Catching Up

On the Taconic Parkway north (11/22/25)

There, by the grace of Babe Ruth or whomever, I reached the anniversary of my birth last Saturday.

Honestly, the last 365 or so have been some of the toughest ones. I don't try to predict the future, and I'm glad I don't, because I couldn't foresee where life was going to take me.

And yet -- somehow -- I'm actually in a good place as this 58th year begins.

Is every part of life in harmony? Oh, good grief, no. But I'm not tossing and turning in bed, wondering how I'm going to pay the rent. That doesn't mean all of life's issues have been resolved, and I'm not here to tell you otherwise. Life is still life, and I'm a survivor.

Let's clear one thing up since we last spoke. While I acknowledged a new avenue in my career, I'm not going to tell much related to that. As you probably know, I've been around student athletes for basically half my life. Protecting them as the true amateurs that they are has always been a top priority. A bad play can be acknowledged. 

If they tell me I can talk about their favorite music or some other narrative? Cool.

But telling you what goes on behind the doors of the school? Nope.

I knew that long ago.

And so, don't expect tales of North Mianus or any other school. In short, I can't. I think most of you know my style and know that I have always used good judgment.

I mean, if you follow along, you'll learn enough.

But I'll say this: I'm doing fine.

Within the past month, things have been swinging.

Our good friend Phil has reared his head again, accusing me of taking a swipe at his child. Um, does anyone recall where I'm working? Why would I ever do that? 

So, he attacked me with a few invectives ("petulant child" and such) and tried to accuse me of other things that I still don't understand, but eventually deleted his posts. Hey, whatever helps him sleep, right?

He's sort of like Walter Peck from Ghostbusters. If you know, well, then, yeah.

Funny enough, that same day Phil was on the attack, I was in New York hosting another Hunt Scanlon conference. Frankly, the work was well-received, setting me up for a trip to London for two -- count 'em, TWO -- conferences in just over a week.

And that same day I received word that I could finally announce a new venture that I've wanted to talk about for some time. 

I'm going to teach a non-credit, continuing education college course on sports broadcasting, specifically play-by-play.

For such a "petulant child," I was having a good day.

And people continue to notice these things.

Also, I've had to turn down a few state broadcasting assignments due to my crazy, tight schedule. So, yes, let's damage that narrative also.

Oh, that doesn't mean I haven't worked on other things. I spent my birthday in Albany, NY, calling the regional football final between Middletown and Saratoga Springs. I would have called a state semifinal and a state championship had a different team advanced to Syracuse for the title game.

And I spent consecutive weekends in Massachusetts covering Brunswick, including a very proud day where we drove to Milton for the Bruins in their bowl game. But Gus, our trusty cameraman, wasn't available, so Sean (the Renegades' master cameraman and employee of the year) did the honors.

He was nervous and cold, but he did a great job, considering we worked the game from the parking lots at the 30-yard line.

Let's see, what else? I hosted the Greenwich Old Timer's banquet again, had a nasty cold that impacted my voice, and just kept grinding along. Oh, and there have been lots of Beatles throughout the month. More than usual, to be honest.

As we turn towards the final month of 2025, one of my biggest disappointments will be this very space. I've written an all-time number of times and I suppose that was mostly due to my own headspace. I simply elected to not write. I'm still trying to get to where I want to do more.

But, most joyously, I'm not just sitting on the couch. I'm active and feel like I can start to live again.

Get busy living or get busy dying, as Morgan Freeman once said in The Shawshank Redemption.

I've got a lot of living to do.

Back To School

 

This happened quickly.

A look at my life a few weeks back revealed that some things needed to change. In short, I needed to work more.

To that end, I've often been told that I should become a substitute teacher. Once, briefly, many years ago, I played with the idea of becoming a substitute in Mahopac. There was mutual interest and, for some reason, it never came to be.

This time, only a few weeks ago, I went to the Greenwich Public Schools website and began the process of applying.

By the next morning, I had an interview booked. For that afternoon.

A day or so later, I was offered a position. After that, it was a whirlwind of paperwork, references, background checks, and so on.

Oh, many thanks to those who served as my references. I owe you one. I likely owe you many.

There was the question of juggling other parts of my life to make sure we can make it all happen. Hunt Scanlon conferences remain important for me. Games, obviously. The Renegades, of course. And so on.

