Mr. Earl and Mickey

    For people who were teen-agers in the 50's, one would have to have lived under a stone to have missed the birth of rock n' roll.  The energy created by that birth may have subsided a bit as rock settles into a (mostly) stodgy middle age.  But those of us lucky to have heard the first shot of that musical revolution mourn the death of two of its early revolutionaries.
   This week marked the passing of two people who were "present at the creation."  As groups with names of birds slowly, but surely, eased the likes of Patti Page and Eddie Fisher off the pop charts.  Having exhausted most of the available avian species, Earl Carroll and his group chose a marquee name from a different species, and the Cadillacs were born.  They first charted with an early r&r standard called "Gloria. ("is not Marie,"whoever she was).  That song that reached back to rhythm and blues, one of the roots from which (along with country & western) led to rock & roll.   When they followed that with "Speedo" (sometimes spelled with an extra "o"), it showed the versatility of the group.  While "Gloria" was very much of a well-worn r&b mold, "Speedo" was strikingly original.  As the Times obituary described it, the name came out some good-natured ragging of Earl, who, resenting being addressed as "Speedo," said something like "My name is Earl,"  and a classic was born.   When I heard the classic line "They call me Mister Tibbs," from "In the Heat of the Night," I immediately flashed on "My real name is Mr. Earl."  While much of early rock n' roll was repetitious, and overly dependent on a four-chord progression, songs like "Speedo" stand out because of its unusual lyrics.  There's something about the release stating that "Some they call me Joe and some they me Moe, but, man, oh, man oh Speedo means don't never take it slow,"that became immediately memorable. While I can't prove it, it's entirely possible that the expression" take it slow," originated with that song.  When I became a lifeguard in 1958, the bathing suit of choice were racing trunks named "Speedo," which predated Mr. Earl by about fifty years, but I didn't  know that at the time.  Speedos were racing trunks, fast drying, form fitting, and sleek-looking, and (I hoped) appealing to the girls, just as I imagined the eponymous hero of the song to be.  Before the "Doo-Wop" reviews revived his career in what was billed as "Speedo and the Cadillacs," Earl sang with the Coasters for about twenty years, one of the most enduring (and funniest) groups rock n' roll ever produced.
  After his musical career came to a close, Earl Carroll became a school superintendent at P.S. 87 on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, just a few blocks from where I grew up.  There was something fitting about this, as the Cadillacs were just one of many singing groups to have come out of the New York City school system, an incubator for some of the best rock n' roll ever invented.  One of my childhood friends wrote me recently that Mr. Carroll was a friend of his father, and whenever my old palTony greeted him as "Speedo," Carroll's eyes twinkled as he responded, "My real name is Mr. Earl." Indeed.
  While "Gloria" was much more of slow-dancing (e.g. the "fish") song than "Speedo," the signature tune of Mickey "Guitar" Baker, one of the duo known as Mickey & Sylvia.  Mickey died yesterday at 87.  Mickey & Sylvia had only one hit, "Love is Strange," which not only was #1 on the R&B charts, but made it #11 on the "cross-over" pop chart, no mean feat back in the mostly segregated days of pop music, which insisted on vocalists  like Pat Boone and the Diamonds to "cleanse" songs originated by black singers.  In an era of reverse-minstrelsy, such whiteface recordings provided an entree to songs that simply weren't played on mainstream stations.  Two notable exceptions to this rule were the Philadelphia based black DJ Douglas "Jocko" Henderson, whose "rocket ship" (piloted by "your engineer Jocko, coming cool and clean on your record machine, saying oo-papa-doo and how do you do, " and New York's own Alan Feed, who coined the phrase "rock n' roll.
   Black or white, "Love is Strange" was one of the sexiest songs recorded in that--or any--era.  The colloquy between Mickey and Sylvia in the middle of the song when Sylvia responds to Mickey's importunings, "I simply say bay-bay, oh bay-bay), made my nascent teen-aged loins tingle. But Mickey was an outstanding guitarist in his own right.  Though initially self-taught, he went on to study guitar, and, in addition to being one of the industry's more sought after sidemen, produced some remarkable instrumentals, blues suites and the like. Even after more than fifty-five years, Mickey's riff on "Love is Strange" (on which he sensuously bent the high "e-string" followed by some rippling arpeggios) it is probably as familiar to listeners as Roger McGuinn's intro to "Mr. Tambourine Man" was to become about ten years later.  In about 1956 or '57, I saw Mickey & Sylvia perform the song at Jocko's rock n' roll show at Brooklyn Paramount (now L.I.U.).  They were as attractive to see in person as they were to listen to.  (Sylvia, by the way, went on to have a successful career as a singer, producer, and co-founder of Sugar Hill records).
  "Love is Strange," had a second life which (I hope) yielded them more royalties than the original song ever yielded.  If was featured in the movies "Dirty Dancing," and the even-dirtier, "Deep Throat," (the latter of which in a context I will spare my more easily offended readers).
   Well Earl Carroll and Mickey Baker are gone, and with them, two small building blocks from the foundation of my musical youth.  Their music, happily, will play on in that portion of my aging body and soul that remains "forever young." 

