Jeff-Bradley.com

An Ode to one of my Heroes

2012-01-25T10:18:00.004-05:00

These were the first couple of post-college years. I was living in Boston, in a studio on fashionable Newbury St. no less, while making $17,000 a year, working 90-100 hours per week as the assistant sports information director at Harvard.

Time of my life.

My daily commute, Green Line to Red Line, from Copley Square to Harvard Square, always began with the purchase of the Boston Globe and the Boston Herald from the street vendor who sat on his stack of papers outside the steps down to the T.

When I left Boston for New York in 1989, as much as anything in Boston, including Fenway Park, Beanpot hockey and The Sevens on Charles St., I missed those two papers.

Remember, kids, this was before there was the internet, much less an app for that. There was something about the writing talent those papers had...and still have to this day. Names like Leigh Montville and Charlie Pierce come to mind. They were the columnists of note back then, at the Globe and Herald respectively. But there were also writers like Steve Fainaru, who covered the Red Sox for the Globe. And Mike Globetti, who wrote about college footbal (and hunting and fishing) for the Herald.

These guys could make you think and make you laugh.

And the one guy who always managed to make me think and laugh is still at it to this day, delivering columns on all things related to Boston sports. I'm talking about the one and only Dan Shaughnessy, who finds a way to capture what's going through the hearts and minds of Boston sports fans and articulate it in a manner that makes you feel like you know the guy from, I don't know, the hardware store.

His column on the Patriots securing their spot in the Super Bowl is just another example. He ties history and emotion and one-liners into a neat package like no one else. Having gotten to know Dan professionally over the last 20 years there's another thing I admire about him. When he delivers lines that he knows might pierce the skin of the athletes he's covering, he's always there in the clubhouse or lockerroom the next day, just in case there's an athlete who wants to "address it."

In the world of non-stop snark we live in today. Snark without accountability, I might add. That's a trait that still helps set Shaughnessy apart.

Going back

2012-01-13T13:22:00.007-05:00

Tonight, I turn back the clock.

I'm going with Mike Jedziniak, one of my oldest and dearest friends, to see Southside Johnny and (not the Asbury Jukes but) the Poor Fools, at a church in Pennington.

Now, according to Wikipedia, Southside Johnny Lyon turned 63 years old on December 4th. That means the first time I saw him and the Jukes perform he was 31 years old.

It was November of 1980, my junior year in high school. Bob had graduated Princeton the previous spring, but was living at home and still going back to Princeton to hang with friends on a semi-regular basis. He scored the tickets, which seemed like a big deal to me a the time. It was my first concert of any kind, so I was pretty excited.

Understand, this was around the same time Bruce Springsteen was on his River Tour. And back in 1980, getting a Springsteen ticket was about as easy as getting a Super Bowl ticket. It was not like the post Born in the USA years when Bruce would play 10 shows at Giants Stadium, or do a run of shows at the Brendan Byrne/Continental Airlines Area/IZOD Center. He'd blow into town for two shows and be gone, on the wind.

Southside was the next best thing, though as I learned that night at Dillon Gym, his shows were as furious as they were unpredictable. Johnny would forget lyrics, disappear back stage from time to time and drink brown liquor like it was Snapple.

In my senior year of high school, empowered with a driver's license, my friends and I set out to follow Southside to all the local venues. Drew University. the Meadowlands Race Track, South Mountain Arena, The Pier in New York. So many good times.

It really wasn't until college that I began to appreciate what a great and soulful vocalist Johnny was and is. With a Walkman and headphones I'd sit in my dorm room late at night listening to his covers of Springsteen's "The Fever" and "Hearts of Stone."

When Bruce released these songs later on (Johnny did them first as they were castaways from Springsteen's marathon recording sessions for Darkness on the Edge of Town), for me, it was incredibly unnecessary. Johnny and the Jukes, with the full horn section providing the perfect background texture, did these songs so well, there was nothing, nothing that Bruce could do. Nothing he could do to make these songs better.

I introduced many friends to Southside during my days in North Carolina (Jedziniak being from Toms River, needed no introduction), and we even got "I Don't Wanna Go Home" into a regular late night rotation at Purdy's, a Chapel Hill club that would be best-described as a disco. I had a roommate named "Skee" who played the trumpet. During songs like "Talk to Me" and "I'm So Anxious," we'd talk Skee into playing along. Later on, Skee didn't even need coercing. He'd stand, trumpet at the ready, doing the back-and-forth dance steps like a real Juke, then join in on cue.

It's got to be five or six years since I last saw Johnny. It was at Bar A in Belmar. A hot afternoon and Johnny was playing the outdoor bar. He didn't have a whole lot of voice. Years and years of singing from deep in his soul (and presumably some hard living) seemed to have taken its toll. At the time, I figured that would be it.

Last year, when Springsteen released The Promise, it was simply amazing how many of the songs sounded like they were written for Southside. Listen to "One Way Street" and "Spanish Eyes" and tell me you can't imagine Johnny laying down those vocals. One day, after listening to the album in my car, I actually sent an email to Johnny. He lists an email address on SouthsideJohnny.com and someone told me he answered letters.

Basically, I thanked him for helping to form my taste in music. But mostly, I thanked him for the brotherhood I was able to form with so many great people while enjoying the sound of his voice. He didn't answer my email. Oh well.

I'll thank him again tonight.

Nostalgic? Or correct?

2012-01-12T16:00:00.005-05:00

I threw a status update up on Facebook yesterday and it drew an interesting reaction from friends of a certain age. On Tuesday, I'd gotten geared up to watch the Carolina-Miami basketball game, almost trying to will myself to care about the Tar Heels the way I cared about them when I was a student, oh, 30 years ago.

Around halftime, when I found it impossible to fake it any longer, I wrote:

"I'm becoming an old fart, for sure, because the way the Tar Heels play basketball bores me. I miss the days when folks cared about winning the ACC and the regular season didn't seem like spring training."

Am I being nostalgic? Or am I on to something?

Probably a bit of both. While my older friends seem to agree with me, that college basketball in the 80s was a lot more interesting, my younger friends (those in their 30s) seem to think the current game is fine the way it is.

I'm sure the business of college basketball has never been better. The number of games on television and the success of March Madness speak to that. But from a romantic point of view, I can't help but feel the game has taken a hit over the past 20 years.

Way back when, you threw up a year, 1977 or 1982, and you remembered big games for Carolina, and big plays, and where you were and what you said to your friend. Now, and I don't think it's just me who feels this way, with players coming into the program and moving on a year or two later, you just lose track of who did what and when.

The Carolina hoops game was not the only sporting event of late that's made me long for the good, old days. The Major League Baseball postseason is another thing that, for me, a guy who loves the game as much as anyone, has lost its..."unforgettableness."

In the years before 1996 and the extra round of playoffs, even a mid-level fan could remember what teams played in the League Championship Series and World Series. They could probably tell you who was the MVP. Who was the goat. In the years since '96, with three rounds of playoffs every season, I've simply lost track.

Bring up a player, especially if they're Yankees or Red Sox players, and ask me how he did in the ALDS or ALCS in a certain year and I'll shrug my shoulders. Long gone are the days when you associated names with moments and the years were indelible.

Again, I'm sure the business of baseball has never been better. Baseball is about to add another wild card for each league next year, which will create another layer.

More money, for sure. But more memories? I don't think so.

Goodbye, 47

2011-11-24T07:18:00.002-05:00

I will not remember my 47th year fondly.

It was the year I was told I was no good. It was the year I was ignored. The year my voice was not heard. It was the year I was kicked to the curb. The year I never got a good night's sleep. It was the year - I think the first year of my life - that I became a bitter, angry soul. It was the year I became regretful, wondering what more I could have or should have done. The year I failed my family. It was the year I got fired.

I always knew, as a writer, I didn't work for IBM, that I wasn't going to get my 3-4 percent raises until retirement. I knew termination at the end of a two or three-year contract was a distinct possibility. It was all going to depend on the man calling the shots. If he liked me, I was good. If he didn't, I was gone.

I knew for about three years that the man in charge had no use for me.

Yet I remained somewhat stubborn. I guess it's the wannabe athlete in me. You think I'm no good? I'll prove you wrong. I traveled more than ever before. Pitched story ideas at a dizzying pace. Sent more ideas and updates on my ideas. I was desperate.

And none of it meant a thing. I probably should have known all along. I had folks in the office - folks who liked me - telling me to call off the dogs. To start looking for a new job. That nothing I could do was going to change anything. "The boss doesn't like you," is what they said. "And you're not going to change his mind. Ever."

I've tried to come to grips with this, and I'm getting closer. The problem is when something like this happens, and you see how it impacts your family. When you see some of the plans you tried to make (college savings for your children, as an example) shredded, yeah, it can make you angry and bitter.

I'm sure if you have kids you can relate. If you don't have kids, well, I remember what it was like to be single. When I was single I never worried about losing my job.

Maybe I'm off-base, but I view a single guy losing his job the way I view a married couple without kids getting a divorce. Basically, sorry it happened, but you are both adults, so shake hands, divide your belongings and get on with your lives.

Now, if you have kids and you go through a divorce, my heart aches for you. Your children have to deal with your problem, whether they want to or not.

If I was single and lost my job? Whatever. If I had to move, I move. No one's getting pulled out of a school, or away from friends. If I had to wait tables, caddy, freelance...whatever. I live in a less desirable neighborhood. All on me.

So, that's why it's been hard to come to grips. Because losing my job, in my mind, had a big impact on my wife and my two sons. And it was all my fault.

They've been nothing but supportive, but I'd be lying if I said there weren't many, many nights during my 47th year that I stared at the ceiling fan above my bed into the wee hours, wondering what the hell I'd do...

As you know from a previous post, I've got something new, and I'm going to do my best to do it well. Hopefully 48 and beyond are a lot better than 47.

Coming Home

2011-05-24T10:40:00.002-04:00

I have to laugh.

For the last 13 and a half years, I've written for ESPN The Magazine, and lived pretty much in anonymity. And then last week, I started writing a column for the Star-Ledger and, suddenly, it was like I'd become an overnight celebrity.

Old friends from high school, relatives I had not spoken to in years, basically a bunch of folks I'd crossed paths with during my lifetime as Jersey Kid now felt like I'd reached the pinnacle. And let me tell you, it's a good feeling. It's good to be home.

I grew up as Ledger kid, reading the words of Moss Klein and Dan Castellano every day with my Fruit Loops. A baseball-loving kid in the 70s and 80s loved the Ledger for Moss and Dan, but also for the full AP game story and box score with every MLB game. I know times have changed and all the boxes go on one page now, but as a kid who grew up loving Robin Yount and George Brett, I loved that I could read their game stories and see their stat line without having to turn the page. The Ledger was the paper of choice for a baseball fan. It was the only paper I'd ever need until the day I left for college.

Ironically, my first job in newspapers was writing for the Daily News, covering the Yankees in 1992. I always did my best, but I don't think I was ever viewed as a great, or even good tabloid beat reporter. My interest was never so much in trying to find out what George Steinbrenner was going to say, or what players (usually asking for anonymity) wanted to say something critical. My interest was always on the field, inside the game. And at times, I know my colleagues mocked me for that.

I'd miss out on some natural tabloid angle (sources say Danny Tartabull is miffed that he's playing left field and not right field) because I was talking to a pitcher about some grip-change he'd made, or to a hitter about something he was working on in the cage, and maybe I'd have a good story for the so-called seamheads, but I'd cost the News a headline. I would be the first to admit I was not a natural on that beat.

A lot of years have past since those days, 16 to be exact, and I have landed at the Ledger with the hopes that their readers are still the same as this Jersey Kid, oh, 35-40 years ago. Folks interested in reading about the game, the players, the characters. I hope they share my love of the good baseball story, because that's what I'm going try to bring them. If a kid could fall more in love with baseball the way I fell in love with baseball... because I wrote a memorable story, that would be pretty cool. About as cool as all the attention I've been getting this week.

It's good to finally be home.

A Short Piece of Fiction about Hamburgers

2011-04-28T09:55:00.007-04:00

I used to work at a burger place. The restaurant came about because this really big company with a really big name wanted to get into the burger business because they felt their patrons were burger people who would buy...you guessed it...their burgers.

We made very good burgers. We weren't the biggest or best burger place in the country, but we were pretty good. We were set up to provide burgers to burger-eaters. Nuf said.

Well, of course, times being as they are, we also had some salads on the menu. You know, even burger eaters, occasionally want some salad before they dig into their burgers. Not too much, mind you, but a little taste of something different can be nice.

The guy in charge of salad was not a burger eater. He was a salad guy through and through. Wore a beret, spoke in a language the burger people couldn't understand. A smart guy, but a salad guy.

Salad guy got good reviews from the folks in charge of the bigger company, and it started to go to his head. Suddenly, salad guy had opinions on burgers, even though he didn't like or know much about burgers. I mean, the guy never made a burger and rarely bit into a burger. How much could he know about burgers?

So anyway, the day came when the folks upstairs thought, "Hey, Salad Guy is smart and full of fresh ideas. I mean, he comes up with new salads all the time. Did you taste that Mango-Thai thing? Maybe Salad Guy should run the burger restaurant."

And so Salad Guy got his chance to run the show and what did he do? He turned a good burger place into a salad place. He'd have Avocado Mondays and Caesar Sunday. Some people thought the salad was great, but the people who loved the burgers, the people who were the reason for the restaurant in the first place, they didn't get it.

Some of the burger-makers became pretty good salad makers, but not me. My heart was still into ground beef and cheese and sesame seed buns.

And so I was told I wasn't needed or wanted any more.

The End.

Lost in Translation

2011-03-18T13:05:00.011-04:00

It was 1993 and I was working for the New York Daily News.

Part of the drill each day was a phone call from our sports editor Barry Werner, who would always greet you with the same two-word question. "What's doin'?" Every day. Same two words.

My answer was usually one word, "Same." And then we'd begin to talk ideas. Normally those ideas pertained to New York baseball, which was my beat, but Barry was definitely not averse to big ideas. He actually liked to think outside the box and I think he knew I was a captive audience.

So after "What's doin'?" and "Same" were exchanged, Barry said, "How would you like to go to Japan?" My answer was quick. "I'd love to." Seriously, it's funny to say after the last 10 years have taken me all over the world, but in '93 I'd not traveled much, so the thought of a Far East adventure was very appealing. The thought of getting away from the Yankees and Mets for a week was even more appealing. Barry explained that he wanted a series of stories on baseball in Japan that would include stories on a couple of Yankees (Mel Hall and Jesse Barfield) who were playing over there. Barry said that he'd offered the idea to a more senior member of the staff, but when that guy said he'd go only if he got to fly a certain airline (for frequent flier miles) and stay at a certain hotel (for points), Barry figured it was time to call Bradley.

"If you can stay on budget, be my guest," Barry said. I can't remember what the budget was, but it wasn't a lot. He then gave me the address of Japan Airlines in the city and the name of their public relations director. I swung by the JAL office, met with the guy and things were in the works. Turns out the PR guy was a baseball fan and he immediately told me he could get me an upgrade to business class. He gave me a list of reasonably priced hotels and a book on everything an American would need to know when traveling to Japan.

But it turned out the most important thing he gave me was a number to the Foreign Press office in Tokyo. Didn't realize it at the time, but without that number I'd have been lost.

You'll soon see why.

NOBODY ON, NOBODY OUT

I was 100-percent solo on this trip.

In subsequent years, as more and more of my colleagues have made their way to Japan as part of American groups going over to cover games between Major League teams and Japanese teams, I've often scoffed at them and told my tale of 10 days in Japan on my own.

My hotel room in Tokyo was slightly bigger than a twin bed. The bathroom was no bigger than a phone booth. The sink was inside the shower. The toilet was just outside. I never figured out how to take a shower without completely flooding the place.

The only people I could find in Tokyo with any English speaking skills were school kids. They could say a few words. Adults basically knew nothing.

In and around Tokyo, at least I could read street signs because they were written out phonetically in our alphabet. But about 20 miles outside Tokyo, there were no phonetics.

I think it was on Day 2 that I looked down at my tip sheet and saw the number of the Foreign Press office and decided to dial it up. When I started speaking in English, there was dead silence for a few seconds and then there was a voice saying, "Can I help you?"

NO STRINGS ATTACHED

We complain a lot (don't we?) about all the things that keep us wired 24-hours a day. The internet and email and Facebook and Twitter and TXT messaging.

In '93, we had none of that. And I wish we did.

Because I don't remember his name. And I really don't remember what he looked like. All I remember is he made my trip to Japan work.

I called him "Sonny."

I called him "Sonny" because when we met at his office and he asked where I was from, I told him "New Jersey" and he immediately told me, "I'm a big Bruce Springsteen fan."

But that wasn't it. He told me how, in his early 30s, he felt such a connection to Springsteen's lyrics. That he was just a guy who got up every morning and went to work each day.

He was a die-hard.

And when I asked him what his favorite Springsteen song was, he said, "Racing in the Street," which happens to be my favorite all-time song (live, of course). So I began to call him "Sonny," as in "Me and my partner Sonny." He loved the name, and he called me "Boss."

Sonny loved Racing for the same reasons I love it. Because it speaks to man's need to have something in his life that makes him feel alive. Even in times when everything else around you seems wrong, there's got to be one thing that feels right. He was married with kids. I was engaged and getting ready to begin the next phase of my life. We shared a number of meals together, and a few Kirins. He wasn't much of a baseball fan, and that didn't really matter.

Sonny had a handful of friends who could speak English and he made sure I met them all during my stay. He made sure whenever I went to a ballpark I had "an appointment." In Japan, you just don't show up at the ballpark and expect to get your interviews. "You need an appointment, Boss." And so Sonny would make all the necessary phone calls. Send all the faxes.

And my trip was great. I wrote a series for the Daily News on baseball in Japan and it was picked up by a number of papers across the country. In my years at the News, it's probably the work of which I am most proud. Without Sonny, I'd have had no chance.

SUMMER'S GONE

I have no way of figuring out his name. I've never been much of a hoarder. I throw out old notebooks. Got rid of my clip files years ago. I wouldn't know where to begin.

Friends come in so many different forms. There are lifelong friends and fair weather friends and friends of convenience. But Sonny, he really had no reason to be my friend.

Yet for those 10 days in Tokyo, I can't imagine I've ever had a better friend.

And I can't stop thinking about him.

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Look at Me!

2011-01-28T10:13:00.004-05:00

So, it's time to blog again. Always weird when you take some time off and you want to get something fresh on the site, just to keep the calendar moving, and to change the appearance that your blog/website is dormant. And that you're a total slacker.

But what to write about? You know I can't write about sports here. Well, not sports in a direct kind of way. I can write about sports, so long as it's not sports that anyone cares about.

Great, right? I'm trying to convince you now to read about something that I'm guessing no one cares about. Well, it's my blog and I'll do what I want to.

I'm going to write about my fitness regimen. Lock in, baby, and get ready to read about my six-pack abs!

Kidding.

Are you familiar with P90X? Well, for the last four months, I've been working out six days a week on that killer program. Part of what you're expected to do in P90X is take before and after photos. I skipped that part, and honestly, I'm way too self-conscious (and hairy-chested) to put up any topless shots of myself.

So, how do I look? I guess OK. Am I chiseled? No. Ripped? Not a chance. Toned up? Yeah, I guess if you go by what I looked like pre P90X, I've toned up a good deal.

I still look way better with my clothes on.

Truth be told, it took me four months to work up to P90X. The first time I attempted the workout, I dove right in, attempted to do all the push-ups and pull-ups that are assigned on the very first DVD and, well, it nearly killed me. I took my family out to dinner the night after that first workout, sat down at the table, looked across at my wife and said, "Keep an eye on me. One of two things might happen. I might pass out. Or I might vomit."

She laughed and I said, "I'm not joking." Thankfully, I didn't pass out and I didn't puke. But I felt absolutely awful. And that was nothing to the way I felt over the next -- believe it -- three weeks. Yes, for 21 straight days I was unable to perform the most basic motor skills. Things like grabbing a coffee mug out of the cabinet, opening a car door, created incredible pain.

I hate failing at things, so when all the soreness went away, I backed up to a program called Power 90. It's a workout designed by the same trainer, Tony Horton, but it's:

A. A lot easier.
B. Funny to watch because it's so low budget and dated (who wears short shorts?).

The great thing about Power 90 was, simply, that I could do it. And I did it for all 90 days, 33 of which were spent in various hotels in South Africa. Having completed that routine, I decided to try P90X again. And, guess what, I've been able to complete it...and start it again.

A few things. I can't do the pull-ups. They demand a lot. I can only do a few. So, I hang resistance bands from the pull-up bar and improvise that way. Also, unless you starve yourself (aka the P90X diet), you're probably not going to burn enough calories to get all ripped up. There's not a lot of cardio in P90X, unless you do what they call "doubles."

I don't do "doubles."

Another thing about P90X is they encourage you to become a "Beachbody Coach." This is a multi-level-marketing thing where, if you agree to get some amount of products every month, you can get others to join the same program and make a few bucks.

I'm guessing that those who are successful "Beach Body Coaches" look better than I do. But that's OK. I'm improving day-to-day and proud that I can simply say, "I did it."

And I'm going to keep on doing it.

Do you care?

Me and The Promise

2010-11-16T10:34:00.002-05:00

I was an eighth grader when I purchased the album Darkness on the Edge of Town. Actually I purchased the cassette. Probably at Korvette's in West Orange. Maybe at the music store on Bloomfield Ave. in Caldwell. Probably at Korvette's because it would have been 50 cents cheaper.

I had a little yellow Panasonic tape player that served as my stereo, even though it wasn't actually a stereo. One speaker. The seven or eight bucks I spent on Darkness had a negative impact on my ultimate savings goal, which was the $100 or so it would cost to buy a boom box.

From the first drum beats (duh-duh dum-dum, duh-duh dum-dum) that led me into Badlands, I just knew I was listening to something different from anything my ears had ever heard before. I was 15 years old, living in the most affluent of New Jersey communities, so I'm not sure what the lyrics meant to me. But I knew I liked the stuff like, "Poor man wanna be rich, rich man wanna be king, but a king ain't satisfied 'til he rules everything..." It sort of made sense. Maybe not.

I just knew that it was moving me.

Next came Adam Raised a Cain, which sent chills down my spine. I grew up on Jim Croce, the Beach Boys and Simon and Garfunkel and wasn't really prepared for this kind of anger.

