Yogi Berra, 1925-2015

   Yogi Berra, while not the last of the great Yankees from the '47-'53 years (when they won six out of seven World Championships) was, in many ways, the most enduring.  True, he didn't have the style of a DiMaggio, the elegance of a Ford or the charisma of a Mantle, but he was unique in a way that none of the others were.  (Hey, wait a minute, that sounds like a Yogi-ism.  Perhaps it's infectious.)
   Lawrence Peter Berra, a Hall of Famer, and truly one of the greatest catchers of all-time, was one of that quiet generation of heroes who (like Ted Williams and numerous others) had their careers interrupted by World War Two.  They put down their bats and balls,  did their part to save the world (and save the world they did), and returned home to make their singular contributions to our National Pastime.
   Unlike the others named above, Yogi was a very approachable and down-to-earth person.  Married to wife Carmen all his life, he was never associated with a breath of scandal on or off the field.  He was the kind of baseball player that set a standard that all too few live up to today.  He never showboated, gloated nor complained; he just played ball, and did so very well.  In addition to his hitting skills, he was a superb defensive catcher and manager of any number of excellent pitchers for whom he called pitches  When he was unceremoniously dismissed as Yankee manager by the late George Steinbrenner, he refused to return to Yankee Stadium until Steinbrenner apologized.  To his credit, Steinbrenner ultimately did, giving the rest of us the pleasure of Yogi's company at many Yankee events.
  An inelegant and homely man, the young Berra was teased about reading comic books as well as his looks.  When an umpire once told Yogi that he had "made the team," Yogi asked for an explanation and was told it was "the All-Ugly team." Yogi's had a practical take on his less than Hollywood appearance:  "So I'm ugly; I never saw anyone hit with his face."  Indeed. But Yogi Berra was not in baseball for his looks, and made no money modeling clothes or appearing in cigarette or beer ads.  In those bygone (and not always halcyon) days of middle-class salaries, and blue-collar ballplayers, Yogi spent the off-season selling suits (with teammate Phil Rizzuto).  His one commercial venture was "Yoo-hoo," a chocolate flavored soft drink that I remember enjoying as a kid.  According to a fellow-blogger who once interviewed Yogi, the great Berra was asked by a caller if Yoo-hoo was hyphenated.  Berra's response was "No ma'am, it's not even carbonated."  Right again, Yogi, it wasn't.
  Though raised in St. Louis (along with fellow catcher--and later baseball announcer, Joe Garagiola) Yogi became synonymous with New York baseball, part of a tradition of excellent Italian-American ballplayers who played an instrumental role in putting the Yankees on the baseball map.   We read a lot about Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mantle, but forget about the Lazerri's, Crosetti's, Rizzuto's and Berra's who never really shared the limelight, but who were the backbone of the teams's successes.  Joe Girardi, a more recent part of that ongoing tradition, was effusive in his praise of Berra.
  If you look at Berra's record, there's nothing that jumps off the page.  With a .285 lifetime  batting average (and an even lower one in the post-season (i.e. World Series, of .274)), Yogi hardly had standout numbers.  What, someone might ask who was not fortunate enough to have seen Berra play, was so special about the man?  Well, for one thing, his three Most Valuable Player awards ties the all-time record.  For another, Yogi has more World Series rings than any player living or dead (10) and--not counting the Yankees-- more than any team in the history of baseball other than the St. Louis Cardinals, which edged him out with their eleventh Series victory in 2011. (His old buddy, Garagiola, would have been proud.)  The next closest team to Yogi (with 8) are the up and down Boston Red Sox, currently fighting to get out of the cellar in the American League East for the second straight year.
  There's one other thing about Berra that defies statistics, because it is so subjective.  That was his ability to hit in the clutch  As a Yankee fan dating back to the late '40's (amazing, inasmuch as I am still quite young--LOL), I cannot think of any other player I would like to see come up in a clutch situation; i.e. when the game is on the line.  It is difficult to measure this special ability to rise to the occasion.  Sometimes announcers point to players who have come up with hits that either tie the game or allow the team to take the lead.  I searched in vain to find something that would substantiate this achievement among the all-timers, but the sabermetric wizards have yet to measure this.  Perhaps it is an ineffable quality, more imagined that substantiated, but that does not minimize the memory of this long-time fan.  When seeking to measure intangibles, there is no one I have read better at quantifying the unquantifiable than baseball historian Bill James.  James rates Yogi as number one among all catchers, all-time.  He is also rated 41st amongst everyone who has ever played the game.  When you consider that being the 41st best player among the 800 Major Leaguers playing the game right now, that would obviously be someone come to being an All-Star, and certainly one commanding an eye-popping salary.  So think of it, Yogi Berra, with a .285 lifetime batting average is ranked number 1 as a catcher, and 41st among everyone who ever played the game!  No less a student of baseball than his long-time manager, Casey Stengel, was once asked the secret of his (Stengel's) success.  The "Old Professor," said, with regards to Berra, "I never play a game without my man."  High praise from one of baseball's most successful managers.
  It is interesting to note that Yogi's sayings, often dismissed as malapropisms, make him better known among non-baseball fans than anyone else.  Without cataloging every saying attributed to Berra (many of which he denied having said), my personal favorites include, "when you come to a fork in the road, take it," and "it's deja vu all over again."  Others that are mocked, actually make sense.  "You can observe a lot by watching;" "Nobody goes there anymore, it's too crowded," and (with reference to the deepening shadows in the outfield," "It gets late early here." If I had to pick one, I'd have to go with "90% of baseball is mental, the other half is physical."  Yogi's favorite was said to be "It ain't over till it's over," which is hardly a malapropism at all.  Most great come-from-behind was fall into that category.
  Well, Yogi Berra is gone, and with it, another chunk of our collective youth.  While this final quote won't make it on Yogi's epitaph, it may have been the most prophetic:  "You should always go to other people's funerals; otherwise they won't go to yours."  On that score, Yogi had nothing to worry about.   It will be very well attended, and rightfully so.  Thanks for everything, Yogi.  You were "as good as the game."

