Knick Knack

I have always been a New York Knickerbocker fan, albeit a closet one since Patrick Ewing retired. Regional loyalty, and a love for the game of basketball fueled my love for the Knicks. I did not care if they won or lost, they were my team. Wins and losses are not high on my priority list when it comes to securing my devotion. The Knicks acquiring Carmelo Anthony does not mean I'm going to return to the fanaticism of my youth when Dick Van Arsdale, Howard "Butch" Komives, and Walt Bellemy roamed the hallowed Madison Square Garden court. However, for Carmelo Anthony to come home to New York does breath a little life into my once near dormant zeal. What disturbs me is all the haters.

It seems, particularly down here in SoFla, that other teams fans are up in arms concerning the courting of Carmelo, and the way the Knicks went about getting his services. Sure, the frequency Anthony's name has been connected trade rumors for the past two seasons has been an annoyance, but to equate what the Knicks did, and are trying to do, with what the Miami Heat did is silly. Unless of course you're an idiot.

I hold no malice toward the Heat by shamelessly trying to buy a title, that's no different than the New York Yankees approach in baseball. I hold no animosity toward the Celtics for acquiring two aged stars toward the end of their careers to compliment a proven star and a rookie in the hope of forming a cohesive unit. Even a casual fan must see that Carmelo Anthony does not mean instant title contention, just like the signing of Amar'e Stoudemire did not mean the Knicks were now in a class with Boston or Miami. All these two players mean is maybe the Knicks can make the playoffs for the first time in a decade.

There are no grandiose predictions. No 70 wins in a season as many sports pundits forecasted for another franchise. No title assurances as many commentators confidently portended when this team assembled looked like a juggernaut on paper. Based on all the hyperbole that was spewed, I'm surprised that David Stern the league commissioner didn't just cancel the season and hand out the championship trophy at a contrived made-for-TV "decision."

The Knicks defense has more leaks than an old inner tube. There is still a dire need for a legitimate center so Stoudemire can play his natural position at power forward. And there is no instant offense player to come off the bench to provide a much needed spark. An enforcer in the mold of Dave DeBusschere or later, Charles Oakley would be nice as well. All landing Carmelo Anthony did was makes the Knicks a more formidable foe. Just like when the Knicks drafted Patrick Ewing.

Before the Knicks won the Ewing lottery, the team had Bernard King. He was fun to watch. He'd score fifty and the rest of the team would score fifty. However, sometimes their opponent would score more than one hundred. When Ewing arrived from Georgetown, the hated hometown St. John's rival, he was embraced as a savior, not the as the object of scorn as he was treated the prior four years. I hated Patrick Ewing as a Hoya, I loved him as a Knick. Later I would come to despise Isiah Thomas but still love the Knicks. Hate the ownership, but not the team.

So all you Knick haters continue to do so because of the intense rivalry your team may have with the Knicks, not because of how the Knicks are trying to become competitive. They still have a ways to go. It surprises me how a team can draw so much ire just for being mediocre. Why don't you worry why your team is not playing up to snuff, or why your team is not on track to win seventy games. Keep in mind, the Knicks lost to the lowly Cavaliers last night. So if I want to have my loyalty rewarded just a little, why don't you haters stop pissing in my cornflakes and be concerned your team is underachieving. Enduring Latrell Sprewell, Stephon Marbury, and Isiah Thomas was bad enough without the unfounded whining.

Deus Ex Machina

Last year at this time I was posting a blog concerning my latest attempt at the Jeopardy online test, which you must "pass" in order to get to the next stage, "a formal interview" if you ever hope to be a contestant on the show. From what I've experienced, it has become clear that the screening process and subsequent mock shows are harder to get through than MIT doctoral oral comps.

And if that's not enough, if you somehow get through that gauntlet of hyper-information and scrutiny, you may just luck out and finish...third...out of three. That ignominy will pay you the princely sum of $1000! No, I did not leave off a zero. No, I did not mistakenly put in a "1" instead of something else. So not only did you get to fail on national television under the watchful eyes of millions of viewers; you got to fail miserably.

