-seven of the original 102 voyagers who boarded the Mayflower, died that first year. Had I survived, feast, schmeast; howling at the moon would not have done justice to the elation felt by one of the lucky few spared during that miserable shitstorm of a first year of settlement. But feast these folks did, if you can call crap even a vegan would turn their nose up at a feast.

Under the circumstances, anything outside of dirt was probably pretty grandiose. While the menu for these hearty souls may have left something to be desired, their spirit of fellowship was high, as it should be today. Isn’t that what holidays are really about? It doesn’t matter what the date has been referred to over the years.

First, that initial get together happened on December 12th. It would be many years before November even entered into the picture. Subsequent years following the Pilgrims whoopty-doo, different settlements celebrated on different dates; and it wasn’t celebrated as “Thanksgiving,” but Forefather’s Day. In 1755, the Continental Congress stated December 18th to be a National day of Thanksgiving. George Washington declared a day of Thanksgiving after the Continental Army victory at Saratoga during the Revolutionary War. It would not be until 1863, when Abraham Lincoln ordered the last Thursday in November be the National holiday known as Thanksgiving Day. Once Americans started buying all kinds of shit, Franklin Roosevelt moved Thanksgiving to the forth Thursday in November. I’m sure you’re all delighted that has been cleared up. It may consume more time when you have to tell your grandkids the origins of Thanksgiving, but the stories that families repeat about their Thanksgivings are what make the holiday truly memorable.

It is said, “You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your relatives.” Depending on the results of your own personal genetic lottery, the level of enjoyment one experienced on Thanksgiving could vary tremendously. Being from a rather small family, there was only so much brain damage that could be inflicted by those present.

As a child, most of my memories have to do with the Macy’s Parade, the great food, and Thanksgiving’s close proximity to Christmas. My paternal grandmother Hazel, was a phenomenal cook. She shared her kitchen expertise with my mother. I was always thankful for that. My maternal grandmother Mary, so inept at meal preparation was she, rumor had it she often burned water. I could never understand why we never spent Thanksgiving at the home of my father’s parents. It would have been easier to just let Hazel do all the cooking. Also, all family members, extended as well, lived within twenty-five minutes of each other. It wouldn’t be until I was older, and became aware of the term “strained relationships” to see why two distinct Thanksgiving dinners were prepared in different locales. My mother’s parent celebrated with us, while we didn’t even venture to my father’s parents, where his sister and her brood gathered. As I grew older, the Thanksgiving tradition of “running around like a lunatic to overeat” became the norm.

A steady girlfriend, and later a wife, necessitated spending Thanksgiving with two families. Invariably, my mother served dinner late. Late like 6:30 late. This meant I always ate at my significant others first. The mothers of my significant others all must have gone to the same school, the University of Havesomemore. They also all did their graduate work at Areyousureyouhadenough. Stuffed, we’d make our way to my Mom’s for round two. Not wanting to hurt her felling, plus as I said, she was a terrific cook, I ate yet again. And yes, I took seconds. Loaded with tryptophan, and on the verge of an internal combustion catastrophe of epic proportions, myself and whoever went out to meet friends. After I got married, most times it was to meet for cocktails.

It was during this period of my life, my mother’s cooking started to deteriorate. My mother never went out to meet up with friends. However, she didn’t wait until after the Thanksgiving meal to have cocktails…many cocktails. This fact may have contributed to the decline in the kitchen. My first wife and I often took my mother’s lead before we ventured off to her parents, due to the unusual nature of social interaction that went on. There, while my wife’s parents drank in moderation lest the meal be ruined, we young ‘uns made it a point to get hammered. We had to endure barbs, gibes, and criticism over our life choices, appearance, lack of success etc. I was always thankful they stocked my brand of scotch. There was always plenty of wine with the meal as well, like any of us needed it, but drink we did. About fifteen seconds shy of R.E.M sleep; my wife would jostle me and whisper, “Isn’t time we left for your parents.” So off we went for my mother’s attempt at a multi-course meal.