Sabr-Metrics: Djokovic beats Federer in 2015 U.S. Open

   The 2015 men's final at the U.S. Open was not a great match.  At 6-4, 5-7, 6-4, 6-4, it was a good win for Novak Djokovic, but something (as at Wimbledon) he was expected to do.  Had Roger Federer won, it would have been a great victory for him.  In fairness, Fed would have had to have played great to beat the world's number one.  After all, he hasn't beaten Djokovic in a Major for some time now, and--to be fair--he is spotting him close to six years in age.  That said, Federer played some great points.
   At one point, in what turned out to be its final game, the match almost became a great one.  After breaking Djokovic who was serving for the title at 5-2, and easily holding serve,  Federer had double-break point against Djokovic.  Nole, as he has done so often, showed himself to be the better come-from-behind player.  He got it back to deuce, only to watch Federer get yet another break point on a superb down the line backhand winner.  He then hunkered down and won the next three points; one on a beautiful forehand that handcuffed Federer at the baseline, and the next two on serves Federer was unable to return.  In the end, and unfortunately for the Federer faithful (of whom there were many), Djokovic played more great points, both offensively and defensively.  That is what must be maddening about playing Djokovic in a best of five-set format.  In order to beat this seemingly inexhaustible man, you must be aware that most of your best shots will be coming back to you, some better than you hit them.  Realizing this, you go for more, and it's either a winner  or  (yet another) unforced error.
   Now Federer--even at the relatively old tennis age of 34--is still head and shoulders above just about everybody else in the world.  Being number two--at any age--ain't too shabby.  It wasn't so long ago (although it seems it) when Novak Djokovic was a distant number three behind Federer and (the now struggling ) Rafael Nadal.  With Nadal's heartbreaking five-set dismissal early on, both Fed and Nole sailed through to the finals.  If anything, it was a tougher trek for Djokovic, having been stretched to four sets in both the round of 16 and the quarters.  But by the time he got to the semis, he dethroned reigning champion Marin Cilic in the most devastating (and one of the quickest) semifinals in U.S. Open history.
   As most of the fans realize, the great Roger Federer may not have too many chances to win his 18th Major title, let alone get to a final.  As such, they must cherish such opportunities, as they will be fewer and farther between as time goes by.  That, of course, didn't prevent them from cheering for their boy at every opportunity.  And don't get me wrong; rooting for your favorite player(s) is one of the great joys of being a spectator.  But many of Federer's fans applauded and cheered on Djokovic errors and even on service faults--something unheard of among tennis fans of yore.  We expect good sportsmanship on the court. Is it unfair to the players to expect any less from their fans?  Djokovic, by the way, is among the few players we see applauding exceptional shots by his opponents.  This is not something I can ever recall Federer (or many others) having done.   Kudos, by the way, to Eve Asdenaki-Moore, the first woman to umpire a men's singles final at the Open, for politely reminding fans not to be impolite. She was also courageous in overturning wrong calls, and wasn't wrong once, surviving virtually every challenge with quiet aplomb.
  Can Djokovic keep it up?  With his appearance in this year's finals, he is one of only three men in the Open era to have been in the final of all four Grand slams in the same year.  (The other two are Rod Laver--who actually won the Grand Slam twice-and, oh yeah, a guy named Roger Federer.)  At 28 and with 10 Major titles to his credit, it is not impossible to imagine Djokovic overtaking Sampras and Nadal tied at 14 , and maybe even Federer.  After all, he'll have 16 shots at it between now and age 32, so it's not too far-fetched to envision him making significant inroads toward the record. Just a couple of years ago, it seemed inevitable that Rafael Nadal would overtake Federer in total Majors won.  Rafa is now "stuck" at 14.  So imagine, if you can, it is 2019, or 2020. There's an aging Novak Djokovic, a few gray hairs poking through his black hedge, being cheered on by an adoring crowd, hoping the old Serb can rise to the occasion one more time and break Federer's record.  And who among us can honestly say that this superb athlete and competitive gentleman won't deserve his (long overdue) day in the sun (albeit possibly under a retractible roof)?
   At one point in the match, when Federer (or was it Djokovic?) went for broke on a shot which sailed wide, John McEnroe (or was it Patrick?) exclaimed "When you live by the sword, you die by the sword." To sustain the fencing metaphor enriched by Djokovic having once again "foiled" Federer in a Major, I suppose I can be forgiven for observing the following: Roger's vaunted Sabr ("Sneak Attack By Roger") gave way to Nole's Epee ("Excellent Performance, Exceptional Endurance").