And I loved it. Why? Not sure.

I won't take you song by song through the album because, chances are, if you're reading this you know all about it. I won't say Darkness became "the soundtrack to my life" (even though it's true) because that's become the most ridiculous of Springsteen cliches. But I will tell you this...

I listened to it over and over. Thirty-two years later, I can still sing every word without hesitation. Not only from the studio album, but also from the bootlegs I started collecting later in high school and college. For example, in Prove it all Night, on the album it's "I've been working real hard tryin' to get my hands clean" while on the bootlegs (circa '78) it's "I've been working real hard, to get my hands clean." Years later, when me and my buddies would be singing out loud to the album, we'd often inject the subtle changes from the bootleg lyrics, simply to pronounce our superiority over what we considered to be pseudo Bruce fans. You know, the folks who shout "Born to Run!" and "Hungry Heart!" throughout a concert.

I think it was the live performances of Darkness that made this album my favorite of all-time. And it's been cool to hear Springsteen during his recent interviews admit that these songs, while full of...darkness...come to life in a different way when performed live.

Again, if you've made it this far into this post, you know that in the studio, songs like Badlands, Prove it All Night, Promised Land and the title track do not even come close what you experience live. I do not know that I can say the same thing about Springsteen's other albums. I've never really needed to hear Born to Run or Jungleland live. Not that I don't enjoy those songs live. But there's something different about the songs on Darkness. I can only describe it as emotion.

I'm not even sure it's the lyrics that strike the nerve. I have these 25-year old memories of laying on my bed in the house where I was living in Germany in the summer of 1985, listening on my walkman to a bootleg version of Racing in the Street, which runs for more than 10 minutes. I remember how I could feel Gary Tallent's bass line deep in my soul. How I could close my eyes and listen to each note of Bruce and Steve Van Zandt's electric guitars. And how I would actually get a lump in my throat, sometimes a tear in my eye as Roy Bittan carried the piano "out-tro" on and on and on... I once read how Pete Townshend of the Who mocked Racing in the Street because it was just the quintessential Springsteen song about cars and girls. But it's not.

I realize that now. It's not about cars and girls. I don't think so.

Today Springsteen releases The Promise box set. I've heard the whole thing already and it's a dream come true for any Springsteen fanatic. You've got cuts you've heard on outtake bootlegs. You've got songs that were handed over to others. What newer Bruce fans may not realize is that, if you were from Jersey, back in the late 70s and early 80s scoring a ticket to a Springsteen concert was like getting a ticket to the Super Bowl. How many folks do you know who've been to a Super Bowl? Telling someone, "I saw Bruce live" was akin to that. It was a badge of honor.

As an aside, the next best thing back then to going to see Bruce was going to see Southside Johnny at the Asbury Jukes, usually at a college somewhere. My first-ever concert was Southside at Princeton's Dillon Gym. My second-ever concert was Bruce at the Garden. I can thank my brother Bob for both of those experiences, and I'm forever in debt. Can you imagine being a 21-year old recent college grad and taking your 16-year old brother to a Bruce concert? Back on point, in the late 70s, Bruce was handing over songs to Southside. Songs like Talk to Me and Hearts of Stone. Great songs that Southside sung soulfully. Well, on The Promise, Bruce unleashes at least half a dozen songs that, when you listen to them, you say "Southside."

It's like being able to relive a part of my life.

A couple of weeks ago, I ordered HBO for one night ($1) so I could watch the documentary about the making of Darkness on the Edge of Town. In this weird way, listening to Bruce talk about the album has helped me understand what I was feeling, yes, back when I was 14.

What Bruce was singing about, turns out, is the thing I've struggled with my entire adult life. And that's the guts to stand up for what you believe in. Darkness did not come out for three years after Born to Run because Springsteen was fighting against a manager who enticed him into signing a bad contract. Springsteen didn't want anyone controlling his writing or his music.

For my entire professional career as a writer, I've let others call the shots. It's how I've put food on the table for my family. There have been times when I've stood up for myself, insisted that its my story and they need to be my words, but many more times when I've compromised because of what needs to be done to please the guy who writes the checks.

Thankfully, Springsteen had the guts, the faith to stand his ground...yeah, I'm plagiarizing.

Not many of us do. And maybe that's why Darkness remains my album.

The Power of Having a Friend Like Johnny

2010-09-21T08:52:00.004-04:00

Here's the "speech" I delivered last night, at the Ninth Annual John P. Salamone Memorial Foundation Golf Outing. What an honor to be a part of this event. All thanks to Johnny's dad, Bud Salamone.

Eight years ago, we stood on the putting green at Essex Fells Country Club, under a cloudless blue sky, and prepared to participate in the first John P. Salamone Memorial Foundation golf outing. I remember how Johnny’s dad, Bud, could barely speak as he welcomed everyone to the event. There was not dry eye to be found.

I remember how everyone came to the outing, check books in hand, looking to help out. The tragedy of September 11^th was still so fresh in all of our minds, it was almost like therapy, to be a part of the event, to contribute to a foundation named after Johnny.

But more than anything, I remember how when the crowd had thinned out, a handful of us lingered at the bar with Bud. It was Johnny’s old posse. It was Kenny Turnbull and Tommy Paranzine. It was Greg Vassallo and Pete Veritas and Brian Campolatarro. Slowly the tears turned to laughs as we began to tell Johnny Stories. Remember The Time when??? stories.

I think a group of us sensed something during that part of the evening. That, even though this was just the first year we’d gotten together to remember Johnny, that this outing HAD TO BE an annual event. For one thing, it was great to see Bud’s face, as he heard a few tales about his son that I’m sure he’d never heard before. I mean, what father wouldn’t be proud to learn that his son was a shark, a hustler, a con artist?

But the after-hours stories, I think, made it clear to us, to Johnny’s closest friends, that the power of HAVING a friend like Johnny, had to outweigh the sorrow of LOSING a friend like Johnny. And that this golf outing was going to endure, if only for the group of us to take a break from work and family and everything else, and get together once a year to remember and celebrate all that Johnny brought to our lives during his time on earth.

As I drove home, back to the shore, that night, a few things crossed my mind. One was this: As long as we could keep this event going, I was going to be a part of it. Another was this: how the hell did Johnny Salamone become a member at Essex Fells Country Club? Didn’t anyone on the selection committee get wind of the way Johnny terrorized me, probably the only member of Essex Fells Country Club he knew back in the day?

Seriously, as we stand here today, I can’t help but think back to my first rides on a school bus down Green Brook Road, from Essex Fells to West Essex. Understand, half the kids I went to elementary school with ended up in places like Montclair Kimberly Academy, Newark Academy or Delbarton. Why? Because West Essex had drugs…And Italians.

Walking through the doors at West Essex for the first time for an Essex Fells kid is about as intimidating an experience as you can imagine. I mean, a seventh grader from Essex Fells doesn’t typically have a hairy chest, a tattoo and a pack of Marlboros in his back pocket. OK, that’s an exaggeration, but it was kinda scary for those of us from the Fells.

I know, more than anything, I wanted to fit in with the cool kids. Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – there was Johnny Salamone, to make sure I was never, ever, ever going to be cool. In fact, the cooler I wanted to be…the less cool Johnny would let me be.

During the feeling-out process at West Essex, where kids from four different towns are suddenly merged into one school, most kids seek acceptance, a group of kids they can hang with, eat lunch with, maybe play on teams with. Very few kids are willing to step up and be leaders. My group…many of whom are here tonight…well, we had Johnny.

You think you’ve picked out the right shirt, the right jacket, the right sneakers, there’d be Johnny to say, “Bradley, what are you wearing? Are those Garanimals?” You think you’ve done a good job with the Clearasil, covering the big pimple on your face, there’d be Johnny to say, “Nice zit, Bradley.” You want to look cool in the junior high cafeteria, when you’re first hoping the girls will notice you. Forget about it.

Nine years ago, I wrote a little tribute about Johnny for espn.com, remembering a teammate. One of the stories I told was about the game – if you want to call it a game – Johnny invented during school lunch.

It was called “Fresh Bait.” The game went like this. During lunch, if you put your hands down on the lunch table, anyone in the group was allowed to pound it with a closed fist while yelling, “fresh bait!” I don’t remember anyone in the group being very good at the game, except Johnny. You’d be finishing up your tater tots, and without thinking about it, you’d put a hand down on the table to suddenly feel Johnny’s fist, bashing it.

You could not help but feel the pain. You’d want to kill Johnny. But when you’d look up at him, all pissed off, Johnny would shrug and say, “You know the rules, Bradley.”

Bradley, Bradley, Bradley.

In fact, I never remember Johnny calling me by my first name, though he did refer to my mom and dad as Mary and Jerry. And our coaches were never Mr. Albanesius, Mr. Ortiz or Mr. Silva. They were Hughie, Tony O and Felipe. And Johnny could do spot-on impersonations of each of them. There was Hughie’s angry face. Tony O’s perplexed look, and Felipe’s Spanish accent. We’d lose a game and were supposed to be upset during the busride home, and there’d be Johnny imitating the coach. Making us all laugh.

I don’t want to make it sound like Johnny wasn’t a serious athlete. He was. He was a great competitor, and an even better teammate. But it was almost like he had a sense, even back when we were kids – when we believed the wins and the losses meant so much – that what really mattered was the time we spent together. That when it was all over, it was those moments on the bus, or in the lockerroom, that we’d remember most of all.

Johnny was right. And that’s why we do this every year. And why we need to keep doing this every year. So we never, ever forget Johnny and those moments we shared together.

South Africa: Days 25-31

2010-07-09T04:32:00.011-04:00

Done.

Later today, I get picked up by my driver Dolf and taken to the airport in Johannesburg to begin the long trip home. I should be walking in the door of my house around 12:45 p.m. I can't tell you how good it will feel to be home.

I used to have road trips that lasted this long, back in my days at the Daily News, when I'd embark on Yankee spring training for six weeks, or the baseball post-season for five weeks.

Those were different times in my life. Single in the beginning. Married with no kids at the end. And as much as you missed being home, you never felt like you were leaving all that much behind. I was always able to get my wife Linda down for a few days during spring training.

So this was different. I missed my son Tyler's 14th birthday and his graduation (I like "promotion" better) from 8th grade. I missed his entire Babe Ruth baseball season. I missed the end of my son Beau's Little League season and wasn't there to coach his travel team in the playoffs. But more than anything, I just missed being there for the day-to-day stuff that Linda and I have to tag-team. Driving kids around. Making them breakfast. Walking my dog.

So, it will be good to get back to those things, and to Manasquan Beach for obvious reasons. My summer has not yet started.

Hard to describe this journey properly. It was at times physically exhausting, working late nights, packing and unpacking my bags, moving from one place to the next. In each location there were places to be driven (thanks to my employers for taking care of all the rides) and assignments to tackle. There were scenes to be absorbed and history lessons to be learned. And then there was the task of writing it all in a way that would make sense to my readers.

I am lucky to do something I love for a living. Some call it "journalist" or "reporter" but I prefer "storyteller." I know all too well that I talk too much. It's a trait I've had since I'm a boy. I was the kid who had "disrupts the class with his chatter" written on his report card. In college, my fraternity brothers would roll their eyes when I told yet another tale. It got to the point that they'd look at me at times and say, "Go ahead, Brads, we know you've got a story to tell."

Well, who'd have thought I'd be able to tell stories for a living? Lucky guy, I am.

My final full day in South Africa was spent in a van, driving about eight hours from Durban, a large city on the Eastern coast, to Johannesburg. It was me (the American), a Canadian, an Englishman, a Mexican, two Argentineans, and our South African driver Jan. It was wide open country, similar in topography to Montana and Wyoming. Rolling fields and incredibly shaped mountains. Our group shared some laughs as we reminisced about our month together. I think the entire group realized that I'm ready to go home. Probably more than anyone else.

When we got back to hotel, we made a quick turnaround. One of my colleagues had made plans for us to eat at an authentic South African restaurant in the township of Soweto. It was a small place, sort of like a hole-in-the-wall restaurant you'd find in Newark, with a buffet. We filled our plates and laughed a lot. After dinner, our driver Dolf (a police officer by trade) took us to a Shebeen (these are illegal drinking establishments...they originated in the days when alcohol was forbidden to black people). It was, basically, family's garage in a part of town that was a bit downtrodden. Certainly not a place you'd go without someone with local know-how. Dolf had asked a couple of policemen to escort our group to a Shebeen. And this was it.

We were the only patrons, so they had to set up shop for us. Large bottles of beer were served. Music was turned on. Soon, our hosts were asking us if we'd pose for some photos. Next, they were asking us if we'd put our signatures on their wall. Such lovely people. Suddenly, power was lost. The music went off and the whole place went dark. I figured it was time to go.

But no. Our hosts arrived almost instantly with battery-operated lamps. They did not want us to leave. Is there a moral to this story? I don't know. It was just a nice memory to take home. A family opening their garage to a group of strangers who were looking for a few laughs.

Farewell, South Africa. Thanks for opening your arms to me for a while, but I think you understand it's time to go home. Peace.

South Africa: Days 20-24

2010-07-01T12:09:00.002-04:00

So, all the crew went on a safari today, except for me and "Luke from The Magazine." We both had things to do, so we couldn't join everyone for a day of animals and fine dining. That's fine, I got my own personal safari at Pumba a couple of weeks ago, and today I had my own adventure.

Took a little walk on the wild side. Now, I know my parents read this blog, and though they're pretty hip for their age, I'm pretty sure they're not familiar with Lou Reed. But anyway, I was badly in need of a haircut, so I left the compound known as City Lodge and went for a walk.

We have been warned by our security task force that leaving the compound is not safe, but the truth is, during the daylight, it's fine out there. Remember, I was in Luanda for 12 days. I know where I should not be walking, and outside this hotel is a long, long way from Luanda. It's fine. Really.

I was not sure if there was a place to get a haircut, but I figured I'd give the strip mall a shot. Was hoping there would be a South African "Super Cuts," or maybe a South African "Sal's Barber Shop." As I've lost most of my hair, and have grown less fond of the hair I do have because it is wiry and gray and has a life of its own, I am not particular when it comes to haircuts. My normal instructions are "short" or "very short."

Well, there was no Supercuts and there was no Sal's. So, I ended up in a "salon." I was greeted by my stylist "Beyonce," who sent me back to get my hair shampooed, rinsed, conditioned, rinsed, massaged with something tingly, rinsed, and I think that was it, but there may have been one more step. It was wonderful, really. So, then when "Beyonce" came back to retrieve me, I began to notice she had some interesting...ummm...characteristics. One of which was...a deep voice.

"Beyonce" was a dude. Now, listen, I'm cool with it. "She" was pretty appalled at the state of my hair, probably since I'd hacked it up with a trimmer, trying to tighten up my sideburns and creating a big mess in the process. When I said "short," Beyonce said, in her deep voice, "Let me try something ok? If you don't like it, we can go shorter." I was not going to argue with Beyonce.

So, in the spirit of the World Cup, Beyonce gave me a modified Cristiano Ronaldo Faux Hawk. The whole thing took about 20 times longer than when I got to SuperCuts or Carmen's in Manasquan. There was some cutting. There was some trimming. There was Beyonce backing away and staring at her work for a while. There was this "fine trimming" around the ears. And then, just when I thought I was done, I was sent back to the shampoo area, for more stuff. And then, as I tried to walk to the desk to pay and leave, Beyonce told me she was not done. She said she needed to style it. To apply some "product." Again, who was I to argue. Have a look.

Anyway. Home Stretch.

Eleven days to go on this fantastic journey, though, truth be told things have slowed down considerably as more and more countries (including my own) have gone home.

The emotional roller coaster (mostly highs...with only one low... in my opinion) that I went on for the first two weeks, left me pretty wasted. So much pride, so much joy, and so much heart ache and emptiness when it was all over. I'm glad my brother and my nephew are built for it.

Three more rounds to go.

South Africa: Day 19

2010-06-26T06:09:00.002-04:00

"If they are brave enough to play, then you should be brave enough to be in the stands."

These were the words spoken to me by an old friend who works with my brother. I wasn't sure if I had the toughness to go sit in the stands today, but these words got to me.

So, I'm going to take a two-hour ride in a van with a bunch of my colleagues who are going to work. And I'm going to watch. I stand by what I wrote yesterday. I'm admittedly biased. Whatever happens today, my pride is intact. I'm in complete awe just being here.

I'll go back to being a know-it-all eventually, but for now I'm a know-nothing, completely blind to what's going on. Blinded by love and admiration. Nothing can change that.

The photo above was taken by my niece Kerry on Christmas Day, 2008. It's Rob and Michael playing ball with my two sons. This photo is in my office and is one of my prized possessions. What's funny is that I'm way more in awe of Rob and Michael than my two boys are. I remember that day so well, because the four of them returned from the park drenched in sweat.

To Tyler and Beau, they're just Uncle Rob and Michael, and when they're playing ball together, they might as well be some kids in the park. There's a purity in that I can't really describe. If my boys were here, they'd have no problem sitting in the stands today. They wouldn't consider it some act of bravery. They'd just be wanting to go to the game, and probably wishing they could go on the field at halftime and kick the ball around. I'll try to keep that in my heart today.

South Africa: Days 15-18

2010-06-25T07:56:00.003-04:00

There's no way I could be any more distracted.

Trying to stay focused on what I'm supposed to be doing here while something else is going on that not only has my stomach churning but also has a good part of the USA's stomachs churning...not easy. As my old friend Bruce Springsteen sings, "Some day we'll look back on this and it will all seem funny." But for now, not much funny about it.

I want to write a little bit today about the emotions I've been feeling, mostly the overwhelming pride that literally brings me to tears once or twice a day (no lie). But I don't think everyone gets it. Some do. Many don't.

Something happened on Wednesday that took 12 seconds and it totally changed the perception that Americans would've taken away from this event. In 12 seconds, Americans went from a bit angry and very frustrated to, quite simply, overjoyed. But if those 12 seconds had not happened, while I'd have been sad, my pride would not have been altered even a little bit.

It's said often that it's not the results that really matter, but the journey. I've witnessed a four-year journey from close range. I know the sacrifices that have been made, the hard work that's gone into it. I'm pretty close to a couple of incredibly dedicated guys.

My pride was intact, regardless.

In my line of work, I'm often asked to analyze, to critique, to break things down. But in this case, I refuse to do it, and I am trying my best to tune it all out. It's not easy, but I'm doing my best.

I know not all my friends can get on board this train, where it's all about love and hope, where there's no room for criticism. I don't expect everyone to jump on.

Just understand it's the ride I'm taking. The journey.

South Africa: Days 12-15

2010-06-22T13:13:00.004-04:00

Getting brave.

Not sure if was a touch of boredom -- not a lot happening the last three days -- or just that I was trying to be a nice guest here in South Africa, but this afternoon, I ate a worm.

To be more exact, I ate a Mopane (Mo Pah Nee) Caterpillar (worm, I dunno). It was fried, I guess, and covered in some kind of red sauce. It was crunchy, chewy, gamy, nasty. I thought it would be rude not to try it when our driver Jan ordered it up for the table, but after me and my two colleagues each choked one worm down, we noticed Jan wasn't exactly digging in. "No, I don't like it," Jan said with a smirk. "But a lot of people do!" With that, Jan chomped one down, then handed the rest of the order over to the folks at the next table. They left the dish alone.

Again, not a lot going on the last few days here. Work and hotel meals. The restaurant serving the Mopane was in downtown Johannesburg, and music filled the air and local artists and craftspeople were selling their stuff. It was a pleasant lunch break, all in all...except the worm.

And then it was back to work in Mission Control. It's been good to catch my breath here after traveling around the country for the better part of a week, but working in the International Broadcast Center is kind of a drag. I do get to go to a game tomorrow. Not "that" game.

Big day tomorrow, obviously. Huge day, actually. 'Nuf said.

I'm going to write in the next few days about the amazing side trip my nieces, Kerry and Ryan, took to Kenya to see their little sister Beatrice, a young lady they've been sponsoring for the past year for an organization called Oasis for Orphans.

Kerry has promised me photos of "Little Bee" but in the meantime, check out this video from Christmas 2009, where Beatrice introduced herself to my brother's family. If you enjoy that one, here's another taken a year ago where a soccer field was dedicated.

South Africa: Days 10-11

2010-06-19T05:36:00.003-04:00

It's a mystery to me.

Whenever I travel abroad I become the world's clumsiest man. To date, I've stumbled and fallen to the ground twice (and I was not fouled), dropped important things (plug adapters) into places I could not reach without getting on my belly to find them (in public places), spilled drinks, and backed into about 1,000 people with my overstuffed backpack. Thankfully, folks here speak English (and most speak at least one other language), so "I'm sorry" and "Excuse me" work.

No explanation for any of it.

Let me ramble a bit. If anyone is thinking this trip is anything like my Angolan adventure, rest assured it is not. Not only are the people of South Africa extremely hospitable, the country is well-developed. No issues eating salads. You can order a steak medium. If you and your driver are starving after a long day, you can hit any number of drive thrus. Most of the hotels I've stayed in are of Holiday Inn caliber. Functional, clean, etc.

I had a little setback in Bloemfontein when I was assigned a handicapped room that did not have a shower. Not much of a bath guy, honestly. Especially when the room is cold and the bath water stays warm for about three minutes. I thought that was a pretty big inconvenience until I got to my latest hotel in Rustenberg. Yeah, it has a shower, but it would more accurately be called a trickle. And the H/C controls are pretty archaic. I got into a warm trickle and had to jump out of a scolding trickle. I've been going with the homeless man look a lot lately. It works for me.

Anyway, I work with sadness in my heart today. It's my son Tyler's 14th birthday, the first of his birthdays that I've missed, and hopefully the last. He's a stoic young man and he understands why I'm here, but that won't keep me from feeling sad today.

South Africa: Days 8-9

2010-06-17T06:45:00.002-04:00

Trying to keep the glass half-full here.

Been a long couple of days, post-game reserve. A 4 a.m. wakeup call, a long ride in a van, a couple of flights, a couple of delays, a lot of metal detectors, a freezing cold hotel with no shower, many cups of bad coffee, and the overall tension of something going on in another part of this country that I have no control over (yeah, "that"), but which occupies a lot of my brain.

But, as the kids like to say, it's all good.