No longer was everything made from scratch, and if it was from scratch, we had to endure my mother’s long-winded Ode to Chef’s Martyrdom about what a trial and tribulation this selfless act done strictly out of her love for everyone. Christ, it made me want to puke up everything I at my in-laws. The upside to that prospect being, I’d have room to eat enough my mother wouldn’t be able to lay a guilt trip on me about how I no longer liked her cooking, which was essentially true. After my first wife and I divorced, I was finally free of the dual dinner indulgence.
Oddly, I still spent my Thanksgivings at my ex-in-laws; having a kid brings people together, just not always the husband and the wife. After a falling out with my mother, I even tried to do Thanksgiving by myself, with mixed results. My son Cory, and I one year traveled to my father’s in Ohio to celebrate the Thanksgiving. That was the year I became the relative you wished wouldn’t show up for familial holiday get togethers. Contrary to popular belief, one’s excessive drinking does harm others. When Cory and I moved to Florida, I spent my Thanksgivings alone for several years.

I was cordially invited by friends and neighbors to spend Thanksgiving with them, but rather than share my misery at Cory spending all holidays in New Jersey with his mother, I decided to spare those kind folks and be miserable by myself. One benevolent neighbor would make me a plate from her table, and leave it outside my front door. Some years later, she became my wife. With her came new relatives in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and demeanors to share the holidays. Some have now moved away, and have not been so moved to reunite at Thanksgiving.

For Cory, the Florida-Florida State football game justifiably takes precedent at Thanksgiving. Rather than schlep five hours south just to go five hours north the following day; he spends his Thanksgiving catch as catch can. This year, he’ll be spending it with his mother at her newly purchased home in Daytona; a mere hour drive from Gainesville. He’ll be back on campus for all the festivities. Besides, he’ll be home in a little over two weeks for Christmas.

I’ll be celebrating the holiday the way I began as a child. The focus will be on Macy’s Parade, the food, and then maybe a schmaltzy first Christmas movie of the year. I am always glad to see my wife’s few relatives who remain in the area, but I don’t think fellowship is a priority for them. I will watch football, a tradition absent from my early youth. I will have leftovers, one thing missing all those years of going to two households. There was never enough turkey to satisfy me. What does satisfy me is the aftermath. The quiet reflection of gratitude for my life, the turkey sandwiches,the excessive farting,the appreciation for my abilities that remained dormant for so long, the chance to bring happiness to others, the satisfaction to know I have a people in my life whom I love, and they love me back in spite of myself, especially my wife Helen, and my son Cory. These are all the things I’m thankful for, except maybe the farting.

Loyal to a Fault

“We are not descended
from fearful men, not from men who feared to write, to speak, to
associate and to defend causes which were, for the moment, unpopular."
Edward R. Murrow

This week’s blog is inspired by Gail Oehling, a former high school classmate of mine. I did not speak with Gail, nor ask her opinion on any particular topic. All I did was make an entry on Facebook, the social network website. Gail, I promised I’d elaborate on my abridged answer to your simple question of “Why?” when I posted “F the Steelers.”

I am a Cincinnati Bengal fan. I’ll say it again for those of you who think that perhaps I wrote that down in error, or had a momentary lapse of reason. I am a Cincinnati Bengal fan. I have been a fan since their inception.

The year was 1968. Some of you who read my balderdash every week weren’t even born. Like the nation, my life was in a state of flux. My parents had divorced the year before. My father relocated to Columbus, Ohio. In my youth, I regularly harassed my father to take me to sporting events. Rarely was I successful. However, on one of my all too infrequent visits to Ohio, he procured tickets to a Cincinnati Bengals game. The Cleveland Browns were the hot ticket back then. Judging by the attendance that day, Bengal tickets, on the other hand, were pretty easy to come by. It didn’t matter; I was at a professional football game with my Dad, a first.

