Why I Liked Don Cardwell

Okay, for those of you who are looking at this title and the accompanying picture and are assuming this will be some tired baseball yarn, I would hang in there.

It ain't gonna be what you think.

Alright, at first, it will be.

Don Cardwell was a right-handed journeyman pitcher who had floated around the major leagues starting in 1957. He wound up being traded to the Mets in 1967. When you look at his stats for his three plus years at Shea, they are quite impressive compared to today's hurlers. In 1967, his ERA was 3.57. It dropped to 2.95 in 1968. At an ERA of 3.01 in 1969, Don was indeed one of the unsung heroes of that miraculous season. He only got into one inning of the World Series, but he certainly was one of the main reasons they got there in the first place. I'm remember one twi-night doubleheader in Pittsburgh during that surging September. The Mets won both ends, 1-0. And it was noteworthy because, in both games, the pitchers drove in the lone run. The second game was won by Don Cardwell.

So what was behind my attraction to him? Well, I thought it was really cool that a veteran pitcher like Cardwell was finally getting to enjoy winning baseball after such a long career.

Oh, yeah. And he was also the favorite Met of the first girl I ever liked.

She had first appeared in my Sunday School class somewhere around the era of Cardwell. And my first meeting was certainly a memorable one. Before the Bible studies began, one of the assistant pastors of my Bronx church would conduct a little mini-service for all the kids enrolled in Sunday School. For some bizarre reason, I had left the house that morning without eating breakfast. Perhaps my father had been a little late with his Sunday morning ritual of stocking up with enough jelly donuts to choke a diabetic horse. Nevertheless, the emptiness of my stomach somehow floated up to my head. Because, as the assistant pastor led us in the Lord's Prayer, my mind started to drift into a catatonic blackness.

"And the power and the glory, forever and ever."

I started to weave forward.

"Amen."

Clunk.

I apparently landed on my face and cut my chin.

When I came to, the assistant pastor was already attending to me as I was seated back in my chair at the table. In my woozy state, I peered down at the end of the table at my new friend. Her look of concern made me weak in the knees all over again.

I immediately made two mental notes. Always eat something before church. And find out what this girl thing was all about.

We wound up in confirmation class together, which ate up two years of Saturday mornings. There were lots of walks to the bus stop. I remember once getting an ice cream cone with her and that was tantamount to heading out to a furniture store and picking out a sofa. There was another girl in the class who also seemed to drift into our midst (translation: got in my way) and I tolerated her, all the time trying to figure out how to "accidentally" throw her in front of the BX 41 bus.

My friend was gold. She seemed to like me. I seemed to love her. And she was the pinnacle of what boys looked for. She could talk baseball with the best of them. Even better, she could talk Met baseball like she was the daughter of Lindsey Nelson. And she loved Don Cardwell for all the reasons I did. This was my Winnie Cooper.

"I now pronounce you boyfriend and girlfriend."

My feelings for her were unfortunately outed by a very unlikely accomplice. My own father.

Her grandfather would pick her up after church every Sunday. He would wait for her in pretty much the same spot as my dad would. One Sunday, she got into her car. I got into mine.

It took a few blocks before I noticed that, as her grandfather bobbed and weaved through the streets of the Bronx, my father was making all the same moves. It suddenly became illogical to me. I wanted to ask my father what the hell he was doing, but I was afraid it would wind up as a protracted dialogue about something serious that I wasn't ready to share with a parent. So I say quietly in horror as he followed her car.

Left turn. Right turn. Right turn. Left turn. Right turn.

WTF, Dad!!!

About one car length forward, she was starting to have the same realization. As she looked out the back window of her car, she had this concerned look. It was as if Princess Diana saw the paparazzi tailing her limo. My friend's look said it all.

"What the heck are you doing?"

What these two unsuspecting 11 year-olds did not know was that, the very night before, Mayer's Restaurant, the premier restaurant and reception hall of the Bronx, had burned to the ground. It was all over the radio that morning, and my father, being the deluxe rubber necker of all time, wanted to see the cinders. Apparently so did her grandfather.