I was told that wouldn't be a problem. I'll be able to get to London in December for two conferences (yes, two). As for games and other commitments, there will be some hustling, but we're going to try to make it work.

Then, the only thing left to do was start. That is, after I went to San Francisco for Hunt Scanlon last week. I had been asked to start even sooner, but they were very understanding.

So today was my first day.

I handled the afternoon for a kindergarten class. But, before that, I was given a pretty complete tour of North Mianus School, my new home.

Every teacher and many of the students greeted me with warmth and genuine excitement.

Now, let's deal with the most obvious point of all: I'm not a teacher. I'm a substitute. There's a big difference.

And, after only one day, let me tell you: teachers are incredible. 

They're heroes.

The work they put into caring for their students is remarkable.

For me, that's a similarity to being a broadcaster: the students come first.

And that's what it will continue to be.

But how was my first day? I kept saying I was overwhelmed, and I stand by that. That's exactly why teachers are incredible.

When it was over -- when I knew each child was safely where they were supposed to be -- I packed up and went home to be a radio broadcaster.

Then I fell asleep. I had been thinking this day for a few weeks and pushing back the anxiety. It manifested into me passing out on the couch.

And now, onto the next day. 

How will this play out? Anything can happen, and that's what I keep telling myself. But this was something I had to pursue. I've often felt I should have been a teacher, while maybe broadcasting on the side. Life, of course, doesn't play out how we think.

And thus I'm here now.

So, as I ponder everything, I think about whether or not I did right by the students and by the teacher I filled in for.

I mentioned that to a colleague (is that fair to say?) who had helped me during the day, and her response was a panacea.

"You're here," she said. "We need you. Don't question yourself."

I'll move all around my new home, mindful of the responsibility of caring for these students when they're with me. They'll get my best.

Oh, one more thing. For my entire life -- as a father, baseball coach, and anything else -- I've generally avoided the title of "Mr. Adams." 

Like it or not, that's who I am now, and it's very weird.

Back at it tomorrow.

There are some other things coming that I can't quite talk about yet, but I'm excited to put all of these things together. For now, that's all I can offer.

A year ago today, I ended Project 55, my nearly six-year run of publishing one blog post per day. I had reached a point of some burnout and felt it was time to stop. To be honest, I thought I would have written more over the past year, but I opted for more of a micro approach by putting thoughts out via things like social media posts.

But, rest assured, I think about writing often. Sometimes, it's just getting me in front of the computer with an inspiration to my thoughts down.

Like today. This felt like an important day for me.

Mr. Spielberg, Here's the Story

 

Once upon a time...

No, don't do that. It's too hokey. The scriptwriters will never buy it.

Oh, OK. Let's set that scene.

A kid grows up in the New York suburbs. He has little to no athletic ability but loves sports. He loves broadcasting. He is fascinated by it. He spends time watching and listening to all the games on all the channels. Radio and TV. He loves the Yankees. Frank Messer, Bill White, Phil Rizzuto. Eventually, Bobby Murcer -- his boyhood hero -- becomes a broadcaster.

He watches college football on ABC with Keith Jackson. Monday Night Football with Howard, Frank, and Dandy Don, and that evolves with Al Michaels. Watches the Rangers and Islanders. He is taken with Jiggs McDonald. Marv Albert, of course, looms large for all of his work. Over on CBS, the kid watches Summerall and Madden. Brent and "The NFL Today," of course. Also on CBS is a baseball announcer, calling football and golf. What's his name again? Oh, Scully, that's right. Let's put a pin in that.

Because Scully would head to NBC to do "Game of the Week." 

The kid has opinions and studies all of this. And it is his opinion that NBC is the place.

The National Broadcasting Company. Founded in 1926 as a radio network. It is at the forefront of TV in the 30s. Pauses for the war in the 40s before putting the World Series on the air in 1947.

It is the home of not only Vin Scully but, at one time or another, Bob Costas, Red Barber, Mel Allen, Curt Gowdy, Charlie Jones, Don Criqui, Joe Garagiola, Tony Kubek, Mike "Doc" Emrick, and so many other great broadcasters that put their stamp on the air at the "Peacock Network."