One Nation Under Gods

     Call me Helios.  Some people find my Greek name too stuffy, and prefer the Roman "Sol. " No offense, but I think Sol sounds too ethnic.  Now, "Rah, the sun god" I like. If that makes me an elitist, so be it.  I am a god, after all, and believe in entitlement.  If not for me and my fellow immortals, who would the rest of you look to as role models?  Mere mortals?  Give me a break!
     I'm writing this blog (under a mortal pseudonym) in protest of a recent statement by one of America's candidates for president.  He said, and I'm paraphrasing, "we are a country that believes in a single God."  Now look, that hurts.  We gods predate this new-fangled notion of a single deity.  It's a hard enough job for each of us as it is. How could any one man (and, yeah, He is a "man) be expected to do it all, even if He were, in fact, able to hear all your prayers all the time.  That's a lot to expect, no?
     Clearly, the ancient Hebrews were onto something with this "single deity" notion.  They understood the principles of good marketing.  As the kids say on their tweets, KISS (that's "Keep it simple, stupid," for you mortals over fifty).  Look, it's easy to pray to one deity; a single prayer to one God saves time and simplifies things.  Why bend in supplication to a bunch of gods and goddesses who may or not hear your pleas, when a single guy can help or ignore you in accordance with His divine plan.  Hey, the Christians knew a good thing when they saw it and stuck with this notion; even gave him a son to be his earthly messenger.  Cool, huh?  I mean, who's going to give Jesus the kind of hard time the Jews gave poor old Moses? Mess with him, you're messing with his old man, who--after all--decides whether you have Sunday brunch with him once a week or burn in Hell.  (Now of course, he was crucified, which was a terrible thing, but he was resurrected and his divine words can no longer be doubted.)  The Muslims stayed with this revelation thing, making Mohammed the messenger of God.  Not only can't you question his discussions with Allah, you can't  put his photo on your mantlepiece, even if you'd like to.  Trust me, don't go there.  See, this way, each religion has a special guy with whom God had one-on-ones that he alone revealed to the masses.  (Centuries later, a fellow named Joseph Smith picked up on this gig and--voila--the Latter Day Saints were born, and later gave birth to an award winning Musical of their very own!)
      So rather than know that Ceres controls whether or not your corn crop will (forgive me) come a cropper,  recognize that those windy days come to you courtesy of my main breeze, Athena, or those forest fires,  from the my Italian paisan Vulcan, you figure this one guy (you call Yaweh, Allah, Adonai, or Lord--not "person" "Hashem" or any unisex euphemism if you're even allowed to say his name out loud) can do it all.
     Look, I remember this guy you refer to as God,  knew him when he called himself Zeus back in the day (Jupiter to his friends).  Had it all.  His wife Hera (pet name: Juno) was beautiful, smart and--forgive me for sounding a bit chauvinist--easy on the eyes.  Now don't get me wrong, Zeus was a good guy, stern, a bit full of himself, but look, he was King of the gods and if not him, who?  Get my drift?  We knew he was primus inter pares, but he understood that each of us had our roles and responsibilities.  He was a good delegator, and things worked pretty well for many centuries.  What's particularly annoying is that the only god who still thrives in the popular imagination is Hades.  They've got more names for this cat than Carter has little liver pills--Satan, Lucifer, the devil, Beelzebub, your choice.  When people fall in love do they thank Eros or Cupid? No, they think it's their good looks, stylish attire, or latest tat. But Hades (or "Pluto," until Walt Disney co-opted the name for a dog, no less) still rules.  People are still scared to death that he'll corrupt their sons and daughters and consign them to an eternity of damnation.  And one other scary dude who is never out of work is Mars, although countries seem to spend more time worshiping at the feet of that old warlord than they do praying for peace but--hey--that's what he's always been counting on.  So here's my point, when you pray to the "big fellow" (as we used to call him back in Valhalla), you're putting all your eggs in one divine basket. With us gods, it's like a sound investment policy--diversify.  Phoebus may turn her back on you and keep you in darkness, but Eros may send someone you can snuggle with until the sun (ta-da, that's me) shines again on your back door.
    Okay, enough of my sour grapes (Sorry, Bacchus, I didn't mean that the way it sounded).  All I'm asking for is a little praise for my fellow gods and goddesses where praise is due.  I mean, for Christ's sake, there are entire hymnals devoted to singing His and his Daddy's praises.  What do I get--"Here Comes the Sun,"  "That Lucky Old Sun," "I've Got the Sun in the Morning and the Moon at Night"--maybe a few others?  Nice tunes and all, but still!
    So when all your earthly politicians are falling over each other as to which one has the inside track to your single God, spare some thoughts to the gods and goddesses who once did your bidding, and now have joined the swelling ranks of the unemployed; yesterday's news.  At one time you could have prayed to Athena for wisdom, but now she spends her time watching daytime talk shows at a nursing home Juno runs for retired gods and godesses.  Talk about "Twilight of the gods,"  we're in divine hibernation for God's sake!

