MILESTONES

I was just a boy and it was dark and the block from Avenue B to Avenue A seemed endless. Walking slowly towards our apartment at the corner I didn't feel scared, just thoughtful. I thought about what I wanted. What I wanted was to be older.

I wanted to have as many years as I had fingers on my hands. I thought it would be great to be 10!

Shortly before making it to 10, I sat in my dentist's chair and listened to the Dodgers beat the White Sox to clinch the World Series in 6 games. A painful yet happy day for me that I well remember, recall, in fact, far better than the day I reached double figures, which I don't recollect at all. I do, however, recall what I felt a short time late: Disappointment. Being 10 wasn't enough. I needed a year with a "teen" at the end of it. I wanted to be a teenager.

I wanted to be 13. That milestone, of course, would come with another...my bar mitzvah. That was a hard thing to study for; I feared embarrassing myself in front of everyone. Preparing for it was surely the toughest thing I'd done to that point. Good thing I did, because, while I can't remember my 13th birthday at all, I sure remember the big ceremony 10 days later.

It was raining really hard in the morning and, as it was ending, the rabbi said I'd become a man. That was silly. I knew I hadn't. Would a man's legs have been shaking so uncontrollably as mine had when singing my hav Torah? Certainly not. Nevertheless, I hadn't screwed it up so thank goodness for my studying. That was fairly manly, I guess. And, I did 1 other manly thing. Early that morning, at the urging and with the help of my dad, I'd shaved for the first time! Though no hair or stubble had been removed...or was initially present...from my face, it was still quite a manly act! So today I was sort of a man!!

In a few years I'd reached the milestones of moving away from home, attending college and earning the first "D" in my life. Approaching 18 in my sophomore year, my friend Diane wished to take me out drinking to celebrate my legality. Unlike the rest of my family (and certainly to the great confusion of my father who seemed to like most other things about me), I didn't actually enjoy drinking. My preference was to stay in the dorm and watch the hockey game. Diane, sadly, was not a hockey fan. Happily, however, we did no drinking that night.

College continued in my 21st year, as did the war in Vietnam. Things were starting to get a little more difficult. Facing my final semester at Stony Brook, I was student teaching at a nearby high school. I had to survive those classes, graduate and then decide how I wanted to handle career and my low draft number.

Near my 21st birthday, I taught a history class that was observed by both my cooperating teacher at the high school and my supervisor from Stony Brook. The class went very well. At it's conclusion, the students REALLY seemed to understand why Washington didn't want the U.S. to get into any foreign "entangling alliances." In fact, the class went too well. It had concluded 15 minutes before it was scheduled to officially end. What to do with all that additional time. Perhaps my choice of sitting there silently, thinking of the horrible things my cooperating and supervising teachers were about to say, was not the best way?

They liked the class. They advised me of what to do with extra time. They thought I could be a good teacher. Soon I graduated. Eventually I convinced my draft board that perhaps I could serve the country better not in the army. Twenty one turned out a good year...just can't recall the big celebration.

Soon 30 was approaching. This seemed strange. Thirty is not young (ask me if I still feel this way!), and I'd often heard that no one over 30 could be trusted. Frankly that seemed silly to me. On my 30th birthday I wrote myself a note which I still have. It read: "Already?" That morning I went to my grandmother's apartment on Avenue A to pick up some food she'd cooked for me. While there I looked out the window at the kids going into my old elementary school, PS 63. Many of them had once looked so formidable to me. Now they looked like children. I had, indeed, become older!

At 40 my family held a party. My Uncle Billy congratulated me, gave me $100 and observed: "Life begins at 40." Grateful for that encouragement, I looked up from the money and saw that he was smiling and rolling his eyes...not so encouraging! But, in fact, he was right, as I'd just finished therapy school and had begun my practice as a psychotherapist. As I was now finally doing work that I really enjoyed, life had, indeed, just begun!

As 50 approached, however, I was getting a bit tired of aging. I decided NOT to think at all about this milestone but instead concentrate only on the New York Marathon for which I'd registered for the first time and was scheduled 2 days after my Halloween Birthday. It all was going well till a series of calf injuries limited my training. I showed up at the starting line anyways and did my best, but that only got me to mile 17 where I staggered off the course. The next year, however, I tried again and made it to the glorious finish line. I'd now ALWAYS be a marathon finisher! My second half century took a while but was now off to a promising start.