And of special note is the work of Dick Enberg, who, combined with Merlin Olsen, forms the most formidable football broadcast duo of the young man's life.

This, he tells his Connecticut School of Broadcasting class, is where he wants to be. Sure, he wants the Yankees also (he's not asking too much), but NBC is the place.

Life, of course, has other things are in store. He has to make money, so off to the corporate world he goes. He stays local to go to college, so he doesn't get that "big broadcasting school" pedigree that others look down on him for.

He doesn't have Syracuse or Missouri or Fordham. He has Westchester Community College and Western Connecticut State University.

There aren't the avenues now that there were then, but he's patient, and he grinds. 

He works in corporate America. He nearly gives up on school after the death of his father, but with Connecticut School of Broadcasting, he rebuilds himself.

A survivor, he is. A bit of an underdog, perhaps.

He gets a radio job and, except for a break in the 90s, goes on to have a 35-year career of broadcasting music, news, and everything else. It's a career in that it's part-time and full-time. It's a roller coaster.

Oh, and he does sports, of course, but yes, he literally does just about everything, including maintenance. Clean a plugged toilet at the station? Sure. Sleep on the floor after covering a major storm -- one he wasn't scheduled to work and didn't get paid a dime for? Uh huh.

There are a lot of stories like that. NBC Sports and the Yankees don't happen, and yet, he's kind of OK.

Somehow, this George Bailey sort of character feels he's reached a pinnacle because he works his tail off on every broadcast, bringing everything a professional feel with his own touches.

He doesn't need "the top level." He raised his son, survived a divorce, and dealt with life's other calamities. There are plenty of ups and downs. Heck, he even helped a newspaper company get a streaming broadcasting outlet off the ground before ego and power trips took over.

With friends worrying about his health, he leaves before the backstabbing gets worse.

He returns to work in Greenwich, at WGCH, where he's been for nearly three decades. A newspaper position in town doesn't quite work out (long story -- consider that for a sequel), but he builds a relationship with another school in town. Sure, he's called Greenwich High School broadcasts but now the Brunswick School wants him.

With that, he helps a streaming service called Bleachers. Well, that doesn't exactly fly, but it grows into LocalLive. With LocalLive, it feels like things will soar!

Well, there are bumps on that road. He gets shoved, nudged, and sometimes overlooked. That's business. 

In the meantime, a baseball position has opened in his native Hudson Valley, a Tampa Bay Rays minor league affiliate. He's worked there many times. It feels meant to be, and sure enough, he gets it! 

Then COVID cancels the season. No worries, he's told, the job is his next year. Oh, and the Hudson Valley team is changing affiliates...

to the New York Yankees.

Yes, in a small way, our guy is now a broadcaster for the Yankees.

Ah, but life. In a strange season, he works his tail off, calling every home game before being told that he'd be back the next year if it were up to his boss.

His boss leaves. Changes happen. What seems like a "no-brainer" ends with him no longer working for the team. He finds out he's out four days before Christmas, leading to a holiday spent alone, sitting on his couch.

Then they bring him back by asking him to be the public address announcer. Considering his son and other loved ones still work there, he goes back. He meets new friends, including one known as "Clicks" for his work on the Click Effects sound system.

Oh, wait, this story isn't over.

He battles with finances. His many jobs barely provide stability. His thought is always that he wants to keep a roof over the head of himself and his son.

That's a story that needs a finale.

But LocalLive is going through changes. He receives a phone call that indicates he still has that position, but it won't be called LocalLive anymore. LocalLive will migrate to a new company and a new name...

NBC SportsEngine Play.

He -- in a small way -- has made it to NBC Sports.

Scully. Enberg. Emrick. Costas.

Adams.

This story is too far-fetched.

-----

In no way do I think I'm really part of NBC Sports, any more than I feel that I'm part of ESPN, though I have been on ESPN+, or that I'm part of the Yankees. I don't work with Michael Kay, for instance, despite the wishes of my friends.

Yes, the financial realities still exist, and I'm trying to resolve them by getting one of these many "opportunities" to actually come to fruition. But through a certain amount of hard work and good fortune, I've achieved some of those lofty goals, even if they're on different terms. 

Later today, I'll call Brunswick and Suffield Academy football on NBC SportsEngine Play. I get chills every time I say it. 