Doc Watson: The Best at what he did

    Doc Watson died yesterday at age 89.  When I wrote my recent blog on the occasion of Earl Scruggs's death,  I was able to say without fear of contradiction that he changed the face and sound of banjo music forever.  The same could be said about Doc Watson on guitar.
Arthel "Doc" Watson was born in North Carolina, and lost his sight as an infant.  There is an old cliche that when people lose a faculty such as sight, it intensifies their other abilities as a means of compensation. Apart from the historical fact that blind people have been limited in terms of job opportunities, being a musician seemed a natural outlet for them.  While there are, of course, great musicians with 20/20 vision, I remember, as a young man, that the two best guitarists I ever heard were blind.  Jose Feliciano was one, and Doc Watson was the other. (The Rev. Gary Davis, also blind, was no slouch himself.)
    Growing up in the rural south, Doc was exposed to mountain music, country blues, as well as the songs of tin pan alley.  As a working musician, he played as a sideman for many pop bands, and played what the audience wanted to hear.  I remember hearing him talk about this at the old Gaslight Cafe on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village in the early 60's.  After this introduction, he played "The Sheik of Araby," replete with many chords unfamiliar to many budding folk guitarists such as I.  Doc could also finger-pick better than anyone I'd ever heard, modeling much of his style on the late Merle Travis.  But the area in which he truly revolutionized the field was the art of flat-picking.  Guitars in country bands had pretty much been rhythm instruments, with the melodies and breaks done either on fiddle or mandolin.  Earl Scruggs, of course, changed all that with his distinctive banjo-picking style, and Doc Watson did the same with guitar.
   Now the fiddle is bowed so as to play out a seamless melodious strain.  This is not as easy to do on guitar (unless you used a bow, which sounds like a bad idea even in jest).  You must, in fact, be able to double-pick many of the strings to keep pace with what would otherwise have been the fiddle part.  By double-pick, I refer to the mandolin-like technique of plucking up and down on the same string (either bass or treble).  This enables you to get the speed equivalent to a fiddle.  Needless to say, this is no mean feat.  (Budding guitarists, give it a try.)  Doc was able to do it at any pace, any tempo.  He could also play blues, bluegrass, Carter Family  and Jimmie Rodgers numbers--in fact, just about anything. He also had a good singing voice that was as enjoyable to hear in its understatement as his playing was in its virtuosity.
   I had the good fortune to hear Doc Watson play live, in the small coffee house venues that were the hallmark of the urban folk scene in the 60's.  Watching (and hearing) him play such songs as "Doc's Guitar," "Brown's Ferry Blues," "Don't Let Your Deal Go Down," "Spike Driver Blues," "Tennessee Stud," and "Deep River Blues" (a finger-picking gem) were just revelatory.  To paraphrase Carly Simon, "nobody does it better."
  There are wonderful duet albums available on CD with Doc pairing with Chet Atkins and Earl Scruggs that are marvelous in their combined excellence.  An fine example of the variety with which Doc (assisted here by his late son, Merle) played can be found on the Vanguard album, "Southbound."  On it you can hear Doc play such disparate numbers as "Sweet Georgia Brown," (practice that one, ye speed-guitar freaks, and despair),  "Alberta," (later done by Eric Clapton) and the mis-named instrumental, "Nothing to it." There album also features the beautiful Tom Paxton song, "The Last thing on my Mind." I remember hearing Tom play the song one long-ago evening at the Gaslight when he was sharing the bill with Doc, and call out to Doc, "eat your heart out, Doc."  As such, it is wonderful to hear Doc Watson covering the Paxton classic on "Southbound."  Another Doc Watson song covered by Clapton when he was with "Cream," was "Sittin' on top of the World."  When Doc sings the line, "But now she's gone, and I don't worry," he pronounces "worry" as if it was "weary."  I don't mean it to sound patronizing, but there's something I love about his old mountain diction.  There's a wonderful authenticity to Doc's singing.  When he attacks a lyric, you know he understands what he's singing, and you sense that he wouldn't do the song if he didn't. In the old folk standard, "The Wabash Cannonball," countless musicians misunderstand the lyric when the verse recounts the country-wide route transversed by the train, and sing "no chances need be taken on the Wabash Cannonball."  Doc understood that such a line made no sense, and sings "no changes need be taken."  That's the whole point of the lyric, and one doesn't need a master's degree in musicology to know what Doc knew.
   Doc played lead guitar on on the first of Roger Sprung's (no relation) "Progressive Bluegrass" albums.  I think this may be available via Roger's website, and is notable for two songs featuring the good doctor, that must be heard to fully appreciate what this man could do with otherwise familiar tunes to make them his own.  He does the old Child Ballad, "Greensleeves," first slowly, and then in an astonishing flat-picking overdrive.  Next he does the old jazz standard, "Bye-Bye Blues," replete with chords not usually heard from a "folkie," and in rhythms one could practice a lifetime to master.
  As a folk guitarist of modest talent, I was never able to feel comfortable with flat-picking, and relied on my thumb and other fingers.  I once heard Doc talking about finger-picking, and described his use of what he called "an educated thumb."  It was a technique by which one could double-pick on the bass strings to get the same kind of sound and rhythm otherwise only achievable with a flat-pick.  This was something I was able to learn, and am forever in his debt.
   Doc was a modest and gentle man, with a personality as warm as his voice.  His admirers are legion.  Guitar wizards from Eric Clapton to Tommy Emmanuel and Mark Knopfler are but a few of the superb crop of musicians who will openly sing his praises and acknowledge the special debt they owe to Doc Watson.  The wonderfully eclectic guitarist, Ry Cooder, wrote a touching reminiscence of Doc in yesterday's New York Times.  But those of you who are familiar with Doc Watson's music need no reminder from me of how special he was, or how unique were his contributions to the world of folk and county music.  To those less familiar with his work, listen to some of his stuff.  You are, I assure you, in for a treat.
    Doc was said to have described his guitar wizardry as "just a skill." (Yeah, like Einstein was good with numbers.)   It was, however, more than that.  It was a calling.
     