The following Sunday, she asked me why we had followed her car. I stammered like Ralph Kramden and told her the truth. It sounded like a lie.

The two years of confirmation study was an exercise in how a young male calculates endlessly to always someway wind up in a girl's vicnity. I timed my entrances and exits to hers. I always figured out just how much available pew space there was so we could sit next to each other. Most people would come home from church feeling cleansed and renewed. I would crawl in with my head aching from all the strategy I needed to formulate just to be near her.

When we were finally confirmed, the pastor took the whole class to Rye Playland for a day. That presented a whole new world of dating architecture. Now I had to time everything so we wound up on rides together. I suddenly realized that day how easy it was becoming.

Because she was doing the same thing.

My mother had forgotten to pack me a lunch that day. So, when it came time for the midday sustenance, I sat there at the picnic bench like Oliver Twist. The pastor offered to buy me a hot dog. She jumped in quickly.

"He can have half of my bologna sandwich."

We might as well have consummated it right then and there on the grass outside the Dragon Coaster.

And I hated bologna.

But not that day. It was Oscar Meyer's finest nitrate production ever.

We got a little older, but, unfortunately, it ended before all the good stuff. After one summer away from church, I discovered her family had moved to New Jersey.

And the Mets sold Don Cardwell to the Atlanta Braves on July 12, 1970.

Years later, I was in college but still hanging onto my childhood church. As I snooped around the guestbook in the vestibule one Sunday, I saw an eyepopping entry dated the previous Christmas Eve. Her family had been there! And where had I been? At some relative's house watching a family argument.

Crap.

Of course, in college, I was already dwelling on the lost opportunities of my life. And there was nobody at Fordham who could hold a candle to her. I started to think. If her family had visited their old church one Christmas Eve, maybe it was a new tradition. It might have been July, but I already started to plan my outfit for December 24.

It couldn't have arrived more quickly. At Christmas Eve, I sat with my father's cousin, but she would easily be dispensed with if luck would....

....have it. There she was! Two pews over to the left.

"Joy to the World!"

After service, everyone mingled on the icy 219th Street. Even in the cold night air, she immediately recognized me. It was probably the first time she had ever seen in my shaving era. Lou Brock couldn't have moved faster as she came over. The hug couldn't have been warmer.

Her family busied themselves off to the side as we caught up. On high school. On college. She was going someplace in the boondocks of Pennsylvania. It was nice. It was easy. It was special. I asked for her address (pre e-mail days, sports fans) and she offered it willingly so we could stay in touch. Making more seasonal small talk, I inquired what she got for Christmas.

"Engaged."

She held up the ring for me to see.

Oh.

The snow flurries around me picked up with intensity as if my life was being orchestrated by a production manager for a Lifetime movie.

We parted company, pledging to stay in touch. After one written volley in the mail, it all ended.

Not knowing her married last name, even Google searches have come up empty for future reference.

I do know that Don Cardwell will be 72 on December 7. I hope he's doing well. He would be happy to know that, in two recent productions I have written, the female lead's last name has been Cardwell.

Dinner last night: Beef Stroganoff and stuffed tomato.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - October 8, 2007

If you hate cats as much as I do......

Dinner last night: Westphalian ham sandwich with German potato salad.

Pop Stars That I Have Known, Part 4

Yes, that is Barbra Streisand. And you bet I did!
I'm fuzzy on the exact date, but it was long before she wound up with that load, James Brolin. At the time, I believe she was having a well-publicized fling with tennis star Andre Agassi.
The company I used to work for had great nightly seats for the US Open tennis matches at the site of the old World's Fair. I used to always try and score tickets for a match or two, and pretend I was a billionaire from Greenwich, Connecticut. Well, this year, I invited a good friend and I do remember we actually discussed whether we would run into Barbra.
At some point, I wound up in male purgatory. That's what I call it when you're waiting for a woman to get out of the bathroom. Just standing idly. Wondering why it always takes them longer.
I remember turning to peer in another direction. Streisand turned the corner and was about two feet from me. One of those moments when your eyes lock with a stranger's. Except this was no stranger to me. This was Barbra Streisand.
Me: "Hey, how are you doing?"
Yes, that was the best I could come up.
Barbra: "I'm very well, thanks. Enjoy the match."
She continued on our way. It was over. An interchange that lasted less than 10 seconds.
Of course, the more delicious part of the event came less than a minute later, when my friend and super Barbra fan emerged from the bathroom.
Me: "I just saw Streisand."
Her: "Liar."
Me: "No, she was just here."
Her: "Shut up."
She never did believe me.
Years later, she'll probably read this and still not buy it.
Tough. I talked to Barbra Streisand.
Dinner last nightL proscuitto and mozzarella panini from Fabiolus.