We drove down from Columbus in my father’s red Corvair Monza, at a rather rapid rate I might add. The Bengals were playing the Houston Oilers, now known as the Tennessee Titans. The Bengals did not have their own stadium yet, so they played their home games at Nippert Stadium located on the University of Cincinnati campus. The facility held only about thirty thousand spectators. It was a good thing too, since the Bengals were never in any danger of selling out. The only times the stadium was filled to overflowing was when fans of the Browns or the Pittsburgh Steelers made the roadtrip. For many years after that inaugural season, Browns or Steelers fans usually outnumbered Bengal fans at Nippert, and later, Riverfront Stadium. The day I was there, there were few Bengal “fans,” and fewer still Oiler fans who’d venture from Houston for a football game.

The Bengals were new. They hadn’t been around long enough to develop a following. The old American Football League was still considered by many, a joke; a novel experiment, not a threat to NFL supremacy. None of this mattered to me. They had an honest to goodness Bengal tiger in a cage on the sideline for Christ sake! The Bengals were owned and coached by the legendary Paul Brown. The same Paul Brown who previously owned and coached the Cleveland Browns; the same Paul Brown who helped force the merger of the All-American Football Conference and the NFL; the same Paul Brown who ignored the gentleman’s agreement to not sign African-American players. I got to see him and his new team in the flesh. I was hooked. I became a fan of the Cincinnati Bengals though I resided in New Jersey, no easy task.

You see, for many years the Bengals… how shall I put this…sucked, or blew, depending on how you look at things. University of Cincinnati star Greg Cook, became my favorite player. I am sure none have a clue who he is, nor do you give a shit. The Bengals made him their first draft choice in 1969. Greg Cook was the AFL Rookie of the Year. That same year, he led the league in passing efficiency, as well as the Bengals to a 3-0 start. Sadly, he tore his rotator cuff in the forth game of the season. While enduring incredible pain, he played the rest of the season because he “felt obligated.” That season became his only season. Then assistant coach Bill Walsh, claimed Greg Cook would have become “one of the greatest quarterbacks in NFL history” had he had the medical care available today. That was who I chose as my favorite player. The Bengals have followed a similar path as their first “franchise” player. That is the team I chose to lasso my loyalty wagon to.

While the Steelers, a team that plays in the same division as the Bengals, were winning four Super Bowl Championships; the Bengals have had two near misses, bookends to the decade of the eighties. Both losses, one in 1981, the other in 1989, came at the hands of the San Francisco 49ers. The latter game remained in doubt until a 49er touchdown with fourteen seconds to play snatched victory from my team. I had hoped to attend that game in person.

At the beginning of that season, my friend Gregg had promised me if the Bengals made the Super Bowl, since it was in Miami where Gregg’s parents lived nearby, we would go. The notion of the Bengals in the Super Bowl seemed so absurd, Gregg felt confident of his declaration. When the time came, Gregg was so inundated with work, taking off for a football game was impossible. Undaunted, I went to a bar called “The Bartley House” located in Flanders, N.J. the Friday before the game. I offered hotel, game ticket and airfare to anyone who would accompany me. There were no takers. Obviously, those present thought me unstable. I was relegated, unhappily, to watching my football world crumble on television.

Their souls now crushed after that devastating Super Bowl loss, The Bengals then went on to register the greatest level of futility for a decade in the history of professional football, a .245 winning percentage for the nineties.
Once in the last twenty years, the Bengals have seen their record climb above .500. So unappealing to network ratings are the Bengals, that the team went nineteen seasons between Monday Night Football appearances. The Bengals lack of a national following warranted a span of fifteen years between nationally televised games. The Detroit Lions, whose name for the past several years has been synonymous with ineffectual play, at least appear on TV every Thanksgiving. Merchandise was another vast wasteland of ignominy I was cast to while obsessed with my Bengals.