Me and Willy: The American Play of Death

 
    It would not be unfair for a member of my immediate family to describe their husband or father as preoccupied with the great American play, "Death of a Salesman," currently on fine display in a revival starring Philip J. Hoffman and Linda Edmond.  While many would argue it is the greatest drama ever produced for the American theater, it is certainly one of the very finest, along with Tennessee Williams's "A Streetcar Named Desire," and Eugene O'Neill's "Long Days Journey into Night." It is, perhaps, no mistake that each of these magnificent plays involves both madness and families in disarray.  "Salesman," however, is a "political" play, in a territory where neither Williams nor O'Neill's dramas ever ventured.  As a sympathetic member of the (non-communist) left, Arthur Miller's "Salesman" is a thinly veiled indictment of capitalism, and the victims left in its wake.  Fortunately, his good sense of drama and (mostly) successful avoidance of cliche, rescued the play from descending into agitprop. Indeed, as I later suggest, Willy is more the victim of his own demons than those caused by the economic system in which he works, however indifferent it may be to his plight.
    Although  I was too young to see the original production when in opened in early 1949,  I do remember my mother describing the stunned silence of the audience as the curtain closed, only to be followed by thunderous applause.  This description left an indelible impression upon me.  My older sister saw the play as well, and was similarly moved. Shortly thereafter, I began going to the theater in earnest, a habit that continues to this day.  My mother's younger brother was my uncle, Sam Norkin, whose wonderful theatrical caricatures graced the pages of the old Herald Tribune and, later, the New York Daily News. Sam would often take me with him on the second nights of shows, when he would do the drawings that later became the wonderful works of brush and ink that people would see in their Sunday papers. By the time I'd finished college, I'd seen many plays, but waited in earnest for a revival of "Salesman."  I'd read the play a number of times, and had seen the very good film version sometime in the mid-50's (with Frederick March playing Willy). I even still have the LP of the play, with Thomas Mitchell substituting for Lee J. Cobb.  When I got married in 1965, my requested wedding present from Uncle Sam was the original of his theatrical painting of "Salesman," which appeared in the Herald Tribune in February, 1949.  I see it every night as I ascend the staircase in our Brooklyn home, probably not far from the enclave in which Willy lived out his woebegone life.  In Sam's caricature, Biff (Arthur Kennedy) has discovered his father  (Lee J.Cobb) in his Boston hotel room with another woman (Winnifred Cushing), while Willy's long-suffering wife, Linda (the incomparable Mildred Dunnock) stands off on stage left holding a laundry basket.  Willy is trying to console his disconsolate son, flanked by the two women posed in artistic counterpoint to the sorrowful scene unfolding on center stage.  It is a masterful work of brush and ink, and perfectly captures the play's most dramatic scene.   I did not see Cobb play the role until he and Mildred Dunnock reprised their roles in a 1966 televised version of the drama with George Segal (Biff) and James Farrentino (Happy) playing his wayward sons.  In 1966, I was younger than both Biff and Happy, and Willy and my father were exactly the same age, a fact not lost on me.  But yes, from that day forward, Lee J. Cobb defined the role for me.
   It should come as no surprise to devotees of "Salesman" that many of the lines are not only lodged in my memory, but have formed part of our family's vocabulary.  I remember my younger son, jokingly echoing Willy's cries of "spite!"  When we would watch Seinfeld with my older son, he was arguably among the few who understood Jerry's occasional references to George as "Biff." Other lines which have always stayed with me include "he's liked, but not well-liked;" "I'm feeling Kind of temporary;" "The woods are burning;"and "I'm a dime a dozen, Pop, and so are you;" and, of course, "attention must be paid to such a person."  I suspect many of us have, on occasion, felt "temporary." Ironically, back in Willy's day, most people spent their lives at one job. Now, just about everyone feels temporary.
    And, from Charlie's informal eulogy at the play's conclusion, he talks of the salesman, "...way out on the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine...A salesman has got to dream, boy.  It comes with the territory.  One dast not bame such a man."  There's something about the use of the archaic "dast," that reminds us that the play itself opened 63 years ago (once again, Willy's age), and people spoke differently then. The formality of much of the locution is, in itself, deeply moving.  When Linda implores the boys not to say things to their father that would make him "blue,"I think of it as a word my dear, late mother would use, and it moves me deeply.  And, of course, the phrase, "it comes with the territory," has entered the lexicon.
    There are certain scenes that continue to bring tears to my eyes.  When Willy sees his long-suffering wife, Linda, darning her torn nylon stockings, he tears them from her hand.  As a man who used gifts of nylons to bed his Boston chippie (how's that for an archaic word?), the shame is too much for him--a flawed, but not evil, man.  Another such scene is the one in which Willy goes to Charley's office to (a) inform him that he has been fired, (b) hit him up for yet another cash infusion that he thinks Linda is unaware of, and (c) refuse yet another offer of work from Charley.  While waiting for Charley to arrive, he meets Bernard, once the object of his, and his sons' mockery. Bernard is now a successful attorney, en route to Washington to argue a case.  He is armed with both a valise and a tennis racquet clamped in its wooden press, and has come to say good-bye to his father before heading for the train.  Willy is obviously impressed that Bernard will be staying at a home that has a private tennis court.  Tennis, back then, was still an elite sport, and the thought of someone having their own court was (and still is) most unusual.  When Bernard confronts Willy about why Biff disappeared right after the math test, and never went to summer school, he is striking Willy on what is still his deepest wound.  Before taking his leave, Bernard and Charley hug, not once, but twice.  While Willy says nothing about this open show of affection, it is doubtless not lost on him, and will be recalled in a marvelous twist near the drama's end, when Willy receives his own hug from his prodigal son, Biff.  When Charley tells him Bernard will be arguing a case before the U.S. Supreme Court, Willy is nonplussed.  "And he didn't even mention it," he tells Charley.  Charley's response says it all:  "He don't have to--he's gonna do it." This stands out in sharp contrast to Willy's empty boasts.   Most sadly, at the end of this telling scene, Willy admits to Charley that he is his "only friend," an irony lost on neither of them.
   The other "hugging"scene to which I refer is near the end of the play, when Biff collapses in Willy's arm in tears.  It is the first embrace we have seen between father and son.  Willy doesn't quite know what to make of it.  "Isn't it remarkable. Biff, he loves me."  It is this realization that impels Willy to take his own life.  After all, with the final installment on the insurance made (thanks to Charley), Willy realizes, in his final "discussion" with brother Ben, how "magnificent that boy will be with $20,000" behind him.  Perhaps Biff and Happy will make good on their promise to join forces on a traveling sporting goods venture in which they will play before adoring crowds.  In the wake of Bill Oliver's refusal to bankroll Biff on this project,  Willy comes through as backer in the only way he can.  (I guess that's why they call these kinds of plays "tragedies.")
  Biff's recounting of his abortive meeting with Bill Oliver, who kept him waiting all day only to cast him aside with barely a glance. is painful to listen to.  Willy had high hopes for this meeting, even saying in uncharacteristic false modesty, "He may remember me." Fat chance.  Biff had left Oliver's employ years before, following a theft of some basketballs, and Willy is (rightly) concerned about Biff's behavior in the upcoming meeting with Oliver.  True to both form and fate, Biff is in Oliver's office just long enough to steal a fountain pen and dash down the many flights of stairs until, at last, he feels free in the open air, free of the stifling confines of the business world that Miller held in such disfavor.
   In an inadvertent example of life imitating art, while an officer trainee in the Air Force, I found myself asked by a Southern upperclassman (with a weakness for drink) if I had seen his fountain pen, which he had conveniently left in the room I shared with a fellow trainee.  Both my room-mate and I  (respectively one of the very few black men, and--in my case--the lone Jew in our Squadron) denied having seen it.  When I discovered the pen in our room immediately after the upperclassman's visit and ran down the hall after him , he warned "I'm not accusing you of anything, but I'll be keeping my eyes on you."  When I later had the chance, just before graduation, of reviewing my official record, the "accused of lying and stealing" entry became something I never forgot.  And so, each time I see the play, I keep hoping against hope that Biff won't take that damn pen.  Although I've seen the show countless times, he just keeps on stealing it.  Jesus, Biff, would you leave it alone for once!