And now my 65th approaches. Three weeks ago I had surgery and that requires that I now take it easy. I thought then that a great goal for the big day would be to do my first post surgery run then. However I've been recovering well and yesterday my surgeon said go ahead and start working out. So today I did 30 minutes on the elliptical. Not too tough, but makes me think that I can run before we get to October 31. So now I'm revising the milestone. Come Halloween I plan on running 65 miles...not that fast, of course...1 mile for each of my years....

Just kidding. I'm a kidder! Maybe I'll aim for 5 or 6 miles, to commemorate either the second or first digit of my new age. That should get things off to a good start!!

RACING THROUGH HARLEM

I'm good with numbers but these didn't make sense...7:20, 13, 8:30, 135. It was 7:20 this morning as I sat in my 13th Street apartment, calves resting on a heating pad, warming and relaxing them for the 8:30 race starting at 135th Street and St. Nicolas Avenue. Chatting contentedly on the phone, Gracie The Cat purring in my lap, it all felt so good till it struck me...What am I doing here? Not fully dressed, no race bib and number, not on the train to Harlem? I'm going to miss the race!!

Contentedness gone, I yelled to my startled friend that I was way late and had to go. Sending Gracie The Cat unintentionally flying, I threw on my things, hoped I'd not forgotten anything else, raced out the door, up 13th to 6th Avenue (just part of my warm up I reassured myself), got a cab and headed uptown.

One hour till race time. I grumbled at each red light, cursed when Central Park appeared closed to traffic, twisted in frustration each time we stopped at another light on 8th Avenue. Did I have enough cash to pay? How do you use a credit card in a taxi? How could I with no glasses and unable to see where the credit card was supposed to go? We passed 120th Street. Forty minutes to race time. I'll make it...if I can find where to get my race bib. Suddenly we halted at 125th...blocked off for the race.

"Damn these runners," I thought, missing the irony. I paid in cash, leaving a big tip as there was no time for change. I started running the half mile to 135th. Other racers were  warming up around me...it felt comforting to be among them. It looked good, if only I could find the place to pick up my race number. There it was! Right across from the start line. In then out. Got everything. Bib, singlet, racing flats on, baggage dropped off. Ready with 20 minutes to spare.

A quick final warm up and stretch. To the start. The loud speaker is on. 50th anniversary of the Civil Rights Act. Chaney, Goodwin and Schwerner. Percy Sutton. Harlem Festival. Trumpet plays America The Beautiful then The Star Spangled Banner. It's time. We're off.

I want to do better than I did 2 years ago. The first mile is narrow and I can't pass anyone. Good. Keeps me under control for the NASTY hills around 1/2 mile in. UP, up, up, turn to the left and up some more. Why hadn't I trained on hills? Another turn left. Mile 1 marker...8:03...9 seconds faster than before. Finally a good number. I'm feeling strong.

But not for long. The course opens up. Mile 2 is fairly flat but I'm suddenly fatigued. Everything feels strained. Pushing on, getting passed by a few but not many, bypassing a couple myself. I think about slowing, want to slow but force myself not to. Mile 3 is easier; just got to get there. The mile 2 marker...8:01. A tiny bit better than last time.

I'm well positioned for a sub 8 minute pace because the final mile is mainly downhill. Gravity will help, I tell myself. Just hang in there. No slacking off so close to the finish. Streets are going by. Where's the damn downhill? I'm about a quarter mile in...have they changed the course? So far just flat. I'm hurting and struggling. There it is! A STEEP downhill. One block. Then 2 blocks. Three. Four. I'm flying! This is the way to race! Left turn at the border of St. Nicolas Park. The downhill had to end sometime. But no! Another lovely downhill block!

I turn downtown towards the finish. It should be soon but this is 127th Street and the race doesn't end till about 135th. I can't see the finish banner. Can't see any more downhills. No more uphills, thankfully, either. But it's a tremendous struggle. WAY too close to the end and my goal to slacken. Just have to push. The streets go by. Still no end in sight. Then there it is! Three mile marker. Got it! 7:39! Gravity is good. Sub 8 minutes in the bag. Tenth of a mile to go. Why is it so long? Don't slow. Instead push. 47 seconds. I'm across the finish line.

24:31 on my watch. A solid 19 seconds quicker than 2 years ago. I've gotten faster. Have I also gotten younger? Exact same time as last week but on a much tougher course. So I'm a better runner now...perhaps a better person? 7:55 pace. Given the state of my training, that's good.