U.S. Open 2015

   As Yogi was said to have said, "it's deja vu" all over again." Federer v. Djokovic will be meeting in the men's final.  In my most recent blog, I entitled the match between those two tennis legends at Wimbledon, "The Last Hurrah."  I may have spoken prematurely, as here is the rejuvenated Roger Federer back at another Grand Slam final against his old new foe, Novak Djokovic.
   In what has become tennis's new greatest rivalry, these two all-time greats are 21-20, Federer, over their many meetings.  While this gives Roger the slight edge, Djokovic has been overwhelmingly successful in their meetings at the big four Grand Slam tournaments, formally known as "majors."  In yesterday's semi-finals, to have watched Djokovic dispatch last year's Open champ Marin Cilic in under an hour and a half in three virtually uncontested straight sets, only to see Federer do much of the same to reigning French Open champion, Stan Wawrinka, was surprising less in the result than in the dominating way in which it happened.  So now we have the number two seed challenging the number one seed.  While Djokovic, already the Australian and Wimbledon champion, is the favorite, Federer did beat him in straight sets at their last outing, the pre-Open warm-up in Cincinnati.  Whether he can do so in a three out of five set format remains to be seen.  If he can, it would be an enormous achievement for Federer, who hasn't won a major since 2012, nor a U.S. Open since 2006.  If Federer were to win, he would add an 18th victory to his already staggering 17 major championships. Djokovic has only been a U.S. Open winner once in five tries, so this match is significant for him as well.  If he wins, it would be his 10th Grand Slam victory, and firmly cement him as one of the greatest players ever to hold a racquet. Among active players, this exalted category certainly not only includes, but is dominated by,  Federer, and Rafael Nadal, a 14-slam winner, currently in a puzzling eclipse.
   At Cincinnati, Federer unveiled a new shot in his already impressive repertoire.  This, a variant on the old "chip and charge" service return, has him rushing net on the second serve and half-volleying the service from the service line.  Although a risky and unsettling maneuver, it got him to the championship in the Cincinnati Open, a championship that has, oddly, evaded Djokovic.
   Lost amidst this legendary rivalry was the seemingly inevitable march by Serena Williams to her own Grand Slam, which would have made her only the fourth women in the history of tennis to do so.  Although to me, she is clearly the best women's tennis player of all time, achieving the Grand Slam has eluded her.  Only Maureen "Little Mo" Connelly, Margaret Court, and Steffi Graf have ever done it.  While we'll never know if Monica Seles would have made that list, she clearly seemed on the road to doing so, when a madman (ironically in misguided service to Seffi Graf) knifed her in the shoulder. This act of terrorism effectively ended Seles's championship run, if not her her career.  Indeed, one has to wonder if Steffi would have ever won a Grand Slam had not fate intervened in such a cruel and cowardly way.
   The great, and seemingly indomitable Serena Williams (amazingly but one of the two greatest sisters to ever play the game) had just, at Wimbledon, won her fourth consecutive major for the second time. This extraordinary accomplishment, dubbed (by her) the "Serena Slam" resulted in the Grand Slam suddenly being dubbed the "Calendar Grand Slam."  While winning four consecutive majors is no mean feat, it is not a "Grand Slam," an achievement which shouldn't be diminished by renaming it "The Calendar" Grand Slam.  The Grand Slam is simply what is is: winning all four majors in a, yes, calendar, year.  More, however, was on the line for Serena.  When she entered the semi-finals against the plucky Italian Roberta Vinci, unseeded, and ranked 43rd in the world, she had three incredibly records in front of her.  Not only was she two matches from the Grand Slam, but two matches from 33 straight victories at the Majors and 22 Major championships, records both held by the legendary Steffi Graf.  None of this, however was to be.
  After winning the first set handily, Serena found herself in a dual battle: one was against an increasingly crafty and able opponent, and the other against herself.  Serena repeatedly had said that (a) the Grand Slam was not a major focus of hers, and (b) she never battles nerves.  Really?  If so, that would make her unique among tennis players.  Ignoring the advent of a Grand Slam is like a pitcher being unaware of a no-hitter.  Trust me; that never happens.  What is so amazing about Serena is how tough she is mentally; a factor, when combined with her superlative skills, makes her almost indomitable.  The emphasis, is, of course, on "almost." That Vinci may have (in Serena's words) played "out of her mind," was hardly the case.  Rarely have I seen a player play smarter, more effective tennis.  Vinci had an old-fashioned game.  Not only did she hit exclusively one-handled backhands, but they were all slices.  As a skilled doubles player, she did not hesitate to come to net, and utilized the lob most effectively. For someone who thrives on pace, Serena received it only sparingly from the Italian.  Did Vinci play a great match?  Sure; she would have had to.  But Serena played well, too.  While she seemed a bit tentative (for her) on her ground strokes, this may have been in response to Vinci's relentless counter-punches as masterful court coverage.
   The turning point in the match, in my opinion, came in the third set in what has often been referred to as the "all-important seventh game."  In this case, it was.  In a back and forth service game by Serena, she had a game point against Vinci.  What followed was terrific rally, capped by what seemed to be a forehand winner by the American, pulling the Italian so far off the court that her return gave Serena an open court to hit to.  Williams did so, but not at a sharp enough angle and Vinci sliced a sinking backhand into the deuce court corner.  This set up a crosscourt forehand drive off of which Vinci amazingly hit a lunging drop volley.  Serena ran with all her might in a vain attempt to reach the ball.  She appeared drained, both physically and mentally.  From that moment on, she never led in the concluding set.  She had simply been outplayed in what had to go down as one of the most stunning upsets in tennis history.  In the end, Serena was simply human, and not invincible.  Roberta turned out to be nothing if not "inVinci-able."  Whether she can sustain such greatness in her Final against (equally unseeded) countrywoman Flavia Penetta, remains to be seen.
    In fairness to Serena, the hype that had accompanied her historic run was a bit much for anyone to endure.  The press coverage made it seem, prematurely, like a coronation.  As a human being, she had to downplay the importance of something being heralded as monumental.  She was, for example,  the subject of a laudatory cover story in the New York Times Magazine, that made even her excesses seem as positive parts of a court presence that shouldn't be bound by the constraints expected as others.  That the Williams sisters have faced racism on and off the court is beyond dispute.  This is particularly sad since, Jehovah's Witnesses are noted for their racial tolerance.  But the Williams's sisters story transcends race.  It is a uniquely American story, and should be celebrated as such.   The Time's Magazine article's thrust was "go girl; when you win, I win!"  I am not unmindful of the inspiration that Serena's achievements has given black girls and women everywhere, but this was a tennis tournament, not Louis vs. Schmeling or the 1936 Olympics.
   The news coverage of her defeat in the Times was not only first page, but multi-page news.  Will it diminish her achievements on the tennis court, both as a player and a black woman?  It shouldn't.  Even at the relatively advanced age of 33 (Vinci is herself 32), Serena has plenty of great tennis ahead of her.  Was this her best chance at a Grand Slam?  Probably so, but it is an achievement that has eluded some of the greatest players on the game; King, Navratilova, Evert, and. lest we forget, Venus Williams.  On the men's side, very few have even won three of the four, with only Don Budge, and the immortal Rod Laver (who did it twice) winning Grand Slams.
   So don't mourn Serena's loss.  Her place in tennis--and civil rights--history is firmly entrenched.  She was responsible for this being the first women's final to ever outsell the men's.  Feel bad for the people who paid as much as $1,500 for a ticket to what they had hoped to be a Serena final and to be a witness to history.  Tickets are now down to a more earthy $250, and there will, unfortunately, be many empty sets at today's all-Italian women's final, whose combined age is 65!  But that, of course, is both tennis and life.  It's the fact that there's no such thing as a sure thing is what keeps us watching.  In truth, upsets are one of the most exciting things in sports.  Surely this one was, and, after all, that's what many people will be rooting for in the men's final tomorrow.  Stay tuned.