$1000 dollars would not pay the airfare for the not one, but two trips to California I'd have to make if I did indeed get on. One trip for the test show, the other for the real show.

It's not like just appearing on the show is going to get you all kinds of notoriety that you can parley into something much more grandiose. You don't go on with the hope that your appearance will somehow be a career boost. If you finish last -let's call it what it is- the next day no one in America outside of your immediate family and close circle of friends will recognize your name. No stranger is going to walk up to you on the street and say, "Hey, aren't you Joe Biffleschpick? I saw you on Jeopardy last night." They may say, "Man, I know your face from somewhere, I just can't place it. Give me a minute, (several may pass before you uncomfortably make a move to continue on your merry way). Oh, I know! You're the guy who lost on Jeopardy last night. And for that you are thankful. Because he could have said "Hey, I saw you on America's Most Wanted last night! Don't move, I'm calling the cops!"

If you do happen to step in a huge pile of poo and pull enough "trivia," -as Yahoo News refers to that kind of knowledge- out of your ass; and you're able to squeeze a hand-held buzzer faster enough times than two other humans, you could possibly win. Now that you've overcome these seemingly insurmountable odds, for your trouble you may win a lot of money; rarely less than $10,000, less rarely more than $30,000. Two men who won night after agonizing night and walked away with over two million and three million respectively came back to Jeopardy for a showdown that aired Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.Their showdown had one other contestant; a machine.

For several weeks Jeopardy promoted the appearance of its two most celebrated contestants matching their "knowledge" versus that of an IBM supercomputer. Sounds intriguing right? And then I thought about it. HAL from "2001" on steroids against two "trivia" kings. My mind reasoned "no contest."

"Watson," as the supercomputer is named, had so much information downloaded into its memory that it would take a man 256,000 years to acquire such knowledge. To add insult to injury, the machine's reaction time would far exceed that of a human. I decided I wasn't going to watch, but I did listen in periodically.

As I anticipated the buzzing in for the humans was a real challenge. Challenge my ass, it was a near impossibility. The only way for one of the humans to buzz in first, was if the computer (I refuse to call it "Watson."), did not have a ready answer within the 90th percentile of the possibility of being correct. You could see the frustration on the real contestants faces.

Speaking of faces, the faces in the audience were not the usual studio variety. The cameras seemed to fix on the glowing IBM think tank that put together this modern marvel of technological science; ahem. Excuse me if I don't share the enthusiasm of mankind's capabilities in the field. It was creepy to hear the audience applaud when the computer got a Daily Double. It was creepier still to hear Alex Trebek congratulate the computer when answering what he deemed to be a particularly difficult question. And then using a personal pronoun when addressing the computer completely weirded me out; referring to the computer as "you" rather than "it." All this for the sake of stimulating entertainment...and giving IBM a chance to showcase how brilliant they are. I wonder if the companies stock went up?

I rationalized that the two humans must be getting paid a boat load of money just to appear, knowing that they'd be humiliated on national TV. No, I was told, there would be a prize pool with the "winner" getting a million dollars...and a ton of exposure for IBM, because you had to know who the winner going in was going to be right Alex?

When Big Blue, another IBM supercomputer played Gary Kasparov, and whoever is currently the world chess champ, both parties know all the possible moves and counter-moves. If the human doesn't have a brain fart, the match could conceivably end in a draw. Not so with an infinite number of questions to choose from.

To put a big bow around this whole three half-hour advertisement for IBM, all of the money won by the computer would be donated to charity, half of what the humans won would be as well. I read on Yahoo the marvelous benefit a computer like this would be to the medical field, and I ought right medical; more like defense would get first dibs.

Thank goodness this little expo only ran three days, five days would have been too painful for the human contestants no matter how much sacrificial lamb money they were getting. I sure hope that the IBM team of who knows how many are proud that they could come up with a talking computer that can store and recall more information than a human. When the computer "spoke" the voice sounded eerily similar to another computer. The one that asked Matthew Broderick "Would you like to play a game?" That's all our defense department needs.