A woman recognizes me and introduces me to her friend: "He's one of the fast ones." I'm pleased. I go to cheer others to the finish. I'm also noting the many who are now ending after me. I especially note the guys and, in particular, the younger guys, which pretty much constitutes ALL the guys.

Another woman, this one wearing a Greater New York singlet like mine, approaches. On the same team but we've never met. She's also recovering from injuries. More runners, including younger guys,  stream in. She, too, was late to the start and had no time to get ready. "So mile 1 was your warm up," I observe. "How fast did you run it?"

"7:30," she responds. Damn! Way faster than me and I had several warm ups and I'm also, you know, a guy. She apologizes for telling me all about her injuries. To make her feel better I tell her all about mine, emphasizing that they came not just from running but from softball too. I'm a multi athletic guy is my point though incapable yet of racing a 7:30 on crowded, uphill first miles.

It's all relative, you know. And for me this was relatively good.

WHY I'M THINKING ABOUT WILBUR HUCKLE

I've been thinking about Wilbur Huckle. Wilbur was an infielder in the Mets' farm system from 1963-1971. He was featured with Cleon Jones on a TOPPS baseball card, 1964 Mets Rookie Stars. Unlike Cleon, however, a star he was never to be.

But what a name! Once I had to give a speech in high school English class. Among the topics I chose: Met players with funny names. Choo Choo Coleman and Duke Carmel got laughs. Cliff Cook and Hot Rod Kanehl not much. Wilbur Huckle? People rolled in the aisles!

I saw great possibilities. Suppose he joined the Mets and lead the team to victory over Pittsburg. Next day headline: Huckle Buries Pirates! Dwelling, perhaps, too much on his inability to get on base (.314 on base percentage), the Mets were blind to the potential.

The fans were displeased, but had limited means of self expression. They created a button to be worn to games: "Wilbur Huckle For President," read one, but LBJ was elected instead and no major party nominated Huckle. Despite his name, the Rookie Card, my imagination and the buttons he played out his 9 year career without ever joining the Mets.

He became our disappeared hero.

Which brings me to Wilmer Flores. His similarities with Wilbur are obvious. Almost the same first name. Both have been righty batting infielders playing for a bunch of Met minor league teams. Oh, and a difference: Where Wilbur couldn't hit or hit for power (14 home runs in 746 games), Wilmer can (13 this season alone in 55 AAA games with Las Vegas).

You'd think this would make Wilmer of interest to the big club. We've struggled for runs and have a shortstop, Reuben Tejada, who is a limited hitter with no power. His .289 slugging average is dwarfed by Flores' monumental .568 for Las Vegas this season. Heck, even Huckle slugged better, at .324 lifetime! As Wilmer was born in Venezuela, we can't nominate him for President, but he could be an upgrade at shortstop, right? Only common sense that he deserves a chance. The Mets, apparently, disagree.

Wilmer has been called up 4 times over the last 2 seasons. The first, in August of 2013, came when David Wright was injured. Flores played until he stepped on third base the wrong way...hey, at least he'd made it to third...and sprained his ankle. Season over. This year he didn't make the squad out of spring training, but got called up...for 1 game at second base...then sent back to Las Vegas. About a month later, with the team having trouble scoring, back he came to play shortstop. In fact he played only sporadically and was soon returned to the minors so he could play regularly. That he did and well, amassing a 23 game hitting streak and driving in more than a run per game. Enough to earn a recall? Nope. Not till Tejada took a fastball to the helmet.

Up came Flores, but not to play regularly. Since that recent recall he's not started more than 1 game in a row. The Mets must be waiting to make sure Tejada is okay and hasn't lost any of his power. Then they can ship out Wilmer again or relegate him to the bench.

Many Mets fans are unhappy. There's a "Free Wilmer" campaign bubbling on line. Met blogs and twitter are filled with angry, uncomprehending, comments. For all the good that it's done, next we might try buttons.

Flores has been treated like a yoyo. While it may seem he's had more of a chance than Huckle who never rode all the way up, the opportunity is largely illusory. Without anything approaching regular time, Flores has been placed in a situation most likely to bring on failure. Then he can continue to yoyo till he quietly fades away. Disappears.

Wilmer Flores is becoming the new Wilbur Huckle!