For many years there was nothing “Bengals” available for purchase in central Ohio. Geographically, Columbus was closer to Cincinnati than Cleveland. No matter, the Bengals just didn’t sell. Chronic losing has that effect. The idea I could purchase anything Bengals in New Jersey was sheer madness. The only Bengal items I owned until the advent of the Internet, were my Bengals pennant bought at that game in 1968, and a cheesy baseball cap acquired at a Jets/Bengals game that took place in New Jersey. Today, with the help of my wife and other relatives and friends, I own many things Bengals.

My wife Helen, had two sets of pillowcases custom-made for me, one orange, one black, festooned with the Bengals logo. She forbade the sheet idea, so I take my small victories where I can get them. My wife has gone to great lengths to feed my Bengals addiction.

There is the orange and black Bengals cooking apron, with matching oven mitts of course. There is the foyer of our home where she has adorned the wall with my hats, yes, there is now more than one, on my custom-made Bengals hat rack. The newest hat was given to me by my son. Above the rack , a custom-made sign tells a visitor they are in “Bengals Country.” Framed, signed pictures of former Bengals hang near the sign.

My wife purchased Bengal floor mats for my car. She has contributed three of the nine t-shirts I own, her daughter and granddaughter, one each. My friend Barbara kicked in one; my step-mother two. In addition, I own three replica jerseys with player’s names on the back. My son is responsible for one. Two of the players are no longer with the franchise. For when I travel to see the Bengals in cold climates, I bring along my Bengals ski hat and gloves. A couple of years ago I bought a pair of Nike basketball shoes that match all of these articles of clothing. They are a conversation piece at every game, and I’ve been to a few.

As a New Jersey resident I’ve seen the Bengals play the Eagles in Philadelphia. I’ve seen them play the Jets twice, once at Shea Stadium, the other at The Meadowlands. In 2004, while spending Christmas with my father for the first time in thirty-five years, as a present to him, I got tickets for three generations of Berstler’s to go see the Bengals play Cory’s team, the Giants. I referred to it as returning to the seen of the crime.

I wrote a five page e-mail to Jason Williams of Bengals ticketing describing my lifelong love affair. He told me he was so taken with the story; he circulated the e-mail throughout the organization. I was able to purchase fifty yard line seats for the three of us. Little did I know I’d be returning one year later, to a playoff game no less.

As hard as it was for the rest of the football world to comprehend; the Bengals won their division title in 2005. Their first game would be against the Pittsburgh Steelers in Cincinnati. I called my friend in the ticket office. I got two handicapped tickets for Cory and I. We flew up the day before the game and stayed at my father’s house, a two and a half hour drive from Cincinnati.

We had to pick our tickets up at the “Will Call” window. We left my father’s in plenty of time to get there before the window opened. When we arrived, we saw a massive tailgate party commencing, satellite dish, twenty-five watt sound system and all. I made my way over to see if the contingent planned on watching my son’s Giants do battle at 1:00. “Tom” said he was. He asked me where I was from. I told him originally New Jersey, but now I lived in Florida. He thought me a real trooper to fly up for the game. Tom then asked how long I’d been a Bengals fan. I said since 1968, and proceeded to tell him what I’ve just said here. Tom said, “That makes you a lifer; let me go get the other one.” Amid the huge expanse of parking area cluttered with hundreds of Bengals fans, Tom knew of only one other “lifer?” From that moment on, Cory and I were treated like royalty. A chair with the Bengal insignia crocheted by the other lifer’s wife,(Tom’s mother)was brought out for me, and placed directly in front of the TV. No one had ever sat in that chair since Tom’s mom passed away. It was her chair. I was the first. Loyalty has its privileges.

As game time approached, we all made our way into Paul Brown Stadium. On the very first play of the game, Carson Palmer connected with Chad Johnson (now Ocho Cinco) for a sixty-seven yard pass play. My first thought was how was I going to afford to go to the Super Bowl? What I saw erased that thought. The Steelers lineman had made an extra lunge toward Carson Palmer after he released his pass. He struck Palmer awkwardly on his knee, ending Palmer’s day, and effectively any chance for a Bengals victory.