Epilogue: When searching for a picture to accompany this weeks blog, I used the search term "scary computers." An image of the two human contestants, Alex Trebek, and the IBM supercomputer was in the tenth row as I scrolled down.

The Cost of Doing Business My Ass

Once upon a time there was this young man. He was a very careless driver. He frequently wrecked automobiles. That was fortunate since he often grew bored quickly with his cars.

The young lad never had trouble getting insurance, even though it was expensive. Allstate was his company for a long time. When he got into an accident, his insurance went up. When he got tickets, which were numerous, his insurance went up. After many accidents (7), and many tickets (44 points when only 12 was allowed),and a drunk driving charge, the insurance on his latest car, a new 1980 Corvette, his insurance went way, way up. Almost to the sky.

His insurance went up so high, it cost the young man more each month to insure his car, than it did to make his monthly payment to the bank. How much you may ask? Well, his car payment was $312.00 each month, and his insurance payment was $323.00. Wow! That's a lot he said.

But he understood. Because of the way he drove he had to pay the piper. Also, he understood that because of his age (23), the small heavily populated state he lived in (New Jersey), and because he didn't own a home, and he drove a red Corvette, his insurance was going to be unusually high if he wanted to have complete coverage.

But then the young man got older and wiser. He stopped getting into accidents. He stopped getting speeding tickets. He stopped getting DUI's; and lo' and behold, his insurance went down! The man was happy. But he didn't live that way ever after. Because you see, the man moved to Florida, where, when it comes to any kind of insurance, all bets are off.

My friend Patrick can explain the Florida insurance issue much better than I can here, so I won't try. Patrick was at one time a lobbyist for the insurance industry, now he conducts historical research into the sordid lineage of insurance in Florida, and writes against what the industry has done to the people of Florida, or something along those lines. Try as I might, with all the intellectual tools at my command, I listen to Patrick intently only able to grasp snippets of the tangled web of corruption and shenanigans that is the world of the Florida insurance industry. What I've been able to coherently decipher is this; the residents of this state are getting bent over a desk without even the courtesy of a reach around.

Home owners, auto,flood, you name it, there's a excuse it's going up and no justifiable reason. Case in point. Did you see where FEMA has recharted the "flood" zones for Broward and Miami-Dade counties? They've simplified things by encompassing every square inch save a postage size area that not a soul inhabits. But I'm exaggerating...kind of. I will say this. That during FEMA's drunken holiday game of pin the tail on the donkey, they've included an area in the city of Davie that is the highest most point and furthest from the Everglades as well as the ocean. Hence, all the people who live there now not only have to get flood insurance which they've never had to carry before; but subject themselves to the arbitrary increases that occur if an active hurricane season is even forecasted. And the auto! Don't get me started. Too late.

We have State Farm, who recently became the neighbor whose dog constantly shits in our yard, and plays loud music into the wee hours of the morning. My son Cory, who has his own policy, had an accident with my car almost three years ago. We did not make a claim because the damage was less than my deductible. He does not live with us. Yet, State Farm raised my premium based on Cory living with us. Now we've tried on several occasions to make State Farm understand that Cory has lived in Gainesville for the last eight years. We had quite a to do six years ago to get this rectified. My State Farm agent assured me it was taken care of. So that's why the rate was raised. Understand? No, me either.

We have paid over the last twelve years nearly $20,000 in premiums, and make claims totaling less than $2000. I got a ticket eleven years ago. My wife has yet to get one during that time. Our insurance goes up each year. Both our driver's license's have been designated with "safe driver" status as anointed by the great state of Florida. Still, when insurance companies go to the state with a case for raising rates, our legislators gladly comply. Fuckers.And now to credit worthiness.

The new assrape that is now in vogue is based on some actuarial study that concluded that people with lower credit scores make more claims. This is the new be all end all guideline for which all rates are based. Throw out previous claims. Throw out past driving history. Throw out age. If you are a credit criminal -I had to file Chapter 11 a year ago due to unemployment for most of three years- your rates, because of a few scam artists (the ones who sue in slip and falls, will go up like a hot air balloon.All because some douche needs to justify his exorbitant salary and stock holders get their rates of return to which they've so grown accustom.