FINDING PENNY MARSHALL

     I went on an adventure yesterday. But first, some background:

     From the day we met in high school, I've thought about Penny Marshall. She was in 3 of my senior classes at Lincoln, sitting next to me in 2. We talked and she was fun and sweet and very pretty. Best, of course, was she seemed to like me. I certainly liked her.

     Her interest grew, I think, after she'd read a copy of a short story I'd written for English class the year before. "A Hard School's Test" was the tale of the hero's tension filled preparation for the big Geometry Regents Exam and his stunning dream the night before about being chased for hours by a series of obtuse triangles. My teacher gave me the highest grade in the class, 95, and read it to everyone. His sole criticism was that the story had no plot. A plot? People were rolling in the aisles, doubled up with laughter when he'd read it. It needed a plot too?

     Penny must've agreed with my analysis because, after reading it, she seemed much more impressed with me. When I casually mentioned our school's football team and how it was fun to go to the games she responded: "If that's an offer, I accept."

     It was our first date. It was also MY first date. It was exciting. All that I remember, however, is that it was cold at the game and Penny complimented my clothes coordination. "So few guys make the effort to have their socks match their shirts," she commented. And I thought: "Socks are supposed to match shirts?" Still, happy about the stroke of good luck, I nodded.

     Penny was very smart. She wrote papers and essays that I read and had no idea what they meant. I told her they were excellent and thought provoking. Unfortunately, she made the mistake of reading one in English class. At its absolutely incomprehensible ending, many in the room groaned, rolled their eyes and shook their heads. A few exclaimed: "What?" The teacher herself sounded peeved with Penny. Obviously, they didn't see what I did!

     We went out a good bit. Penny lived in a gated community called Sea Gate on the western end of Coney Island. Two busses to get there and a third if I wanted to take the private one through the Sea Gate community to her Maple Avenue home. The first time I was there Loving Spoonful music played in the background. Her father was incredibly mean to me, ignoring all my attempts to make conversation, while her younger, very pretty and bubbly sister Vickie was flirtatiously nice. At one point she grabbed my head and hugged me to her chest. "Vickie has very soft breasts," I remember thinking...and feeling.

     Penny, Vickie, Penny, Vickie! This was one wonderful house on Maple Avenue!

     Penny was precocious. So much so that she graduated in January, 5 months before me. That last term was sad, not having her in 3 of my classes, sitting next to me in 2. She felt differently...excited about being at Brooklyn College...cue the ominous music.

      In June, I got us tickets for a Friday evening Mets game. She was away on vacation but planned on returning the morning of the contest. Two days before she called to say she wasn't as she was having so much fun she wanted to extend the time away. Sadly that wasn't the true reason.

     A week later Penny told me the truth. One of her college professors had driven up to see her. "It was so romantic," she insensitively said. "And he proposed to me!"

     "Proposed what?" I sarcastically replied.

     Marriage! I was heartbroken. Also 16. Seems that, without knowing it, I'd been involved in an unfair competition. I couldn't offer marriage and this guy probably understood her essays.

     We remained friends but, of course, it was never the same. Once we were together and she looked at the clock. "Oh, he should be getting out of class now," Penny said in a dreamy voice. "Ugh," I thought.

     A few years later we made plans, dinner plans, for the last time. "Vickie is still single," she announced. But I got sick and didn't make it and we never rescheduled. Years after that we ran into each other on the street and talked about all the fun we'd had. She concluded by saying how much she'd loved "our" restaurant. Unfortunately I'd never actually been there. Perhaps she was thinking of someone else!

     Many more years went by and I thought little about her. Until the age of personal computers and an email from Classmates.com. It could show all the people from my Lincoln graduating class that signed on. I checked, of course. Penny wasn't there. Nor was Vickie in her class. Periodically new solicitations from Classmates.com came in and I'd look to see if she'd joined up. Nope. Feeling a bit teased, I extended the search to google and social media. No luck.

     Until yesterday and another Classmates.com email. As usual neither was listed. Suddenly I felt a strong desire to leave the current world and reconnect with the past. I was going to find Penny! I wouldn't give up. I kept looking and found a link to a site that located people. Typing in Penny Marshall brought me nothing of value...how could it, it was almost surely not her name any more. But Vickie Marshall in New York did...a person in Brooklyn. I clicked on it and found that Vickie Marshall in Brooklyn was 2 years younger than me! Could this be the real one of her?