My friend Mikey "Clicks" knows some of my journey and found a few things in his travels to celebrate this.

This is an NBC SportsEngine winter hat. Seems perfect for cold days in the Hartong Rink, as I call Brunswick hockey.

But he gave me something else that my inner NBC nerd screamed about.

This banner could have hung at Yankee Stadium or Three Rivers Stadium, or some arena with the heroes of my broadcasting youth. Honestly, I don't know, and I'd rather not ruin that fantasy. All I know is I found room in my apartment and it now hangs here, with profound thanks to Clicks for his thoughtful gift.

My story still has a long way to go and still has answers that I need to get. And again, I don't have "imposter syndrome" that makes me think I'm really a part of these organizations that have defined my career. I can't stress that enough. But, in some small way, I can claim a tiny piece of achieving my goals.

The story continues. May the sequel be even sweeter.

On Grief

 

Mom and Dad with their third child, Dec 1968

I think about them every day.

My parents. Robert (Donald/Bob) and Nancy. 

Every day.

Dad died on St. Patrick's night, 1989. He was 59. 

Mom died five years ago today at 83. The images are seared into my brain.

I've been chasing my father's age, frankly, ever since. I want to be around for Sean, who says I have to outlive his grandmother. Dare to dream, I guess.

But it's the grief -- and how to handle it -- that has been my issue ever since.

I went through the stages, especially after Dad passed. I was resigned, angry, low-key, and aggressive. I mourned. With Mom, the reactions were different. Grief has a funny way of helping you adjust. Whether it's death or something else, we grieve different things.

It's always grief over a loss of something, but what is that something? Sure, it can be a parent, a pet, or a loved one. But it can also be a loss of innocence, trust, a relationship, or something else.

Mom's passing was more of an overall shock for me, followed by doing what I do. I put one foot in front of the other. I kept moving. 

In that shock, I spoke with 911 and the EMTs and the police, and the funeral home.

Then we planned the funeral.

Then we dealt with the aftermath of finances, the house, etc.

And there were other things, items that removed my focus from ever allowing to grieve my mother.

Some knew what the end was like. Some didn't and never will. Or they'll never understand or care to understand. But I carry all of that with me.

And, no, I don't forget.

So I honor my parents via social media posts and occasional meals, and toasts. Birthdays, anniversaries of their passing, and the wretched holidays.

What I can't do -- ever -- is stop living. I can't be that thief of joy. Neither one of them would tolerate that. If there's a post-game (aka "afterlife"), they'd both express their displeasure in that regard. I'm sure they'll have enough to say.

So I've continued to live. Sean and I travel, and we both feel the lack of Mom in the backseat every time. It was profound -- so strong -- at first. Her absence hovered over our first weekend getaway like a bad meal.

We learned. We had to. Moving forward is what we do.

More than anything, grieving for us involves humor. Some of it is dark, and I don't share it with many because you likely wouldn't understand. But we understand. It's how we survive.

Losing my father at such a young age -- for both of us -- has impacted me in ways that I'll never truly appreciate. All of the things he didn't see or experience, and all of the things I never spoke to him about, continue to gnaw at me.

I get emotional rather easily on that topic. 

With Mom, it's still almost like a shock. There are moments out of the blue when I think I should reach out. It's hard to explain. I know the reality, and yet the reality still kind of stabs me.

But I never wanted people to feel like I discussed either of them too often, or dwelled on their passing. I've written so much here over the years. Honestly, I've backed down quite a bit.

The hurt -- the loss -- is always there. Always within me. I can't stand the tears. 

But we'll continue to laugh.

We have to.

That's how we grieve.

circa 1976

What I Did On My Summer (Non) Vacation

 

The Electric City!

There are a few times that feel like a fresh start.

Jan 1 is to many people. 

Opening Day of baseball season will always be one to me.

And I think Labor Day is one as well.

Around these parts, that means school is either about to start or has just started.

When I was a kid (yes, way back when), Labor Day normally meant a picnic somewhere.

There would be a lot of wiffle ball and volleyball and badminton and football, and more.

There would be food and family. Or people who felt like family.

We laughed and battled and ate and listened to music and tried to live in the moment. We didn't want it to end because it was also the realization that summer was over and school was about to begin. It was important to stay in the moment.