The best part, (is there a "best" part to any of this?), is that when people make too many claims, the insurance company just packs their bags and leaves our fine state never to write another policy again. The excuses are as obscure and insulting to one's intelligence as the reasons we hear on the news why oil companies are raising gas prices.

In the fall of our lives, my wife and I now pay nearly $2000 per year on a new purchased vehicle that listed for $27,000. We used to lease, but the insurance coverage required was higher. You can laugh here. We do when we consider this. Because if we didn't, I'd have to put State Farm's corporate office in Winter Garden, Florida on my list of places to firebomb, right after the Miami Herald building. I wonder who insures them, and whether they'll honor that claim.

The moral of the story is the young man grew up to become an anarchist. The End.

Legends in My Own Mind

My wife Helen works for Memorial HealthCare Systems, the controlling forces of the network of Memorial Hospitals and support services here in South Florida. For years now she'll forward me the e-mail that's circulated company wide announcing the upcoming charity "Legend's Game" benefiting the Joe DiMaggio's Children's Hospital, an annex of Memorial. Me, "Joe" baseball asshole, Mr. Society of American Baseball Researchers, having missed an Opening Day somewhere in the last thirty-four years; had never attended a Legend's game in the ten years Helen has worked there. Did I say the bleacher tickets are for free?

I am loyal to Memorial for the simple reason they are Helen's employer. She dutifully goes to work everyday without complaint. I belong to their gym. I umpire for Miracle League, a pet cause of Helen's boss, and Joe DiMaggio's Children's Hospital. Last year I ran the 5K in the Tour De Broward where the funds raised benefited Joe D's. Don't ask me why I've never attended a Legend's game.

I can't seem to recall any of the lame ass excuses I've come up with over the years. I couldn't tell you if I had made other plans; and if I did, they didn't make an indelible impression on me, providing me with memories that will last the rest of my life. I'm here to tell you how ashamed I am. Because I will carry the memories of last Saturday with me until they torch me. Not the actual game so much, but what I soaked in and played out in my head before the game is what really mattered.

The driving force behind my enthusiasm for this year's game was rooted in the knowledge that a core of the 1969 New York Mets would be in attendance. Helen e-mailed me the lineup of ex-ballplayers -I can't really say "stars" because many of them were not- a few days before the game. When I saw that no less than seven Mets were on the roster, my mind was made up; this year we'd be going come hell or high water.

We arrived just after 10:00 to upgrade our seats. Gates wouldn't open until 11:00, and the game itself didn't start until 1:00. As you can imagine, the only people there that far in advance were the baseball dorks and nerds...and me and Helen.

They were loaded down with bats, balls, autograph albums, baseball card portfolios, posters, and glossy photos neatly arranged in spiral note books. I was thrilled that these autograph hounds and exploiters of memorabilia did not engage us in conversation. One gentleman did fill us in on his non-stop drinking fiesta from the prior evening, and the day's upcoming continuation of his sotfest. His breath left something to be desired.

Once inside the stadium we grabbed a bite to eat, some peanuts were included of course, and then made our way to our seats which were outstanding. The quaint, old, former Spring Training home of the New York Yankees, and former Spring Training home of the Baltimore Orioles, was charming, inviting and on in a state of decline. But, that didn't dampen my spirits one iota.

Oh, the ballplayers that have roamed its field! Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Yogi Berra, and Joe D himself to name a few. Several of the "Legends" that day called the old Ft. Lauderdale Stadium their winter home. Horace Clarke, Roy White, and Steve Whitaker were there. Yankees from a not so glorious period in the franchise's storied history. But it wasn't the former Yankees I was there to see.

Not wanting to deal with the crush of autograph seekers, I was perfectly content to take in the sights from my venue. One of the first players out of the dugout to warm up -they needed a lot of that- was Art Shamsky of the old Mets. I couldn't see his number, but I could tell it was him by his distinctive shoulders back, duck-footed gait. He looked physically fit enough to be playing today. His stroke in the batting cage affirmed it. Slowly the old ballplayers, some looking decidedly older than others, trickled out from beneath the stands. I now needed to get a closer look.