Federer v. Djokovic: The Last Hurrah.

   Rarely has a match come with more expectations than the 2015 final between the top two seeds, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer.  Federer had played a magnificent Wimbledon, losing serve but once, and rarely taken beyond three sets.  His semi-final against home-town favorite Andy Murray was an easy four-set win.  This is no mean feat against the Scotsman and former Wimbledon, U.S. Open champion,  Olympic Gold Medalist.  I have long believed that Murray is the toughest opponent for Novak Djokovic.  But Murray, as mentioned, was dominated by Federer.  Federer, in fact, had a much easier tournament than Djokovic, notwithstanding Nole's number one seeding.  An incredible server from South Africa named Kevin Anderson actually went up two sets to love against the world's number one, finally succumbing to the Joker in a darkness-delayed fifth set.  Fortunately for Djokovic, his following matches did not stretch him as much.  The elegant Frenchman, Richard Gasquet, who had beaten French Open champion Stan Wawrinka in an exhausting quarter-final five setter, was no match for Djokovic in the semis. But here was Roger Federer, still a "contenda" at almost 34.  Djokovic (in a not unkindly way) referred to Federer as being of an earlier generation. Even though they are separated by close to six years, it is not unfair to view that as a generational difference in a game that puts such incredible pressure on a player's endurance, concentration, and well-being.  Djokovic has an ability to outlast even the most tenacious baseliners (e.g. the great Rafael Nadal and David Ferrer). That said, as the world's number one and two entered the sport's most prestigious final, Roger Federer appeared to be both as fit and as great as he ever had been.  The only difference was the man called the game's greatest player was facing the man called the game's greatest returner.  This didn't mean that Djokovic was merely a counter-puncher.  Far from it. What is meant was that Federer was facing an opponent whom he hadn't beaten at aIl in a major since the French Open quarters in 2012. Indeed, since 2010, Djokovic held a decisive 6-2 advantage over Federer in their meetings at the majors.  While there can be no question that some of this may be attributable to age, Djokovic has come to dominate the game in the way only Federer had prior to 2011.  (I am leaving out of this discussion the so-called "GOAT" debate, which is short for "greatest of all time."  In that, Nadal has a lopsided advantage over Federer, but Nadal has been in a bit of an eclipse over the past year.  Only time will determine if the Spaniard can regain his championship form.)
   As for the "generational" argument, I remember a match from forty years ago that was hyped much in the same way this one has been.  Much as the consensus viewed this as Federer's "last, best chance" at a major, In 1975, there was a match between the then "GOAT," Rod Laver, and his heir apparent, the brash and dynamic Jimmy Connors.  This was the Las Vegas challenge match between the soaring Connors, whose return of serve, first volley and aggressive two-handed backhand had transformed tennis.  In 1974, he humiliated the great Ken Rosewall (and just about everyone else he played that year).  The only person of consequence he hadn't played (and beaten)was the semi-retired Rod Laver.  At 36, the better part of a generation did, in fact, separate him from the 22 year old Connors.  Laver, of course, was a tennis legend.  Not only was he the only man to win two Grand Slams (in 1962 and 1969), but would have doubtless piled up numerous additional wins at majors had he not turned pro after 1962.  Before the open era, as many of you know, the majors were restricted to amateurs.  But since that time, no male has won even a single Grand Slam, much less two.  Connors might well have done so in his career year of 1974, had a contract dispute not kept him out of the French Open.  While the great Rod Laver was clearly past his prime, he gave the young Connors a run for his money in an exciting four-set match.  Laver was ahead of his time in utilizing topspin drives off both sides.  While usually relying on the backhand slice, the Rocket could drive the backhand for sharply angled winners.  Laver came of age in the era of the "big game"exemplified by Jack Kramer and Pancho Gonzales.  Points were much shorter then, and favored the player who could follow his serve to the net.  This was one of Laver's skills, and was very much on display that day in February, 1975. Connors looked on his way to an easy win, going up 6-4, 6-2.  Though both southpaws, Laver was not used to facing lefties, but seemed to be adjusting to Connors's distinctively different style of play.   Laver won the third set 6-3, and came within an hairsbreadth of winning the fourth, finally losing 7-5.  I remembered feeling (hoping against hope was more like it) that somehow the Rocket would do it.   Alas, it was not to be.  Had Laver been even five years younger, who knows how it would have turned out.  There was a similar feeling in the Wimbledon crowd last Sunday, whose partisan attendees were rooting for the player they consider "almost" British.  I remember seeing a shot of a fan with both sets of fingers crossed, wishing Federer would prevail.  For him and many others, as it had been with the great Rod Laver, it was not to be.
   The first set was, until the tie-breaker, a series of what-ifs for Federer.  After each player held serve twice, Federer went up an early break, which he converted to lead 4-2.  In what seemed like no time, Djokovic tied it at four all.  Twice Federer had set points, and twice Djokovic survived, forcing what turned out to be an anti-climactic tiebreaker. It began with an amazing return of a Federer drop shot by the Joker, which he was able to push past a dashing Federer.  From that point on, Djokovic rolled, winning the breaker 7-1.
   The second set was about as even as one could imagine, with both players performing brilliantly.  If Federer had won the match, people would have have pointed to this set as not only the highlight of the match, but its turning point.
   Speaking of turning points, in retrospect, it was when Roger Federer was serving at 1-1 in the third set.  Fed had just won an incredible second set tie-breaker, coming back from 3-6 down, and, overall, saving seven set points.  Dominant as Djokovic has historically been when winning a a first set, he would have been insurmountable at two sets to none.  With the match squared at one set apiece, the momentum seemed to have switched to Federer.  With the crowd firmly behind him, he seemed to be destiny's child.   After an easy first game service hold by Federer, Djokovic went down love-30, and finally won a shaky hold.  It was now one-all. In that third game, Federer had led solidly, up 40-15.   Djokovic dug in on the next two points and tied it at deuce.   The deuce point was a mini-match in itself, with incredible side-to-side angled shots, ending with a magnificent drop shot giving Djokovic the ad.  Federer set up the next point beautifully, following the return of a good serve with a deep shot to Nole's backhand, prompting a weak shot just a few feet from the net.  Federer drove a forehand long, missing what, for him (and most pros) was a sitter.  This was the first break of the third set, and a fateful one for Federer. People talked about the rain delay as possibly affecting Federer more than Djokovic (older players stiffen up, etc.), but,  I could only think at the time that (if this break held) this was the shot Federer would remember, and rue.
  After the rain delay at 3-2 Djokovic, the players traded holds until Djokovic broke a second time to go up 5-3.  He held easily, to go up two sets to one.  The final set was as undramatic as the first two had been the opposite.  Djokovic broke relatively early, after which each player held until Djokovic served it out.
   While many commentators had heralded this match as one for the ages (like last year's five-setter which Djokovic also won), it was not to be.  Paul Annacone observed that Federer had played better the first set, only to lose, and the reverse was true in the second.  But that, as they say, was "all she wrote." The most amazing thing about the great Roger Federer, is that--despite his diminishing records in the majors (his last victory being at Wimbledon in 2012)--his game appears to be as good as ever.  After some initial difficulty, he has adapted to a larger racquet, and played a virtually flawless Wimbledon.  At almost 34, he has an honest claim to being the number two player in the world, and well deserving of that ranking.
  Federer and Djokovic are now tied 20-20 in the matches in which they have played each other.  Although they are close to even in their meetings in the majors, Djokovic holds a commanding 6-2 edge in matches played since 2010.  As to which of them is better now, few would dispute that Djokovic gets the nod.  As for all-time,  Federer's record of 17 Grand-Slam victories almost doubles Djokovic's 9, and he is widely considered the greatest of all time.  It is, of course, too early to close the book on Djokovic (or Nadal), as the Serb and Spaniard each should have five or more years in which to build on their already formidable accomplishments.  It is also possible that Federer has another major win in him.  As for this, only time will tell.  Although we rarely get to see players of different eras compete against each other on equal footing,  this year at Wimbledon came pretty close.  The truly amazing thing about Federer is that, as the relatively old age of almost 34, he can still be said to be on equal footing with anyone in the game.  The equally amazing thing about Djokovic is his ability to put a heartbreaking loss of a match (such as this year's French against Wawrinka) or a set (as his second set tiebreaker against Federer) behind him.  While I've never seen a front-runner as good as Federer with a lead, Djokovic--in my view--is the more tenacious.  While others, like David Ferrer, share this quality, no one combines it with the array of skills that Djokovic is able to muster.  As so, to paraphrase the old saying, (if) "the King is dead. Long live the King!"