All Cincinnati radio stations had urged Bengals fans not to sell their tickets to anyone from Pittsburgh. Hence, only about two-thousand Steelers faithful occupied seats. When they saw Palmer go down injured, some of these assholes began to cheer. I seethed, cursing every one of them.

The Bengals fought on valiantly. The Steelers did not have the game completely in hand until the forth quarter. While I mulled over what should have been, The Steelers went on to win their fifth Super Bowl title. They would win another still, while the Bengals wallowed in mediocrity. Ever since that day, I hear a Pittsburgh reference, or see anything Steelers, I’m compelled to say aloud either “Fuck Pittsburgh,” or “Fuck the Steelers.” My wife thinks I may need psychiatric help to rid me of this defamatory tic.

I have seen other games since that trip to Ohio. Cory and I drove to Tampa the following year for a game against the Buccaneers. Where again, “lifer” status was bestowed upon me. The other Bengal fans spoke to me with a certain reverence. The year after that, Cory and I saw them play ten minutes down the road versus the Miami Dolphins, a game I had waited fourteen years for. It was the Bengals first trip to South Florida since I moved here in 1993.

Over the years I have dealt with the catcalls, been poked fun of, and heard my team referred to as the Bungles. I have withstood the barrage of insults from countless fans of other teams; yet continue to wear my colors proudly, win or lose. I watched every Bengals game broadcast for the past three years by purchasing NFL Ticket. The mouse pad I’m using at this very moment is decorated with the Bengals logo, as are the sticky notes in front of me. I have never once considered jumping ship, and onto the bandwagon of another. That’s what makes what’s happening this year so special, however fleeting it may be.

The Bengals sit alone atop their division. Their record is 7-2. It would be 8-1 had it not been for what’s been referred to as “the greatest fluke play to end a game” in NFL history. (There’s a whole other story behind that game alone) A recent newspaper article calls them “the upstart Bengals.” Had anyone watched HBO’s series “Hard Knocks,” they would have seen that perhaps something special was going to happen this season.

Thus far, the Bengals have twice beaten two teams favored to finish ahead of them in the standings, the Baltimore Ravens, and the Pittsburgh Steelers. They swept the Steelers for the first time in ten years. Yet, both teams are ahead of the Bengals in football Power Rankings. Television commentators still act surprised that the Bengals are winning though the season is more than half over. Granted, the Bengals could win only one more game and finish with yet another record of .500 or less. I don’t think that will happen.

I do derive some self-satisfaction from the gratuitous congratulatory bullshit I received so far, even though I don’t need it. Unfortunately, unless my financial situation changes drastically in the next two months, I won’t be able to experience the playoffs first hand. Besides, there is still a lot of games left to play.

It has not always been popular for me to maintain my unwavering loyalty. That’s just how I roll. It’s so much sweeter when things go well. Like life, I’m enjoying it while I can. You never know when it’s going to end.
Oh, and Gail; “Fuck the Steelers.”

Dealt a Fine Hand

The other day I was washing a silicone sleeve that I wear over my partial left leg. I needed to turn the sleeve inside out in order to wash both sides. Silicone, when wet, is rather difficult to manipulate, covered in soap, harder still. Most people would have to grasp both sides of the sleeve and roll it down so the inside was exposed. I did not have to attempt this with slick hands. I reached inside, and pulled at the very end with the tips of my fingers, (I was grateful for their length) turning the sleeve outward. I kept one hand dry, making it easier to wash. This moment gave me pause. If you are still reading, this may not seem life altering. It may very well not be, however, this small act gave me a renewed appreciation for the things my hands can accomplish. No wonder zoologists who study primates are fascinated by the opposable thumb.

Those of you who have all your appendages may take them for granted. I am here to tell you, if one is missing, you tend examine a little more closely what the others are capable of.

