Happy Father's Day

When I was a kid I was a Major Leaguer.  Yea, I also played little-league with the other guys my age, as well as football, soccer, basketball, tennis; pretty much any sport we could get our hands on.  But in the backyard, when my dad would say, “Hey Jeff, you wanna toss around the ole apple?”  We both transformed.  In fact, the whole backyard did.  Suddenly it was Shea Stadium or Wrigley Field.  I’m not sure where this game came from, if it was something he planned out or if we just kind of invented it together, but what it amounted to was two guys playing every position on the diamond, in the outfield, and in the commentator’s box!  And it was always the Chicago Cubs vs the New York Mets. 

Probably because in those days we didn’t have instant access to any major league roster online, or maybe just because we liked those teams the best, it was always those two teams.  Frozen in time circa their 1987/1988 rosters, as best we could remember them. 

The Cubs had Ryne Sandberg, Andre Dawson, Shawon Dunston, Mark Grace, Vance Law, Ron Cey*, Rafael Palmeiro*, Dwight Smith, Greg Maddux, and Rick Sutcliffe.

The Mets had Daryl Strawberry, Gary Carter, Keith Hernandez, Howard Johnson, Lenny Dykstra, Rafael Santana, Mookie Wilson, Wally Backman, Dwight Gooden, and Ron Darling. 

(* of course Palmeiro was long gone by the time Mark Grace joined the club and Ron Cey had retired by then I think.  But there they all were, somehow, in the backyard.)  

It would start with Dwight Gooden (me), pitching to Gary Carter (dad), in the top of the first at Shea.  He’d say, “and here comes Shawon Dunston to the plate, folks, to lead off the game.  Shawon has struggled against Doc Gooden over the years posting only a .165 batting average against him in his career.  He’s hoping to turn that around today, Harry.”  And then he’d say, “He sure is Mel, Doc has started to cost this guy some serious psychiatrist bills in the offseason.  Here comes the first pitch!”  I’d give him my fastball.  And he’d say, “Steeeeee-Rike one!  A heater right down the middle, and Dunston was a take all the way on that one, Mel!”  Then he’d throw the ball back to me and say, “No doubt about it Harry, Gooden knows he’s got Dunston’s number.  Gary Carter gives Doc the sign, Doc shakes him off… he wants to go heater again I think Mel.  And here comes the pitch... “

I’d throw another fastball.  “Swing and a ground ball to third base!”  He’d stand up and throw a grounder off to my right.  I’d run to it and field it, as he’d say, “Just inside the chalk, Howard Johnson comes up with it and turns to throw to first.”  I’d throw it back to him as fast as I could, while he transformed from Gary Carter to Keith Hernandez at first base.  “Dunston’s really on his horse, trying to beat the throw…”  He’d catch it, “but not in time!  Johnson throws out Shawon Dunston by a hair at first.  Yea, and good play by Hernandez, stretching out to reach that ball, Harry.”  He’d say to himself.

Mark Grace would follow Dunston, with a single up the middle.  Then Ryne Sandberg would hit a dribbler to Rafael Santana at short, who would try to turn the double play.  Santana (me) would snatch it and flip it to Wally Backman (dad) to get Grace at second, and then he’d turn to throw it to Keith Hernandez (me) to try for two.  I’d catch it.  “But Sandberg beats the throw to first!”  He’d interject.  “Backman held it just a second too long, Harry, and Ryno gets to first on a fielder’s choice.  And that brings up Andre Dawson."

"Yes indeed Mel!  And the Hawk’s already got 28 homers this year, as well as 10 against Gooden in his career.  Could he pull some long ball magic here in the first?”  I’d wind up and send along another heater.  “Here comes the pitch!  Swing and a drive!  Deep to right!”  He’d stand up and throw a fly ball over my head.  I’d turn and sprint toward the fence.  “Daryl Strawberry’s chasing it deep toward the warning track…”  Then Strawberry (me) would turn and snag it at the fence.  “And what a catch by Daryl at the warning track to save two runs, Harry.  I’ll tell you what Mel, that was a fantastic catch!  Doc Gooden knows that he owes Daryl a steak dinner later tonight for hauling that one in!”

Then the bottom of the first would come around and dad would become Greg Maddux, and I’d take over the commentating duties.  Mookie Wilson would single to left, Lenny Dykstra would strike out, and Wilson would get nailed trying to steal second.  Then Strawberry would blast a high fly ball to center that Dunston would catch at the warning track.  “Boy oh boy, Harry,” I’d say, “The crowd here at Shea was ready to explode if that one left the yard.  No doubt about it Mel!  Well that’s it for the first inning, we’ve got a good one going here folks!”