I left Helen to her own devices and took a post up against the backstop. Through the fencing I relived- if just for a few minutes- my childhood. I espied former San Francisco Giant Bob Bolin. That name might not mean much to even seasoned baseball fans, but to me he represented my first professional baseball player autograph. To a kid of ten, that was huge.

My father took me on a vacation to Houston one summer. We took in a game at the Astrodome. The Giants were playing the Astros (duh). Juan Marichal was pitching for the Giants. When the game ended I pled with my Dad to hang around and wait for autographs. He accommodated me without any hemming and hawing. While Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Marichal himself filed past us as if we were some sort of household pests, others did not. One of them was Bob Bolin. He gladly signed my little notebook. I thanked him, and soon other not so well known Giants signed as well. I'll never forget Bob Bolin for that. I wish I could have gotten close enough to him last Saturday to tell him what his kind act so long ago meant to a little boy.

I knew each and every "Legend" player who took their time signing whatever was waved in front of them. The rude shouts of whatever was printed on the backs of the uniforms, resounded from the laymen. No "Hey Mr. so and so," no "Hey Oscar" when Oscar Gamble made the rounds. Just the voices that were filled with greed and not a sense of baseball history. It was harshing my mellow. I wanted to take my little stroll down Memory Lane unimpeded.

I saw Willie Horton who had such a great World Series for Detroit in 1968, the year in Mr. Hamlin's sixth grade class Cynthia Tanner and I correctly predicted the Tigers would beat the St. Louis Cardinals in seven games. Cynthia guessed, I knew. Our spoils were Hasbro chess sets that had been used for our class tournament.

Al Downing was introduced. He surrendered, as a Dodger, Hank Aaron's 715th home run that broke Babe Ruth's record. I saw him pitch as a Yankee against those very same Tigers. My Dad took Tom Rowlands and I, and we sat behind Mitch Miller of "Sing Along With..." fame.

I watched intently as Al Weis, Wayne Garrett, Ron Swoboda,Ron Taylor, and Jim McAndrew collected around the batting cage to get reacquainted, inquire about families, and trade stories from bygone days. Who knows what the hell they talked about, I couldn't hear them, I just imagined.

I had met Jim McAndrew once as a kid. He was the attraction at the Grand Opening of the new Herman's World of Sporting Goods located at the new Livingston Mall. I eschewed Fitzgerald's in Morristown for the purchase of my new glove just so I could meet Jim McAndrew. Once at Herman's I recall that Ol' Jim looked like he'd rather be anywhere then at Herman's that day. But he was a Met, and as I saw it, that was the closest I'd ever get to a Met, so going out of our way to Herman's was a no-brainer as far as I was concerned. While temporary lost in these thoughts of innocent times, two men stepped on the field that altered my emotional state.

When Brooks Robinson passed before me all I could do was applaud. I did not call his name. I did not shout "Way to Go." I did not tell him he was the greatest ever. His stride and the way he carried himself in such a dignified manner; my voice would have tainted the moment. As Brooks made his way to those who clamoured for his signature, Ed Kranepool stepped gingerly from the dugout along third base. Quite the contrary to Art Shamsky, Ed looked as if getting off the couch to attend the event was a bit of a chore.

To me, Ed Kranepool was the Mets. They drafted him out of high school. He was from White Plains, New York. He was everybody's favorite Met before Tom Seaver became everybody's All-American boy. Kranepool played when the Mets were awful and when they were Amazin'. I was raised on the Mets he represented, and I fell in love with baseball because of those Mets. And there he stood before me in all his overweight stooped over splendor.

I thought maybe it was time I got back to my seat. How much time had passed since I first made my way to the backstop I wasn't rightly sure. Helen greeted me with, "I was going to come down and join you, but you were being a little boy. You had your arms folded, you leaned in so you could rest your head on them while getting your face close to the fence. I thought it best just to leave you alone with your thoughts." It was if she read my mind without all the narrative. I guess I gave myself away. Next year I'll have to ask for a press pass, I'm a writer, right?