I have had the good fortune to have very large hands, and no, for those with filthy minds; it is not always true about everything being proportionate, though my shoe size is relative to my glove size. These hands have been able to palm a basketball since my junior year of high school. They have made using a baseball glove a little easier, as well as more deftly. As for the winter gloves, yes, it has been harder to find ones that fit. I often had to settle for what was in stock, rather than the style I may have wanted.

One hand alone was large enough to support my five pound premature son immediately after he was born. Those hands, you may think could be clumsy, particularly after reading “A State of Disrepair,” were nimble enough to gently change innumerable diapers, make a thousand lunches. They were tender enough to wipe a nose, bathe an infant, and roll one mean joint without tearing the fragile rice paper or spillage. My hands have tied thousands of tight, concise, Windsor knots. They’ve tied a toddler’s shoes more times than I can count, and they’ve dressed a wound when a little boy fell down.

I have been fortunate enough to attend many hundreds of live events. My hands have applauded the excellence I’ve witnessed. Often, the New York Mets were responsible for me to bring my hands together. Every so often it was Broadway shows. Sometimes it was the concerts. Seeing Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers front row center for my son’s fifth birthday; my hands made more noise than I thought possible. My hands have never learned how to play a musical instrument. There’s still time for that.

I have also brought these hands together to stop a cat from clawing the furniture, or a dog from pissing on the carpet. But the times my hands were happiest was when they celebrated an achievement of my son Cory. His exploits on the baseball field would often serve as the driving force behind my hands coming together. The holiday shows he participated in with his classmates gave my hands great satisfaction exhibited in the form of applause. But I believe their proudest moments were when I brought them together to recognize his high school and college graduations.

My hands have built things, albeit most of them poorly, but they were responsible for the completion none the less. I have raised them singly in a variety of academic environments. In high school it was to tell my excuse du jour for not having completed an assignment. Most recently, at the collegiate level, it was because I had something of substance to add to the discussion, quite a change for my hands, they hardly knew how to act.

My hands have been raised to volunteer for countless school fundraisers and group functions for organizations I’ve been affiliated with over the years. A hand has been raised to toast a happy event. They have held up friends, sometimes at these very same events, when if my hands were not available, they’d have fallen over. Occasionally, back in my young and stupid days, I kept myself amused for lengths of time by waving my hand back and forth in front of my face while under the influence of some hallucinogenic. My hands have struck another individual in anger. These last two I am not proud of.

My height also matches the size of my hands. This has enabled me to reach things others of smaller stature were not physically able to. The grocery store is where I am most frequently put to good use. Another place is the kitchen, where I can put away the dishes my hands have washed, in places my wife can’t reach.
My hands are also rather strong. They came in handy when Cory and I first moved to Florida. We did not have a car. I was able to carry four full bags of groceries, doubled of course, the quarter mile walk back to our apartment. Had you met me after the sixth grade, you’d be well aware of the strength in my hands.

Drew Lindstedt, my middle school gym teacher, taught me how to shake hands. One day while giving instruction on wrestling, Mr. Lindstedt demonstrated the proper decorum prior to the beginning of a match. The combatants shook hands first. I was the guinea pig. When I took Mr. Lindstedt’s outstretched hand, he dropped mine, and chastised me.
“What is that, a dead fish!?” he bellowed. “Let the other guy know you’re alive for crying out loud! Now try it again!” From that moment on, whenever I’ve been introduced, or bid a farewell, I’ve let my hands do the talking as to the status of my current physical condition. I have shook hands with the famous, and the not so famous, friends and those who became friends, relatives and those who I consider irrelevant. I let each one know they had my full attention. One of my hand’s favorite handshakes was with an individual whom I admire and respect. It happened twice; both times he was giving me a diploma. Frank Brogan, Florida’s former Lieutenant Governor, now Chancellor of that states university system, is the former president of Florida Atlantic University. He congratulated each graduate personally at every commencement he presided over during his tenure.

The same hands that have twisted off stubborn lids, held hands with numerous females, have also been responsible for signing documents that have altered my life. One hand has been broken, as well as a couple of fingers on each, but the documents they signed did not break me, or my spirit.