The Met Suicide Watch

One last poke at the Metsies from Conan O'Brien. It got so bad that even Mr. Met had some tough times.

Dinner last night: BBQ Pork at Panda Express.

The AFI 40th Anniversary Celebration at the Arclight

On Wednesday, the Arclight Cinemas (including the historic Cinerama Dome) ceded over their facilities to the American Film Institute, so that they could conduct their 40th Anniversary festivities. I wrote about this last week. Ten of the screens were devoted to the unspooling of a classic movie which was introduced by one of the film's principals. It was a daunting list of appearances:

Tippi Hedren representing "The Birds."

Billy Crystal and Rob Reiner showing "When Harry Met Sally."

Stallone introing "Rocky."

Eastwood prepping "Unforgiven."

George Lucas showing the original "Star Wars."

Warren Beatty repping "Bonnie and Clyde."

Jack Nicholson showing "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

Kirk Douglas stammering his way through an intro for "Spartacus."

Angela Lansbury doing "Beauty and the Beast."

Julie Andrews appearing before "The Sound of Music."

There was supposed to be an eleventh film, "The Shawshank Redemption," but it was cancelled when its rep, Morgan Freeman, inexplicably had something else to do. Probably a narration of some dopey documentary on the migration of loons. But, I digress...

This whole evening sold out in 45 seconds. Luckily, I got the movie I wanted. The kicker was all these movies were supposed to start at the same time. 7PM. So, what you had at the Arclight was a bunch of moviegoers and high powered celebrities showing up at the same time. After walking past a mile long red carpet populated by paparazzi who were getting the day off from following Britney Spears into traffic court, the regular moviegoers (including me) were shuttled into our respective theaters, armed with complimentary popcorn and a plastic cup of soda. It looked like the first day of school. We all had to report to our respective classes and my homeroom teacher was Julie Andrews.

Our auditorium was full. They prepped us for the movie by playing the soundtrack to the movie as factoids from the film kept popping up on the screen. I learned why the Von Trapp children wore lifts in their shoes. That Sharon Tate had auditioned to be one of the kids. That Julie Andrews had just gotten over a yeast infection before she did the "My Favorite Things" number. (Okay, I made that one up.) And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Finally, some AFI suit showed up to thank us for coming and explained that the stars would be here as they were done walking the red carpet.

And we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

They could have been steam cleaning the red carpet for all we knew. It took the Van Trapps less time to get out of Austria. By the seventeenth time that I was listening to "The Lonely Goatherd" over the PA system, I was ready to start rooting for the Nazis. (Although we may have lucked out since I heard the Rocky room heard "Gonna Fly Now" on a loop for 90 straight minutes!) I started to sing. "I am sixteen going on seventy." Most of the audience's complimentary popcorn had been devoured and they were starting to gnaw on the cup holders. I decided to head out to the lobby to see what was happening. Outside, there was now a line of tuxedoed gay men all ready to direct the incoming celebrities to their respective screening rooms. It looked like a West Hollywood production of "Hello Dolly" with the waiters all waiting for Dolly Levi's return to the Harmonia Gardens. I turned around.

And found myself face-to-face with Julie Andrews.

Just as I did with most girls in high school, I immediately ran away. Well, really, back to my seat. The show was obviously ready to start.

And then we waited.

And waited.

And waited. I figured Julie was having a tough time trying to decide between Red Vines and Sno Caps at the candy counter. Finally, we got going. George Stevens Jr. (son of one of my favorite directors), a founding member of the AFI, came out to do the introduction. The short old lady who was sitting in front of me happened to be director Robert Wise's widow. A few seats over was the chick who had played Liesl Von Trapp. I quickly scoured the audience for Angela Cartwright, because I always thought she was a fox. I should be so lucky.