School -- wearing that first day fit, getting reacquainted with friends, meeting the teacher or teachers, settling back into the rhythm, and buying supplies -- would wait.

School still plays a big part in my life now, as the beginning of school means the beginning of a new year of sports broadcasts for me.

When -- ahem -- Sep 1998 began, I had no idea that it would begin this long association with high school sports. I worked a few Ridgefield High School football broadcasts from the WREF Radio studio in 1996, but I had moved to WGCH by the late summer of 1998. Eventually, they needed someone to run their studio for some games, and I got that opportunity.

That also meant I got to do some on-air work as well. But it all changed when I called Port Chester/Greenwich baseball in 1999. I was now a play-by-play announcer and never looked back.

That December, I worked my first Greenwich football game, capping off the end of my first full season of calling football, doing a slate of Westchester games on WVIP.

This Saturday, I'll be at Brunswick for a scrimmage to check the equipment and have a chance to get some practice in. Next Friday, Dan Murphy and I will put the headsets on and get started on another year of Greenwich football, as the Cardinals host Fairfield Prep. The following day, I'll be at Avon Old Farms for the Brunswick opener against the Winged Beavers.

I'm blessed to be the "voice" (no matter how much I don't love that term) of two great programs. 

Labor Day weekend has been a collection of activity and inactivity. It began with Sean and me going to Scranton for a day trip to Waffle House, trains, and Sheetz. In truth, we should have stayed the night and enjoyed ourselves, but there's a little issue of paying the bills that keeps me up at night.

That, friends, needs to change even if it is at the cost of the number of games I cover.

Nevertheless, we had a great day.

I also had a bittersweet day on Saturday, when I went to see Greenwich and Newtown play a scrimmage. I stood quietly and took in the game, feeling the rush of wanting to put the headset back on.

After the game, I made the short drive to nearby Sandy Hook and briefly visited the new school that replaced the one where the unspeakable happened in December 2012. I pulled in, thinking that the memorial to the 26 lives lost was there before realizing it was up the road. 

Sheepishly, I left and found the stirring memorial, where I quietly paid my respects. I have no words, and I don't think any are needed.

The rest of the weekend was mostly quiet, which tends to be a problem. Oh, sure, I hosted "Meet the Beatles" and we went to Wegmans for groceries, but the summer of 2025 was sometimes too quiet for me.

Don't get me wrong. I called a lot of games, recorded a lot of podcasts, and attended a lot of meetings. But there's a reason I was too cheap to get a room in Scranton.

Again, it has to change.

September will reignite me. Sean and I will get to The Big E. I'll call football and maybe some soccer. Hopefully, depositions will pick back up. We have one more week of Renegades games. And we're heading into a good stretch of conferences from now until early December.

September, of course, also brings reminders of sadness with the reminder of September 11 next week. I'll likely be over at Cos Cob Park that morning for the ceremony honoring the lives lost 24 years ago.

Further, we'll remember Mom later this week, on the fifth anniversary of her passing. Time flies, and we must keep moving forward.

While the summer wasn't full of travels, it was full of ups and downs and a few adventures. And, as the nights get cool, I'm hopeful.

One of these days, the promises will come together into something beautiful.

But let's dive into September. 

A hopeful fall and winter await.

Oh, a final note. Midnight tonight -- Sep 2 -- marks my 35th anniversary in broadcasting. To that, I say thank you for listening, watching, and supporting.

Nineteen Years

 

An "interesting" Alt US 19 shield, Tarpon Springs, FL, 2024

On this date in 2006, I took the plunge into writing a blog. 

Several of my friends were doing it and I thought maybe I'd give it a try. It took me some time to come up with a name, but ultimately I thought I made the right choice.

And so we sit here 19 years later. I'm still mostly the same person at heart, but I've evolved so much and I'm pretty proud of that.

Nineteen years ago, I was living in a house that we couldn't afford, married to a person who didn't want to be married to me. As awful as that might sound, I'm long past it. I didn't think I was a bad person to spend a life with and, with hindsight, well, I'll stop there.

Nearly 4,500 posts have emerged from this blog since Aug 17, 2006. Obviously, much of it came from the not-quite six years I invested in writing daily. I wish I had that drive back but I simply felt like I had run out of gas.