Jean, Will and Ronnie R.I.P.

   Outside of the world of folk music aficionados--an admittedly small, but enthusiastic, one--the passing of Jean Ritchie, Will Holt, and Ronnie Gilbert may have gone unnoticed.  For those who are old (and interested enough) to have been folk music fans before its short commercial fling in the early 1960's, these names will be rich in meaning, and their artistry deep in impact.
  Jean Ritchie, who died on June 1st, was a true "ethnic," which was the highest ecomium that could be given to a "non-commercial" folk musician in the early 60's.  Generally speaking, it meant someone who sang traditional songs, and didn't make money by changing a few lyrics and copyrighting it as their original compositions.  Bob Dylan actually took one of the traditional songs Ritchie had introduced ("Fair Nottaman Town") and used it for the melody in his anti-war song, "Masters of War."  Other Ritchie songs were (with credit) recorded by Johnny Cash ("The L&N Don't Stop Here Any More.") and by Emmylou Harris, Dolly Parton, and Linda Ronstadt on their great album, "Trio" ("Dear Companion").  I became acquainted with Ritchie through her many live and recorded appearances with the wonderful and enduring Oscar Brand.  Interestingly-and recently--a stand-in for Jean Ritchie loomed disproportionately large in the the Coen brother's film "Inside Llewyn Davis."  Llewyn heckles the Ritchie-like character (calling her, among other things. "Grandma Moses," and encouraging her to "show us your panties.") For these efforts, he is handily beaten up by "Ritchie's" outraged husband, an incident which (unexplainedly) begins and (explainedly) ends the movie.  This incident, by the way, never happened to Dave Van Ronk (the character who "loosely inspired" both Llewyn and the movie), or to Jean Ritchie, who--by that time was living and working in New York, both as a social worker and dulcimer maker with her urban husband.  Anyone who wants to hear real "roots" music by a real Kentucky girl, should give a listen to some of Jean's fine recordings (either with Doc Watson, Oscar Brand, or just by herself).
   Will Holt died on May 31st, and was someone whose original compositions achieved more fame than he ever did.  While his song "Lemon Tree" (its own melody taken form a Brazilian composition) reached number one on the charts in the Trini Lopez rendition, it  launched Peter, Paul & Mary's career, and, in my view, theirs was the best and most sophisticated version of that song.  His lesser known, but equally good song, "Raspberries, Strawberries" was very well done by the Kingston Trio, and a song that I found myself playing just before I learned of Holt's death.  I hadn't even realized he had written it, although I had enjoyed and admired it for years.  It also turns out that he had written the words to that old folk staple "Sinner Man."  Holt was also an accomplished writer of Brodway and off-Broadway musicals (e.g. "The me Nobody Knows) garnering both a Drama Desk award and Tony nomination.  One of my good friends had his album, "The Exciting Artistry of Will Holt," which was my introduction to Holt and his music. In it, you can hear his impeccable taste in song selection.  It introduced me to such songs as "Nobody Knows You when you're Down and Out," "That old Bilboa Room," and Weill's "Alabama Song."  If you can find it, it's worth a listen.
   Lastly, Ronnie Gilbert--a charter member of the Weavers--passed away on June 6th.  Ronnie set the stage for women being an important part of folk groups.  Groups like "Peter, Paul & Mary,"  "Ian and Sylvia," "The Big Three, "The Gateway Singers," "The Rooftop Singers," and countless others owned Ronnie a great debt of gratitude. I don't know any folk group whose sound was a distinctively wonderful (and original) as The Weavers, and that unique sound could never have been achieved without her.  As with Will Holt and Jean Ritchie, Ronnie was a bright and accomplished person outside of the field of music.  In addition to being an active feminist, she earned her Masters in Psychology and, for a time, was a therapist.  In addition, she went on to record and appear with Holly Near, and brought her magic to a new generation of listeners. (In one of those unexplainable coincidences that link so many otherwise unconnected occurrences, the same college chum who introduced me to Will Holt's music was very friendly with a couple whose wife divorced her husband to become partners with Ronnie Gilbert. Ronnie had actually married her partner in a ceremony that was part of a series of marriages subsequently invalidated by California.  Although she never (re)married her partner, she lived to see such marriages become legal in California.)
   About seven years ago, I wrote a song called "The Folksingers' Sweet Bye-and-Bye," which was a paean to the many great folk singers who have passed away over the years.  As the refrain says, "it's a ways left of Hillbilly Heaven," and indeed it is, but social consciousness informed each of the lives whose passing I celebrate in this blog today.  Even though I have updated the lyrics, a song such as this--by definition-- becomes more dated with the passage of time.  That said, it is especially sad when three such losses occur with a single week.
   Alas, only Fred Hellerman remains as the last original Weaver, and groups such as "Peter, Paul & Mary," "The Kingston Trio," "The Limeliters," "The Chad Mitchell Trio," "The Journeymen," "The Rooftop Singers," and many others have lost one or more of their members.  That said, we do have the records, and in those, Jean Ritchie, Will Holt and Ronnie Gilbert will live on forever. So, today I salute three people who enriched our lives and who--like the stars that they are--wink down at us from "The Folksinger' Sweet Bye and Bye."