    The first time I actually saw the play "live" in was in 1975,  at the Circle in the Square production starring (and directed by) George C. Scott, by then widely considered one of very greatest actors.  He was (to use one of Willy's words) "magnificent."  If anything, the strength of Scott lent a fury to the anger that fueled Willy's insecurities. By now, I was a contemporary of the sons, and could appreciate the frustrations that struggling men can feel at an age when they are already supposed to be "established," and prospering in their fields.  One casting experiment was having Willy's neighbors, Charley and son Bernard played by two African-Americans (Arthur French and Chuck Patterson).  While the two were certainly accomplished actors, it required (for me) too great a suspension of disbelief.  While the question "Is Willy Jewish?" continues to be debated (see the May 20, 2012 edition of the New York Times), Willy's identity as either a Christian just struggling to get by as he ages in an indifferent culture, or a Jew so desperately seeking assimilation in the America he yearns to be a part of, is not essential to his "everyman" role.  While Willy may or may not have been based on Arthur Miller's Uncle Manny (himself a salesman), it doesn't much matter.  Religion simply doesn't play a role in this play.  Strictly speaking, neither does race, but, in the years in which the play takes place (1932-1949), casting black actors as  Charley and Bernard (and as highly successful in their chosen fields) creates a cultural dissonance too hard to ignore, especially in the heavily segregated Brooklyn of those days.  Although there is a place for color-blind casting, I'm not sure it makes sense in such a deeply class-conscious play as this.
   Interestingly, the late James Farrentino (who died earlier this year) who played Happy in the 1966 television version, had "matured" into the role of Biff in 1975.  By the time the next revival came in 1984, I took my parents, my wife and two sons to see Dustin Hoffman in the title role.  At the time, there was considerable discussion as to whether the role of Willy could be successfully played by someone of Hoffman's height.  I had always imagined Willy as a big, overweight man, and found it a bit of a physical disconnect, almost as strong as Bernard and Charley being black.  That said, Dustin Hoffman did a fine job as Willy, but just didn't come across as someone who would have been the kind of presence that towered over his sons (both literally and figuratively) in their formative years.  In fairness, Dustin won the Tony for his role as Willy, so my reaction should be taken in context. By then, my once powerful father was in his early 80's, and he found the excursion a physically exhausting one. Although he was to live another eleven years, I think it was the last play he saw.  My kids, by then, were well aware of my "Salesman" fixation and familiar with the show.  I don't think it was lost on them that Willy, like me, was the father of two sons.  Like Willy, my father was frequently "on the road," (albeit as an international lawyer), but my mother, like Linda, payed a price for his absences, and I do think of mom whenever I see the play. But, once again, like Willy and, I suppose, any father, I  wanted my sons to think well of me. Whatever my father's and my shortcomings may have been as parents, I'm thankful that none of us viewed our respective fathers as hypocrites, perhaps the saddest of poor Willy's failings.
   In 1989, suffering from five years of Salesman-related-withdrawal Syndrome ("SRWS"), I took my wife and younger son to see a tragi-comic fantasy called "The Loman Family Picnic," in which a thirteen year-old boy, studying "Death of a Salesman" in school, sees the similarities between his own family and the star-crossed Lomans, and even envisions what a Loman family picnic would have been like. Hint: it was no picnic!
    By the time of the 1999 revival, Brian Dennehey (a prolific, but rarely distinguished television and movie  actor), was cast in the role of Willy, and did an excellent job, well deserving of his "Tony."  His combination of power, strut, and impotence were perfectly balanced.  Dennehey, as mentioned above was the only Willy to be roughly the same age as his character.  I found myself in the strange position of, at long last, being just a few years shy of 60 myself.  For the first time, I was able to identify with Willy as a contemporary. Although I hadn't yet faced the prospect of forced retirement at the hands of a forty-ish boss, that most unpleasant of experiences lay not too far ahead.  While I managed, ultimately, to hang on until a time of my own choosing, I did realize that Willy was more of an everyman than I cared to believe.  Winning a Tony for his role in "Salesman," was hardly a fluke.  Dennehey also won the best actor Tony for "Long Day's Journey into Night."  For all his television and film work, he has never had the recognition properly granted him on Broadway.
   Some months ago, it was announced that a new production of Salesman was being mounted by the superb director, Mike Nichols, and starring that most versatile of actors, Philip Seymour Hoffman.  As is obvious to most, he will be the second Hoffman to play Willy.  But for those interested in "Salesman" trivia, Andrew Garfield--as Biff--will be the second Garfield to perform in the play.  Julie Gardield--no relation--played one of the young women Happy picks up in Frank's Tavern in the 1975 production of the play.  But when I received the discount flyer to the Nichols' production, I vowed not to see the play.  Enough, after all, was enough.
   Alas, SRWS got the best of me.  Last week, I purchased a single ticket (no one in the family cared to join me--after all, who could blame them?).  So much for my resolve. The cast was uniformly excellent, as was the production.  Sadly, for me, it was (as Yogi is said to have said) it was deja-vu all over again.  There were a couple of moments that still moved me, but, mostly, it was an intellectual, rather than an emotional experience.  To that degree, I agreed with the Ben Brantley review in the New York Times.   On two key points, however, I disagree.   I found the 44-year-old Hoffman entirely believable as the 63 year-old Willy, and thought he turned in a strong and powerful performance. While Brantley found Linda Edmond too powerful to play the beaten-down Linda, I thought her performance was spot-on, as was Andrew Garfield as Biff and the rest of the cast.  I expect that this production will garner several Tony's--and deservedly so. I'm glad that I went, and happier still that a new generation of theater-goers had this opportunity.  There is little to laugh at in the play, even though there are a few incidental attempts at humor.  At one point the audience inappropriately laughed when Linda looks at her son, Happy and describes him as "a philandering bum--that's all you are, my baby."  It is a line that always moves me--and did so here as well.  It is a sad and telling line.  To hear something like this invoke laughter makes me wonder just a bit about today's audiences.  But that does not take away from the fineness of this production.  I recommend it without reservation.  Despite the passage of time, its heavy-handed political overtones, and some of its overbroad metaphors, "Death of a Salesman" lives, and deservedly so.
   Salesman mystery: We know that Biff never went to summer school and why, but we never know why Willy never even tried to get Birnbaum (the math teacher) to adjust Biff's Regents.   Perhaps even he realized such an effort would have been too little too late.  The damage had been done, and the injury too deep. My dear late mother was able to convince my own math teacher to give me a second shot at the math Regents which allowed me to graduate  "on time," and attend the college to which I'd already been accepted (and no, it was not the University of Virginia).  But yes, life--at least mine--does imitate art yet again.
    It is interesting that, while Death of a Salesman has won its share of Tony's (and the Pulitzer Prize), the best acting award did not go to Lee J. Cobb (or for that matter, George C. Scott).  It did, as mentioned above, go to both Dustin Hoffman (in the 1984 version) and to Brian Dennehy (in 1999).  Dennehy, by the way, is the only age-approriate actor to have portrayed Willy, being 60 1/2 when he performed the role.
    So where does that leave me after so many years of growing up (and old) with the play?  Willy tried hard to succeed, and "no one dast blame such a man" for that.  It wasn't his lack of success that makes "Salesman" the tragedy it is, nor can capitalism be blamed, however indifferent it may be for those who do not measure up to its law of averages.  I applaud Willy for his outsized dreams.  Browning told us that "man's reach should exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for." Where Willy went astray was not in the bankruptcy of his finances but in the bankruptcy of his values system.  Willy excused the "borrowing"of the school football, and knew full well from where Biff and Happy were going to "liberate" the lumber to repair the porch, because cutting corners was the way to go ahead.  Brother Ben never fought fair, and imparted that lesson to the teen-aged Biff.   If these were lessons Willy took away from capitalism, they were doubtless self-tought.  Charley and Bernard were not only the best friends Willy and Biff ever had, but men who succeeded in the same system that stymied Willy.  More importantly, they did so (it would appear) through honesty, generosity, and hard work.  My father and I both had our share of bumping up against the walls of the system, so I have some idea of how Willy (and those older men and women trying to get along in an economy that manages by downsizing and outsourcing) felt.  There is, sadly, a timelessness about "Death of a Salesman," and that is why this very good revival has been so well received.
   And so, dear Willy,  it is true that your sons deserved a better father, and your wife a better husband but--however imperfect your efforts-- you did try, and that should count for something.  if I had been that young whipper-snapper Howard, I would have given Willy the home office job that would have saved his life.  All he wanted was fifty bucks a week.  One can understand Willy's shame in not wanting to keep taking handouts from Charley, sadly, the only friend of a man who prided himself on being well-liked.  And it is also easy to understand his reluctance to go to work for Charley.  A man like Willy could rationalize the handouts as loans on which he was "keeping strict account," but being in Charley's employ would be, for him, the real handout.  Charley was, as so many people who fell short of Willy's admiration, "liked, but not well-liked," and simply being "liked" was death to a salesman.  And yes, attention should be paid to such a person.   And wasn't.
   As for future revivals of "Death of a Salesman," I'm older than Willy now, and pretty soon, I'll be old enough to play his brother Ben in the Boca Raton Little Theater production.  Indeed, I have probably seen enough productions to (you'll pardon the expression) last a lifetime.  But then again, come 2030 or so, when Justin Bieber and Adele star as Willy and Linda, who knows? SRWS is a powerful thing