Finally, 53 minutes late, Julie Andrews entered to a resounding standing ovation. She looked glorious and probably could fly an umbrella for the cameras tomorrow. She is not walking in with a beach pail full of popcorn or one of those AFI sippy cups, so I know she's pretty much out of here as soon as the first bird chirps during the opening panorama of the Austrian hills. The teenage girl standing beside me was sobbing with joy. She was either a really big Julie Andrews fan or was simply moved by the free snacks. After the applause died down, Julie started to speak.

Actually read from some index cards. The speech was very scripted and focused largely on the corporate sponsor for the event. Target. Tar-jay!!

Huh?

Julie expounds on the professional and personal relationship she has with the good people from Target.

Huh?

My mind was racing. Was that really Julie Andrews I saw buying patio furniture last week? When she talks about the "good people from Target," is she referring to just the board of directors or is she going for coffee with the stock room guy? I realized that, in each of the Arclight auditoriums, some celebrity was reciting the same pap. And how much I would pay to hear Jack Nicholson, dark glasses and all, tell us that he bought his new Laker jersey at the Tar-Jay on La Brea.

Is there nothing that can't be sponsored anymore? Must there be a name attachment to everything??? They even made these stars have a photo op with the Target mascot, some knockoff of Petey from the Little Rascals.

Mercifully, the Target infomercial stopped just short of Julie yelling into the mike "attention, shoppers." Finally, she was allowed to wax off the cuff about the movie. She told a great story about how the helicopter shooting the opening sequence of the film almost blew her off the damn mountain. There was no need for her to explain why the kids all wore lifts during the production. We had gotten that answer during the slide show that preceded her appearance.

And, then, she was gone. Begging off to go home and put a Healthy Choice dinner in the microwave for husband Blake Edwards.

The girl next to me never stopped sobbed during the entire film. It was either very clinical or perhaps she once had a bad experience with a nun. it was actually the first time I had seen the movie on a big screen and it is truly the only way to enjoy it. The Arclight did butcher the presentation somewhat. They did not play the theater overture, which clearly exists on the DVD. When the intermission came, people started to get up for the necessary relief. But, the movie went straight to the entr'acte blank screen, which convinced some folks that there was a problem in the projection booth. Nevertheless, the whole intermission lasted 38 seconds, just enough time to pee into the AFI sippy cup of the person next to you.

It is a magnificent movie that was the centerpiece of a fun evening out. We got a great commerorative book saluting the AFI's 40 years and it included a bizarre picture of a cadaverous Bob Cummings out to a Hollywood dinner in 1987 which might have been taken two years after he died. On our exit out, we walked the red carpet. Access Hollywood had gone home, but the bright lights were still up. When you look directly into them, it's a very cheap form of Lasix surgery. At the end of the red carpet, I looked down. There was no Target logo. But, I am betting you can get it for $4.99 a square yard this Saturday at a conveniently located store near you. Tell them Julie Andrews sent you.

Dinner last night: Dodger Dogs (yes, you can buy them in the supermarket) and pickled beet salad.

Dodger 2007 - Post Mortem

Sad to say, but the highlight of my season ticket participation at 36 Dodger games this year was a buffet line. On my last Friday night game, I made my first ever visit to the Dodger Stadium Club restaurant and it was terrific. I made two passes through the buffet tables and had myself quite the feast. It was also lots of fun dining at a picture window that overlooked the whole ballpark as the San Francisco Giants took their batting practice while I was lifting my fork.

Less nourishing, however, was the Dodger season. In Spring Training, I, along with many other pundits, felt that the Dodgers had the chops to at least make the playoffs. Indeed, I actually thought the Blue Crew pitching staff was significantly better than what the Mets were offering up in 2007. There was a solid bullpen anchored by closer Takashi Saito and Jonathan Broxton. With the addition of free agent Jason Schmidt, the starting staff would match up with anybody else's in the league.

One month in, Schmidt comes up like Barbaro. And the season after that?