Marques Haynes & Me

     The New York Times devoted nearly a full page to its obituary of Marques Haynes, the legendary dribbler, and star of the Harlem Globetrotters.  Sadly, it was probably more ink and photos than he ever saw in the Times in his lifetime.  Marques Haynes, however, was my boyhood idol as a basketball player, and the Harlem Globetrotters. by far, my favorite team. (The Knicks were a distant second.) To those of you glimpsing the title of this blog and wondering in amazement about what, if any, connection I ever had to Marcus Haynes, here goes.
    I got to know the Globetrotters almost  by accident.  One of my late father's law clients was Dick Miles, 10-time U.S. table-tennis champion.  When the Harlem Globetrotters played at the old Madison Square Garden, the half-time entertainment was a professional match between two of the world's leading table-tennis players (we devotees never called it "ping pong.")
   Although I was there to see Dick play, when the 'Trotters came out onto the court in their dazzling "all-american" uniforms and did their famous warm-up routine to the strains of "Sweet Georgia Brown," I was a goner.  I still have the wonderful recording by Brother Bones, and always enjoy hearing it.  (Some years ago, I worked out a finger-picking version on the guitar and love singing and playing it.)
   I can still remember most of the 'Trotters starting lineup.  There was the famous Reece "Goose" Tatum, Ermer Robinson, Clarence Wilson, and, of course, Marcus Haynes. (The 5th man is lost to memory, as is much else.)  Watching Haynes dribble was like watching the late Doc Watson play the guitar, or Ricky Jay with a deck of cards--sheer magic.   Although I was not tall as a kid, I learned how to dribble, and dribble quite well--behind my back, through my legs--"just like" Marques Haynes.  That said, it was a limited skill in pick-up games, and I was not good enough at the game's other components (like shooting) to make my High School team.
   Dribbling is a lost art in basketball.  In the NBA, the ball is brought up court by point guards who still have to bounce the ball, but little (real) dribbling skill is required.  With the advent of the 24-second clock in the late mid-50's the dribble was no longer effective as a stalling tactic, something Haynes had developed as an art form in the pre-clock days.  The pro game (and the college game, played in imitation thereof) is all about shot-making, passing and rebounding--important skills to be sure.  But when was the last time you heard a pro called for "palming" or "double dribbling?"  Once in a blue moon, a player may be called for "walking" (technically failing to bounce the ball while moving more than a step and a half), but even this is largely ignored as players seem to drive from well behind the free throw line without the ball ever touching the ground.
  But back when Marques Haynes learned to play, dribbling and ball-handing were a central part of both the forwards' and guards' games.  When I first started following basketball in the early 50's, basketball was a white man's sport.  Even Abe Saperstein, owner and founder of the 'Trotters resisted the integration of the NBA, as he feared it would weaken his exclusive access to the best black ballplayers. While not "officially" segregated as baseball had been until 1947, there were but one or two black players in the entire NBA.  Nat "Sweetwater" Clifton, a former Globetrotter, was one of them.  (When I visit my older son in New Jersey, I make a left on "Clifton Street" and always think of Nat.)  Bob Cousy, of the great Boston Celtics, was a marvelous ball handler, a man whose skills were worthy of the 'Trotters, and, a few years later, a college ball-player name "Hod Rod" Hundley had the same kind of flashy game.  "Pistol Pete" Maravich did as well, and they all owed a debt to Haynes.
  I would always root for the 'Trotters when they played exhibition matches against NBA teams, the College All-Stars, or even their hapless straight men, the Washington Generals.  When they played, say, the Minneapolis Lakers, or the College All-Stars, it was no clowning around. We knew these guys could play pro ball with the best of them, if only they were given the chance.  Well, they have since been given the chance, and pro basketball now is, if not a "black" game, predominantly one.   I must admit that I sometimes find myself rooting for the occasional white player as I once did for the occasional black one.  I hope this is a continued manifestation of my support for the "underdog," and not the result of a darker  (or "lighter") bias on my part.   It is easy, after all, to support integration when it is one member of your fraternity or one neighbor in your co-op, another thing when an entire game is transformed.  That, however, is what is meant by the word "meritocracy," and it remains an ideal we should embrace.  Sadly, we will never know how Marcus Haynes would have performed in the NBA.  As with the Josh Gibsons of the old Negro Leagues, a true assessment of their skills can never be truly made, and remains among life's "what ifs."  What is clear is that it was the sports fans'--and America's loss.
  In any event, each passing obituary of a childhood hero remains me of my own mortality and loss of (the remains of) innocence.  I close my eyes and can see frustrated foes slipping and falling as Haynes dribbles the ball around, through and past them on the way to yet another layup.  As he does, I repeat the words that entitled the second of two movies about the 'Trotters, "Go Man, Go." As Marques sinks the layup, I am a kid again.