More to the point, I didn't want to go on about what there was to go on about. It didn't feel compelling and frankly seemed repetitive. 

I've given every emotion possible over the years. I've told as much as I felt I could or should. I know, at times, I went too far.

To people I've hurt, I apologize. 

To people who have been positively impacted by these posts, thank you.

I've tried to remain "me." Honest, fair, rational and, yet, sometimes irrational. But I've tried to remain relatable.

That doesn't always make me the most popular guy in the room.

There are things I wish I hadn't written. There are things I wish I had written.

And I often agonize over where the line is.

But, warts and all, it has all been here. 

Perhaps the urge to write consistently will return. Perhaps that will happen when I feel better about myself and about my life.

Obsessing and repeating the same things over and over aren't things I want to do, whether it's stories or compliments I've received or anything else.

Starting a blog wasn't about attention. It wasn't about finding a job, unless it went that way.

It did introduce me to new people. Both good and bad.

But it was about wanting to find my voice as a writer and to tell stories.

I hope there are many more stories to tell.

Thank you, all.

If that fates allow, we'll reach 20 years next August 17.

"No" Way

 

OK, this one will turn personal. 

I have to tell you it's an art form to see people post things and then make them about themselves.

I abhor it, especially if I do it.

But, well, I'll be guilty on this one.

I just finished watching Southpaw: The Life and Legacy of Jim Abbott on ESPN. It's a documentary about the left-handed pitcher whose 10-year career produced 87 wins and some moments of brilliance.

There's a "but" here. Abbott was born without a right hand. That's right. He was a one-handed pitcher. He figured out how to spin the glove off his left hand for fielding, then put it right back on after delivering the pitch. It was stunning to watch.

It was inspiring. In fact, part of the documentary is his dealing with being seen as a "one-handed pitcher" and an inspiration, as opposed to just being a pitcher.

The documentary is astounding. It's gorgeous. It's really well done. It follows him from his early life in Michigan, understanding why he didn't have a right hand, how he adjusted, and being a stud athlete in high school and at the University of Michigan before being drafted by the California Angels.

It centers largely on the most famous day of his baseball career: Sep 4, 1993. 

Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter.

Against the Cleveland Indians. A team that was loaded with Hall of Famers (Jim Thome), potential Hall of Famers (Kenny Lofton, Albert Belle), a damn good close-but-not-quite Hall of Famer (Carlos Baerga), and a guy that could be a Hall of Famer but, hey, steroids (Manny Ramirez).

Yes, the Indians were stacked.

Oh, and Jim Abbott pitched a no-hitter against the Cleveland Indians on Sep 4, 1993 at Yankee Stadium. It was the first no-hitter in The Bronx since 1983, when Dave Righetti no-hit the Red Sox.

Here's where I come in. I was at Yankee Stadium that day.

I discovered Abbott while watching TV back in the 80s. In those days of flipping the channel, I came across Abbott and Michigan and became mesmerized. He was incredibly easy to root for and I became a fan.

I was thrilled to see him make it to the Angels. We didn't have the collection of games that we can watch now, so I'd follow him via the newspaper.

But then, after the roller coaster of the first part of his major league career, Abbott found himself traded in late 1992.

To the Yankees. I was overjoyed.

Success, however, wasn't automatic. He pitched the home opener at the Stadium on April 12th, firing a complete game, allowing eight hits, and one earned run as the Bombers beat the Royals 4-1. Two other things that day: new Yankee Paul O'Neill had four hits and the losing pitcher was future Yankee David Cone.

Oh, and I was at that one also.

But by Sep 4, Abbott's returns were mixed. He'd come into that game at 9-11, and he had clearly underachieved. Keep that word in mind when you watch the documentary.

In Mahopac, I pulled myself together and headed to my then-fiancé's house. Her father would drive all of us. I sat in the back of their car and wondered exactly why we were bothering to go. The day was stark. It was cloudy, dark, and misty, and it felt like the game would never happen.

Our seats were in the right field corner lower deck. The Yankees, heading back not only to respectability but to being THE YANKEES, would only draw 27,125 on this miserable day.

Abbott was sharp early, relying on offspeed pitches and breaking balls to keep the dangerous Indians on their heels.