Splat!

There were two bonehead moves by the front office that totally sunk the season by July. Sure, they were within striking distance as late as September 15, but you always knew the other cleat was going to drop because of all the games lost prior to the All Star break. When Schmidt went down for the year, GM Ned Colletti didn't react with any urgency in replacing him. We got start after start by super-tall lefthander Mark Hendrickson, whose main claim to fame is that he is a super-tall lefthander. His only asset to the team was probably his ability to get something off a high shelf in the clubhouse. And we also got a lot of Brent Tomko, who, except for the charcoal rendering poster he did of Jackie Robinson, was as useful as power brakes on a turtle. And they languished in the rotation for six weeks. Meanwhile, young and promising starter Chad Billingsley was locked in the bullpen longer than Khomeini kept our hostages in Iran. By the time he was released from his purgatory, the bullpen had been stretched like Silly Putty on the Sunday funnies. Too little, too late.

The same can be said for first baseman James Loney. On a team craving for power and smart hitting, this dynamo was optioned to Las Vegas after hitting .400 in Spring Training and proving he could hit major league pitching in 2006. But, the Dodgers had already committed contractually to Nomar Garciaparra at first base and a pot pourri of screwballs at third. Eventually, Loney was summoned at the end of June and promptly hit .340 with almost 70 RBIs the rest of the way. Had he been up the whole year and Billingsley in the rotation earlier, who knows how many more wins they would have? Again, too little, too late.

And then there was the manager. Too Little, too late, too much, not enough. Grady Little proved to me why he was run out of Boston quicker than a tea importer during the American Revolution. If there was an obvious move coming, you could count on Grady doing just the opposite. In the Bush-Kerry campaign of 2004, Grady probably voted for Chester A. Arthur. He had a quick hook. He left pitchers in too long. He pinch hit too much. He never pinch hit enough. On the baseball shirt of life, Grady Little always seemed to be missing one button. He would be too loyal to some players who clearly never delivered. He kept waiting for pinch hitter Olmedo Saenz to get hot, when it was clearly apparent that Saenz' immediate future was going to be spraying fruit and vegetables at Ralph's. Inexplicably, in the first game of an important series against the Diamondbacks in August, Grady started Olmedo at first base. Besides the failure that night at the plate, Saenz' girth completely blocked the view of the field for anybody sitting on the first base side of the field level.

Grady somehow let the clubhouse chemistry get away from his control, too. The ideal mix for a championship team is a solid group of veterans and some up and coming youngsters. In the Dodgers' case, the worst mix for a championship team was a solid group of veterans and some up and coming youngsters. It was as smooth a combination as vinegar and motor oil. The problem mixing these two cultures on the 2007 Dodgers was the composition of the two factions. The veterans here were all dying for one last chance to get to the World Series. The kids were all coming hard with talent aplenty, but also still green enough to make a game-ending mistake. In the future, the Dodger veteran presence should not be older than 35. And, with less guys looking to complete statistical quests. Luis Gonzalez has been a solid citizen in his career and was certainly one at Dodger Stadium. But, he spent more time in September talking about playing someplace else so he could achieve 3000 hits. I'm doing simple math here. Gonzo is 40. He needs 500 more hits. He better make sure they include any hits he gets while playing in the Arizona YMCA 70 Plus softball league.

And then there's Jeff Kent, who has always marched to a drummer that beats only in his head. He's got a Hall of Fame career with a Hall of Shame personality. In hindsight, I wonder why he never got along with former teammate Barry Bonds. When you get right down to it, they are really the same guy, except Jeff's head is smaller---only on a literal basis. Despite having some good years with the Dodgers, he's not built to share glory. And, with the burgeoning careers of Matt Kemp, James Loney, and Andre Ethier, there will be plenty that will need to be shared. As a team. That won't happen as long as Jeff Kent's motorcycle is parked in the left field parking lot.

As bitter a pill as 2007 was, the kids prompt a cloudless future. With a smarter combo of veteran help, the Dodgers should be in good shape for the future. I'd gladly pay an extra quarter more per Dodger Dog if they want to open up the vault for Alex Rodriguez.