There have been movie characters depicted with only one hand; the constable in Young Frankenstein, and the military uncle in Harold and Maude.
There are those too with one hand who deserve our admiration. Professional baseball players Pete Gray and Jim Abbott succeeded at their chosen endeavor despite the lack of one hand. Aron Ralston chose to cut off one of his rather than perish in the desert. Then there are many who serve in the armed forces that have lost hands not by choice.

Most of you who’ve gotten this far, I’m sure have all the limbs you were born with. The next time you bump your funny bone, or stub your toe, instead of curse, remember there are some who wish they could experience such a moment. Well, I’ve got to run. Oh, wait a minute; I can no longer run anywhere anymore. I do however, have both of my hands. They are responsible for, among many other things as you’ve read, writing this piece. I’m really thankful for that. It would suck to type this blog each week with only one foot.

Maybe, Just Maybe…

There are secret societies throughout our culture: you just have to know where to look. Some, like the Masons, cross cultures. Others, like the Skull and Bones of Yale, are culturally exclusive. Rumors abound to their habits, practices, and by-laws. Most of us know of these fraternal organizations, but very few of us know about their inner workings. An air of exclusivity casts a pall over what actually occurs at meetings, making them even more mysterious. It is an honor to be asked to join, and with membership, comes privilege. Much has been written and glorified in film about the Masons, and Skull and Bones.

Dan Brown has made a nice living off his written speculations regarding the Masons. The Skull and Bones was prominently featured in the Matt Damon film The Good Shepherd. The movie infers that the newly formed CIA was outfitted with Skull and Bones members. At one time, there was speculation that Skull and Bones were privy to who really killed John F. Kennedy. There is another fraternity that’s not so secret. However, what goes on within its ranks is as guarded as that of either the Masons or Skull and Bones. Who is this other clandestine organization? Why it’s Major League Baseball.

Please don’t be so naïve as to be surprised at this revelation. I have spent much of the last six years researching Major League Baseball on many levels, pertaining to many topics. One thing I have learned is that for nearly one hundred and fifty years, the powerbrokers of the sport only allow the public access to what’s “good” for the game; most recently, the Congressional hearings focusing on the abuse of steroids by players. The committee was only going to find out what the honchos at MLB wanted them to. For evidence, you need only look as far as the now infamous “list of 200,” the supposed “leaked” findings of players who had tested positive. This is not new behavior. It’s been going on for years.

As far back as the nineteenth century, owners, who were the only ones who did the regulating, often kept each other in the dark when it came to future plans for the sport. This blog does not allow me the space to cite each specific example, but I assure you there are many. One issue you may be aware of, is over ninety years of America’s courts denying that baseball was a business which protected the owners from anti-trust and monopoly laws. It was only until baseball was firmly entrenched as America’s Game, that the Supreme Court relented, and finally ruled against the owners, ushering an era of escalating player salaries and player freedom. When one entity can wield that kind of power, it may not shock you as to the “Dan Brown-like” supposition I will now set before you to consider.

The New York Yankees are, and over the course of time, the most successful sports franchise in the history of organized sports. Their success is not just measured in wins and losses, or their global popularity, but the Major League’s financial well being. The Yankees have won forty American League pennants, and twenty-six World Series Championships. The franchise winning percentage is .568. The Yankees since 1901, have won an astounding 2281 more games than they have lost.

The Yankees are so popular, that when Iraqi television aired the program Sport of the Week, ratings are highest when the Yankees are featured. Neighbors would gather around those fortunate enough to own TVs, just to catch a glimpse of this storied franchise.

For years, the Yankees have had the highest payroll in the Major Leagues. They are literally, “the best team money can buy.” This is not said with resentment, but with envy. I admire their success, though I am a staunch Mets fan. No matter what my personal feelings may be, I cannot deny that the Yankees are one of the finest teams assembled year in year out. It is for that reason alone I want to see them achieve their goals without their accomplishments being tainted.