     I found more information...a list of her relatives. And one was Jaye Penny Leeds! Could Jaye Penny be the real one? Some more nosing...there is a Jaye Penny Leeds in New York who's one year older than me. My gosh! Had I been dating an older woman? No wonder it hadn't worked out. Still, of course, I wasn't sure.

     More information was available but not for free. I paid $9 and did a search. There were Jaye Penny's last 3 addresses. One of them is 1616 Maple Avenue! I checked a real estate site at that address. For $1 I saw a bunch of current pictures of that home with the unfriendly dad!

     Penny's email address (hopefully active) was there, too, and I wrote her yesterday. I've not heard back. Maybe I will, maybe I won't, maybe she doesn't remember me now at all. Where ever life has lead her over these many years, even back to Maple Avenue, in a way it doesn't matter.

     With all that I now remember...half of which I wouldn't have recalled two days ago...I realize that I've refound the 17 year old counterpart to my 16 year old self.

AARON

Aaron has been my favorite person on all of W. 13th Street where I live. He's friendly, lively, energetic and loud. Often he'd see me in the lobby after I'd completed a morning run. He'd ask how far I'd gone and when I told him he'd throw his head back, smack his hands and say that's incredible, you are in such good shape and you look SO young. I was perpetually delighted by his comments, but did have the modesty to realize that it is, of course, all relative. Aaron was 94.

Aaron liked something about me even more than my running exploits: We were both graduates of Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn. "Of course, we went at very different times," he'd tell anybody who happened to be in the lobby with us. Then he'd laugh, grab me around the shoulder and pull me in for a hug, generally slamming my chin into his chest. Damn, 94 and strong!

It took awhile before it occurred to me that I'd not seen Aaron in a while. I intended to ask about him but, somehow, I didn't. Till 1 day last week when Dino, our super, approached me in the lobby and said Aaron had just died. He'd been ill and surgery offered his only hope for full recovery, so he chose to roll the dice and bet that it wouldn't. But it did.

It must've taken a lot of courage to risk what he had in the hopes that he could regain his full vitality. I'm not surprised that he tried.

This morning I walked through the lobby on my way to work and expected to see him. Early morning this past Saturday, I thought I'd see him walking towards 5th Avenue on his way to make breakfast for and visit his girlfriend. No such luck. Aaron and I both went to Abraham Lincoln High School in Brooklyn. Just at different times.

Lincoln's lost a prominent alum.

SHEA AND ME IN THE SUMMER OF '73

     Attending a race at Citi Field, I grew nostalgic for the now gone Shea Stadium. When it opened in 1964  I was 14 years old. This was the first New York ball park built in my lifetime, it housed the team I'd become passionate for after the Dodgers left...and it was mine!

     There was no year when it was more mine than 1973.

     The Mets stunk most of that season. They'd traded away Nolan Ryan and gotten nothing of value in return. They were ravaged by injuries. Their record was well below .500. They were in last place. And yet, not by that much. There was reason to believe. If they could get well and win, say, 10 in a row.... But, sadly, I was always believing things like that.

     I was in grad school which was definitely cutting into my ball playing time. I was in the midst of a tumultuous marriage in which we were always splitting up and separating by 3000 miles as she was from Seattle and didn't like New York. So I was certainly in the market for other things to think about.

     And happily it was the Mets. They got well in late August and starting winning. Their star closer, Tug McGraw, awful all season, suddenly remembered how to pitch. And how to win. Each time he did, he shouted: "Ya gotta believe!" And soon that's what everyone was shouting. And believing.  
                                                                                                                                                                          With time in the evening and plenty of hope, I went to game after game at Shea. My wife often went with me as, I guess, we weren't split up at the time. We'd buy the cheapest seats, upper deck, general admission, sit directly behind home plate and then, gradually as the game progressed, slide down. Most times we'd end up in upper deck boxes.

     What a view! The whole panorama of the field in front of us. Flushing, Queens in the dark of night over the center field fences! There was a sign for a zipper maker off  beyond left center....

     And the Mets won. Game after game. I don't think I attended a losing contest! And the first place Pirates struggled. Their star pitcher, Steve Blass, caught Steve Blass disease (couldn't throw strikes), they came to town for a 4 game series and we killed them. And when we passed them, I was there.

     And I was there for Willie Mays night when he said: "Willie, it's time to say goodbye to America!" Very moving. And he was right. Willie was pretty awful that year!

     And Tug McGraw kept shouting: "Ya gotta believe!"