"God, Fenway, and Schadenfreude"

On Friday, April 20, 2012, Boston's Fenway Park celebrated its 100th anniversary. Fenway is one of the great old ballparks, one of the few remaining "originals." As with Chicago's "Wrigley Field," it embodies the tradition that so many baseball fans cling to in a fast-changing world.  For those of you too young or foolish to have not visited Brooklyn's Ebbets Field, you can approximate the experience by visiting Fenway.  Both parks had capacities in the low 30,000's, pillars that you have to peer around and, in the case of Ebbets,' a right-field wall that was the mirrror image of Fenways's fame "green monster."  By way of confession, I should state, out the outset, that I am a Yankee fan and--as such-- a bit of an apostate when it comes to topics like worshiping at Boston's cathedral of baseball.  That said, the fortunes of the Yankees and the Red Sox have been intertwined for much of those hundred years.  While it is true that those fortunes have most often favored the Yankees, there have been exceptions, and some of them (think 2004) have been notable.

   There have many great baseball rivalries.  In my native City of New York, the many World Series between the Yankees and their inter-borough rivals, the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers, tested many familial loyalties during the World Series of my youth.  In the American League (once called "the Junior Circuit"), there is no comparison to the level of partisanship as that brought out by meetings between the Sox and the Yanks.  Unfortunately, the level of discourse between the fans of our two great cities brings little pride to the two teams which represent us.  I can't remember the first time I heard the fans start chanting "The Yankees suck," or "The Red Sox suck," with equal animosity.  It seemed to be carrying partisanship to a new low, a low--I'm sorry to say--has yet to ebb.  This attitude had its apotheosis in the form of a character I encountered last month at a Mets-Tigers Spring Training game at the absurdly named "Digital Domain Park."  This fan (or non-fan) was wearing a baseball cap with initials I couldn't quite make out.  When I got closer, I saw it was an intertwined "Y" and "H."  Embroidered on its back were the words "Yankee hater."  What, I wondered, was this guy for? I mean, isn't it preferable to be known by what we are rather than that which we are not?  

   I have a small confession to make.  On that famous (or infamous) day in early October, 1978, when Bucky Dent ended the Red Sox's season with a home run over the green monster from which his team never recovered, I exulted.  While that may have been excusable on a normal day, I was home from work that day, ostensibly to observe the Jewish New Year and contemplate a year on which I would aspire to higher goals.  I couldn't help it.  I spent many of the high holy days of my youth home from school, rooting for the Yankees as they took on the Giants, Dodgers (and, even once, the Phillies) in the World Series. When the Red Sox lost the 1986 World Series as a grounder rolled between the legs of the hapless Bill Buckner (who--good for him--returned to Fenway on Friday),  I vowed I would no longer delight in the Red Sox's misfortunes.  They had, I reasoned, suffered enough.  No more schadenfreude, the special pleasure on takes in another's misfortune.  Yes, I would still root for the Yanks when they played the Sox, but not root against the Red Sox, or take pleasure in their failure.  I know this is a fine distinction, but one not lost on the baseball fans among my readership.
  My resolution lasted until game three of the 2004 of the American League Championship.  Remember, it was almost exactly a year from the day on which the Yankees had (yet again) broken the hearts of Red Sox Nation when the weak-hitting Aaron Boone with an extra-inning game winning and season-ending home run off knuckleballer Tim Wakefield.  The Yankees were decisively winning game three against the Red Sox, but this was not enough for me.  I watched until the last out of that humiliation, cheering each and every insult until the Yankees ended the lop-sided slugfest 18-9.  "Pour it on," I exclaimed, providing a working definition of the schadenfreude I had resolved to avoid just eight years before.  Some resolve!   You know what happened next--the Red Sox won the next four games for the Pennant, and went on to sweep the Cardinals in the Series, their curse-breaking first since 1918.  Serves me right.  If God intervenes in baseball games, I was getting my just desserts.  Actually, I would never pray for divine intervention in a sporting contest, and do not believe that God is a baseball fan or--if He is--that He favors one team over another.  If I'm right, perhaps He could cut the Chicago Cubs a little slack.  As for the baseball gods (lower case), they surely exist, and were watching me carefully back in '04.  They certainly played a role in the Yankees' three wins in the 2001 World Series, giving our wounded and terrorized City of New York hope.  These baseball gods act in strange--and, sometimes--wondrous, ways.  They are baseball fans, and help balance things out--except when they are being perverse (which is often).

   But Friday was a special day for me as a fan of the great game of baseball, one on which we all recognized that the two teams share a unique history.  It was very touching to see the players on each team wearing the sparkling colors of the uniforms they wore on that long-ago afternoon in 1912 when they met on the day Fenway was first opened.  While it would have been unsportsmanlike for the Yankees to refuse to wear their old "New York Highlander" uniforms, it was strangely poignant to see the Yankees share this special occasion with the Red Sox.  Although the Highlanders would not become the Yankees until the next year, the "road" uniform looked very familiar to me, and not at all out of place.  The same was true with the Boston "home" uniform.  Boston, unfortunately, like certain other teams (the New York Mets, for one) have adopted the use of  multiple uniforms; black, green, striped, you name it.  I like the fact that the Yankees have stuck with pinstripes for the Bronx and gray for "roadwork."  The uniforms of 1912 did not have numbers on the back, an innovation begun by the Yankees in the '20's, then representing one's order in the line-up (e.g. Ruth batting third, Gehrig in cleanup, etc.)  Even to this day, the Yankees and the Red sox have happily resisted the urge to put people's names on the uniforms.  It is, after all, a team, although--as Jerry Seinfeld so correctly put it in this age of free-agency--the only thing that stays the same about teams is (sometimes) their uniforms.  Back in the bad old days of the reserve clause, we fans were spoiled by growing up with the same players, until they were traded, retired or put out to pasture by the all-powerful management.