Much has been written recently concerning the poor umpiring that has marred the American League Division Championship, the American League Championship Series, and now the World Series. Sure, a couple of calls have gone against the Yankees, but the majority have gone in their favor. Phil Cuzzi’s 11th inning “inexplicable game-changing miscall” of a hit that was hit by Twins catcher Joe Mauer, that was ruled foul, though no replay was needed to see it was fair. The Yankees went on to win the game. Would the Twins have won that game? No one will ever know. Had they won, would that game have served as the springboard for more wins? No one will ever know. The umpire made sure neither scenario would ever take place. The game changing bad calls continued in the American League Championship Series between The Yanks and the Los Angeles Angels.

The Angels did plenty to sabotage their chances to win the series. They didn’t need the umpires assuring the outcome. I personally witnessed two calls in one game that were such blatant examples of incompetency, coming on the heels of the series against the Twins, to question how legitimate was the umpiring? Both calls, as with the Mauer hit, did not require instant replay. Knowledge of the rules, and decent eyesight would suffice. Why was this happening on baseball’s biggest and most scrutinized stage? A light bulb came on. Major League Baseball needed the Yankees to win.

Major League Baseball finds itself in a very unfamiliar position, though they refuse to acknowledge it. Football is more popular than America’s Game. The reasons are too numerous to go into here. Attendance figures for the 2009 season dropped by 16% from 2008. Baseball will say it was the economy. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the economy pretty putrid in 2008 as well? MLB bases attendance figures in both leagues on the total number of tickets sold, not the number of people who walk through the turnstiles. That figure was lower still. The television contract agreement for airing baseball games is coming to an end. New negotiations are in the works for a renewal. MLB is hoping for an increase. I have a newsflash. Network TV does not want to see all those empty seats behind home plate when games are aired. Those seats are not for “fans,” they are for corporate write-offs. Advertisers don’t want to spent mega-dollars when ratings are down. Their money dictates how much networks will pony up to MLB for broadcast rights. Network money is all that keeps many franchises afloat. If less people are watching, and less people are going, why does MLB think networks will pony up? Let’s take a look at what makes fiscal economic sense. Oh, that right, the Yankees do.

The networks did not want to see the Twins against the Angels. That would have been a ratings nightmare, the same for a Red Sox versus Twins League Championship Series. The Yankees are MLB’s ratings savior. Their fan base is global. As long as the Yankees advanced, hope remains for a new TV contract bonanza. The Yankees will get great ratings, they always have. It’s like death and taxes, it’s one of those things you can be sure of.

Is all this speculation plausible? No one will ever know. This kind of premise exceeds Watergate secrecy by a long shot. Woodward and Bernstein would never, ever, get to the bottom of it. Major League Baseball would make sure. If there ever was an inquiry, MLB would swear umpires are beyond reproach. If that didn’t pacify the masses, MLB could point to the human error element that makes baseball endearing. They’d point to all the other bad calls that altered baseball history as evidence to dismiss any claims of foul play. No pun intended. I can smell the bullshit now.

The Yankees didn’t need any unsolicited assistance. They play like a well oiled machine. I think the Yankees should win each and every game on their own. They don’t need help, they’re that good, and for this excellence they should be commended. I am not surprised no sports journalist has broached this hypothesis. I am quite sure if they did, their career would be over. MLB has that kind of influence.

Using instant replay will not change what goes on behind closed doors at the Major League Baseball offices. The system for assigning umpires may change, but that is for MLB to decide without input from anyone on “the outside.” MLB will not ever bend to anyone when it comes to saying what is best for their sport. What MLB will definitely admit to is that the New York Yankees are the best thing to ever happen to baseball. MLB used to rail against George Steinbrenner and his business practices. You don’t hear much criticism anymore. MLB knows who its cash cow is; they don’t have to pass it off as counterfeit.

So sit back and watch the rest of the World Series secure in the knowledge that everything is above board. Can the outfield be considered a “grassy knoll?”