The last few days sort of bring me back to my days as a baseball beat writer, the unusual rhythm of life on the road. I think Bill Bradley wrote about it in his book "A Sense of Where You Are," which I read as a young kid. He was describing the life of an NBA player. Something like this: A cab, a plane, a cab, a hotel, a game...repeat. Days turn into weeks, I find myself looking repeatedly at my watch, not to see what time it is, but to see what day it is. Scarce little time for this blog, but hope my handful of followers are checking out my real work at this little site.

Those who know me, know nothing means more to me than my family. As we near the end of Week 2 in South Africa, I continue to relish the experience, but also have to fess up. My son Tyler turns 14 on Saturday and I won't be there to celebrate. He's about to graduate from Manasquan Elementary School, and I'll miss that, too. My son Beau made Little League All-Stars and has begun to prepare for the Districts. This is the time of year when my sons run home from school, sling their backpacks in the door and ask me if I can throw them batting practice. It pains me to not be home with them. And, of course, that's not to mention my wife Linda who has to bear all the responsibilities of making sure they're prepared for their final exams, on-time to practices and games...and, of course, able to participate in all those "kid things" that go on at the close of a school year. Lin's pretty amazing at keeping it all together, but it doesn't erase the pain in my heart when so much of this goes by while I'm away.

A long drive through South Africa awaits me tomorrow, about five hours with my new driver, Jan ("Yon"), and hopefully back in JoBurg in time for "that" thing I'm stressing about.

Glass is half-full, trip's about one-third over. Peace all.

South Africa: Days 5-7

2010-06-15T04:40:00.006-04:00

The dominant emotion I’d describe right now is guilt.

But that’s just my nature when things like this happen to me when I’m traveling on business. A slip-up in reservations left me without a hotel room in Port Elizabeth, on South Africa’s Eastern Cape, so the best our company travel service could do was a "private game reserve" about 100 kilometers from Port Elizabeth.

That sounded nice, but when my driver Chris started taking me north on the N2, and kept driving and driving, passing nothing but wide open space, I started to wonder to myself, is this going to turn out ok? When we finally made it to our turn-off, and started heading down a dirt road, well, then I really started to have my doubts. When that dirt road, full of potholes and rocks, stretched on and on, for about 30 minutes, I began to wonder if I’d be better off sleeping in the airport on Tuesday night…my final night here.

But then we arrived. Breathtaking does not begin to describe this place.

I’m staying in a grass-roof "hut" that’s simply gorgeous. My room has a waterfall shower, a fireplace, mahogany floors, a deck overlooking a pond where a family of hippos play. In the distance are the hills of the reserve. There's also an outdoor, open-air shower and a jacuzzi, too bad it's winter.

When a sweet woman named Tanya showed me to my room, she asked if everything was ok, I could barely spit out the word, "Amazing." She then told me, "Mr. Bradley, one thing. After dark, do not leave your room alone. Call the office for assistance. At night, the animals sometimes walk right into the village. There could be a lion waiting at your door." I laughed, but she told me she was not joking.

A fellow named John took me on a two-and-a-half hour safari, where we saw giraffes, wildebeests, warthogs, a variety of deer with a variety of names I can’t remember. We went looking for the lions (there are 11 here) but found none. John explained to me that this is not like, say, the Disney safari where staff members feed the animals. This is survival of the fittest. He talked of how the lions weigh “work vs. satisfaction” when choosing their prey. In other words, they’d rather wait for something big and slow (a buffalo), than spend all day chasing something thin and fast (a blessbuck). Giraffes, he said are not very protective mothers, so a lot of baby giraffes become snack food for the lions. It’s nature, John explained to me. "We don’t interfere," he said. Pretty cool.

Anyway, back to guilt. I wish Linda and the boys could be here with me. But, the adventure will be over quickly. A long trip into Port Elizabeth today, a long trip back here tonight. I’ll probably miss dinner, and I have a 5 a.m. wakeup call tomorrow.

Fun while it lasted, no doubt.

South Africa: Day 3/4

2010-06-12T11:09:00.004-04:00

Surreal.

The only word I can come up with to describe this day. Here I sit thousands of miles from home, on the continent of Africa, in a small hotel room that just happens to be only about 200 miles from where my brother and his family are. Tonight, I will sit by myself in this hotel room and watch my brother and nephew on a 13-inch television screen.

Probably not the way most of you imagined I'd be spending this day. But that's sur-reality, I guess. In a way, I wish I'd figured out a way to get to the match, but in a way, it's probably better for me to watch it alone.

I keep telling myself, it's just a game. And I know it is.

Meanwhile, adventure has kicked in for me. I'm in the township of Polokwane, which used to be known as Pietersburg. The driver who has joined me out here could not be nicer. We had a great chat and I learned a lot about South Africa and, believe it or not, there's a lot of issues here that mirror those in the States. Things like illegal immigration. He explained to me that a number of folks from Mozambique and Zimbabwe make their way to South Africa to become day laborers on farms and on constructions sites. Many risk their lives to make their way across the border.

"Some come by way of the river and are eaten by crocodiles," he explained. "Some come by land and are eaten by lions." He explained how many of these people are willing to work for 70 rand a day (about 10 bucks) and put in more than a full day's work.

Sound familiar?

Anyway, not going to get too serious here, because I've lived a virtual Bloopers Video here in South Africa so far. You heard about the monkey/pigeons growling outside my window in Johannesburg, well that was just the beginning.

Yesterday I had my first freakout moment when I thought I'd lost my passport. Understand, I'm about to embark on a bunch of travel and losing a passport would be catastrophic. So, I went nuts. I checked the pocket of the jeans I "knew" I'd worn the night before. Nothing. So I began to turn my hotel room upside down.

I saw "another" pair of jeans, but I "knew" I had not worn those the night before, so I emptied my two suitcases and my laptop backpack (that was ugly, sort of like when Brodie cut open the shark's belly in Jaws and the unthinkable appeared). No passport.

More on the laptop backpack in a minute.

Now, the 9 a.m. bus was leaving for the stadium and I was, well, panicked. I went down to catch the bus and was told there'd be another leaving at 10. I did not say a word to anyone about the missing passport, but simply said I'd take the 10. I repeated the process described above. Suitcases emptied. Crap strewn everywhere. No passport.

I mean, there was still that pair of jeans that I "knew" I had not worn. Well, what the heck, at this point, I figured I'd check them even though I "knew" I had not worn them. Well, what do you "know." There was my passport. Sigh of relief.

Meanwhile back in the laptop backpack, I was a bit disgusted by all the crap, so I went to cleaning it out. First time in a while. Nice clean backpack for my travels.

So, with my nice clean backpack, I took off for Polokwane and when I got here, I took out my laptop and prepared to do my workout DVD (stop laughing), the DVD would not go in the slot of my MacBook. What the heck? Well, turns out in my nice, clean backpack there was an old hotel keycard that somehow found its way into the disc drive.

Now my DVD doesn't work. The lesson I learned is, don't clean out your backpack.

Peace everyone. Go USA.

South Africa: Day 2

2010-06-10T15:55:00.005-04:00

"It" starts tomorrow. Thankfully.

For two days now, I've basically been office-bound. See the photos? That's the Master Control Room and the door that leads to my desk. Yeah, that's where I've been.

It's no one's fault, it's just the way it's been at some events. It has nothing to do with South Africa as much as it just has to do with a massive event, lots of folks who do what I do working in one location and also needing transportation here, there and everywhere.

Not complaining, just excited that tomorrow I will actually get to see some very talented athletes perform on a brilliant stage.

Then, after tomorrow, it should get exciting. Solo flights to parts unknown. Various forms of transportation to get me to all sorts of places. Can't provide much more detail as much of it is a mystery to me. Fun, right?

My heart is very torn, of course, because I'm here, but I'm not exactly where I'd be if I was here in a non-working capacity. I'm actually fine with that, because the work manages to distract me from something that would be all-engrossing and nerve wracking.

I did some radio shows today. One with some old friends from Hull, England, and one with my employer. I had to explain to both that I'm here, but I'm not here to cover my brother and my nephew. When asked to provide analysis on them, all I could say is I know they've poured every ounce of their heart and soul into this endeavor.

And that's the truth.

South Africa: Day 1

2010-06-09T16:27:00.003-04:00

And so it begins, my 35-day South African adventure.

Most of you know why I'm here, but I'm not really supposed to write about "that" on this blog, so you'll have to keep tabs on www.espn.com/worldcup to read what I've got to say about "that."

What I can write here is about my journey, which began with a quick flight to Atlanta, a six-hour layover that was supposed to be a three-hour layover and a little 16-hour flight from Atlanta to Johannesburg. All told, about 26 hours of travel. Piece of cake.

For those who followed my trip to Angola, well, this is nothing like that. Not so far. Hotel outside of JoBurg is very nice, and across the street from a swanky casino with about 30 different restaurants. I feel like I could be in Anywhere, USA, so far.

"So far," is probably the operative phrase. On Saturday, when most of my friends and family are going to be watching my brother and nephew trying to do something pretty special, I'm going to be flying to Polokwane, which I'm told is going to be "different." Again, I'll reserve judgment until I see it for myself.

The only bit of adventure that happened so far occurred in my hotel room. First, I flooded the bathroom. I turned on the shower, which is one of those phone booth-sized units and the nozzle was pointed straight out the door. All it took was one two-second blast of water and I had an inch of water in the bathroom. Four towels dried it up.

Then, when I went to bed, exhausted from the day of travel, I woke up to what sounded like a growling animal. Now, understand, it was 3 a.m. and I was working on only a couple of hours sleep in the past 30 hours, so maybe it didn't really sound like growling. But that's what I heard. And it sounded like it was in my room.

Remembering a time when a raccoon somehow got into the hallway of my Boston apartment, I wasn't ruling anything out. So, when the growling sound persisted, and I began to think, "This is Africa," I reached for the rolling desk chair and rolled it toward the window, which is where the sound was emanating. I figured if there was indeed a wild African animal in my room (perhaps a monkey?), the chair would startle it, and I'd have to make a bee-line for the door.

No animal emerged, but a short while later, the sounds persisted and continued on through the night. In the morning, when I drew the curtains, I saw animal feces on the window sill. I'm guessing the growling was pigeons. We'll see what happens tonight.

The better part of Day 1 was spent in the International Broadcast Center, where we picked up our credentials, got a lay of the land, and watched (in amazement, as always) as 99 percent of the non-American journalists chain-smoked cigarettes in the courtyard. Food in the IBC was decent. Things will pick up day by day as we get ready for you know what. Yeah, I'm talking about "that."

Colonel John McHugh, 1963-2010

2010-05-19T10:37:00.007-04:00

The following entry will be all over the place. I apologize ahead of time.

Yesterday, I lost a dear old friend when U.S. Army Colonel John McHugh was killed by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan. I had known John since I was about eight years old.

We lived in different towns but always crossed paths in sports. Always.

From Church Basketball (he played for St. Al's, I played for Caldwell Presbyterian) to soccer camp in the summer, to watching our older brothers play American Legion baseball together, to the day when he and I learned as freshman we had made the Legion team. We warmed the bench together and loved every minute of being a part of the Post 185 squad. A year later, in 1980, we both got our chance to play...two years later, we were part of a team that won the Essex County championship and came within a game of winning the state title. As seniors, we won another county title, but John missed out on the post-season as he had to report to West Point to begin his life as a cadet. Without John as our backstop, our team was not the same.

He was a catcher in baseball...a goalkeeper in soccer. He was a born leader.

John went on to play goalkeeper at West Point. He loved soccer with all his heart. He was a great goalkeeper because he was a student of the position. Always in position, head always in the game.

In fact, he recently went to US Goalkeeper Training School...I saw this on Facebook.

"I got schooled this weekend by the Director of Coaching for the NY Red Bulls youth team; however, I recovered in time to knock the ball out for a corner before it crossed the line. of course, I also pulled a muscle; maybe it's because he's about 20 years younger and much better than me. But will I ever learn? Of course not, just keep playing."

Growing up, John was always one of those kids looking to organize a game, be it soccer, basketball or baseball. He (like myself) was a field rat. In high school, he not only was the goalkeeper on a team that went to the state finals and a catcher on a team that won the Greater Newark Tounament (a big deal in NJ), but wrote the game stories for the Caldwell Progress. Seriously, I thought he'd one day become the mayor of Caldwell. He was loved by everyone because he was so good-natured, friendly and honest. He was one of those guys who never had an off day. Always had a smile.

John graduated from West Point in 1986 and served his country for the next 24 years, most recently at Fort Leavenworth in Kansas. He still found time to coach soccer teams in Kansas. He was really looking forward to watching the World Cup. He wrote me recently asking if I needed someone to carry my bags in South Africa. He was a huge fan of the US team and my brother Bob. John had two older brothers, Jim and Frank, who crossed paths in a similar way with my older brothers.

Different towns...same upbringing. Clean-cut boys, like me and my brothers. Parents that wouldn't let them get out of line. Like my parents.

On May 15th, John wrote on Facebook. "On the road again tomorrow. Heading to Afghanistan for a couple of weeks. If my travel doesn't get whacky I should be back in time for the Indy 500." The next day, John wrote: "Be careful for nothing; but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. Phillipians 4:6-7."

Three days later, he was killed.

John leaves behind his wife Connie and five children, three daughters and two sons. He recently became a grandfather at 46. It had been 25 years since I'd spoken to John and I'm thankful that he and I had gotten back in touch. We'd talked about having a 30-year reunion for our 1981 Legion team. I was counting on him to put it together.

He would've been our leader.

Rest in Peace, John. I'll never forget you, my friend.

Angola: Day 11

2010-02-01T02:43:00.003-05:00

The Final. Egypt 1, Ghana 0.

And so it's over, all except for a day of waiting for my flight to leave Luanda, and 22 hours of flights and layovers...plus customs clearance, etc. It's pretty much over.

The final was an exciting game, well attended by the people of Angola. In fact, at the start of the game it looked like there would be a lot of empty seats, but when I scanned the stadium at the start of the second half, I think it's fair to call it a sell-out. I was touched at the end of the match, as the Egyptian players celebrated, that the crowd broke into a spontaneous chant of "An-GO-la, An-GO-la, An-GO-la!"

All things considered, I think the people in Luanda deserved to blow their own horn. Getting to these game, and home from these games, was no easy feat for anyone. Last night, it took us three hours to work our way back to the city (again, it's about 15 miles), and we witnessed a bad-looking four-car accident and a subsequent gathering of people in the street that had Ricardo and me wondering if there'd been a fatality.

The drive home was especially stressful for my man Ricardo, who said at one point, "Mr. Jeff, my head is hot (rhymes with boat)." He apologized profusely and asked if it was ok if he opened the window and had a smoke. "No problem," I said. When we got home, I had a cold can of Cuca in my fridge (leftover from the night when Payzin hopped out of the truck to buy a sixer) and Ricardo accepted it without hesitation.

As frustrating as it's been for me to sit in never-ending traffic jams, I can imagine it's been even harder on the guy behind the wheel. See, it's not just traditional traffic, it's also folks trying to circumvent the traffic by turning two lanes into three, four or five, and sometimes folks driving up on curbs, through road-side ditches etc. And there are also the scooters that seem to come out of nowhere.

I can't imagine driving through this, though I did joke with Ricardo that on my next trip to Luanda I'd just rent a car. "You think so, Mr. Jeff?"

No way.

And so it's over, all except for the actual work that comes now, the transcription of interviews, the organizing of material and the writing of my "real" stories. I've been doing this blog sporadically for the last year or so, but it seems these tales were able to reach more than just my normal circle of friends (see some of the comments), and I'm happy that people have gotten some easy entertainment and even enjoyment out of them.

It was not the easiest place to work, but Angola provided me with an experience I'll not soon forget, and as anyone who's been reading along knows, a friend for life.

In about 36 hours I should be back at the Jersey Shore. It will be good to be home.

Angola adeus eu não vou te esquecer.

E ao meu amigo para sempre, Ricardo.

Regards, Mr. Jeff

Angola: Day 10

2010-01-30T14:52:00.009-05:00

Tonight we cried a little.

Ricardo and I, we both miss our families. And this is what we talked about at the end of a long day. But we'll get to that later.

Ricardo picked me up in the morning and drove me out to the the fancy hotel at Talatona, where I was able to get a few good interviews with "the important people" of this big event. At this point in the trip, I have one friend who has been with me from start to finsh, Ricardo, so it feels awkward to have him drop me off in the front of the fancy hotel and tell me he will wait for me. But this is what we do, even though I'd prefer for him to come into the lobby and hang out with me. He says he cannot.

Thankfully, it was not long before we were back on the road to downtown Luanda, blaring the same music and watching the same busy scenes. The reason I was happy that I was able to get my work done promptly was because Ricardo had mentioned to me earlier in the day that he'd been asked to play in a 5 v. 5 game with some of his friends. "But only if there is no work for Mr. Jeff," he said.

I was, in fact, done with my work so early that I asked Ricardo if he could take me by his apartment, because I knew there would be pickup games going on in the nearby "court." I figured I'd end this trip the way I began it, with the story of "the ball."

Maybe it's naive, but the people of Africa that I have spoken to believe the ball brings people together, that the ball solves problems, and the ball can be the answer to so many issues these people face on a day-to-day basis. So, I needed to see the ball in action. It was just pickup game on a sheet of asphalt. A game amongst boys of limited skill, but indeed, the ball had done the job of unifying a neighborhood. If only for a while. "This is most days," Ricardo said. "There's always a game."

I looked at my watch and asked Ricardo if he could now take me back to my hotel. "I have work I can do," I said. "Just give me a call after your game."

So Ricardo dropped me off at the Roux and I spent the afternoon transcribing tapes and watching Premier League games (and my nephew's game on the internet) and thinking a little bit about tomorrow's Cup of Nations final between Egypt and Ghana. And around 6:30, my phone rang and it was Ricardo. "Do you want to eat?" I asked him.

"No, Mr. Jeff," he said. "I have already ated" (I hate to show Ricardo's grammatical mistake, and it's not meant to be disparaging, but I found it endearing. He had gone home and eaten something after his game.) When he picked me up, Ricardo was limping. "I got kicked hard during the game," he said. "It hurts very bad."

Our normal drill went on. Ricardo opened the truck door for me, made sure my door was locked, and drove me to my rice and beans place, Sindicato. I loaded up my plate, asked Ricardo if he was hungry. "No, Mr. Jeff," he said. I gave him the look that said, "are you sure?" He finally relented and filled himself a bowl of rice and beans.

And then, the moment of this journey that I will not forget. I ordered a beer, a Cuca, of course, and Ricardo ordered a water. When he asked me if I wanted a second, I said, "Only if you will have one with me."

And Ricardo said, "I do not think I can do this, Mr. Jeff."

"I think you can..."

When the waitress returned, she had two mugs of beer. We toasted our friendship and our families. "I do this, Mr. Jeff, because this is the last night we will eat together," Ricardo said."

"That's right, Mr. Ricardo," I said, bringing out a huge smile.

And we drank our beers together, talked soccer as the highlights of the African Cup of Nations were being shown on the restaurant's big screen. Ricardo and I will both pull for Ghana tomorrow, as we agree Egypt seems arrogant. We agreed that Lionel Messi is the best player in the world right now, better than Cristiano Ronaldo, and we differed on who is the greatest player of all-time (one said Pele, the other said Maradona). And we talked about our wives and kids, and how we miss them...as Ricardo says, "A loat (rhymes with boat).

When he dropped me off, Ricardo and I discussed tomorrow's agenda. "I will watch the news before I go to sleep, Mr. Jeff," Ricardo said. "I need to know how early we must leave." And then he paused. "I want to say I'm sorry, because I should not have had that beer while I was working, Mr. Jeff..."

And I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "No, no, no, Ricardo," I said. "I am so glad we were able to have a beer together, my friend, don't be sorry."

As I said the final word, I could feel tears welling in my eyes. And Ricardo had the same look. We shook hands and gave each other a brief "bro hug double-back-tap."

I'm ready for this trip to be over, but I'm going to miss this guy.

Angola: Day 9

2010-01-29T14:50:00.006-05:00

A weird day, for sure. A day of mixed emotions.

It was a day spent with the muckity-mucks of FIFA and CAF (Confederation of African Football) at the official CAF Hotel. Ricardo and I got lost on our way out there, stopping for directions a few times, before ultimately finding it.

"I was here when I was younger," Ricardo said. "I fought here in the war, but it was nothing but bushes and sand." When we finally found the hotel and convention center, I wasn't sure what to think. It was brand new and gorgeous. Some officials from FIFA and CAF were emerging from the fitness center in their green adidas gear. Others were having coffee and breakfast in the swanky cafe.

Outside there were freshly planted palm trees, valets, fountains. The lobby was nothing short of spectacular, with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, more fountains. For a while, as I sat waiting for the press conferences and interviews to begin, I thought, "How much easier this trip would've been had I gotten a room out here." I mean, I could've eaten in the cafe, had drinks at the bar, worked out in the gym...

But as the day wore on, as each packet of information was handed over, one glossier than the next (one was Qatar's 1022 World Cup bid propaganda), I started to realize, if I'd stayed in this hotel, I'd have missed out on all the long trips in the truck. It took us forever to get out there this morning, and the trip home was no picnic either. And it has been on those trips, I think, that I've learned about Angola. Two hours after I told Ricardo I was ready to be taken home, he and "Boy" (aka Payzin) showed up in the truck, ready to begin the trek back to the Roux.

"We call Friday, 'the Man's Day,'" Ricardo said as we crawled through a the mass of traffic. "You can see all the men are out together, having some drinks." Ricardo was right again. The streets were lined with men. In the earlier hours, men were doing pull-ups, sit-ups and push-ups in one of the "fitness parks." As night fell, yeah, they were drinking beer from the bottle. Toasting the start of the weekend.

I had not eaten all day, not wanting to sneak into the fancy luncheon (I think I saw lobster) that Qatar was throwing for all the delegates. I asked if we could return to "Sindicato," where we've eaten rice and beans. "Of course, whatever Mr. Jeff wants to do," Ricardo said. So Ricardo, Payzin and I sat down to dinner together.

"The Man's Day," I said to Ricardo and Payzin, raising my Cuca.

They simply nodded.

Angola: Day 8

2010-01-28T15:41:00.002-05:00

So little I can write about today.

Ricardo picked me up at 1 o'clock to take me to the stadium for a 5 o'clock game. Traffic in town was bad as usual, but traffic out of town was nothing like it was the day Angola played Ghana, so I arrived at the stadium very early. For my non-soccer-writing brethren, there is no pre-game clubhouse access in soccer. You get to the park early, basically, you hang out 'til game time. So I hung out, ate a "Fahita" (very chewy) for 600 kwanzas, nearly fell asleep, and chatted with my Ghanaian friends.