   Anyway, Fenway Park was resplendent in all its urban glory, and the sight of two hundred or so of its former players (including such stalwarts as Pedro Martinez, Carlton Fisk and Carl Yastremski) appeared from the doorway in centerfield.  For me, the passage of time was epitomized by Johnny Peskey (92) and Bobby Doerr (94) by two aged Red Sox being led out in wheelchairs by Jason Varitek and Tim Wakefield.  Not that I need any reminders of the passage of time, here were two contemporaries of Phil Rizzuto and Hank Bauer--competitors of my youth, being wheeled by two recently retired rivals of my adulthood--worthy opponents all.  While there may have been some dry eyes in the house, mine were not among them.   Whatever deference the Yankees might have had to the celebration of Fenway's centenary ended with the timeless cry of "Play Ball." The Yankees crushed the Sox 6-2 with five home runs (including two by Eric Chavez, and one by almost Red Sox Alex Rodriguez, which went completely out of the ballpark, landing somewhere on the historic streets of Boston).  But if the Yankees' victory on Friday was an anti-climactic end to a century of baseball at Fenway, the beginning of their second century was something far worse.
    The Red Sox fans were in a festive mood.  Their pitcher, a crafty young man named Felix Doubront was shutting down the Yanks, while the Sox seemed to be tacking on a run or two each inning.  By the 5th, it was 9-0 (yes, the score of a forfeit), and gleeful chants of "Yankees Suck" could be heard throughout the stands.  After giving up a solo-homer to Mark Texiera in the top of the 6th, Dumont was given the rest of the day off, a win apparently safe in hand.  The Yankees scored seven runs in the seventh and repeated the feat in the eighth.  That's where it ended, 15-9.
   Was I happy?  Sure.  Did I gloat?  Not me, I'm a changed man.   Besides, the baseball headlines were not in Fenway.  They went to Phil Humber, who just happened to pitch a perfect game that same afternoon for the White Sox.  See, the baseball gods always get the last laugh.

Earl Scruggs, R.I.P.

   I first learned about bluegrass music in the summer of 1962.  I was Waterfront Director at a camp for what were then called "underprivileged children," and shared a mildewed tent with a fellow staffer named Joe Brecher, who has become a lifelong friend.  Joe had been introduced to this music in college, and was even able to get WWVA in Wheeling, West Virginia, a station that played music from "The Grand Old Opry," and featured Bluegrass music.  To those not familiar with what is often called "The High, Lonesome, Sound" that is bluegrass, think of it as an acoustic musical style that draws from both folk and country music and utilizes the banjo, one or more guitars, the dobro (an unamplified version of the Hawaiian guitar), a bass, and a mandolin.  I was already deeply involved with folk music, and loved singing and playing the guitar.  The introduction to (a) bluegrass music in general and (b) Flatt & Scruggs and the Foggy Mountain Boys in particular was nothing short of a revelation.  The virtuosity of the musicians and their tight country harmonies were, quite literally, music to my ears.  Foremost among these was the banjo playing of Earl Scruggs.  I had long been familiar with Banjo music, courtesy of Pete Seeger and the Weavers, and groups like the Kingston Trio and the Limelighters.  But Earl Scruggs, who (along with rhythm guitarist and lead singer, Lester Flatt) got his start with the late, great  singer and mandolin picker, Bill Monroe in 1945, was not just your ordinary country banjo picker.  He invented a new way of playing the banjo that no one had done before.  (The New York Times was compared his achievements on the banjo equivalent to those of Paganini on the violin.)  It is now so familiar to anyone who listens to bluegrass or folk music, that we assume it had been played that way since the invention of the instrument.  Not so.  Earl added a third finger to the playing of the five-string banjo, and what emerged was a clean, biting sound that both rippled and provided a ragtime-like alternating of the strings. Earl also added another refinement to the five-string banjo known of "Scruggs-pegs" (now called Scruggs-Keith pegs in recognition of a Scruggs protege named  Bill Keith).  These were extra pegs on the banjo that allowed the player (initially only Earl Scruggs) to change tunings in the middle of a piece. Whenever Earl would utilize these pegs in concert appearances, the audience would burst out in spontaneous applause, smiles wreathing our appreciative faces.
  The world at large became aware of bluegrass music when one of the signature pieces of Flatt &; Scruggs called "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" appeared as the getaway song in the movie, "Bonnie and Clyde."  A few years later, Flatt & Scruggs provided the theme song to "The Beverly Hillbillies" and, later, "Petticoat Junction."
   When the movie version of James Dickey's classic novel, "Deliverance," appeared, it featured the instrumental, "Dueling Banjos," in which a guitar and banjo trade licks.  Once the duel really gets going, the banjo explodes in Scruggs-style banjo.
   Given Scrugg's unique contribution to the five-string banjo, it is easy to forget what a fine guitar player he was.  Listen to their album, "Flatt & Scuggs sing Songs of the Famous Carter Family." For years, I struggled to replicate his guitar-picking on the classic, "Jimmy Brown the Newsboy." Eventually, I was satisfied with having "approximated" it.  There is not a single bluegrass banjo picker who does not owe a debt to the late master.  Without Earl Scruggs, they might have been playing the banjo, but not in that style which is now synonymous with bluegrass music.
   Yesterday, just before writing this blog, I was walking by my music room, where I keep my guitar, stereo components and far too many records and LPs.  I heard the sound of something falling to the floor, little louder than a whisper.  When I looked to see what had made these gentle noise, I saw that it was a small model banjo that had fallen from its pedestal to the floor.  I lovingly put it back in its place, and shook my head at the timing of an occurrence that had never happened before.  Even my model banjo was in mourning.
    In the excellent biography of Steve Jobs by Walter Isaacson, Jobs was asked to assess the importance of  the music of the Dylan and Beatles versus the Rolling Stones.  Mr. Jobs said that if the Rolling Stones hadn't existed, someone else would have taken their place, but no one could have taken the place of Dylan or the Beatles.  The same can be said with regard to Earl Scruggs.  To paraphrase the words of "The In Crowd," "Other guys and gals may imitate us, the original is still the greatest."  Indeed.