And it would continue like this for a few hours.  Usually the scores would end up being pretty high.  Like 9-8 or 13-11, including probably too many grand slams.  Just fun (if usually unrealistic) fan-friendly scores.  And invariably at some point, Gary Carter (dad) would come out to talk to Dwight Gooden (me) for a meeting at the mound, as would often happen in the majors.  And he’d say what he always assumed the catcher said to the pitcher in this situation, “Hey Dwight, what are you thinking about for dinner tonight?  You got plans after the game?”

Some of my favorite times happened in those backyards over the years.  And I’m sure to my mom, it looked like he was spending quality time with me and that he was a great dad (which he was of course.)  But to us it was a game.  It was the fun of the sport, and having no idea what was going to come of it.  The time would just fly by and pretty soon it’d be too dark to see the ball, so we’d have to call it, and we’d run in for dinner. It didn’t’ seem like he was “fitting me in” or “spending quality time with his son.”  It didn’t seem like he was trying to be a good dad.  It was effortless.  It was an unspoken connection, and as silly as it’s sounds, we bonded because of it; because of this wacky game.

To this day when I talk with my pops on the phone or even in person, we talk sports.  Somehow it grounds us.  Like I had to text him when I was at a Mets game a few weeks ago.  We were sitting right near the commentators booth, where Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling are calling games now.  Hernandez waved to me as I snapped a picture.  Or a few years ago when I was at a Brooklyn Cyclones game where Gary Carter manages the Mets minor league affiliate.  I had to give my dad a call because these guys, oddly or not, are kind of like old friends in our lives.  They used to play ball with us.  

My dad and I don’t only talk sports, but when we do get into it the time just flies, like it did in those old backyards.  In a way, it really is what sports are all about.  Connecting us in so many ways, not really possible in other aspects of life.  I remember one time when I was visiting my folks a few years ago and my mom set up a lunch date with just my dad and me.  She said, “Do me a favor.  Please don’t talk about sports the whole time!”  And she was right.  We do need to talk about other things.  We just need to be reminded sometimes.  So, thanks mom for that.

And thanks Dad, for all those backyard ballgames.  And all the other great times too.  You have been a huge inspiration in my life and are obviously, the greatest dad ever.  Right guys?

"There's no doubt about it.  What do you think, Mel?"
"Harry... I couldn't agree more!"

Happy Father’s Day Pops.

The Trials and Tribulations of the Dallas Mavericks

In the year 2000, I was on the National Tour of Grease with Cindy Williams and Eddie Mekka (of Laverne and Shirley fame) and we passed through Dallas in late November/early December.  On one of our Mondays off, I found myself walking around the downtown area with no real plan; as I love to do while on tour, just wandering around and finding whatever I happen to run into.  I walked in awe through Dealey Plaza, which looked eerily exactly the way it looked in those old grainy photographs, and went to the old Book Depository, now the Sixth floor Museum, for the first time (I would go three more times on subsequent visits over the years.)  I checked out the JFK memorial around the corner, and eventually ended up in Reunion Park.  That’s when I looked up and saw a big, old, sports arena, across the street and I realized, that must be Reunion Arena!  Where the Mavericks play.  I hurried over excitedly, wondering if they happened to have a game at home that night.  (In the days before iPhones you had to check these things out in person, kids.  Or buy a newspaper.)  I rushed across the street and as luck would have it, they did have a game that night against the Denver Nuggets.  I eagerly bought a ticket and then set off to kill a few more hours before tipoff.    

I had been reading about the Mavs a little bit since I had been in town.  They were excited about their young nucleus of talent surrounding their all-star shooting guard Mike Finley, which included Steve Nash (a budding point guard who had just started to flourish as a starter there after only getting spot minutes behind Jason Kidd in Phoenix) and a seven-foot, non-center, German kid named Dirk Nowitzki.  The team had also recently been purchased by a young, brash, internet-billionaire named Mark Cuban, who at first glance just seemed like another crazed super-fan.  You could see that he loved being at the games.  He was exuberant and demonstrative, he wore Mavericks T-shirts and sat right behind the bench.  He was like no owner we’d ever seen in sports, and he rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.  Let’s just say the gated-community types were shocked by this guy!  But I loved it.  It seemed exactly like some average dude had won a contest and was suddenly in charge of his own NBA team.  It’s every sports fan’s ultimate dream!