Ghana beat Nigeria 1-0 to advance to the final. The non-biased Ghanaian press corps, dressed in team colors, waving flags and screaming at the top of their lungs, were pretty happy. I posed for a bunch of pictures with them. I'm big in Ghana.

Always good for a sports scribe covering a soccer game when the guy who scores the only goal in a 1-0 game (Asamoah Gyan) decides he doesn't want to talk to the press. Maybe the fact that half the press corps was hugging him left him speechless, I dunno.

Ricardo, as always, was there to pick me up after the match. Only he had a "very good friend," who was standing in the back of the pickup.

"What's his name?" I asked Ricardo.

"I'm not sure, I just call him Boy," Ricardo said.

"I thought he was a very good friend," I said.

"Well, he's done a lot for me today. He keeps the truck clean. He helps me," Ricardo said. Well, that was good enough for me. So I opened the window and asked Boy in Spanish what his name was. "Payzin," he said with a smile.

"His name is Payzin," I told Ricardo, who was now in stitches.

When we hit traffic, Ricardo shouted something to Payzin, and wouldn't you know it, Payzin jumped out of the truck, ran into a gas station and emerged with some cold Cucas for Mr. Jeff. We began the long trek home, through Luanda's dusty roads, always filled with people, always filled with life.

Ricardo blasted 50 Cent, which was cool, because I got to explain to him what an "Oompah Loompah" is what a "P-I-M-P" is...see, me and Ricardo help each other out.

Three days to go. Ghana and Egypt in the final Sunday.

Angola: Day 7

2010-01-27T13:42:00.005-05:00

All I can do is smile.

If you read yesterday's post, well, it was more of the same today. Only worse. Won't bore you with all the bad-day-at-work stuff. Just know, I've never seen anything like the city of Luanda in terms of congestion and chaos.

I had two tasks to accomplish today and I was 0-for-2, sitting in traffic for almost the entire day before telling Ricardo "Enough, just get me back to the hotel. I can't take it any more."

That's not to say we didn't have a few laughs along the way. The first good one came when I told Ricardo I was just going to take out a wad of Kwanzas and start buying everything that was offered to us as we sat in traffic. Shower heads. Cell phones. Batteries. Brushes. Pots and Pans. Remote Controls. Plastic Toys. Watches. Car chargers. Art. CDs. DVDs. Fruit. Coca Cola. Gum.

"No, no, Mr. Jeff," Ricard said, laughing. "Don't do it!"

Then I threatened Ricardo that tomorrow, I would bring my entire stash of candy and power bars out on the road and do a little selling myself. "You make me laugh, Mr. Jeff," Ricardo said. "And this is good for me, because I am very stressed."

Ricardo and I got our best laugh, however, when we finally made it to Ghana's team hotel. No one from the team or the press was around, but former U.S. (and Mexico, Costa Rica, Nigeria, China, Honduras, Jamaica, Iraq) coach Bora Milutinovic immediately saw me as I got out of Ricardo's pickup. "I know where we need to go," Bora said, excitedly. "I go with you!" Bora threw three suitcases in the back of the pickup. When Ricardo told him it would likely be stolen as we sat in traffic, Bora said, "No, no, my friend." Then he hopped in the single-cab pickup, crashing his knee into the stick shift. Yes, three adults across the one seat.

If you've never met Bora, I'll just describe the language he speaks as Span-Eng-French-ish. He told Ricardo the name of the hotel and Ricardo had no idea what he said. He took out a piece of paper and said it again. Still, no clue. Ricardo asked to see the piece of paper, but Bora's writing was nothing more than scribble.

When I told Bora my goal was to interview some of the Nigeria players, he got very excited. "Give me your phone, I will call Kanu for you. We will go talk to Kanu!" I gave Bora my phone and he took out his checkbook, which was filled with more scribble. He handed me the phone and started calling out numbers for me to call. None worked.

When Bora finally communicated where he needed to go, Ricardo whispered to me that it would take us all day to get there. Instead, Ricardo called his friend who owns a cab and told him to come and pick up Bora. We waited a half hour and sent Bora on his way.

Then it was back into traffic.

Game tomorrow in Luanda. We literally have to leave the hotel six hours before kickoff. I believe the stadium is 15 miles away.

Angola: Day 6

2010-01-26T11:31:00.005-05:00

Guess it's time for me to send home a dose of reality.

And the reality is, this is a tough place.

I've traveled to many countries in my 20 years as a journalist, but this is the first time I've ever been in a city for this long and cannot tell you even where I am staying. Each time I come back from any part of Luanda, the return trip is like putting a 1,000-piece puzzle back together. I could be a block away and I couldn't tell you where I was in this town of narrow, dirt and mud roads, crumbling cement and incomplete construction projects.

I've focused on the people throughout this trip, in particular my friend Ricardo, because I've tried to look for the good while I"m here. I'm not giving that up, but I don't want to paint a completely inaccurate picture of where I am.

When I mentioned to some South African businessmen who are staying in my hotel that it doesn't look like the city has recovered well from the 28-year war, one looked at me and said, "Twenty-eight years was just the civil war. More wars preceded that."

It shows. Any beauty in the old architecture here has been covered with dust. There are piles of concrete at the feet of nearly every building. And in the day to day hustle and bustle that defines this place, it seems there's no time left for clean up. Garbage bins overflow. While there is certainly some wealth in Luanda due to the oil business, the overwhelming majority of people are poor. Very poor. I've read that 60 percent of the people here live on two dollars a day. You see a lot of desperation.

Today, Ricardo even showed frustration with the city he grew up in, as he got stuck in yet another traffic jam, got cut off by yet another car or scooter. "When will people start to follow the rules?" he asked. "It is chaos. I am embarrassed."

He said he had a long talk with his wife last night. She is South African and they've spent their entire married life together in Johannesburg. "I told her I feel very bad for Mr. Jeff," Ricardo said. "I feel very bad for this man who is trying to work."

Of course, I told him it's not his fault, but I am reaching a frustration point because I am not used to being able to accomplish so little in the course of a day. The streets are choked with vehicles and pedestrians and riders on scooters. I could walk more perhaps, but Ricardo would not hold up in the heat. And that's not what he was paid to do. Go out on my own? I have thought about it, but not a single person here has given me an inkling that I could negotiate this city on my own safely.

"I'd just like to have a place where I could walk for coffee," I told Ricardo today. He just shook his head and said, "I am very sorry, Mr. Jeff. There is not that place."

And with that, Ricardo slammed his hand down on his thigh. A man was tapping on his window, trying to sell us DVDs. Decaying, dilapidated buildings surrounded us.

I drew a deep breath.

"No worries, Ricardo," I said, even though that happens to be one of my least favorite cliches. "It is what it is." And that happens to be my very least favorite cliche.

I did not know what else to say. Tomorrow is a new day. Five more to go.

Angola: Day 5

2010-01-25T15:30:00.003-05:00

Probably my least-interesting day so far.

Talk about a sentence to suck the reader in, eh? Honestly, it was a work day not so different from an off-day on any American sports beat. There was a hotel lobby. There were journalists waiting for some time with players. There were PR guys calling the shots. Didn't matter if it was Luanda, Angola or Kansas City, Mo.

When that drill was done, I asked Ricardo if he could find us a decent place to watch the quarterfinal match between Cameroon and Egypt, so we took the road-less-traveled...literally, the road with less traffic...to the part of town known as Ilha.

Ilha looks quite like so many coastal places I've been before, in some ways. In other ways, it's like nothing I've ever seen before in my life (except for maybe Asbury Park eight years ago). You've got wide beaches bordering next to shanty villages filled with trash and stray dogs. You've got a few night spots that look nice. One is called Chill-Out Luanda, though Ricardo pronounces it "Sheelout" and he warned that it's pricey, which is saying something here in Luanda, which I've learned is the most expesnive city in the world. Seriously, you will get raked in this place if you're not careful.

"If you would like, I will take you there one night, Mr. Jeff," Ricardo said. "But these places, I don't like them too much." Without going into much detail, Ricardo explained that in these places his job becomes very difficult. I think he had visions of me drinking a bunch and dancing. Go ahead, I'm laughing too.

We watched the game at an outdoor cafe called Ponto de Final and I enjoyed a couple of cold Cucas, which I must say is a pretty nice beer. I let Ricardo order for me and he ordered me a piece of beef covered with a fried egg, french fries, a salad, and he also ordered up some rice and beans because he's heard me say I like them. Understand, Ricardo had a secret plan to pick up the check, but I would not let it happen. Because I had described a piece of meat I'd eaten at my hotel as "shoe leather," Ricardo asked me, "Is this meat soft enough for you, Mr. Jeff?" Indeed, it was soft enough.

Ricardo watched me like a hawk as I took some photos of local scenery, including a filthy flea market that bordered some woods that Ricardo described with one word. "Drugs." Still, my spirits were lifted by the youngsters on the beach, playing pickup soccer and doing things I did as a kid, before XBox and PS3. They played leap frog. They played tag. I saw a little girl just spinning around, making herself dizzy. She had a beautiful smile. "You love children, Mr. Jeff," Ricardo said. "I can see that."

I told him he was right. And I could tell Ricardo was sad. He misses his daughter, Lolly and his son Tony, who are back in South Africa with his wife Rita. He has explained that he is here because he thinks in Angola he has more opportunity to provide for them. "As you can see, Mr. Jeff," he says. "Money is spent in Angola."

It's got a chance to get a bit tedious here the next few days. Training sessions and waiting on players who don't want to be interviewed. I told Ricardo I might just drink 10 Cucas and do the "Kuduru" for him. He laughed hard.

"I'm going to miss you very much, Mr. Jeff," he said. I think he knows how I feel.

Angola: Day 4

2010-01-24T17:35:00.007-05:00

A long day for me and Ricardo.

I could moan and groan about the traffic here in Luanda. It's like nothing I've ever seen before in my life. But it's here and it's not going away, so we'll deal with it.

I'd rather focus on other things.

The people of this country continue to amaze me. I look around and see so many depressing things these folks could harbor and turn into sadness, but instead today, they decked themselves out, from head to toe, in their country's colors and sang and danced and tried to will their team to victory.Every car, every building was seemingly bedecked with a flag. "If Angola wins," Ricardo said as we stood still in our Toyota pickup on a dusty road that led to El Estadio 11 de Novembre, "tomorrow nobody works." He thought for a second and said, "Of course, Mr. Jeff, I will work."

For a second, he was worried that I might be angry with him. If he only knew.

Silly things have made me smile on this trip. Every morning, I eat toast in the lobby/lounge (there's no bar, so it's hardly a lounge) area of the hotel. And every morning, a five-song John Denver CD plays over and over and over. For some reason, I think Farah and Fuad, the hotel owners, think I enjoy it..."Follow me, where I go..."

Every time I get into Ricardo's truck, he has the same four or five songs blasting. He explained to me that the music is for the "kuduru," which he translated as the "hard ass" dance (that's not my photo, it's google's). It's a cultural thing, for sure, because to me it sounds like the CD is skipping. At any rate, I pump my head up and down to the beat, tap the dashboard, and it makes my man Ricardo laugh. And that's cool.

I'm repeatedly amused by the array of American sports jerseys that seemingly have no real significance. A Mike Singletary Bears shirt. A St. Joseph's hoops jersey. A Vanderbilt T-shirt. A Troy Aikman jersey. A Dodgers Little League shirt from some American town, with the name of some local sponsor on the back. I'm guessing the folks who throw these items in the Salvation Army and Goodwill bins in their hometowns can be happy they're being put to use.

Ricardo was sad on the long trip home, but I'm happy for one thing, he went inside the new stadium (his first time) and watched the game with his countrymen. He had not planned on attending the game because he did not think it was the professional thing to do. After I told him I'd be angry if he did not go on account of me, he changed his mind, found some kids with extra tickets in the parking lot and was able to be a fan.

Angola: Day 3

2010-01-23T11:28:00.007-05:00

It was day of joy and sadness...and ultimately, hope.

We began the morning in search of football and it was easy to find. Maybe 100 yards outside the gate of "The Roux," around 10 a.m., a group of men were playing a pickup game on a patch of asphalt that was sprinkled with sand, pebbles and glass.

It hardly mattered as they flicked around a half-deflated "bola" as one of the goalkeepers, muscles glistening with sweat, barked out instructions. I knew this would be the case coming into Angola, having traveled to places like Guatemala, Mexico and Brazil. A ball can do wonders.

As we drove around the streets of Luanda, you couldn't travel far without seeing a ball. A boy dribbling along the sidewalk in his flip-flops. A street vendor selling replica game balls emblazoned with the logo of the African Cup of Nations. (The streets are already on fire for tomorrow's clash between Angola and Ghana, a quarterfinal that will bring this country to a 90-minute-plus-stoppage-time halt). And a group of young boys playing on the beaches known as "Ilha."

Caked in sweat and sand, but full of pure joy as they played their games, with no parents around to tell them to "spread out!" or "shoot!" No, it was their game and their game only.

The tallest boy in the group came over and showed me a notebook he was keeping. He explained that this was his "league," and the teams, though not uniformed, were all named. A.C. Milan, Manchester United, Real Madrid and Chelsea were some of the names I was able to read. He said the boys all contributed money, and the winners of the league would take home the kitty. I was impressed, even if it was only his dream.

As we drove away from the beach, I told Ricardo I might want to buy an Angola shirt and he told me, "We shall see, Mr. Jeff." About an hour later, after we'd driven by dozens of shirt vendors on the street, Ricardo asked if I could wait a moment while he went into his apartment. When he came out, he handed me a shirt. His shirt. "This is a gift from the heart," Ricardo said. When I said it was unnecessary, he said, "I'm honored you want to wear the shirt of my country." When Ricardo told me to wear it to the game tomorrow, I didn't have the heart to tell him that would be inappropriate for a journalist to wear a jersey (though many Angolan writers will surely be wearing their country's colors tomorrow), I think I will wear it tonight when we go out to eat.

Ricardo has been my greatest gift on this trip. A true friend. Over lunch, I learned that he recently lost his mother, who died at the age of 49. Ricardo says it was the stress of the war that killed her. Stress of the war that took her husband over 30 years ago. The war that had Ricardo fighting in the streets as a young man. "She was forced to be my mother and my father," he says as we eat big plates of rice and beans. "It's very hard now for me without her."

I am happy that Ricardo likes to talk, to tell stories, because it keeps me from getting too lonely. He does ask, however, that most of what he's telling me remain between the two of us. There's still not a lot of trust here, for sure, even though the country has been at peace for eight years.

I will say that I've never met a 33-year old man in my life who has been through so much. Who has every reason to be bitter and angry. But who repeatedly says to me, "I believe, Mr. Jeff, that if I work hard and live an honest life, good things will happen. This is what I want to pass on to my son and daughter. That an honest man can go far."

Tomorrow is game day. I came here hoping to see Ghana and Ivory Coast advance. But it will be hard now not to root for Ricardo's country. Forca Angola!

Angola: Day 2

2010-01-22T11:27:00.009-05:00

Meet my "Fixer." His name is Ricardo.

"I would like you to see that the people of Angola are beautiful and peaceful," Ricardo says. "Because this what I believe in my heart."

It is Ricardo's job to make sure I get where I need to go, which is no easy task here, because of the choking traffic and less-than-adequate roads. Today I had two tasks to accomplish. I had to get my media credentials and I wanted to register myself as a visitor to Angola at the American Embassy, just in case...well, ya know.

We left the lovely Hotel Rouxinol around 9:30 after a satisfying breakfast of toast and toast. Six hours later, I was back at the "Roux" having procured my credentials and taken Ricardo (the Fixer) and Mauro (the Driver) to lunch.

I believe we drove about 10 miles total.

Ricardo apologized profusely for the traffic (as if there was something he should have been able to do about it), explaining, "This is the way it is here, Monday through Friday. You can see the people are busy. The people are working." When a policeman stops our car at a traffic circle and asks to see Mauro's license, Ricardo does not want to hear Mauro express any anger or frustration. "He is doing his job," Ricardo says. "He is only doing what he's told to do."

As we putter along, Ricardo tells me that he was once a champion in Karate, beginning at the age of 5 or 6, but when he reached the age when he would truly begin to compete, he was called into a different kind of fighting. The Angolan Civil War ended only eight short years ago and Ricardo says that he and many other young boys were running the same streets we now drive, "We had no shoes and no shirts," he says. "But we had AK-47s. You had to learn to fight or you would become dust."

Ricardo's father died in the war when Ricardo was only three months old. He had many other relatives who also died in a war that ran from 1975-2002 and killed half a million people. "What's especially sad," he says, "is we were fighting our brothers."

Ricardo moved to South Africa for a while, met his wife and had two children, and now he's back, "Because I want to see this country, my country, to succeed." He looks outside the window and says, "Ten years ago, this was all sand. It's getting better."

I look out and see poverty as extreme as anything I've ever seen in person. Shanty villages and mountains of trash. Kids wallowing in mud. Pregnant women carrying bushels of bananas to sell on the streets. I guess perspective is an amazing thing.

When we stop for lunch of rice and beans, Ricardo tells me, "Try a Cuca, it's our national beer." He then adds, "Of course, The Driver and I cannot have one."

I take a pass and tell him to order three Cokes. "Are you sure, Mr. Jeff?" Ricardo says. "I am here to make sure you are doing everything you want and need to do."

As you can see, my Fixer is doing a great job...and before this trip is over, I am going to insist that we have that Cuca together.

Angola: Day (Actually Evening) 1

2010-01-21T15:46:00.003-05:00

Twenty hours all told, from Newark to Brussels to Luanda.

Arrived to a clean, new-ish airport with tight security. Took me a long time to get through customs, but a nice fellow named Joseph, an employee of the Nations Cup Organizing Committee, provided some nice chit-chat as they went through all my paperwork.

My theme for this trip is going to be about seeing how good people can be.

Honestly, my existence here is spartan. My room is the size of a closet (though I do get a bunch of English language TV stations and high-speed internet). It's not going to be safe to wander outside the hotel (really, it's a "guest house") grounds after dark. (Here's my home for the next 11 nights.) And I am guessing the food is going to be atrocious (I packed a lot of meal replacement bars...and some Swedish Fish too). And it's going to be lonely.

But so far, from Joseph to Alves and Ricardo (my "fixers") and Farah (the Iranian woman who runs the guest house...and who lived in LA for a long time), it does seem like there are a lot of good people here who will make sure I'm safe and can get my work done. I have faith that the people here are going to make this positive.

The blogging will be personal because I don't think my bosses would be too happy if I wrote my magazine story on Jeff-Bradley.com, but hopefully they'll keep my friends entertained.

Me at My Worst

2009-12-17T11:49:00.000-05:00

I busted my tail in high school, oh, close to 30 years ago. Stayed up all kinds of hours to learn things like trigonometry and physics. Never bothered to learn a second language.

Idiot.

So here I sit in Spain, on my own for about a week on an assignment, and I struggle to do the most basic things like, order a decent meal outside the hotel, instruct a taxi dispatcher as to my whereabouts.

Worst of all, my favorite on-the-road activity, conversation, is all but impossible. Understand, I’m not in Barcelona or Madrid, I’m in a relatively small city. And while many people speak a little English (a little better than my Spanish), that’s not going to work for more than, “It’s a nice day today.”

Talk about regrets.

And I know I’m not alone among Americans. We simply do not put much emphasis on languages in school. I took German in junior high and high school, seven years total, and when I went to college and took a placement test, I was placed in German 1. Was I a slacker in high school Deutsch? Sure, but to my recollection the only kids in class who became at all conversational in German were kids who had German parents. When I got to college, where the professor actually forced you to prepare and converse in class, I began to learn the language, but it was so hard I only hung in for the minimum number of semesters, escaped with a couple of C’s and called it a career. When I went to Germany for the 2006 World Cup, 20 years past my last German class, I remembered nothing. Thankfully, nearly all Germans speak English, or I’d have been lost for two weeks.

My regrets are not new. Several years ago, I invested a pretty good amount of money on Spanish CDs. I thought they were pretty good, and I thought Spanish was going to be easier to learn than German. However, when I went to a five-day Spanish immersion class a few years later, well, I was brutal. None of it made sense. Again, I bailed.

So, I’m left knowing only a few words and even fewer phrases. When attempting to comprehend Spanish speakers, I hear a word here and there, but I can’t process sentences, not even a little bit. So, I’m left, more times than not, spitting out something like, “Bien.”

It’s too late now. What a shame. I could be enjoying a week in Spain, walking the streets, meeting nice people. Instead, I sit here in a hotel lounge typing…

Like a Dog

2009-11-20T14:01:00.006-05:00

Just took my three-and-a-half year old Lab Remy for her daily romp. It's an amazing day here at the Jersey Shore. Probably 60 degrees, brilliant sunshine, pockets of shimmering orange and yellow leaves still in the trees, but also sprinkled along the wet ground.

You'd have never felt this way as a kid, the way I felt, watching Remy chase the ball over and over again. No, as a kid you'd have been wondering how many more times she would chase the ball before you could call it quits and get back to whatever it is you were doing. You'd have mixed in a few yawns and maybe a "come on, Dog" under your breath.

But today, I could've chucked that tennis ball forever, because I was just captivated by my dog's pure joy. With her ears pinned back against the wind, she'd bolt full-speed ahead, somehow sensing -- as if she has eyes behind those ears -- the direction the ball was headed. When the ball would take the perfect bounce, she'd spring into the air and try to make the sensational catch. Why? Not for the applause. It was just me and her. No, I can only guess that Remy thinks going airborne to make the grab is...fun.

Her gait coming back is always so proud, with her tail wagging and drool spilling off the ball, spritzing in all directions. Whether she makes the catch or bungles it, she always comes back proud and loves to veer in for a quick pat on her belly.

For some reason, I feel like an Old Sage today. Maybe it's the glorious weather, or maybe just some inner happiness that my two sons are no longer sick and are getting back to being themselves. Today's run with Remy just made me reflective.

Remember as a kid, how it felt to sprint? I'm not saying I was ever fast, but I think every kid "feels" fast at one moment or another. Maybe it's playing flashlight tag (don't you always feel like you're fast in the dark?), or maybe it's running downhill, your feet slapping the pavement as you push the limits of your balance.

That's what I thought of when I was watching Remy run. And it made me feel good.