"Orioles Play to Empty Stadium"

    The headline was as inconceivable as the photos and play-by-play announcing the game to a stadium empty of fans.  And yet, there it was, "Orioles play to Empty Stadium." In an atmosphere usually characterized by noise, the emptiness and quiet was nothing short of eerie.  Over the past few months, Baltimore, like Ferguson and even my beloved New York City, has been the subject of racial unrest following police incidents.  Relatively speaking, New York's protests were the mildest, and arose from a grossly overweight man named Eric Garner resisting an arrest that probably never should have happened.  He was put in a choke-hold, and wrestled to the ground, only to die shortly thereafter from asphyxiation.  His crime: selling loose cigarettes (not joints, just bootlegged cigarettes).  Ferguson, of course, became infamous, and the subject of round-the-clock coverage on CNN.  The police officer in question had stopped Michael Brown, a young man under suspicion of having roughed up an older and much smaller employee while stealing $45 worth of cigarillos from a a convenience store.  Some sort of struggle ensued with the policeman, including a possible struggle for his gun, and Brown was shot in the back while running from the officer.  The reaction in Ferguson was ferocious, often unruly, and sometimes criminal.  The police officer, initially hidden from the public, though not indicted, is off the force and both disgraced and in seclusion.
  Lest we forget, shortly thereafter,  two New York City police officers--themselves both minorities-- were assassinated in their patrol car, guilty of nothing other than their color: blue. The assassin had blogged about his desire to "avenge Michael Brown and Eric Garner."  Rafael Ramos and Wenjian Lieu both received "Inspector's Funerals," and their deaths exacerbated the already existing tensions between the NY Police Department and Mayor Bill DeBlasio, who was viewed as having encouraged protests in the wake of Garner's death. These murders were sad, and senseless beyond measure.       Baltimore's case is also sad; a arrested man suffering a fatal spinal cord injury while in police custody.  The man, Freddie Gray, was allegedly fleeing the police.  When picked up, he was carrying a switchblade knife.  How that fatal injury came to pass is not clear.  It has been a winter (now spring) of discontent throughout the land, and fears of a "long, hot, summer" to come burn bright in the memories of those of us old enough to remember the riotous (not in the funny sense) '60's.
  The country is undergoing a national examination of the relationship between police departments and the inner-city communities they police.  Back in the 60's, it was said (by some) that the police's job was to prevent the residents of the inner-city from escaping--the prison metaphor implicit. (Remember Bob Dylan's rarity, "George Jackson?"  In it, our generation's bard says, "Sometimes I think this whole world is one big prison yard; some of us are prisoners, the rest of us are guards."  The metaphor, however false, endures.)
  That all this could happen more than sixty years after Brown vs. Board of Education outlawed segregation in our schools is hard for this unreconstructed civil rights liberal to imagine.  After all, we are living in a time of unprecedented racial representation at the highest offices of not only government, but many of our leading corporations.  Think of it; not only is our president and attorney general African-American, but so are the Mayor and Police Commissioner of Baltimore.  When the president and Baltimore police commissioner excoriated the rioters and looters as "criminals and thugs," they found themselves assailed for having used a word--"thug"--as something deemed equivalent to the N-word.  Hitler's brownshirts and the KKK were thugs, and was Stalin's KGB.  Thuggish behavior knows no race, nationality or (even) gender.  When you engage in thuggish behavior, don't take offense when someone calls you on it.
   I've never gotten used to the burnings and lootings that have (sometimes) accompanied instances of protest arising from perceived racial wrongs.  The rationalizing is remarkable.  As someone who has taken great pride in his ability to rationalize just about anything, I'm especially sensitive when it is done by others.  One could even argue that once the social contract is breached (by, say, police brutality) anything goes.  During the Columbia student protests in the late 60's, (having more to do with the war in Vietnam than race) a law professor of mine inquired whether the students who trashed and occupied the Dean's office had to have had "Criminal" tattooed on their foreheads in order to be treated as having committed crimes or having their behavior considered thuggish.  The students, of course, were overwhelmingly white and children of privilege, and--as such-- enjoyed an implicit immunity from their crimes against property.  In Baltimore, too, the looting and vandalism has largely been overlooked.  In New York, this was known as "venting" during the Dinkens' administration.  Signs proudly waved in Baltimore, proclaim "No shooting, no looting."
  But I've drifted too far from what this blog was supposed to be about, and that is the empty stadium which is part of the beautiful complex at Camden Yards and down the hill from some of Maryland's state office buildings.  Baseball is (or was) our national pastime, as, as such, meant to be a wondrous distraction from had jobs and hard times.  Baseball games, to be sure, have appropriately been canceled in times of national tragedy or local calamity.  I remember when opening day was postponed following Martin Luther King's assassination.  Playing baseball then just didn't seem right.  Similarly, baseball was put off for a week following the terror attacks of 9/11.  When it resumed, seeing Yankee and Mets players like Jeter and Piazza (among many others) wearing NYPD and NYFD caps brought tears to my eyes then--and still does now.  I was in California during the 3rd game of the1989 World Series, and remember experiencing the aftershocks of the earthquake that put the Series on hold for twelve days.  (Interesting, as I write this how far away the Kathmandu earthquake and related avalanche that has claimed so many innocent lives.  Something like that is so overwhelmingly devastating that it seems to recede from our public consciousness, as networks have quickly replaced it with 24/7 coverage of the miseries that are Baltimore.
  The symbolism of the empty ballpark at Camden Yards will remain with me long after peace and public confidence is restored in Baltimore, and the fans re-enter and the cheering resumes.  Baseball has been canceled due to rain, war, natural disasters, assassinations,  and terror attacks.  This is the first time it has been been played--yet closed to spectators--out of fear.  As the apocryphal teary-faced kid was said to have exclaimed to Shoeless Joe Jackson in the wake of the "Back-Sox" scandal,    "Say it ain't so, Joe."