Super Fan/Owner Mark Cuban with Kiki Vandeweghe

Of course Cuban wasn’t an “average dude.”  He was a shrewd and wildly successful businessman, even at his relatively young age, and his ambition quickly spread into his new passion.  He dedicated himself to the task of turning around the fortunes of this wayward franchise.  The Mavs had been the worst team of the 90’s.  They hadn’t been to the playoffs in ten years, and had only won twenty-one playoff games in their twenty-year history.  They flirted with posting the worst regular season record in NBA history twice, in back-to-back years.  In the 92-93 and 93-94 seasons the team totaled 24 wins!  That’s out of 164 games in case you didn’t know.  They were just awful.  I was playing basketball in high school back then, and if somebody was having an off-day shooting or was turning the ball over a lot, they’d say, “Sorry ya’ll, I’m all Mavericks right now.”  Or if I went to a party with my buddies and it was kind of lame, the code word you had to slip into a sentence was “Mavericks” as in… “Hey, this sucks, can we get out of here?”

It was this perennially losing culture that Mark Cuban felt he had to immediately change, and the locals were starting to buy into it.  He changed the logo, the uniforms, the advertising campaigns, and word was out that they were going to build a new flashy arena.  You could feel the new energy of hope in the air.  Plus the team was looking light-years better on the court.  Dirk wasn’t an All-star yet but he had emerged as a solid scorer, and he, Finley, and Nash were giving the crowds a lot to cheer about.  I remember Reunion Arena being an antiquated building by NBA standards even then, but the crowd was amazing.  They were so into the game!  And when the Mavs pulled away from Denver convincingly in the fourth quarter the crowd cheered like it was the NBA Finals.  And this was a game in late November!  Undoubtedly it was a by-product of all of those years of despair.  A win, any win, anytime, was glorious.  They celebrated it jubilantly, and I was impressed.  I remember later that night telling one of my hoops friends, “Hey, I know this sounds crazy, but I think the Mavs are going to start being good!”        

Over the next decade the Mavericks were one of the best regular-season teams in the league, but all of their success was muted by their glaring failures in the playoffs.  The names and faces alongside Dirk changed consistently over the years but the stigma never went away, even after a Finals appearance in 2006.  Like Dirk himself, the team was considered by most to be physically soft, mentally insufficient, and worst of all… un-clutch.   They could never seem to get over that hump.  Cuban’s work wasn’t done.

Until last night.

Coach Carlisle and Jason Terry were both giants against Miami 

Fast Forward from 2000 to game six of the 2011 NBA Finals.  The Mavericks’ journey through the years has been a long and treacherous one.  An odyssey though the peaks and valleys of the NBA’s viciously competitive landscape.  And on this night in Miami, Dirk needed a lot of help (the thing critics said he didn't have enough of) because he was struggling mightily, and Jason Terry answered the call.  He made huge plays all over the place, carrying the team for three quarters offensively, while Dirk's shot sputtered.  In fact the Mavs got solid contributions from almost everyone, keeping them in the game and holding the Heat at bay.  But in the fourth quarter Dirk returned to form and came through multiple times in the hugest of moments; the very definition of clutch.  And as Terry, Dirk, Shawn Marion, JJ Barea and Jason Kidd finished off the Heat in the closing minutes, you could feel the stigma being lifted away.  Forever.  The Mavericks had finally made it to the promised-land.

As the clock expired, the Mavs bench along with Cuban went wild, but Dirk just walked alone to the locker room.  It was so strange to see.  He looked bewildered; numb, like it was too much to take in.  It actually looked kind of like he had just lost!  After all those years, after all of the disappointments and the criticism, he could finally let himself go there.  He had finally done it.  But there was so much emotion involved that he needed to be alone in order to let it in.  He had to breathe it in, in his own time.  He had to die and be reborn.

Eventually he came out and raised the championship trophy and did interviews, but he still looked stunned.  Like it hadn’t sunk in yet, and understandably so.  But it will sink in soon, and he will celebrate the end of the odyssey with his teammates.  And along with the city of Dallas. 

In 2000 it would have been ridiculous to say it, (and honestly I didn't think that this year's incarnation would reach this pinnacle either after the loss of Caron Butler for the season) but the words can finally be uttered; for the first time in history.

The Dallas Mavericks are the NBA Champions.

They demolished the odds.  They made believers of doubters.  They played incredibly as a collective unit with seamless, interchangeable, and complementary parts.
They are the best basketball team in the world.  

And they are quite possibly... the best Underdog we’ve ever seen!
Thanks for Reading.