You Big Dummy

2009-11-19T13:53:00.004-05:00

Man, I'm feeling inferior lately. So confused. Let me try to explain...

I do not care for Sarah Palin, but I do like a lot of what she supposedly stands for. I'm a conservative-values type of person because, well, that's what works for me. That said, I don't want anyone discriminated against. So, I'm not really all the way there.

I mean, for example, I sit in church on Sundays and my heart is comforted and warmed by the words of my pastor, his message and the way he delivers it. Yet when someone starts screaming to me (at me) about JESUS, it makes me feel kinda icky.

I'm a registered Independent because I can't make up my mind.

I hate name-droppers, but at times I drop names like a banshee. I also cut people off when they're talking, even though I know that's about as annoying as it gets.

I hate the way fast food makes me feel, yet now and again I crave it. I mean really crave it, especially Chik Fil A sandwiches.

I can watch Keith Olbermann and nod my head a lot at points he's making. Yet, other times I listen to Glen Beck and feel like shouting, "Amen, Brother!" Needless to say the whole healthcare debate has me wondering if Cliff Notes will come up with a version this idiot will be able to understand. Am I alone?

I want to be cool, but I cringe when I see people my age trying to act cool.

I like the strategy of the National League, but think the American League is better baseball. I also hate that the Yankees buy all their players yet want the Red Sox to get get Roy Halladay, Adrian Gonzalez this winter and possibly bring back Johnny Damon to be a role player.

I work with really intelligent people...and I consider myself pretty-well-below smart.

I yell at my kids for eating too much candy, but sometimes throw back Sour Patch Kids by the handful. Along the same lines, I like to drink beer with my buddies from time to time but I absolutely live in fear of the day my kids decide to take their first sip.

I don't want my kids to make the mistakes I made (because there are times I feel pretty lucky to have survived them), but I want them to have every bit as much fun as I had. Is that possible?

Bruce Springsteen is my all-time favorite rock and roll performer and a guy I really admire, but when he starts going political on-stage I run for the bathroom. Yet with that said, I'm a sucker for political music."A time to be born, a time to die...A time to plant, a time to reap...A time to kill, a time to heal...A time to laugh, a time to weep." Song gives me goosebumps. Is there something wrong with me?

Lately, I've been thinking...I believe in Good Guys, but I also believe in Bad Guys. I cannot hear enough stories about the Good Guys on this planet. Yet, I believe really, really Bad Guys should pay the ultimate price.

I feel like such a Big Dummy...

Parenting in 2009: Home Sick

2009-11-17T11:21:00.007-05:00

Both of my sons are home sick today. They are both suffering from the flu, but resting comfortably in the family room, spread out on couches, covered in blankets, eating toast and drinking tea with honey off TV trays.

Got my wheels spinning.

We all know that as parents in 2009 we are confronted with challenges our parents did not have to face. From having to monitor all the stuff on the internet to wondering (as you watch the World Series!) if they're getting some of those Fox TV ads, not to mention the incessant Cialis and Viagra ads (my sons get those and laugh at the "if you have a...exceeding four hours" line).

Now, have you ever thought of this challenge...the "home sick" day ain't what it used to be.

Hear me out.

Remember when we were kids, the "home sick" day began with a few cartoons. Probably Rocky and Bullwinkle. Maybe a little Bugs Bunny. Cartoons, however, ended around 8 because, well, kids were off to school and with limited channels, there was no way a network was going to keep showing cartoons into mid-morning.

What was next? Morning game shows. The Price is Right was one, for sure. I think you could also catch the $10,000 Pyramid. Maybe Match Game. Whatever they were, those shows were barely enough to keep you going until noon.

Come lunch time, when you returned to your couch for your second Ginger Ale (the only time we ever had soda in my house, by the way), you were pretty much forced to go to Channel 13. If you were too old for Sesame Street, you could perhaps handle Zoom or the Electric Company. The noon to 3 interval was tough. Channel surf all you want, but it was pretty much guaranteed you'd find nothing but soap operas and bad movies on channels 2-11.

Once you made it to "after school" hours, you were back to some decent programming. Maybe the Little Rascals, the Munsters, the Addams Family. Maybe a few more cartoons.

Point is, one or two days "home sick" was about all you could handle, right? I can remember missing a week of school in 7th grade with, of all things, a bad case of poison ivy. Seriously, that was the longest week of my life.

As I watch my boys now, they've gone from SportsCenter to NCAA Tip-Off Marathon (saw a bit of Monmouth-St. Peter's!). They've got some programs DVR'ed. There's talk of an afternoon movie. Yesterday was "Glory Road." I haven't even mentioned there are probably four 24/7 cartoon channels. And they've got a 46-inch HD screen...

Will they ever be well enough to go back to school? I have a feeling they're not going back without putting up a fight. My only hope is that the amount homework that's picked up at school today is huge.

Parenting in 2009...yet another challenge.

What I Do

2009-11-12T13:13:00.002-05:00

Do I write this? Or do I keep it to myself? Do I tell the whole story in graphic detail? Or do I keep it vague, to protect myself? These are the questions I ask myself this morning as I sit on a plane, flying from Phoenix to Newark, wrapping up a three-day business trip.

Gonna be vague.

I’m scared. That much I can tell you. Having just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the airplane lavatory (nothing brings the nose hairs out like the lighting in those tiny bathrooms) it’s safe to say I’m also scaring others this morning. A 4:45 a.m. wakeup call probably didn’t help my appearance, but I can’t blame it all on the hours I keep. Fact is I’ve been stressing for the last few weeks and doing my best to keep a brave face. The mirror did not show a brave face this morning. Just a creased, tired and unshaven one.

I’ll just think out loud for a bit. I’m two weeks away from my 46th birthday. I’ve held a full-time job in the profession of my choosing (utilizing my chosen educational background) every day since October of 1986. I have a loving, caring wife of 15 years and two incredible sons (13 and 11) that I adore more than anything in this world.

I’ve never been a chart-it-out guy but if I were, I’d have probably tagged the next 10 years as the most important of my life. Pretty obvious, right? I know a few people who set themselves and their families up pretty well in their 30s and early 40s, but not many. Most people’s peak years occur right about where I am now…late 40s. This is the time we build up the money to educate our children, pay off our debts and, yeah, retire. My dad retired at 59 and I always thought Pop got it right. Seriously, now…who’s laughing?

I’m not retiring at 59. No chance. But that’s not what’s got me scared. I’m not afraid to work into my 60s, not if I could keep doing what I’ve been doing for so long.

But there’s the problem. What I do…

I’ve never considered myself very good at what I do. Passionate about it? Oh yeah. Doing what I do is all I’ve really cared to do since about the age of 16, when I realized I wasn’t going to be a Major League Baseball player like my brother. Lucky to do it? So lucky. I’ve always credited my good luck to my passion. Like, if you love something enough, hey, you deserve some luck, right? How else to explain my position in life? It’s luck.

There are a number of people who do what I do who are really good at it and know they are really good at it. I wish right now I were one of those guys. Fact is, I am not.

There are others who do what I do who may not think they are good, but have this incredible drive to be “that good.” Most of them are 10-20 years younger than I am. They are willing to work incredible hours and argue on behalf of themselves as they climb. I know I need to be more like them, but it’s not a good fit for my personality.

I don’t like to argue. I’m a terrible self-promoter. When I was a kid, growing up in North Jersey, my two most hated athletes were local heroes Walt “Clyde” Frazier and Reggie Jackson. Why? Because they were “braggers.” I became a fan of Jerry West and George Brett. You may say that was pretty white of me, but I was simply attracted to modesty. West did not name himself “Mr. Clutch” and Brett, well, he was all about the dirty uniform. As I got a little older, I loved NFL running backs Earl Campbell and Walter Payton, mostly because they refused to spike the ball when they scored a touchdown.

Back on point, I’ve probably allowed myself to get too comfortable doing what I do. And I see that could come back to haunt me. All around me, I could see that people who do what I do were also doing other things. My flawed logic was that if I did those “other things” they’d distract me from what it is I do. Even as others told me that doing some of those other things would help me make more money, my thought process was, simply, “Don’t screw up a good thing.” A few extra bucks were not going to make me happier.

Driving in my rental car yesterday I heard a radio talk show guy saying, basically, that people who do what I do – at the level I do it, which I explained above – are soon going to be history. He was a bit smarmy when he said it (saying that what he did for a living was blazing ahead even in a bad economy), but he had a bit of sympathy. He even said that it was the work of people who do what I do that fueled his work on a daily basis.

Still, I believe my future is bleak. I’m now in “Re-invent Myself” mode, and not brimming with confidence in my ability to pull that one off. When I get home, I’ll begin with a shower and a shave. I’ll trim my nose hairs.

The mirror is harsh, but it don’t lie.

I guess I should wrap this up by saying I know there are a lot of people out there who are in the same place as me. Some do what I do while others do whatever it is they do. There is some comfort in the mere fact that I’m not alone in being scared. And I can even laugh a bit knowing that I’ll always do what I do. Even if it’s not my job.

Because it’s what I do.

A Tradition Unlike Any Other...Well, Not Really

2009-11-04T13:44:00.005-05:00

It all started 20 years ago. We were two and three years out of college, trying to find our way in the Real World. Some had serious girlfriends, others had no commitments whatsoever. I was working in New York for Sports Illustrated. The rest were scattered around the Southeast, mostly in North Carolina. "Let's go some place and play golf," I said to my friend Steve one day over the phone. A few days later, he told me he had uncovered a $99 "Sizzler" package in a place called Ocean Isle, NC. Four days of golf, three nights accommodations and free Continental breakfast. It was set.

The first annual "college friends golf trip" was created.

In the beginning, the golf was really bad. None of us had played much growing up. We'd all taken the game up a little bit in college, but entry-level jobs with long hours and little pay had rendered most of us "beginners"...at best. I can remember buying used golf balls (knowing I'd lose them by the dozen) and wondering to myself if I really needed golf shoes. I tried to practice before the trip, but it didn't matter much. Quickly I learned that the golf trip was not going to be the place for stellar play. What it was, however, was the place for Drop and Draw and Credit Card Roullette. It was mostly where you went for belly-aching laughs.

Over time, we all became better golfers. For some that meant consistently breaking 100. For others, the guys who succeeded most in the Real World (or the guys who never married or got divorced), it meant some rounds in the 70s. Guys started showing up with better equipment and nicer clothes.

Still, it was always about the laughs.

In its best years, the trip attracted 20 or more players. In its leanest years, maybe eight. We divided in Year 10 as some guys got the go-ahead from their wives to go to the Bahamas (I was not one of those guys), even though everyone knows you do not go to the Bahamas to play golf. You go to gamble. Half of us ended up in Myrtle Beach and had a good time. Of course, we were rewarded for our loyalty to the game of golf by learning that everyone on the Bahamas trip made a killing playing craps and got the whole trip comped. Of course, as predicted, they didn't tee up a single ball.

We did Pinehurst. We did Myrtle. We did the North Carolina Outer Banks. Two years ago, we got eight guys to go to Kohler, Wisc., to play The Irish and Whistling Straits and Blackwolf Run. Last year, we did nothing...and I figured it was gone forever.

But the trip wouldn't die without a fight. The email went out a couple of months ago. Outer Banks, weekend of November 6th. Anyone interested? We've got a foursome.

And talk has begun about what we're doing next year. Gotta keep the tradition alive.

Growin' Up

2009-10-08T09:08:00.004-04:00

I had no plans to attend another Bruce Springsteen concert. I've been to approximately 93 shows since 1980 and several years ago decided that unless someone (like my friend Denis) offered me the chance to see something unique (Bruce solo acoustic at the Paramount in Asbury Park in a benefit show for victims of Hurricane Katrina, thanks Denis), I'd call it a career.

And then last year I thought to myself...Bruce is about to turn 60 and cannot possibly be touring many more times, so I really owe it to my sons (then 12 and 9) to get them to a show. So, I forked over $100-plus for tickets and took them to Giants Stadium last July and got to see Bruce and Patti Scialfa bring their kids on stage for Twist and Shout and, well, it was pretty nostalgic. Me and my kids watching Bruce and his kids...all of us belting out the words and shaking our asses.

Glad I did it. But I figured that was probably it.
Until last week, when the lure of hearing all the songs from my favorite Springsteen album, Darkness on the Edge of Town, drew me back to Giants Stadium. I forked over $170 for a pair of tickets with a face value of $100 (below face value, a sign of the times) then started emailing some of my oldest, hardcore Bruce fans to see if they'd join me for an evening of Darkness.

The regrets were legit for the most part. Business meetings, youth sports practices, tickets to later shows, whatever. Still, I started to feel very 45 as one polite "no thanks" turned into 20. Finally, an old friend got back to me with a positive response. I had a running mate for the show.

There was, of course, a tailgate party. A tame one, to say the least, with another friend and his wife and their two kids, both under the age of six. I had as many burgers (two) as beers. Even with only two brews in me, it seemed like I had to make about a half-dozen trips to the port-o-potty. Another sign of the times. And around 8 p.m., it was time to head in for the show.

And as I stood on the floor of Giants Stadium, giving myself enough elbow room so I wouldn't have to worry about bumping into anyone, I just watched. I sang a bit, not like the old days when I'd leave a Bruce concert drenched in sweat, with no voice remaining. The early part of the concert was perfectly fine, but it didn't take long before I was glancing at my watch, wondering when he'd start the Darkness part of the show. Looking around at the crowd, looking pretty much as young, if not a bit younger, than most of the crowd, I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry. There was a dude with a hairpiece in front of me dancing like it was 1984. I laughed.

The whole experience made me think about my first Bruce show, which I attended with my brother Bob back in 1980 at Madison Square Garden. I remember that show as an "out-of-body" experience. I was simply mesmerized by Springsteen for, I swear, over four hours. I was quietly thinking to myself that two hours, on this night in 2009, would be plenty. The experience was very much "in-body." Bruce's energy, while impressive for a dude who's 60, is really nothing like it was when he was in his early 30s (hard to fault him there). When I watch old youtube clips, particularly those from 1978-81 shows, I am still blown away by his raw passion. The passion is still there, for sure, but it's different. I'm different, too, so I am understanding.

But then, for nine minutes, I was transformed. At the risk of sounding like an old fool, when piano player Roy Bittan broke into Racing in the Street, I was once again 16 and standing in the Garden. It's never been Racing's lyrics that get to me, but rather Bittan's piano-playing. As Bruce finished the songs lyrics, "For all the shutdown strangers and hot-rod angels rumbling through this Promised Land, tonight my baby and me, we're gonna ride to the sea and wash these sins off our hands...Tonight, tonight..." I felt the lump in my throat growing. I closed my eyes and listened to Bittan play, extending the song some four minutes. It was just so...great to be there.

Kids and Sports...Sports and Kids

2009-10-07T09:22:00.003-04:00

I need to begin by saying, "I'm no saint" when it comes to kids sports. I've yelled at my sons during practices and games, including one time when I yelled so loud at my son Tyler that a few dads asked me to take a seat in the dugout to relax. Talk about embarrassing.

This past year, in a Memorial Day baseball tournament, I went semi-ballistic over what I thought was a missed balk call. The umpire, basically, told me to shut up or he'd run me. I shut up.

But later in the spring when I complained to my dad about a Little League coach who intimidated an umpire, my father (as always) was quick to point out, "Was it worse than when you argued the balk call?" My answer was, "Uh, no." Thanks, Pop.

So I make mistakes and, if there's a silver lining to my confession it's that I am usually overcome with guilt immediately. The point is, I know better.

It's so basic, isn't it? The games are for the kids. The games are supposed to be fun. There's really no reason to yell at a kid unless he's really misbehaving or possibly going to injure someone. I honestly believe this to be true, and try really hard to live up to it...even though I fail sometimes.

I do have my good qualities (in my own humble opinion) as a coach. I'm steadfast in my belief that baseball is a game that kids can only play well when they're relaxed. So I am pretty good at keeping kids loose (maybe not as good with my own sons) and staying positive.

I'm also pretty good at letting the kids decide the game. I've never been big on the "hands-on" youth baseball coaches. The guys who, in my opinion, turn the game into Kid vs. Adult rather than Kid vs. Kid. In all my years of coaching town-level Little League I've never told a kid not to swing the bat. In other words, there's no "take" sign. We do try to teach a kid that if he's going to swing at, say, a 3-and-0 pitch, he should be taking a good swing, not a defensive swing.

It's my personal philosophy (it's okay if you disagree) that it's my job as a youth coach to try and help the kids improve their baseball skills. Honestly, I do not think I need to teach a kid how to draw a walk. I've had a lot of my less-talented kids through the years make their best contact on 3-0 pitches, when the pitcher is trying to put the ball right over the plate. Pretty elementary.

I've got other philosophies, but I won't bore you with them.

But the point of today's blog is simply that, more and more it seems to me that the only people capable of ruining kids sports are adults. In recent weeks I've seen:

* A U-11 soccer game called at halftime due to rain, with the score 0-0. OK, fine that the game was called (even though there was no lightning), but then the league officials declared that the game was "official." Now, shouldn't these officials have asked the coaches of the two teams how they felt about that ruling? Don't you think, maybe, the kids wanted to play a full-game? If the coaches were able to get their kids to the field, either for a replay or a resumption, shouldn't the league have given that the ok? Nope. Of course, there was something in writing, in the bylaws or whatever they're called, to back the league's stance. Blech. Let the kids play.

* A U-14 soccer game where a team, depleted by injuries, down to 10 men, was forced to play, even when one coach asked the other ahead of time if they could re-schedule. "No," the coach responded. "Show up and play with 10, or forfeit." Think that coach asked his players, A. How they would feel about a forfeit, or even, B. How they felt about playing a depleted team? My guess is that the kids would've voted for playing against a full-team. Maybe I'm wrong. Doubt it.

Remembering Johnny

2009-09-11T12:13:00.003-04:00

Here's a column I wrote eight years ago on ESPNTheMag.com about my friend Johnny Salamone, who died on September 11, 2001. It had probably been five years since I'd last seen Johnny when he died, but his passing hit me hard. I guess mostly because we were both young dads. Memories of Johnny came flooding back to me and all I could do was get into my car, drive north and search for old high school friends to make sure they'd gotten the news. In the time that has past, I've thought so much about Johnny. He was truly a one of a kind character. When I go back and re-read this column, I know I could've done much better...but this is what came off my fingertips that day. The one line that rings true to this day is that it was indeed Johnny Salamone who taught me to laugh...hard...at myself. I can't thank him enough for that.

Anyway, because it's a stay-in kinda day, I've decided to go back through this column and make some comments. You'll find them in italics. Peace, Johnny. You'll never be forgotten

Go ahead, Johnny

by Jeff Bradley

ESPN The Magazine

Twenty-five years ago, or around the time I met Johnny Salamone at West Essex Junior High, I thought I'd forever remember the soccer games we played together. Sports were such a big deal, I figured the scores, the highlights, the details of every goal, would survive for eternity in my mind.

I was wrong.

All these years later, I don't remember much at all about the games. But as I learned this week, when I found out from old friends that Johnny had been lost in the World Trade Center tragedy, you never forget a teammate.

What's funny is that in the eight years that have passed, so many memories have re-entered my brain. Yes, memories of games and moments. Some of them you'll see in previous blog entries of mine. I want to thank Johnny for that. Of course, they're not memories of anything good I did on a field...usually the opposite.

On Saturday, Johnny will be eulogized at St. Aloysius Church in Caldwell, N.J. He was a bond trader for Cantor Fitzgerald, up on the 104th floor. Those closest to him will remember him, most of all, as a loving, doting father to his three children, Alexander, Aidan and Anna.

I regret that I didn't get to know that Johnny.

I am thankful to Johnny's family, his dad especially...and to some of my old high school buddies (Kenny, Fritz, Campy, Pete) that I've been able to hear so much more about Adult Johnny.

But I'd like to tell you all a little bit about the Johnny Salamone I knew. Because I have a feeling you know him too.

If you know a guy who never lost at anything, you know Johnny. In our little suburban world, Johnny ruled the street hockey court, the Wiffle ball field and, later on, the poker games. And he never let you forget about it, either. "Suckers!" he'd shout when he bluffed everyone to win a hand.

Johnny's college friends from Oglethorpe appreciated that last line. Made me feel better than me and my high school buddies weren't the only suckers out there. Also, years later, we rented the ice at South Mountain Arena in West Orange for some 2 a.m. ice hockey. I had no idea that Johnny could even skate, but rest assured he made us all look like fools that night, weaving around us like traffic cones. Suckers again.

If you played soccer and know a guy who wasn't particularly good at the nifty little skills, like juggling a ball, but was always one of the first players chosen once the real game started ... you know Johnny.

Truth be told, Johnny was a blade. He was the kind of player, when you went in for a ball, even if you came away with it, you got dinged in the process. He took no responsibility for his elbows and knees. Not a dirty blade, but a blade. You wanted him on your team. You didn't want to play against him.

If you know one guy who was not the least bit afraid of things like "tryouts" and "cuts," then you know Johnny. When we were freshmen, about 75 of us tried out for 20 spots on the baseball team at West Essex. Most of us were petrified, trying to show a coach in two days we could hit and field. Johnny? He nicknamed himself "The Cobra" and used the tryouts as a chance to brush up on his imitation of then-Pirates star Dave Parker's batting stance. Oh yeah, there was never any doubt he'd make the team.

Years later, most of my teammates remember even more than those freshman tryouts the way Johnny used to do spot-on impersonations of JV Coach Tony Ortiz, complete with rubber Spock ears. Johnny's gift is that he could do the impersonation right in front of Coach Ortiz and all anyone could do was laugh.

If you know a guy who could hurt you physically and make you laugh about it at the same time, you know Johnny. The game he invented in our high school cafeteria was called "Fresh Bait." Basically, it meant if you put a hand flat on the table, it was "fresh bait" and anyone who could reach you had the right to hammer it with their fist. When your hand was pulverized by Johnny, he'd just say, "You know the rules."

Just thinking of this game makes my hand throb. The truth is, at times, this game would set me off. But what was I supposed to do when 15-20 kids were laughing at me? All I could do was laugh at myself.

If you know a guy who called you by your last name, but your parents by their first names, you know Johnny. "Bradley, Bradley, Bradley, what are Mary and Jerry going to think about you getting a D?"