     There was a day game that I couldn't go to because I had to be in, damn, graduate school. So I asked my wife...still in New York...to watch the game on TV...and write down anything interesting. So when I got home, I found that she had written..."Cleon Jones fell down." That's it? That's all that happened of interest in the entire game? "Well, I fell asleep," she explained. A key game and she fell asleep! No wonder we couldn't stay together. And she didn't even know who'd won the game!

     Of course, the Mets did. And, on the last day of the season, they won the National League East. Sadly, that didn't happen at Shea so I couldn't be there.

     But a big part of the playoffs did and it was against the heavily favored Big Red Machine. No way we could take them. Ha! You could if you believed!

     I was there at Shea when Pete Rose busted into Buddy Harrelson at second base and got into their big fight. Well, Harrelson, as I recall, more tried to cover up. I didn't care about the fight. The Mets won! And soon they ended the playoffs with a game 5, Shea Stadium win over the favorites and advanced to the World Series.

     Where we faced the heavily favored Oakland A's of Reggie Jackson. Tied up after 4 games, I was there at Shea for pivotal game 5. I sat, this time, in some newly set up seats beyond the left field wall, a spot, unfortunately, where I couldn't see the biggest play of the game...Cleon Jones' (recovered, apparently, from his fall) leaping circus catch against the wall just below me to help preserve Jerry Koosman's shut out. I remember what the scoreboard said immediately after the game was over..."Just 3000 miles to go for the championship! And I believed that's exactly what would happen.

     But believing, unfortunately, could take you just so far, not quite across the entire country. We got to Oakland only to have the A's win both games and the 1973 World Series.

     But, oh, well. It had been a fantastic season at Shea. For me the best ever. And, as Tug was soon saying, "Ya gotta believe more in '74!"

     So this is what I think of when I don't see Shea where Shea's supposed to be!

    

I'M NO LOSER; IT'S JUST THE TEAMS I ROOT FOR

1955 was an historic year. It's the first year for which I have definite memories and those memories are of the Brooklyn Dodgers, the team that I passionately loved, winning the World Series by beating the stupid New York Yankees.

All 1955 Dodger fans were thrilled because this was the first world championship the team had EVER won. It was the first time, of course, that they'd ever beaten the bullying New York Yankees despite a bunch of opportunities in the 1940s and early 1950s. Dodger fans, sadly, had suffered badly over the years.

But not me! I had no experience with their dreadful, futile, long suffering history. This was the first year I could remember and my team had won it all. One year, one memory, one championship! My life as a fan was off to a very promising start!

1956 wasn't bad, either, as the Dodgers made it to the 7th game of the World Series before losing to those damn Yankees. Two years, 2 World Series, 1 championship, the good life!!!

And then it all changed....

The Dodgers moved away and the Mets replaced them in New York. And, sadly, in my heart.

I was also a football Giants fan. They were a terrific team, constantly winning the Eastern Division and getting to the championship game. They kept losing that final game but still, it was exciting and wonderful for me as a fan.

And then the Jets came into existence and, for some reason, I drifted from the Giants to the Jets. Was this a smart thing to do?

In basketball and hockey, I loved the Knicks and the Rangers. Disappointingly, no team came along to replace either of them.

Almost 50 years have gone by since the Dodgers raised my expectations by getting me off to such a good start. Rooting for 4 teams for most of those seasons, we've had almost 200 chances to win a title and we've won....6. The Mets twice, the Knicks twice, one Stanley Cup with the Rangers, one Jet Super Bowl. That's a winning rate of 3%. Damn, 3% is only good in, in, well, it's not good anywhere!

My point is that it's not my fault. I've played on a lot of championship softball teams and taken awards in paddleball, bowling and road racing. I'm not a jinx or anything. If I'm participating things often go well. It's only as a fan that I seem to suck.

My other point is that, given this record, anything I say about my teams should be ignored. I'm incapable of having an objective opinion. I expect the worst...based on this AWFUL track record...and overcompensate by constantly seeing hope at the end of this almost never ending tunnel.

A few days ago I asserted that the Knicks had finally turned the corner. And a bit later that same night, the Heat absolutely crushed them. Totally to be expected. I'm convinced the Mets are in the midst of developing a dynamite young pitching staff. And then Harvey needed surgery. No doubt something else will happen this (or, perhaps, before this) season.

So ignore everything I say unless I'm speaking specifically about myself. And, of course, when I do speak about myself you should probably know that I might exaggerate.