"'Tis better to have lost and found..."

    Remember the old riddle "why did the moron bang his head against the wall?"  Answer: because it felt so good when he stopped.  Here's a variant: "'Tis better to have lost and found than never to have lost at all."
   Think about it.  Let's say you (unintentionally) misplace your wedding ring.  After years of taking it off every night and putting it on the dresser with your house keys, it is gone.  This once happened to me.  My wife, truth to tell, was skeptical.  "How could you lose your wedding band?"  Easy for her to say; she always wears hers, even to bed.  Well, one day it turned up (reappeared, I like to think) and I haven't lost it since.  But here's the thing; bad as I felt having lost it (stupid, too), I felt better after I found it than if I'd never lost it at all.
   Last week involved an additional loss, the third in a series of scatterbrained mishaps spanning three days.  On Wednesday, I took my gloves off to open my apartment mailbox.  No sooner did I arrive upstairs, when the trusty doorman arrived at my door with said gloves.  If that wasn't bad enough, the same thing happened on Thursday with a small package that had arrived for me--once again the doorman came to my rescue, my mental stock no doubt diminished.  Were these "senior moments?"  God, I hoped not.  When, on Saturday, my wife and I were leaving for New Jersey where we would be spending the night with my older son and his family, I couldn't find my car keys.  Come on, I thought; this is getting serious.  They were not where they should have been; right there on my dresser, next to my house keys and (yeah) wedding ring.  Okay, I thought, retrace your steps. I knew I had them the day before (a Friday).   I had played indoor tennis and remember as I was getting into--or out of--the car noticing that the key was sticking out of my pocket on my warm-up suit.  Be careful, I said to myself.  With the key (I thought) safely back in my pocket, I used the back-up (or valet) key that I leave with the car in the parking garage in my building.  When I got home, I remember having draped the pants of the warm-up suit over a chair before later hanging them up.  Maybe the keys were in there, or perhaps on the floor near where I had left the pants.   No luck there, nor in the warm-up jacket.  They were not in my tennis bag, or in either pocket of my jacket. A further search would have to await my return from my son's.
   Once out at my son's house, I searched the trunk of the car, under the front seat, even the floor of the back-seat.  Nada.  When I came back home the next day, I searched the entire apartment (with flashlight yet), not even sparing my wife's  pocketbooks (just in case).  Little boxes on the dresser and chests of drawers were not immune.  Still nothing.  I had but three (long)  shots left that day.  I would re-search the car (fat chance, that), survey the area where I had parked in Brooklyn near the tennis facility (even slimmer), and check with the front desk of Prospect Park Tennis to see if I had left them there (yeah, right).  After asking the parking garage attendant if my keys had turned up (he said "no," but helpfully brought a flashlight over to the car).  Just as he arrived with the longest flashlight I've ever seen, I found the elusive "smart" key lodged between the driver's seat and the hand brake.  Boy, was I happy.  When I arrived at my destination, I told the first person I encountered on the street my good news.  He took it amiably.  What, I hear you ask, is my point?
   Simply this. As I told a tennis chum of mine named Ron (with whom I usually discuss more weighty issues, such as the existence vel non of God), that I was happier having found the keys I had so despaired of as having lost than I would have been had I never lost them.  He took exception to this, wondering how the joy of having found them could have possibly offset the three days of fruitless search and frustration over the loss.   While I guess there is a genuine philosophical issue here--as only a masochist (or the above-cited moron) would have enjoyed losing things so he could even more relish their recovery, my take is a bit different.  Not only did I not enjoy losing the keys, I was angry at myself, frustrated, disappointed,  and anxious over their loss.  In addition, such keys cost $300 to replace (I know, because I had called the dealer).  But all these things said, the joy of having found them consisted of not only the savings of the replacement cost, but the reassurance that the loss itself was understandable.  They had fallen out of my pocket either while I was driving or entering/exiting the car.  This was not stupid, neglectful, or a sign of encroaching senescence--it was just something that happened.  Add to that my perseverance in leaving no stone unturned in my search, and actually finding them bespoke some sort of skill.  After all, I had already searched the car.  Doesn't it take a special kind of guy--obsessive-compulsive say some--to conduct a third (and hitherto fruitless) search of the very car that contained the keys?  Hence my joy, which, for all these reasons outweighed the (temporary) pain of loss.
   Okay, now for the denouement. Remember my friend Ron and our philosophical discussions?  As an ever-questioning theist, I want to, for the moment, set aside issues of the afterlife.  I don't know whether or not there is a heaven or hell, but this much I do know.   If you have lived a good life, when you die, you are given access to a special room.  This celestial lost-and-found room contains all the things you have ever lost, but never found.  In it is the vanished left pig-skin glove which disappeared one day while riding the IRT to South Ferry; the photograph you were taking to the camera store to have it digitally enlarged and fell out of its envelope en route (a photo in which you and your wife looked impossibly young and attractive); the autographed postcard singed by Rocky Marciano ("keep punching, Johnny"), the first edition of Alastair Cooke's "A Generation on Trial," and (for some, but not me) a wedding ring.  I believe the keys were in that room, patiently awaiting my posthumous visit.  I further believe that (to alleviate my misery) the big fella decided to spare me this one indignity, and allowed them to reappear in the one spot I had failed to look.  Forgive me, Ron, but "thank you, Lord."