Spring Training, 2012

     As a kid, the very words "Spring Training" were evocative of a rebirth, a thaw from winter's chill, and--of course--the resumption of what was then called "Our National Pastime" Whatever our national pastime is now (take your pick: gossip, tweeting, surfing the web, playing with your smart phone, etc.) it certainly isn't baseball.  Even among the other major sports, baseball could no longer be considered more popular than, say, professional football.  Nonetheless, there is something quaint about a sport being considered America's "national pastime," and I still like to think of it that way--an outdoor game played on real grass and mostly played in warm weather.
    Of the three (yes, three) baseball teams based in New York City when I was a kid, the Yankees used to train in St. Petersburg, Florida, the Dodgers in "Dodgertown" in Vero Beach,  also in Florida. Only the quirky Giants opted for Phoenix, Arizona except in 1951, trivia fans, when they did a one-year spring training swap with the Yanks.  We read eagerly about new"phenoms" who would emerge in spring training, a rare few to flourish with rest fast to fade.  )Who, except for some aging Giants fans remembers Clint Hartung?)  Others, like Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays went on to make history.
  In any event, attending spring training was something reserved for only the most fortunate.  My parents, although world travelers, never went to Florida in my formative years.   The closest I came was an in utero visit the spring before my birth, not that they would have considered a visit to St. Pete's, even in honor of my incipient arrival.  One childhood friend, whose father was a wealthy manufacturer, not only went to spring training, but would favor me with postcards from the fancy restaurants he went to ("Wish you were here, Johnny" Yeah, right.) So here I was, a lifelong baseball fan, a spring training "virgin."  Now that my wife and I have a vacation home in Florida, it had it least become possible.  Alas, with the Yankees now training at faraway Tampa,  a day trip is over two hundred miles away, and more than I can subject my long-suffering (Met's fan) wife, Riki, to.   The Mets, on the other hand, were a mere hour and a half away, in Port St. Lucie.  And so, we, and two of our Florida friends, ordered tickets.  Unfortunately, it was the one day all last spring that was a rain-out.  Candidly, I felt as if I'd dodged a bullet.  Riki, a former Brooklyn Dodger fan, transferred her allegiances to the Mets as soon as that hapless conglomeration of minor leaguers and has-beens expanded to be the "replacement team" for the sadly departed Dodgers and Giants.  With only occasional respites (1969 and 1986 as memorable exceptions) her love affair with the Mets has gone largely unrequited.  Remember the wonderful song "And There Used to be a Ballpark" in which Sinatra sang, "The old team isn't playing and the new team hardly tries?" Guess who he was singing about? Anyway, Riki watches virtually every game from early April to their last furtive gasp in early October.  We watch on separate floors, occasionally comparing notes on our respective team's fortunes and exchanging a furtive between-innings embrace.
   I thought I was going to again get away without having to go see the Mets, as our friends did not have any open time that coincided with the Mets' schedule.  But Riki would have none of it.  With daily reminders, I finally agreed to go last Friday.  They were, after all, playing a Major League team (the Detroit Tigers) and I thought it would be fun to see Prince Fielder and Delman Young flex their respective muscles.  It rained the night before, and I thought that I might get another pass, but the next day dawned anew, with bright skies and a good forecast.  It was, in fact, a perfect baseball day--82 degrees with a soft spring breeze.
   Unlike last year, we had not purchased tickets in advance, preferring to take our chances rather than through the rigamarole of obtaining a refund in case of a rain-out. To our mutual surprise (perhaps because of the many Michiganders wintering nearby) the game was a sell-out.   To add insult to injury no sooner had I emerged from the car when a young man having the bad taste to be sporting a Boston Red Sox cap offered to sell me tickets at double their face value!  Sell-out or not, there are limits. Paying a Red Sox fan scalper's prices to see a Mets game, in Spring Training, no less. The very thought!  But the scalpers were right, the only tickets available were $8 standing-room.   There are some nice areas in the ballpark where you can either stand or sit on a "berm" in center field.
   Speaking of the ballpark, it has a name more befitting a website than a stadium.  It is called "Digital Domain Ballpark."  I'm not kidding.  As the late Yankee (and former Dodger, Giant and Met) Casey Stengel used to say,  "you can look it up1" That said, it is a beautiful stadium, with good, unobstructed views and major league dimensions (338 down the lines and 410 in centerfield).  Before taking our seats (uh, "stands"), I stopped by the men's room.  While I don't usually detail such visits, one aspect bears mention.  Above each urinal was a poster depicting an umpire holding his right thumb aloft in the familiar "you're out" sign.  The poster asked us, "Are You Striking Out at the Urinal?"  I wasn't sure if this was an ad for a special-interest website or a suggestion on how better to make new friends in the mens' room. It was, in fact, an invitation from a Dr. Michael Solomon a urologist who was heralded as "a proud sponsor of the Mets."  Thus advised, I quickly finished my visit, and bought us a couple of (delicious) hot dogs and sodas.  We took our places undisturbed, leaning against a rail behind first base.  There were a number of open seats (sold but un-scalped?), but it was too early in the game to liberate the seats only to risk having to give them up to their rightful owners.  In fact, about twenty-five or so school-age kids soon filed in to take up the back sets of the section I had been eyeing with interest.  The Mets injury-plagued ace, Johann Santana was taken out before the he finished the third inning. He was not helped by the three Mets errors, the last of which of which was offered up by his reliever, who threw what would have been the third out into right field.  The throw, tossed off an easy come-backer, was so far away from the first baseman that, had it been a batted ball,  would have been a line-drive single between first and second.  It was the kind of throw that (sadly) plagued Yankees' second-baseman Chuck Knoblach in his last year with the team.  As a result, two more runs scored. With the Tigers now off to an early 4-0 lead,  we took a couple of empty seats next to  a couple of Tiger fans.  We were fortunate to keep the seats undisturbed for the balance of the game--at least the balance of the game at which we chose to remain.  The Tigers were ahead 9-0 when we rose to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," just before the bottom of the seventh.  As a few raindrops began to fall, it seemed like a good time to call it a day.  The loss, followed by another the next day, dropped the Mets to 3-11, the rind of the "Grapefruit League."
  Riki was most gracious and thanked me for taking her, saying she had "gotten it out of her system."  Yes, but wait until April rolls around.