If there's someone out there who was your first "ride," you know Johnny. Better yet, if you know a guy who could take the least-cool car of all, an old family station wagon, nickname it "The Jet" because of its loud engine and turn it into something cool, then you really know Johnny.

Have to add that The Rolling Stones "Some Girls" was usually blasting from the tape deck.

Most of all, if there's someone out there who taught you how to laugh at yourself, then you know Johnny.

Not only do you know him. But you're never going to forget him.

Since this is a soccer column, I would like to share one story of Johnny from the field. A junior varsity game, can't remember where, but I'd been taking every free kick for our team, with no success to speak of. Finally, late in the game, a foul is whistled, another free kick, Johnny brushes me aside, says, "This one's mine, Bradley."

"Go ahead, Johnny," I said.

I knew what was about to happen. Seriously.

From about 25-30 yards out, Johnny nailed a ball into the upper corner. He didn't celebrate. He looked at me and said, "See how you're supposed to do it, Bradley?"

Then he smiled.

Go ahead, Johnny.

Hope to see a lot of you on Sept. 21st at Green Brook Country Club. It means the world to Johnny's dad and his entire family for people to show up and reminisce.

What's Inside?

2009-07-02T14:35:00.002-04:00

I've had to criticize my share of athletes through the years. I'll never forget having to write about the decline of the great Don Mattingly during my days on the Yankee beat.

I wrote how he could not possibly remain the Yankees No. 3 hitter if he was going to only hit 10 home runs a season. Many times I had to flesh out his failings with ugly numbers. I never liked doing it, but knew it was part of my job. I could not lie.

But I also could not make stuff up. And that has always been my approach when having to write critical analysis. Back it up with facts. Don't make stuff up. Don't write what you can't support.

And for that reason, I never, ever, ever...(emphasis, EVER)...felt comfortable writing about what was inside an athlete. I could question Paul O'Neill, for example, when he slammed down his bat and did not run hard to first base on a pop-up that ultimately fell in for a hit...because I had the video evidence to support it. I would not, however, write that O'Neill's head wasn't into the game. Why? Well, how could I know exactly where O'Neill's head (aka his brain) was? A media credential got me into the lockerroom, but not into his brain...or his heart.

Why I'll Never Be Any Good

2009-07-02T13:54:00.002-04:00

It was 1989, I was 25 years old, and I'd just been granted my dream job, a reporter's position at Sports Illustrated. This was going to be the ultimate. I was an SI fanatic through my college years. poring through each issue, reading every word, clipping my favorite stories and filing them away.

I idolized SI writers as much as I idolized professional athletes as a kid. Peter Gammons. Steve Wulf. William Nack. Gary Smith. Craig Neff. I knew them all and studied their styles. When I got the job at SI, I could not wait to meet them face to face and pick their brains. And I did.

But one lunch meeting from 20 years ago stands out more than any other. It was a sit-down with E.M. ("Ed") Swift, a former Princeton hockey goaltender who could turn a phrase with the best of them. Ed wrote mostly about hockey and figure skating, but could really write about anything. What fascinated me about him, also, was that he was a former college athlete. In fact, one of my favorite Swift stories of all-time was a first-person story about tending goal for a horrendous (1-22) Princeton hockey team. While I can hardly call myself a "former college athlete" (unless a year of JV baseball at Carolina counts), I did consider myself more athletic than the typical sportswriter. I mean how many scribes can say they even practiced alongside guys like B.J. Surhoff, Walt Weiss and Scott Bankhead? Anyway, I couldn't wait to talk to Swift.

And I'll never forget what Ed told me...as soon as I referenced that Princeton story and the fact that I'd dabbled as a utility player at UNC. "In order to be any good at all as a sportswriter," Ed said, "You've got to forget just how hard it is to play. Wipe it from your memory."

Swift's point was, more than anythinng, that if I achieved my goal of writing at SI, I'd be writing about the best athletes on the planet...that they were expected to perform amazing acts in front of millions of fans...and I could not be sympathetic to their failures just because I knew what it was like to face a 90 mph slider ... or in his case, a 110 mph slapshot.

Twenty years later...I'm a writer for ESPN The Magazine, not SI (never elevated above reporter status there), but I've never really been able to heed Swift's advice. I've never, ever been able to overlook just how hard it is for professional athletes to perform at such high levels. Sorry, Ed, it's nothing against you (still think you're an amazing writer), but having grown up now in a house where one of my brothers (Scott) made it to the big leagues as a player and where another (Bob) has worked his way through the ranks to become the coach of the U.S. national soccer team, and where my nephew (Michael) has battled his way through Europe as a professional soccer player, it's just impossible for me to ignore how difficult it is (in Scott's case was) to play or coach at the highest level.

Maybe I'll just never be any good.

Or maybe I'll just have a different opinion than those who write or speak as if it's easy.

Win it For...

2009-06-12T10:46:00.006-04:00

So, the Tar Heels are making their fourth straight trip to Omaha for the College World Series, which is pretty damn impressive. But isn't it high time they win it?

I don't know any of the current Tar Heels, but fully expect I'll be watching Dustin Ackley and Alex White play in the big leagues soon, at which point I'll introduce myself and tell them that I once carried the water and picked up dirty jocks for the Tar Heels back in the early 80s.

But before I get that chance, I'd like to tell the 2009 Tar Heels to win it for the old gang.

For the obvious guys...

Win it for Walt Weiss, my suite mate, the slick-fielding shortstop who used to ask me to hit him ground balls at, oh, 3 a.m., if the lights were on over at "the turf." Weiss was a famous insomniac at night, maybe because he'd pound Coca Cola and pizza nightly at 1 a.m. He'd more than make up for the lack of sleep during the daytime hours...when he was supposed to be in class. Walt will not be happy for me saying this, but I'd pay money to see what his final Carolina transcript looks like as he began searching for "slides" beginning in the second semester. Gotta stay eligible.

Win it for B.J. Surhoff. To know him was to love him. To not know him? I can only imagine. We knew him by various (usually ironic) nicknames, including Mr. Laughs, Mr. Happy. My favorite line from B.J. came one night in Purdy's (a disco, I will admit it). With the music pumping, hot girls everywhere, beer flowing, BJ looked at me and said, "I'm outta here. It's way too crowded and there's nobody here." Yogi Berra could not have said it better.

Win it for Scott Bankhead. Twenty straight wins over two college seasons for Bank, but we never got to Omaha. Back in '83-84, with mullet and mustache, there was no finer collegiate pitcher.

Win it for Todd Wilkinson. Born in upstate New York, there was no more Southern dude than Wilky in Chapel Hill by the time his career was over. Cried like a baby when we won the ACC championship at Boshamer. Someone tells me they've got the newspaper photo to prove it.

Win it for Jeff Hubbard. Magnum PI 'stache, Porsche 944, a legendary Trust Fund, and that memorable semester in the spring of '84 when Hubbard -- so sure he would be drafted after a good season -- majored in baseball. I did appreciate it when "Marv" would let me drive the Porsche, to take him to Henderson Street just before we'd leave on a road trip. Marv would knock back a few beers and play Donkey Kong. It was a pre-road trip tradition.

Win it for Mike Jedziniak. Hard-hitting (on and off the field) second baseman from Toms River NJ. Jedz was Pedroia before Pedroia. Loved to scream at the hardest throwers, "Throw harder!"

Win it for Hawks, and for Boopie too.

Win it for Chris Mench. Because, it's called "Big Cheese-al" and we know who can survive. And for Tim Kirk, because he spit out the only sip of beer he ever took. Win it for Bill Robinson, because he's still the only dude I've ever met in my life who likes Circus Peanuts. Win it for Roger Williams because even when State had lit him up for about 11 runs, "Crow" was still PISSED that Coach Roberts was on his way to the mound to take him out. Win it for Ken "Butch" Turner for his ability to fart on demand and for Glenn Liacouras, for his germaphobia. Win it for Paul Will and his bowl of fries.

Win it for fellas from my brother Scott's era. For Barney Spooner and Gals. For Peanut and Roy. For Pitter and LB. For Oshe. For the late Dwight Lowry. Win it for Joe Reto.

Win it for me, because there's no way there's ever been a less-talented player who was even allowed to take batting practice or groundballs at Boshamer Stadium. Win it for my shoulder, which I blew out freshman year throwing Jon O'Leary December batting practice. Win it for me and Matt Barratta and Grafton Garnes, for folding Carolina laundry and polishing Tar Heel shoes. We had some great teams in '83-'86, and we never got to Omaha. The program is bigger and badder than it was back then, and I'm sure there are characters too...so win it for yourselves.

Me and my mates will surely raise a glass if you do.

Simple Things

2009-05-15T13:34:00.002-04:00

So, I just got back from lunch with an old buddy, Jedz.

Jedz and I went to UNC Chapel Hill together from '82-86 ('87, actually, but who's keeping score?) I met him on a hot August day, as I was taping a Springsteen poster up on the wall of my dorm room. He did not greet me with, "Hello" or "What's Up?" but with a question.

"You like Bowie?"

Soon, we realized we were kindred spirits, passionate about our music, our sports, but more than anything, we loved to laugh. And oh how we laughed. Some of the things that made us laugh were sophomoric and childish, others, I must say, a pretty high-brand of humor.

Twenty-plus years have passed since we would stay up all night, because we couldn't stop laughing...but we've still got a bond. I can send Jedz a three-word email and I know he'll get, as we used to say, "an abdomen workout." I send these emails because I know he'll respond in a matter of seconds, and get the same reaction out of me.

As I've grown up, become a husband and a father, been able to earn a living to feed and clothe my kids, pay the mortgage, etc., I can say, it's all been good. It's also amazing that my kids have grandparents that live 10 and 20 minutes away. Truly, I'm a lucky guy.

As those T-shirts say, "Life is Good."

But if there's one thing I miss, it's the laughter I shared with Jedz and other college buddies. I don't know, it's been the one thing in my post-college life that I've never been able to replace. I think I've gottean along well with co-workers, and made some great friends in my profession from age 25-45, but...none could make me laugh like Jedz.

Honestly, it's a void in my life.

And why am I choosing to write about this today, after more than a month in hibernation? Because Jedz works about a half a mile from my house and this was the first time I'd seen him in probably five years. How the heck does that happen? I know, I know, people tell me, life gets in the way. Jedz has a 14-year old daughter and a six-year old son. I've got my boys.

There's always stuff going on.

But doesn't there have to be time to laugh?

Thanks Old Pal...let's do it again soon.

The Fine Line

2009-04-12T09:41:00.002-04:00

I love my job.

Not always, mind you, but on nights like last night I realize how lucky I am to do what I do. And how, in 20 years in the sportswriting business I've been able to meet some really cool people.

Back in the fall of 2005, I got to write a story about the PGA Tour Qualifying Tournament, aka Q-School (also aka Hell Week). I got close to a number of players, including Boo Weekley and Will MacKenzie. But the guy I have followed most closely since that story is a gentle giant named Ryan Hietala. And, here at the Masters, I ran into Ryan and some of his buddies. It was great to see him.

Ryan is a 35-year old Nationwide Tour veteran who earned his PGA Tour card back in 2005 at Q-School. He didn't make enough cuts (or money) on Tour in '05 to keep his card, so it was back to the Nationwide where's been grinding it out for the last couple of years.

Ryan is here at Augusta as a fan this week and will head to Athens, Ga., on Monday for the Nationwide Tour's Athens Regional Foundation Classic, which will be followed by the South Georgia Classic in Valdosta. People who know way more about golf than I do have told me Ryan's got what it takes to be a Tour player. They told me the same thing about Boo Weekley (who played so horribly at 2005 Q-School that I basically wrote him off).

And I can't help but think of how it must feel for Ryan to sit at Augusta (it's his first time here, it's my seventh) and watch players he's rubbed shoulders with compete for the Green Jacket. In fact, at Q-School, I watched Ryan completely outplay Steve Stricker, who happens to be sitting in fourth-place on the Masters leaderboard heading into the final round. "One round at a time," Ryan said to me last night, when I told him he was ready for a Boo Weekley-type breakout.

It's a fine line, for sure...one I hope Ryan can cross in 2009.

Moving Day

2009-04-11T09:25:00.007-04:00

It's Day 3 of the Masters aka "Moving Day" and it's Day 6 for me on the road, aka "Twice as Long as I Like to be on the Road." It's been an interesting week that started with a 12-hour delay in Newark, then brought me through Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill for the Tar Heels' fifth NCAA Hoops championship and then about 250 miles South to Augusta for the Masters. Time to give you some of the highs and lows.

I Miss My Family

Not to get melodramatic here, but I am not a big fan of the long road trip. Yeah, I know it's the Masters and every dude worth his salt would give up a limb just to be here, but it's a long time to be away from Linda, Tyler and Beau (and Remy). I am grateful, however, that I am a feature writer for ESPN The Magazine and not a beat writer for a newspaper. Those guys grind it hard.

Hard to believe it's nearly 14 years ago I made the decision that I could not be a baseball beat writer and a husband and father. During the 1995 American League Championship Series between the Yankees and Mariners I learned that Linda was pregnant with Tyler. I learned over the phone while in Seattle and was not home to celebrate for another three weeks. Not being around for that moment was all I needed to know. I was not going to spend my life on the road.

Still, it was five years ago that I stood here in Augusta, covering the Masters while Tyler played his very first Little League game. None of the dads could believe it, but I was despondent. To this day, 100s of youth sports games later, there is no way I'd choose the Masters over one of Tyler or Beau's games. Amazingly, this week, I haven't missed any. But I will be here on Sunday as the family heads off to church, hunts for eggs and sits down for Easter Supper. I miss you guys.

Wayne the Giant

Now, to the fun stuff. I wandered into Hooters Augusta the other night, because old friend Timmy Cutting asked me if I could check out the John Daly Merchandise truck (never found it) for him. Of course, looking for the Daly truck made me hungry and thirsty, so I sat down for a drink and a bite. And I found myself sitting next to a giant. Seriously.

He introduced himself as "Wayne" and he was, seriously, 6-foot-9 and 400-plus pounds. He had a gray beard that touched his chest and the squeakiest voice I've ever heard. Wayne told me he had lived in Augusta his whole life and that he used to come to Hooters "every night" but was now down to "three nights a week" because "Momma said I got to start taking care of myself." At which point, Wayne pointed to his ginormous belly.

I swear to you this is true.

Wayne (and I) sat up at the bar, near all the fryers as the Hooters Crew (many imported, I was told, from other Hooters in Georgia and South Carolina, for Masters week) prepared wings and burgers and other delicacies. Wayne drank diet Coke (actually sent one back, declaring it was not diet (a weight-loss program has to start somewhere) and passed out candy bars to the waitresses whenever they wandered by, which was often. Every couple of minutes, a Crystal, Amber or Cheri would wander by and ask, sweetly and Southernly, "Wayne, can I have a Butterfinger?"

Wayne was a nice fellow and was very happy for the owner of the restaurant because the joint was hopping. He told me a few times how much money they'd made on the night, though I wasn't really paying attention. He also invited me to attend the bikini contest with him (I declined) and told me, "I'll see ya tomorrah." That was Tuesday night and I have not been back. But there's always tonight. And I'm guessing Wayne will be there.

Teeing Off

This ain't really writing, but I'm going to throw out some things here rapid-fire...It's going to be sort of a laundry-list of things that are getting on my nerves here at the Masters...I have bought some Masters merch through the years, a few different hats, shirts and windshirts for the boys, chairs, coffee mugs and, last time I was hear, a belt (which I'm wearing today). But for some reason, I get irked when some guy feels it's necessary to wear all his Masters gear at the same time, logo'd up from his hat, through his shirt and shorts, through his watch and belt, down to his socks. Why I find this offensive, I'm not sure...When did it become fashionable to put your college major on your college sweatshirt. I saw a guy with a shirt emblazoned "Virgina Tech Industrial Engineering" and have seen many others this week touting law schools, pharmacy programs, business schools and the like. Annoying...If I'm not having a beer, I do not want to be near anyone else who's having beers. As funny as the guy who's got a comment for every shot coming into 11 green and off of 12 tee, and as much as he's killing his boys, I hate him with every ounce of hate inside my body. Shut up....Any dude out here who's dying his hair, Note to that guy: I can see you're dying your hair. You look stupid. Especially you, Red....Overly polite Southern people wear me out after a while. There's no way you're that nice. Go away...The press center Men's Room on Day Six of the Masters is rank. When you consider what a bunch of sportswriters have been eating and drinking all week, while putting in 15-hour days, sorry, I just dry-heaved...Note to guy in golf shoes and TaylorMade hat. You do not have to wear your Oakley sunglasses on the back of your hat. Sergio Garcia does that because he's paid to display the TaylorMade logo. You are not. There is absolutely no funcionality in wearing your sunglasses that way, OK?...Who dressed Phil this week? The tight pants, white belts, and tight shirts are for skinny European guys, not Philly Mick...Just because the players are close to you when you're in the gallery does not mean they want you to talk to them...And they do not need to be told, "bad break" or "the wind is kicking up" or even that you are "pulling for" them. Seriously...Finally, the tradition of the green jacket is great, but I think only person wearing a green jacket is the Masters champion on Sunday. I mean, the only person who should EVER be wearing a green jacket, at any point, at any tine, in the WORLD, is the Masters champion on Sunday.

In Memory Of: Connor O'Gorman

2009-04-10T08:51:00.004-04:00

Today, I'd love for you to read the words of my brother Scott, who learned last Sunday that one of his former Princeton players, Connor O'Gorman, had been tragically killed...struck by a car as he crossed a Manhattan street.

Thursday, when I watched all the news reports of Angels pitcher Nick Adenhart's tragic passing, I quietly thought about Connor and how he touched the life of my brother and so many of his Princeton teammates.

All week I've been contemplating writing a tribute based on the words Scott spoke to me on Tuesday over the phone. But lo and behold, today as I googled the name Connor O'Gorman for the 100th time this week, I saw that Scott had written a tribute of his own on the Princeton sports website. This weekend, Connor's teammates past and present will return to Clarke Field to honor their friend.

"Impact Player"

By Scott Bradley
Head Baseball Coach
Princeton University

In July of 1997 I was hired to be the head baseball coach here at Princeton University. And as I anxiously awaited the start of my first season, I often looked at the names of the returning players as well as the members of the incoming class, wondering who the impact players were going to be. I reviewed the statistics from the previous years and tried to figure out which player would provide the leadership we needed to have a successful program. Little did I know at the time but the pleasant young man who walked into my office with his Dad, asking to tryout for the team would become exactly the player we needed.

About a week before Orientation began for the Class of 2001, Connor O’Gorman knocked on my door and asked for an opportunity to walk on to the baseball team. He seemed like a good kid and his baseball resume was different than most of the other players. He learned to play baseball growing up in the Atlanta area but his high school years were spent in Singapore where he attended the Singapore American School. Still, there was something special about this young man and I agreed to let him work out with the team when our fall practices began. I was certain that I would let him practice for a few days and then he would figure out that he was not good enough to play with all of our recruited players.

For the next two weeks Connor lived at Clarke Field. He was always there. When I drove past the batting cages on the way to my office he was hitting off the batting tee. When I went to get some lunch, he was there. And when I left at the end of the day he was still there. I jokingly asked him, "Are you actually enrolled at Princeton?" because it seemed as though he did not have any academic responsibilities or worries. He smiled and looked me directly in the eye and said, “Coach, I handle myself very well in the classroom and you do not have to worry about my grades. But baseball is what I live for.” Not long after that, I told him that, more than likely, he'd never play a meaningful inning while at Princeton, but if he promised to work hard and keep his positive attitude he could have a uniform for as long as he wanted. He once again looked me directly in the eye and responded, “That is all I needed to hear.”

For the next four years Connor O’Gorman was our impact player. He made everyone on the team a better player because of the work ethic and passion he brought to the field every day. He was the best friend and teammate anyone could ever possibly have and he impacted all of our lives.

We won Ivy League Championships in 2000 and 2001 and although Conner did not have many opportunities to play, he put his stamp on the personality of the team. He was well-known for making passionate speeches about the importance of Princeton baseball and what it meant to be part of the baseball family. For several years after graduation Connor would return to campus in the fall so that he could give his speech to the freshman players, so that they also understood.

We played Harvard in a doubleheader this past Sunday and Connor was to meet up with his best friend and Princeton teammate Andrew Hanson in Boston so that they could watch us play. He did not make it to Cambridge. Connor was tragically killed early Sunday morning when he was hit by a car, while walking back to his Manhattan apartment. In between games of the doubleheader, I spotted Andrew along the fence behind our dugout and I immediately walked towards him to say hello. As soon as Andrew looked up I could tell that something was wrong.

While it is hard to imagine that someone who appeared in only 16 games during a four -year career could be considered an impact player, after reading the numerous e-mails I have received in the past two days from former players, some who played with Connor and others who had not, there is no doubt that the title is accurate.

Connor may not have impacted the game between the lines but he impacted all of our lives in so many ways. His passion for the game of baseball was contagious and his devotion and loyalty to the program as well as his friends and teammates was undeniable.

He cared more about wearing a Princeton baseball uniform than any player or coach we have ever had -- or will ever have -- in the program.

Our team won the 2001 Ivy League Championship with a dramatic come-from-behind, extra inning win against Dartmouth. We had one last regular season game at home before the NCAA Tournament began and in the hours before the final contest virtually every one of the team's usual starters came to me and asked that Connor take their spot in the lineup. If my memory serves me correctly, Connor went 2 for 4 that day with a couple of RBI’s and as he told me after the game, “ I finally did something to help the team.”

Little did he know.

Rest in peace, Connor.

My Athletic Career...Golf

2009-04-08T16:52:00.003-04:00

I once shot 74. That's right, 41-33 at Wild Wing in Myrtle Beach. That was in November of 1999.

Of course, my friend Steve likes to remind me that we were playing the "magenta" tees. I don't care. My 74 was sent from above, I believe, because it was on a college-buddy golf trip that was supposed to be the 10th Anniversary of our first golf trip. But somewhere in the planning stage of that fabulous 10th Anniversary Trip our group became fractured.

There was a faction of fellas who decided we needed to go "big" and that meant Atlantis in the Bahamas. Now, I was not born yesterday and know that Atlantis in the Bahamas is not a "golf trip" destination. It's a casino. So, I revolted. And me and the guys on a more modest budget decided on Myrtle Beach, site of the first ever golf trip. And that was that.

Now, in nine years of golf trips, I'd always gone through the same ritual. A lot of practice, some new equipment, a new shirt or two, maybe new shoes. I always wanted to play my best.