It would take until the bottom of the third for the New York offense to generate something. A Dion James single turned into a Little League home run as the Indians committed two errors and three runs scored.

In the bottom of the fifth, we watched as Randy Velarde lined a home run over the right center field wall. It was 4-0, and that was it for the scoring.

I was keeping score and wasn't moving. Not one to overreact, I made no note of the fact that Abbott had yet to give up a hit.

It was around the middle innings when Sean's mother (yes, my fiancée) asked to go get food. Dutifully, I followed along, rolling my eyes at having to leave my seat. We found a concession stand and satisfied whatever itch she needed to scratch.

What was unusual for me was that I didn't stop keeping score, listening to the radio broadcast as it was pumped through speakers in the concourse area. At that point, a no-hitter didn't seem real to me. I'd been going to Yankee games since 1972 and had never seen one in person.

Back in our seats, the game rolled along. At the end of six innings, I allowed myself to think it. Jim Abbott -- my guy, by the way -- was pitching a no-hitter.

Eventually, as the crowd began to go nuts, I glanced at my former brother-in-law. I think he was 15 or 16 at the time. 

"Do you see what I see on the scoreboard?" I said.

"Oh yeah," came the reply.

In the broadcast booth, I acknowledge no-hitters in the process of reporting. In this case, I said little to nothing here.

Abbott got three groundouts in the top of the seventh. One of them required the usual terrific defensive play, as Wade Boggs snagged a hard grounder in the hole off the bat of Albert Belle. Suddenly, it all felt real.

I remember thinking every no-hitter has "that play." Some kind of solid or great defensive play. The baseball gods need to be in your corner.

I breathed and tried to sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" at the seventh inning stretch. 

He struck out Manny in the top of the eighth and, after a walk to Thome, he induced pinch hitter Sandy Alomar Jr to ground to third.

There were three outs left.

The bottom of the eighth, as the Yankees hit, felt endless.

Abbott had walked four. He also had to face the top of the Cleveland lineup in the top of the ninth.

I took a deep breath. History was on the line.

My ex-wife didn't understand why the crowd of 27,000 was losing its collective stuff. In her mind, OK, the game was likely in hand at 4-0, so what was the big deal?

"Look at the 0 in the hit column," I whispered.

"Oh."

Kenny Lofton was first. A classic leadoff tablesetter, Abbott got him to bounce to second.

Next came Felix Fermin. In the midst of a good year in 1994, he was a good contact man, which was the job of a number two hitter at that time.

In this case, Abbott left a pitch out over the plate and Fermin crushed it to left center. They call it "Death Valley" for a reason, as it was 399 feet to the alley. I held my breath as the ball climbed but, as I've taught so many to do, I kept and eye on the outfielders. Bernie Williams, not-quite 25 on that day, moved like a gazelle and caught up to it near the warning track.

Seriously, he made it look easy.

Two outs.

Carlos Baerga was next. A professional hitter, he'd bat .317 in 1993.

One out to go.

Scorecard in hand, voice wavering (very unusual for me), I watched.

Abbott delivered. Baerga swung.

Around the world, millions of people were inspired, watching this man who didn't want to be "a disabled pitcher" live up to that dream.

He was just a pitcher. Baerga rolled a grounder to shortstop Mike Gallego, who threw across to Don Mattingly (another possible Hall of Famer) and it was over.

Jim Abbott was the pitcher of a no-hitter.

Abbott and catcher Matt Nokes had worked together like a charm. The disappointments of the season didn't matter at that point. They won the game.

And Jim Abbott -- a truly lovely, sweet man -- was a hero to millions.

And I was almost without a voice. It was as great a moment as I had ever known in Yankee Stadium.

I still have the scorecard tucked away. I treasure the memories of witnessing it, even if it comes from an entirely different lifetime.

I watched this beautiful documentary with the joy of remembering that game.

Jim Abbott won't have a plaque in Cooperstown. He doesn't need one.

But watch the documentary and you'll understand that, to many, he's already there.

I couldn't find my scorecard tonight, but this is my copy
of the NewYork Daily News from the next morning.

Last note: thank you to the many who reached out following my last post. I know I worried some, but I guess I needed to write what I wrote, no matter how much it embarrassed me. For the record, nothing has changed. But I know I'm loved and I'm grateful.