Of course, that's provided I am eating a Dodger Dog every game next year. I can hear that buffet table calling me again. I just hope that the ribeye carving station is not my sole highlight one year from now.

Dinner last night: Chicken sausage baquette prior to the AFI 40th Anniversary festivities. More on that tomorrow.

Wednesday Night is the Nastiest Night of the Week

The utter absurdity of it all this week.

---I did not watch the premiere of ABC's "Caveman" series. Actually, I have programmed my TV to explode if I ever tune in to this channel at that time.

---The TV writers are voting to strike in the future. I'd like to vote that the Caveman writers go now.

---Along with the writers of CBS' Monday night yakfest lineup. Except for the "Big Bang Theory," which has been mildly amusing, those sitcoms are dreadful.

---The worst is "Rules of Engagement," which sports one of the most detestable characters on TV as played by one of the worst actors on TV, Patrick Warburton.

---And David Spade is in it, too, still pushing that impish college frat guy routine.

---And he's also pushing his mid 40s as well.

---I watched the season premiere of "Brothers and Sisters." In it, Sally Field's character gave a speech about the Iraq war, which sounded very similar to her Emmy acceptance drone.

---Of course, this episode was filmed two months before the Emmys.

---Hmmm, said I.

---The Rockies won the tiebreaker for the wild card in the 13th inning.

---And Matt Holliday still hasn't touched home plate. A blown call by umpire Tim McClelland, who won't be getting any comp passes to San Diego's Sea World.

---Nine hours after the game, this call has already been loaded onto McClelland's Wikipedia page.

---And that's where I discover he was involved in the George Brett pine tar incident as well as the Sammy Sosa corked bat fracas.

---Just who are these little Wikipedia elves anyway?

---Obviously they're people who have a lot of time on their ends, in between loading every single opinion they have on some daily blog.

---Oops, went one too far, didn't I?

---If you thought the Mets' Tom Glavine had a rotten weekend, try walking in from the bullpen in the Padres' Trevor Hoffman's pants.

---One strike away from clinching the Wild Card slot on Saturday, Trevor blows the save.

---Last night in the tiebreaker game vs. the Rockies, Trevor blows the save and the season.

---He's a future Hall of Famer with 500 plus saves.

---And has done nothing in his career. A statistical whore.

---Like the Mets' hillbilly closer, Billy Wagner, Trevor Hoffman has never come through in a crucial situation.

---Don't forget that he was 50% responsible for last year's 4 consecutive home run comeback by the Dodgers.

---The save rule needs to be changed. If you reduce it down to a lead or 2 runs or less, the list of true closers shrinks by 67%.

---Ha ha. LA Mayor Senor Sleazy's girlfriend got exiled to a Riverside TV studio by Telemundo. She promptly quit.

---Now she's free to get a desk in City Hall.

---Instead of being under a desk in City Hall.

---Meow.

---One very interesting sidebar story to my buffet dinner at the Dodger Stadium Club. Thirty minutes before the game, there is one lone Dodger on the outfield grass doing his pre-game exercises. Two days before the end of the season and they're out of the pennant race, but this guy is still doing his work.

---Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Juan Pierre.

---The guy hits nothing but singles and can't throw further than down my apartment hall, but still he keeps working.

---There's now always a spot on my team for Juan Pierre.

---He just needs to stop wearing his hat like he's Porky from the Our Gang shorts.

---You know what the rat bastard Wilpons are more worried about in light of the Mets grand el-foldo? Pre-sales on season tickets for Shitty Field.

---Which explains why I got an e-mail of apology from that scum bucket Jeff Wilpon. He's sorry the Mets let the fans down.

---I wonder if he sent one out in Spanish.

---You're in the bank at the end of the day and there are two old fossils hogging tellers with inane questions about their ATM cards.

---If I'm running the country, I would isolate the hours between 10AM and 3PM for anybody over 75 or 80 to go about their business. Doctor's appointments, the super market, etc.. Drive around till your heart's content. At 301PM, you better be at home watching a Matlock rerun.

---I'm just saying.

Dinner last night: Beef Enchilada at Pink Taco.