And without fail, I'd play horribly. Of course, by the Back Nine of Day One, I did not care how I was playing. I was with my buddies and it was going to be 72 hours of fun, regardless of scores.

But in 1999, I had no time for any pre-trip preparation. No practice. No new driver. No new nothing. I basically threw my stuff in a suitcase, packed up the sticks, flew to Myrtle Beach, bolted over to Wild Wing and spiked a ball in the ground. And I shot 74. Afterward, I went to the bar and told my buddies, I was going to celebrate the greatest round of golf I'd ever play in my life. Understand, I'd never broken 80 before, so to shoot 74 was a pretty big deal.

For a second, I thought of trying to call the gang in the Bahamas to boast. But I thought better of it. I'm sure they'll have fun. But none of them are going to be able to say they shot 74. Ha!

It was a little while later when I touched base with the Atlantis Boys. Turns out they didn't even play golf. Didn't even take their clubs out of the travel bags. I was right. It was not a golf trip.

Nope, they'd spent all their time in the casino and on the beach. And I was justly rewarded by higher powers for my dedication to tradition and to the great game of golf. Right?

Well, I guess you could say that. Turns out, the guys in the Bahamas had a nice run of luck on the craps table. I think someone told me the low man in the group brought home about 2-grand. And did I mention they got comped the rest of the trip? And were offered free return visits.

But I shot 74.

I came to the game late, taking golf as a Phys Ed. class at UNC in 1986. Then, when I moved to Boston, I did not play for three years. I did not pick up the game, for real, until the fall of 1989, when I moved back to Jersey and started playing with my dad. I've been hooked ever since and still try to play as much with my dad as I can.

But the thing that means more to me than anything in golf is not my 74, nor the fact that I'm now covering my seventh Masters, it's that my 12-year old son Tyler and 10-year old son have taken it up at a young age. That means with me, Ty, Beau and Dad, we've got a foursome.

Tyler, who is 12, has already beaten me. I'd say he plays to about an 18-20 handicap and has played in a number of U.S. Kids Golf tournaments. If he continues to find time to play in between soccer and baseball games and practices, there's no doubt in my mind that one day he will be a single-digit handicap player, and perhaps even a scratch player. It's all up to him. (That photo above is from Akron, Ohio, where last summer Tyler got to play the Firestone 9 while we attended the World Golf Championships at Firestone Golf Club.)

Beau, 10, is going to have a big year in golf. I just know it. At the end of last summer, I could tell he was not only starting to strike the ball better, he was also beginning to like the game.

As for me, when I'm playing with my boys and my dad, it's like I almost don't even care about my game. I've broken 80 a few more times, but I'm pretty sure that 74 will stand the test of time.

The Road Rules

2009-04-08T10:03:00.004-04:00

So here I am, on a seven-day roadie that's already started out in weird fashion (more on that later).

Because I consider myself to be an "interesting person" (translated: bored out of my mind with nothing but a laptop and some time go kill) I am often compelled to share stories from what I like to call, "A Sportswriter's Life." Often glamorous, never lonely (ha!), here's a snippet.

I like to rent the ugliest car on National's Emerald Aisle. Why? Because when you have to park in big parking lots outside of stadiums, arenas and golf courses, it's pretty easy to forget if you rented the charcoal gray Pontiac Sunfire, the black Chevrolet Impala or the silver Saturn Ion. I go for things like the PT Cruiser (got a royal metallic blue one for spring training once) or, this week, a black Chevrolet HHR. The other reason I go ugly early is because...I amuse myself.

Lack of water pressure sets me off. I'd rather stay in the Super 8 than the Ritz-Carlton if the shower in the S8 has a powerful shower head and the RC has a dripper. I bring this up because here in Augusta, I'm staying in someone's condo (lovely) for the week, and the shower does not produce enough pressure to remove soap from my body, much less shampoo from my hair. Speaking of soap, my host provided me a bottle of "body wash" instead of a bar of soap. I will be making a trip to Walgreen's later.

Jeff, Party of One, Your Table is Ready. So, last night, I had to break one of my Road Rules. I always eat at the bar when dining solo. And then you come to an event like the Masters and the bars are all packed with people in official Masters merch, and...you gotta eat. So, I had to walk up to the hostess and put my name on the list. "How many, sir?" she asked. "Just me," I said, staring her right in the eye, daring her to even so much as roll her eyes. So, just me, my Blackberry, some bread and a glass of wine. That's such a good look.

The Masters. If you have never been to Augusta and you are a golf fan, I encourage you to try and get here at least once in your life. Come on Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, walk the grounds, buy a shirt or hat, eat a Pimento Cheese sandwich (I actually prefer the egg salad), take pictures and have pictures taken of yourself in all the usual spots, smell the fertilizer, then go home and watch the golf on television. Seriously, if you want to enjoy the Masters and see the shots that matter, it ain't happening out here, especially on Saturday or Sunday when the field has been cut.

Plus, it's hard not to get irritated by golf fans, dressed up to play, practicing their grip and putting stroke with their umbrella. Saying, "Nice swing" to Phil Mickelson after he's hit a shot. Or, better yet, "Good roll."

PS: My son Tyler is picking Geoff Ogilvy.

Not a Travel Nightmare Story...No!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-04-06T11:16:00.006-04:00

I know, I know...no one wants to hear my travel nightmare story...not when I'm on my way to the Masters...but I'm stuck inside of EWR with nothing but time on my hands.

Alarm rang at 4 a.m.

Left house with coffee in hand at 4:20.

Gassed up the Subaru.

Flew to Newark, in the airport an hour and 45 minutes before my scheduled departure at 6:50 a.m. A line I cannot fathom awaits me at the US Airways Ticketing/Baggage Area. Fast-forward...I barely make it to the gate in time for my flight.

I buy coffee and a muffin for the flight, because U.S. Air (like most airlines these days) gives you nothing for free ($15 for a bag to be checked)...sit down. Immediately hear, "This is a full flight." I'm on the window, not the middle, which is usually a good thing. 'Cept I now see the fellow who's going to be sitting on the end is carrying a seat belt extender with him. Dude's pushing four bills. I swear. He sits down and immediately falls asleep and, like all obese people, starts snoring like a mountain lion. Drool, the whole bit.

And now the flight's "delayed" and, 45 minutes go by, and I've had too much coffee and I gotta pee and the fat dude's basically so "out" that there's no waking him up. I'll just hold it.

Another half-hour passes, we're still on the runway..."We've got a medical situation onboard, so we've got to go back to the gate." Fat dude is still sawing logs. I really gotta pee.

Another 30 minutes pass, we're at the gate, fat dude hasn't budged..."This flight has been terminated...your bags will be at Carousel 10 and US Airways Attendants will be at the gate to assist you with your travel plans."

We have to bang Fatso on the arm about 15 times before we can startle him. I get out, run to the men's room, get my bag and now, the line at the US Airways ticketing/baggage counter is twice as long as it was, oh, four hours ago...

I won't make it to Augusta today...

But I'll have another story to tell tomorrow.

Couldn't get to Columbia, SC...which is where you fly when going to Augusta, so the closest I could get to Norther Georgia today was Raleigh-Durham, which puts me kinda close to Chapel Hill, where I could find a familiar (if 23 years ago remains familiar) watering hole for the big game tonight. So, hopefully, all's well that ends well.

Go Heels.

(PS: As of 3 p.m., I'm still in Newark Airport and now considering buying a Hugo Boss suit, a pair of Ray Bans, a new cell phone, MP3 player and a vintage 70s NASA orange space suit).

My Athletic Career...Baseball

2009-04-02T09:20:00.012-04:00

This chapter in my life has made me laugh...and cry. In recent years, it's been more laughs. But there was a long period of my life where tears ruled.

I love baseball. Always have, always will.

Probably more than anything in my life, I wanted to be a good baseball player. I thought I was headed on that path for a couple of reasons. Number one, in eighth grade, I was pretty good...and I'll leave it at that. Number two, I wanted it so bad, and I was going to work twice as hard as I needed to work in order to be good.

If I lived in today's youth sports landscape, I'd have probably dropped all other sports for baseball by seventh grade (that would've been sad, glad I didn't have the option). I contrast that with my son, Tyler, who simply (thank God) cannot tell me whether he likes baseball more than soccer or soccer more than baseball (or anything more than golf when he has a good round).

I was never far from my baseball glove (Rawlings XPG3, Heart of the Hide). When I'd go to (EF Reference) "the courts" to play basketball, I'd bring my glove and a rubber-coated baseball to throw against the shed. On warm fall Saturday afternoons, I'd beg my dad to throw me batting practice, even though I'd have just completed a soccer practice or game. When I got to high school, I'd stow my glove in the bottom of my gym bag during basketball season and (against Coach Garvey's wishes), grab Tom Paranzine or Kenny Turnbull to throw with me, because I wanted my arm to be ready come March 1, the magical day when we were allowed to start baseball practice...usually in the gym or on the parking lot. My sophomore year, when JV basketball games were scheduled for 6:00 (before the Varsity games at 7:30), I'd get home from school and go to Verona "Nautilus" to get in a lift. My buddy Turnbull, a basketball guy first, was never happy to hear me say, "I'll trade a missed jumpshot now for an extrabase hit later," but that was my thinking.

I wanted to be good.

Looking back, I'm sure it was because I was Scott Bradley's younger brother that so many opportunities came my way. I can't BS anyone there, so any of my old mates who were throwing out those accusations in the late-70s, early-80s, you were probably right. The first opportunity I got was a roster spot on the legendary (multiple NJ state champion) Caldwell Legion team when I was a freshman. I'm sure there were better players out there than "Little Bradley," but I got a roster spot (and so did fellow freshman John McHugh, which softened the blow). It's not like I got a lot of playing time for Post 185, but I was on the team and used a lot as a pinch-runner (for Bob Pezzuti) and a little as a mop-up pitcher. Perhaps Coach Venezia's thinking was it would be better for team chemistry to have two happy freshmen than a couple of disgruntled seniors, I don't know. Johnny Mac and I were happy to be on the squad, that I do know.

The truth of the matter is, I was not even a great player on my high school freshman team. I was just another guy. The only difference was my love of the game. I was, seriously, over-the-top. It is not hard to understand why I was so gung-ho. At that time, Scott was down at UNC, tearing up the Tar Heels record book. In the summers, he was playing in the Cape Cod League. My attitude was, I see what's out there if I put in the hours...in the gym, in the cage, taking groundballs, etc.

By my sophomore year I was the starting shortstop at West Essex, and having a pretty good year. One day, Carolina coach Mike Roberts happened to be in New Jersey on a recruiting trip and came to see me play against Barringer HS at Newark Schools Stadium. While years later, Coach Roberts remembers, and will still laugh at Barringer's 300-plus-pound catcher (his teammates called him Capicola, which any good Jersey boy knows is pronounced "Gabagool") and his ill-fitting chest protector. Me? I remember having a big game. Made all the plays. Hit a triple.

It was that day that Coach Roberts told me that he thought I could play for Carolina, and that if I continued to work hard ("200 groundballs a day"), there'd be a spot for me in Chapel Hill in a couple of years. On the spot, I gave up basketball (not that anyone cared) and determined that the summer would be "all baseball." Soccer would be there in the fall, but summer was for baseball. I had to up the ante on my lifting. I had to work harder to get faster and stronger.

My junior year, after a winter of hard-lifting and running sprints up the hill next to the West Essex Junior High School, I took the field ready for a big season. What happened was a disaster.

Seriously, I've tried to erase most of the details from my brain, but I was truly horrendous. I recall missing three straight (boom, boom, boom) groundballs in one game. I recall fumbling an easy one-hopper in an extra-inning game, which cost my buddy, our pitcher Jimmy DiOrio the game. Mercifully, our coach Mr. Schnauffer yanked me from shortstop. I was a mess. Here I was, thinking about going to North Carolina to play ball, and I'm now a high school right fielder.

That summer (1981), I went back to the Legion team for my third season to realize that I was not going to be a starter there. The team was loaded up good. Even had some college freshmen who met the age requirements. What the hell was I going to do now? I wanted to play all summer long, and now I was nothing but a scrub on a team I'd made as a freshman. There were many nights I'd lie awake, just crying.

Why was I so bad at something I loved so much?

Thankfully, there was my dad, who went out and started a Babe Ruth team for me and some of my friends. And I remember a day when Caldwell Legion was playing and I actually had to tell Coach V I was leaving mid-game for Babe Ruth. Obviously, Coach was so unhappy that I was leaving in the middle of a Legion game (he'd given me a spot as a freshman!), but with tears in my eyes, I said to him, "Coach, I'm sorry, but I stink, and I've got to play in some games or I'll never get any better."

I figured I'd never wear a Caldwell Legion uniform again. But, my dad was behind me and Coach V was understanding. Clearly, he could see my pain. I don't think I missed any more Legion games, but I didn't play much for a long stretch. Slowly but surely I started to play better (albeit at the lower Babe Ruth level) and because our Babe Ruth roster was so small, I started to pitch a bit. I've probably never had more fun than I had on that Babe Ruth team. We'd all just gotten our drivers' licenses, which made the road trips, way up into Morris County, full of laughs.

As the summer wore on, some strange things happened. The Legion team went on a tear, winning a bunch of games (18?) in a row. And one night, Coach V felt it was OK to insert me back into a game. I came up to pinch hit and did something I only did once in my life (post 8th grade). I went deep. Hit one out onto the basketball court at the Kiwanis Oval.

Next thing you know, our second baseman got injured and I got some more playing time. Then, a little later on, I was asked, "Can you give us an inning" on the mound, and I actually threw the ball well (it ended up being a freakish summer in so many ways because, for a month out of my entire life, I had a really good curveball...it later disappeared). Our team continued firing on all cylinders and, incredibly, I was contributing. I was a utilityman. I'd play second some days, third others. I actually became a relief pitcher who got the call on a number of occasions. We rolled through the County Tournament and started advancing through the States. In the quarter finals, we came up against our Essex County rivals from Irvington and we were out of arms. So, doing little more than throwing it over the plate, I threw a complete game. We were to play in the semi finals of the double-elimination tourney that night against Paterson, the team that had given us our only defeat earlier in the tourney. We blew them out. We were in the state finals.

I was not in the starting lineup for the state finals against powerful and undefeated Brooklawn. But as the lineups were being announced, Coach V came up to me and said, "We're in trouble. We've got a bunch of sore arms. Can you throw?" I had thrown nine the day before and only had three innings left under Legion's 12-innings/72 hour rule. But I said, "Of course, I can throw. It's the state championship. Let's go."

I got shellacked. And we were done.

The Legion run got me fired up more than ever for my senior season of high school baseball. I accepted that I'd been beaten out for shortstop by John Salvato (our best position player and hitter) and would play wherever the coach wanted. That turned out, mostly, to be in the outfield. I also pitched (not well...the curveball disappeared) and our team was pretty bad. Meantime, Coach Roberts told me I could still come to Carolina and walk-on (to this day, I have nothing but praise for Coach for keeping his word...even though I was not close to being a Division I player). Coach said, "Keep working hard...get stronger...don't stop working." And I did not.

Senior Legion season was bizarre. We were really good, but too many guys knew it. We breezed through the regular season with a great record and went to the states, where we accordingly got drummed out in the early rounds. There would be no repeat run to the finals.

The day after we lost and were eliminated, I got in my dad's packed car and drove South to Chapel Hill. Again, I'm sure because I was Scott Bradley's brother, I was allowed to practice with the varsity all fall of my freshman year and played on the JV team in the spring. Every day I was taking groundballs next to future major league Gold Glove shortstop Walt Weiss, and in my mind telling myself, "Keep working hard, you never know, maybe you'll be a late bloomer." I played half the innings (like everybody else) on the Carolina JV team, playing doubleheaders against junior college programs, with Game 1 typically starting around 8 p.m. I can still remember my friends, all beered up, heckling me from the balcony of Ehringhaus dorm. "What are you doing down there, when you could be here!" they'd shout, and cackle. They'd bring speakers out on to the balcony and blast Van Halen during our games. A couple of years earlier, I'd have been offended, but now reality was starting to set in. I was never going to be good.

I went home that summer after freshman year and played for the Belleville Braves in the Essex County League. I would cut grass all day, come home, grab a sandwich and my uniform and drive somewhere along the Parkway to play against fellow college-aged guys who couldn't give it up. It was actually a fun team. A bunch of Belleville Italian-American guys who accepted me, (and even took me and my Lacoste shirts out to a few Newark discos from time to time).

I went back to Carolina to give it one last try, but halfway through the fall, I'd had enough. I asked Coach Roberts if I could hang around the field, throw batting practice and hit fungoes and he said, "Sure." I felt it was a fair compromise, and Coach ended up letting me make a lot of the trips with the team (including big roadies to Florida, Maine, Arizona State and Mississippi State). I actually dressed out in uniform (mine said "Tar Heels" on the back, not "Bradley") and made many, many life-long friendships with a lot of guys who could really play.

I'd still get sad from time to time. How come I wasn't any good? Isn't hard work supposed to pay off? But I never stopped loving the game..and eventually, I was able to laugh it off.

And, as you know, I love telling stories, so I'll close with my favorite Jeff Bradley baseball story, one my UNC boys have heard a million times, but still ask to hear again. There was this old man named Gene, who went to every Caldwell Legion baseball game, year in and year out. Gene was hard of hearing and wore a massive hearing aid. When he spoke, the whole world could hear.

So, on the day we were eliminated from the states my senior year, Gene came up to me with his big toothy smile and he patted me on the back. "I remember you when you were a FRESHMAN!" Gene shouted, heads turning everywhere. "I remember telling people, that Jeff Bradley, when he gets a little bigger, he's going to be ONE HELLUVA BALLPLAYER!"

And then Gene patted me on the back again, and caught his breath.

"You NEVER GOT ANY BIGGER!"

How can you not laugh at that?

My Athletic Career...Soccer

2009-04-01T14:21:00.007-04:00

I started playing soccer in second, maybe it was third grade, but in fourth grade, I was somehow sucked-in by the sport of football. Maybe it was the barking of Coach Bo Sullivan, which I could hear loud and clear through my bedroom window. Maybe it was the cheerleaders and their "Be Aggressive, B-E Aggressive" cheer. Ah, who am I kidding.

It was the helmet and shoulder pads. It was the orange jerseys. So, I switched over to football in fourth grade, becoming a part of the storied Essex Fells Bengals program only to realize in, oh, a day or two, I did not like tackling. And I did not like being tackled. Nor did I like blocking, being blocked ... or any contact of any kind.

So, in fifth grade, after a year of watching Mr. Addis and most of my friends kicking the ball around as I held tackling dummies and tried to block guys three times my size, I went back to soccer. And I played through high school.

I'm not afraid to brag here. In grades 5-8 (especially 7th and 8th grade), I was a terror. Of course, let's temper it by saying, I was a terror in a league that consisted of four ultra- suburban towns and, for the most part, a bunch of "nice boys." Now that's out of the way, yeah, I tore it up.

I was also a better-than-average player at the freshman and JV levels in high school. A starter who rarely left the field and a guy who scored a few goals. Of course, the really good players at West Essex were playing varsity as sophomores (and some -- Mike Bellino and Torben Agesen -- as freshman). Nevertheless, the WE freshman team went 20-1 (shout out to Bobby McDermott and Chris Kubek!), and the JV squad went A Lot of Wins-and-1. I remember this because I've lived at the Shore for 16 years now and one of my buddies played on the Toms River North team that handed the WE freshman (78) and JV (79) its only two defeats, both in the Kearny Tournament.

(A quick aside. I did get the call-up to the Varsity as a freshman. The V was playing the legendary Kearny Kardinals (yes, that's the way they spell it) under the lights on a Saturday and the Essex County Tournament game with Columbia was going to be held the next day, so Coach Albanesius said, "Bradley, stay here..." And he played me in a varsity game, under the lights, in Kearny. If you've ever seen the Movie "One on One" with Robbie Benson, when he tries to practice on speed. Well, that's my memory of the Kearny game. The game was whirling around me for about five minutes. Then Coach Albanesius got me off the field.)

When it came time to really play varsity soccer at the end of my sophomore year, a time I like to call, "when the rubber met the road" I was...eh. I played a fair amount, gave it a decent effort, I guess. It is 100 percent fair to say I failed to live up to any expectations my brother Rob may have created during his four-year varsity career (something like a zillion goals), which included the 1973 State Championship.

We had a number of good players at West Essex, many of whom went on to play college soccer. I played with Mike Agesen (Virginia) and his brother Torben (Penn State). I played with the Commandatore Brothers, Anthony (St. Peter's) and Marc (Rutgers). Mike Bellino played for UMass. My best buddy, Dave Addis, played at Dartmouth and our goalkeeper Mark Stanisci played for Bucknell. And another one of my pals, the late John Salamone had a fantastic career at Oglethorpe University in Atlanta. All the good players had become pretty focused on soccer, playing for Mr. Agesen's Essex United team. I was still a muti-sport kid who spent his summers playing baseball while the soccer guys traveled to Denmark and stuff.

Still, I rode some pretty good coat tails, playing it safe for the most part. Trying to give up the ball in as few touches as possible, and trying to get in the way of the other team when that was in order. I could never juggle a ball a million times like the Agesens, or dribble through a world of defenders like the Commandatores. I could never, ever strike a clean ball like Addis. I was nowhere near as tough as Johnny Salamone.

My best memory is probably from my junior year, my one and only goal that year, a long, lucky, left footed shot that skipped past the goalkeeper (Parsippany Hills) on a rainy day. I was too in shock to celebrate, but as I jogged back to the center circle, Anthony Commandatore planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.

Those Italians.

My soccer career ended in the fall of 1981 in a state tournament loss at Westfield High School. I'd pretty much started every game since the beginning of my junior year, but on the day of this state tournament replay (we'd tied Westfield the day before and the game was called in OT due to darkness), our coach Tom Taylor called me over before the game and said, "You're not going to start today." I said I understood because, truth be known, I'd been horrendous the day before. By the end of the game, I was choking back tears as my butt never left the bench and my team went on to lose on PKs.

And that was all she wrote. I hid my face in my jacket on the busride home, completely humiliated that I'd not seen a minute of action in my final high school game, and guilty as hell that I'd played so badly the day before that the coach lost two years worth of confidence in me. I was also sad because I thought we had a good enough team to win the state championship that year...and we were much better than Westfield.

But that was that...and all that was left was...

Baseball.

She Could Barely Move Her Arms And She Handed Me A Tissue

2009-03-31T09:00:00.005-04:00

To the Amazing Tina Lane

By Scott Illiano
West Essex High School Teacher and Varsity Baseball Coach
Written for the Wessex Wire.

The message was delivered during a teacher’s workshop on Martin Luther King Day. If I wanted to say goodbye to Tina now was the time. Tina, is of course, Ms. Tina Lane, a former English teacher and Journalism expert who spent close to thirty years at West Essex. As I drove down the Parkway, I knew that doing so could be one of the more difficult things that I have ever had to do. What do you say to one of your closest friends and one of the most influential people to have ever touched your life while knowing it may be the last time that you ever speak? What would you say?

It was hard to fathom what I was about to encounter. As my hands shook against the steering wheel. I thought back to 1995. As a substitute teacher, I stood up for the morning announcements. We were then asked to observe a moment of silence. I falsely assumed that someone had died. Instead, the moment of silence was arranged by the Wessex Wire staff under the supervision of Ms. Lane because the Superintendent had censored the school’s paper by preventing them from publishing an investigative report related to a controversy between the Superintendent and the Vice Principal. Previously, I had only known Ms. Lane through a series of pleasantries exchanged in the staff room beginning in June of 1994, but I was compelled to learn more about her cause. Thus, I sought her out with the intention of doing so. What I got in return was the beginning of a life’s education and an irreplaceable friendship.

It was during our subsequent discussion about the moment of silence that I received one of hundreds of lessons that she would teach me over time. I asked her if she was afraid of any potential consequences for protesting the Superintendent‘s decision. She explained that there are “defining moments” in one’s life when one must stand up for what one believes in especially when involving the best interests of students. Those moments require great courage and ultimately define both who you are and what you stand for. She then advised me to be aware of my own defining moments.

Over the next 14 years there would be a number of times that Tina would again demonstrate not only the courage of her convictions, but also her amazing art of rhetoric. I used to say that she could go into a jury room with eleven other people against her and twelve people would come out seeing it her way. Her supreme understanding of words and their power provided her with the ability to sway an entire room. In fact, she had done just that both in staff meetings and on hiring committees that she served on at West Essex. I credit Tina for teaching me to be more attentive to the power of words and their meanings. She was very strong willed and unafraid to tell you how things were. I always admired that she would tell me what I needed to hear, even if it wasn’t what I may have wanted to hear at the time. That’s what true friends do. If she thought it was necessary she would put me in my place, but never in a mean way. In one instance, Tina had visited a beach house that some friends and I had rented. I was giving her a hard time for taking too long to put on her makeup as I was in a hurry to get home. She stepped out of the bathroom, glared at me and said, “I’m a girl. This is what girls do!” I said, Okay, humbly walked over to the couch, and sat quietly until she finished.

Love Personified

I arrive at the hospital and check in at the counter to obtain a visitor’s pass. On my way to the elevator, I coincidentally meet up with two of Tina’s closest friends, a woman named Mim whom Tina had met as a college student at Fairleigh Dickinson University, and former West Essex Director of Guidance, Dr. Jackie Moore. For those of you who never had the privilege of meeting or working with Jackie while she was at West Essex, she recently stepped up in heroic fashion and put forth what I consider to be a Herculean effort by organizing a fundraiser to help care for Tina in her last months. As a result, she has now established the Tina Lane Memorial Scholarship and will be presenting the award to a West Essex student on an annual basis.

The three of us ride the elevator together. As we enter Tina’s room, several family members have already arrived. Tina is momentarily startled. She did not expect to see me and her face drops. “Scotty!” is what she always called me. “I’ve lost more weight!”

She is just days from her 58th birthday, but although Tina is a little more than twenty years my elder, she always looked to be roughly about my age. I used to joke that she had some secret “Fountain of Youth.” I had always thought she looked a lot like Catherine Zeta Jones or maybe a little like Ashley Judd. Perhaps a cross between the two would be the best description.

A full chicken dinner sits untouched on the tray in front of her. “Scotty, I can’t eat. I look like a concentration camp refugee,” she cracks. I tell her she is exaggerating and looks as beautiful as ever. She asks her brother to hand her a paper cup so she can attempt to eat a few ice chips. Tina explains that she might doze off a little and, if she does, we should continue talking because she can still hear us and is enjoying the conversation.

A few of Tina‘s guests step out, but plan to return again in the evening. Her brother Elio, Mim, and I remain. I sit beside her and hold her hand. Although she herself cannot eat, she asks me if I am hungry and offers me some food. She is so concerned that it’s been several hours since I have eaten. I attempt to explain that I can’t eat either, but nothing comes out of my mouth. In an instant, I begin to unravel, and break down like a two year old. Tears pour down my cheeks uncontrollably. Although she has little strength and can barely move her arms, she somehow reaches over and hands me a tissue. But, then again, why wouldn’t she? She had already spent a lifetime serving others and her life was not yet over.

She had sacrificed numerous lucrative job opportunities with the likes of Matt Lauer and John McLaughlin. She had turned away news networks and other media outlets because she preferred a lifestyle that would enable her to raise her young daughter Kirsten. Tina always placed her large and beautiful family first and made sure to go out of her way for all of them. In fact, she had sacrificed a good part of her own social life after her mother had become too ill to take care of herself. At that time, Tina moved her mother in with her and gave her the round-the-clock care that she needed until her passing in the fall of 2007. She had given up Saturday mornings to teach dance to 3-5 year olds all of whom adored her as she did them in return. She cared for animals too, especially her three cats. If the situation called for it, she would adopt a kitten off the streets.

Teacher, Mentor, Friend

Tina would routinely spend endless hours teaching, mentoring, and nurturing others. There were nights I would lock up the coaches office and pull out of the parking lot around 9:30 p.m. For a moment, I would trick myself into thinking that I was the last staff member on campus, only to see Tina’s car still parked in her spot. On more than one occasion, Tina and her staff of the Wessex Wire would work on their paper well past midnight and then return to school the next day for a 7:30 a.m. homeroom. Tina was an excellent teacher in many different areas, including English, creative writing, and theatre arts. Of all her gifts however, perhaps her greatest was her ability and knowledge as a teacher of journalism.

Tina had incredibly high standards for the journalists on her Wessex Wire staff. I discovered this first hand after I had written an op ed piece for her paper in the Winter of 1996. Ironically, the Wire students would aspire to obtain “The Big F,“ which served as a a nickname for a final copy that was ready for publication in The Wessex Wire . Getting “The Big F” was far from easy. It was an arduous process often requiring eight or more drafts. After submitting their work to Ms. Lane, she would take out a pencil as opposed to a red pen presumably to soften each blow. She would often switch the order of paragraphs and make markings all over each page. As a result I nicknamed her “The Slasher.“ The end result was often a masterpiece. If you could come out on the other side and obtain “The Big F” great rewards awaited you. Her students would feel accomplished because they had worked toward, and inevitably earned a published piece worthy of “award winning” quality. In the process, her students would simultaneously grow, develop, and, ultimately, become much better writers with a true understanding of the overall writing process. Above all they would outwork everybody in sight and earn everything that they got.

The results of her expectations and the process were staggering. The Wessex Wire became a perennial award winning paper winning close to 30 awards on the local, state, and national level. I implore all current and future Wessex Wire journalists and advisors to consider the history, tradition, and legacy of the paper under Ms. Lane and look to continue that standard of excellence in the future. Following a woman whom I consider to have been the Michael Jordan of high school newspapers will not be easy, but Tina would be the first to say that awards are not the most important thing. The student effort and level of commitment are what count most.

As a result of her tutelage, some of Ms. Lane’s former writers would go on to occupy such prominent positions as speechwriter for Bill Clinton., a lead writer and executive producer for the David Letterman Show, senior writer for ESPN The Magazine, a television news reporter, and a vice president of an international company. Others have gone on to become screenwriters and news writers, and have applied their knowledge and writing ability in a variety of other professional fields. A common thread among them is that they would all credit Ms. Lane’s teaching and influence for their success, and they would do so publicly.

After Tina’s departure from West Essex, we often resorted to something that we had become accustomed to over the years, namely talking on the phone. It seemed as if every time I put groceries away or folded laundry, I called her. Whenever she dusted or cleaned her bathroom, she called me. Even during those casual moments, she never deviated from her elegant nature. For example, she’d always say, “Ok, I need you to know that I’m going to flush the toilet now, but I’m not going to the bathroom. I’m just cleaning.” I would tell her that we’re friends so she shouldn’t bother to explain that to me. Then, as a joke, I would flush my toilet and say nothing. Regardless of where and when we spoke she was always so bright, extremely funny, and full of wisdom. She could “bottom line” things better than anybody I knew as she always seemed to have every situation already figured out. She would give me personal advice, professional advice, and, essentially, counsel me in all of life’s matters. Over time I realized that no matter what she advised, it always boiled down to one’s character and integrity. She placed an enormous emphasis on the notion of being true to yourself, just as she believed deeply that if one possessed courage then that would also cover all other important values.

Always the Best

As I held her hand, my sobbing and tears continued. “Scotty, I love you. You’re my best friend.” She glances over at Mim. “My best male friend that is!” Mim is not offended. “I’m going to be fine. We’re going to have more times together. You can come see me anytime.” I knew that wasn’t true. I knew that she was lying on her death bed or close to it, and she was selflessly trying to console me. Although her condition was terminal, she was putting my feelings first. Her selflessness was immeasurable.

I make another attempt to speak but again no words come out. Finally, I get a hold of myself. I tell her how much I love her, how much she has meant to me, how much she has taught me, and the profound impact that she has had on my life. I explain how much it hurts me to see somebody that I love suffering. To Tina there were no problems. There were only challenges. She squeezes my hand tighter and further demonstrates her own courage, “This is a challenge! It’s just a test of my faith and a lesson for me to take each day one at a time.” She then explains that she expects to be up dancing again.

I immediately reflect back to her 50th birthday party and watching all her friends and family stare at her on the dance floor. I then recalled a particular evening in which we had gone to a nightclub in Manhattan. As the music blared, about ten guys surrounded her while dancing because she was clearly the best dancer on the floor. At that point, every girl in the vicinity, some half her age or less, just stopped and stared awestruck at what they were seeing. There was very little that Tina couldn’t do. Whether she was teaching, acting, dancing, or writing she did everything her best. More often than not, she was the best at everything she did.

Before I leave the room I hug her tight. I kiss her cheek and then her hand. I look at her eyes. “I love you Tina. I‘ll see you soon,” is all I can spit out given my emotions. In the elevator I am filled with grief. I contemplate how amazingly faithful and spiritual Tina is. I pray. Then I hear her voice recite a phrase that she had used over and over. “Whatever is in keeping with God’s best interests.” I realize that no matter her fate, the lessons that I have learned from her will live with me forever. I also realize that fittingly she has just taught me another lesson because this is a test of my faith too, and I must also take it one day at a time.

As the elevator opens I randomly consider a variety of memories that we had shared together. Then I contemplate the countless number of lives that Tina has positively impacted. She is a great woman I say to myself, because knowing her has made me a better man. In fact, she left everyone and everything that she ever touched better than she found it: family, friends, boyfriends, students, colleagues, West Essex High School, The Wessex Wire, and Fairlawn High School. She was love personified. She treated everyone no matter what their status or position in society like they were royalty. She even made lasting impressions on people regardless of how much time she had spent with them.

As I walk toward the exit of the hospital I open my phone and read a text message sent by my friend Verick’s wife Victoria. Although Victoria had only met Tina on a handful of occasions, that was all she needed. The text read; “In my life.. In the thousands of people that have brushed my life, there are few that have ever possessed the brilliant beauty and light that she illuminates.. So bright in fact, that you have to stand back to even see her face.”

My Athletic Career...Basketball

2009-03-30T13:08:00.010-04:00

Since the other day I filled everyone in on how great my two brothers Rob and Scott were athletically, it's time you heard a little bit about me and my many exploits in the athletic arena.

This will be the beginning of a series...all about Jeff Bradley, Athlete.

Today, I focus on basketball.

Caldwell Presbyterian (approx. 1970-77)...

With my blue satin short shorts and "CP" tank top, I began my basketball career playing for "Caldwell Pres." in what I believe was officially known as "Church Basketball." I was a second-grader when it all began, learning the system...the 2-3 zone defense...the "get the ball to the kid who can reach the hoop" offense under Mr. Walker (please help me if I've screwed that name up). By the time I was a fifth-grader, I was a starter, working the back court with my next door neighbor Doug Gaffney, and controlling the tile floor of the CP gym/auditorium. Championships? Uh, can't remember. But our rivalry with St. Al's was, in a word, huge. Church hoop ran through eighth grade and I have great memories of cutting down the nets in our final season, champions of the church league. However, it was with a fair amount of guilt that we accepted our trophies, knowing that our "big man" Sean O'Neill was actually Catholic. The investigation ultimately brought us down and, in case you haven't noticed, you never see Caldwell Pres. games on TV anymore. Stiff sanctions.

The Essex Fells Runnin' Rebels (1978)

The name says it all. Five slow, short white boys from the mean streets of Essex Fells, who named themselves after Jerry "Tark the Shark" Tarkanian's UNLV teams. Yes, we won it all, trouncing Chuck Muzzy, Bruno Valenti and North Caldwell in the eighth grade championship game. At this point, I was playing to my strengths (get the ball to Gaffney) and minimizing my weaknesses (everything else).

West Essex Knights (1977-1980)

I "earned" a spot on the junior high team as a seventh grader and actually got a shot to run the point for a while before the coach, Mike Bruchac, suddenly realized I could absolutely not dribble with my left hand. Making a keen coaching decision, because a 5-1, all-righthanded point guard was probably not best for the team, Bruchac decided to basically red shirt me and let me develop as a Two Guard. As an eighth grader, I ably filled thatTwo Guard spot. However, I believe in our limited schedule we may not have won a single game. I'm not sure about that, but I believe that to be close to accurate.

Anyway, my work on the junior high team prepared me for freshman ball, also under Bruchac. I remember like it was yesterday our big game with Caldwell. My brother Scott had just graduated from West Essex (quarterback in football, 20-point a game scorer in basketball, All-State catcher in baseball) and, well, most everybody in Caldwell knew "Bradley" had a little brother coming up to HS at West Essex. So, in Caldwell's gym, I took the floor to the sound of 50 or 60 Caldwell students chanting "Bradley sucks! Bradley sucks!" Little did they know, Bradley did suck. I dribbled the ball off my foot a couple of times, threw away about 20 passes and ended up with a nice seat next to Bruchac, who was clearly thinking, "This kid was adopted." We lost that game...as suburban a game as you'd ever find in NJ...by about 50 points.

Our freshman team had its moments and, I must say, a Christmas does not go by in the Bradley house where the Passaic Valley game isn't brought up (because I bring it up). In the PV game, I had my defining moment as a hoopster, scoring 19 points in the first half of a Christmas Tournament game with both of my college-aged brothers in attendance. Seriously, lit it up. Outside. Inside. Slashing to the hoop. It was amazing. "I was just, ya know, feeling it," I say every Christmas. "I was in the zone."

Nineteen points in one half just might be a Bradley record...not sure (Scott had 38 against Clifford Scott in a JV tournament once and if there'd been a three-point line, it would've been well over 50). Yes, nineteen points in one half. My finally tally for the game? Of course, you know the answer...19. And we lost by one.

I hung with it through JV basketball (see photo), and remember we broke out of the gates with a couple of wins over traditional Essex County hoop powers West Orange Mountain and Cedar Grove, before hitting a little 16-20-game "speed bump." We did not win another game the rest of the season, but we did hear the greatest post-game speech ever from our leader Tony Ortiz. Following yet another loss, Tony O came into the lockerroom to a group of dejected players and wrote on the chalkboard one single word. "Beans."

"Gentleman," our coach said. "We're a JV team. Anyone know what our record means?"

And all the players said at once..."Beans?"

And Tony O said, "Exactly."

That, ladies and gentleman, is my basketball career...next up, Soccer.

Thanks for the Good, Old Days

2009-03-28T17:09:00.015-04:00

Today, I'll let some old friends do my writing. Thanks to everyone for checking in.

Jeff

To this day my Mom will still mention that Jerry Bradley once casually mentioned that I had "good hand-eye coordination."

He said it in 1976, but it is cast in stone to this day-

I think the games of "500" were the best "training" I ever had- and the most fun.
"The Field" was a living entity- 90% free play (does it exist anymore?). I would hop on my bike and shout over my shoulder as I left the driveway- "I'm going to the field" enough said- no worries from my mother- "be home by dark" was all she would say.
I envied the Bradley's and Doug Gaffney and Tom Brooks and the Wenrich's for their close proximity. Jeff Bradley-Doug Gaffney leading EF Police to the league championship in 1978 (I hung out in RF and got walked a lot) with Mr. Bradley coaching was my baseball highlight-
Thank you Jerry Bradley- we were lucky kids. -- Carter Lee Beard (Jeff's note: "Lee" was a standout hockey player and golfer at West Essex. His sister Kendra went on to play golf on scholarship at Wake Forest).

Great Tribute -- well deserved.

It brought back a flood of memories. I remember the old Tee Shirts. I can still remember the burned rubber smell that stayed with them for the entire season. The hats too -- they were plain but they were ours. I loved those uniforms. I also remember trying out for the intermediate league. The wait for the names to be posted was one of the longest times in my life -- worse than the nervous anxiety of waiting for your wife to give birth. I did make it -- I was on the EF Police -- I think the uniforms were grey and green. My first game I tried to steal home -- your dad is probably still scratching his head wondering how a lumbering load like me thought he could steal home. The reality is -- I had no idea what the hell I was doing. But boy I was glad I was doing it. I do take exception with the fact that you omitted the EF Bengal football team. We were always champs. The members of that team went on to be an integral part of the '81 West Essex State Champion (No. 1 ranked) team and I was on the '82 Caldwell State Champion (No. 6 in NJ) team. We were the bee's knees.

As I am writing, I am recalling that Regina Degnan gave me a black and white adirondack bat -- the "reggie jackson" model -- for my fifth grade birthday. My parents gave me a mitt -- I think it was a spalding "Doug Hayden" model. I didn't sleep that night because I knew the next day I would be at the field waiting for a pick up game. On that note, the pick up games at lunch time during school were the best. I would run home through the glen, up the forest way hill, grab a pb sandwich -- no time to add the j -- and my mitt and bat and run down to the field to wait for the rest of the boys to return. We would play and sweat and smell for the rest of the day. It was the best.

Through it all, I rember your dad standing on the hill behind the field closest to the school. He would wear a blue windbreaker, fold his arms across his chest and cup his chin in his right hand, as he watched us play. If we were lucky, Scott would come by and offer tips. Then he would go to the monkey bars, grip them and levitate himself horizontally. The fathers would gasp in awe and we, the kids, didn't know how the hell he did it.

Great memories. -- Thomas G. Russamano (Jeff's note: Tommy "Wright," wondered if I'd remember him. How could I forget such a nice guy, not to mention his cute twin sister Tracy?)

Many memories

Sitting on The Hill and at the water fountain!! And, of course, watching my brother and all his friends play baseball. I think that is when my dad taught me how to keep score and track each player's "at bat". Went to a Mets game last year with Dad...and we both kept score!! -- Molly Cutting Werner (Jeff's Note: Molly's dad was a GREAT Farm League coach in EF for many years. In fact, I was slated to play for his Mets before I was optioned to the "expansion" Pirates when I was in second grade).

I remember every inch of that field and all the times we played there.

I remember getting stuck in the smaller diamond's mud after a rainstorm and I had to crawl out...i think my sneaker is still buried in there, Mr Weissenborn called me "muddy randy" ever since. If I recall correctly, Scott was the only one that could hit your Dad's pitches over the hills.

When they made the rule we couldnt play hardball at lunch without equipment I used to put on all the catchers gear and helmets and ride my bike to school so we could play. -- Randy McAdam (Jeff's Note: Randy was also a standout hockey player for West Essex).

EF baseball, great memories.

I think Scott is still the only person to hit the ball over the school roof. -- Jim Sullivan (Jeff's Note: Jimmy is the greatest running back in West Essex High School history. He led WE to the NJ Group IV championship in 1980 and the Star-Ledger trophy as the No. 1 team in the state. Jimmy went to Maryland on a football scholarship, where he was teammates with Boomer Esiason. His father, "Bo" Sullivan is a legend in Essex Fells, who singlehandedly ran the town's football program).

Wow...brings back great memories...

My favorite memories were shagging fly balls when your dad would pitch to you guys....we were so lucky then...sun up to sun down at the ball field all by ourselves. I wish my boys could experience the same thing. -- Andy Brusman (Jeff's Note: Andy was just a "kid" when I was in high school, so he's gotta fill me in...I was off in college when he was in his "prime.")

I can remember like it was yesterday

Your dad pitching to me in "try-outs" and me pitching to him as he warmed me up the first time I ever pitched in a game! Your dad's encouraging words meant the world to a 10-year-old! Many thanks to Mr Baseball (and your mom ;) for all of those years! .When I broke my leg on "the field" playing soccer (when i was 12), your dad was the first guy there. What does that say? -- Andy Addis (Jeff's Note: Andy went on to play soccer at Lafayette College before crossing paths with me in Chapel Hill, where he got his MBA).

I didn't know Larry Fell was such a slugger!

I wish my kids could have experienced something like this. Your parents are great people and everyone from the area has such great respect for them. I wish you could send your dad down here to Texas to work with my boys! -- Chris Tripucka (Jeff's Note: A 1,000-point scorer at West Essex and the toughest, 6-2 rebounder I've ever seen, Chris went to Boston College, where he was a receiver for Doug Flutie).

Boy do I remember those days fondly...

Especially as I witness the incredibly high intensity in which my boys sports programs are run, they are both in elite soccer programs and practice every day for 2 hours...then they travel on the weekends, what a different world we (we? well,who, actually?) have carved out for our young atheletes. The days of our dads joining us at the field after work now seem so nostalgic. The girls teams as well were run by the parents, my mom led the "Essex Fells Sluggers" (complete with hand-painted tee shirts) to an undefeated season in 1972...I can still remember my dad trying to explain the infield fly rule...Those of us growing up in EF spent at least 10 years going to "the field" we were indeed lucky -- Robben McAdam (also close by at 9 Essex Road...can totally remember grabbing the bats out of your garage!) (Jeff's note: Fine looking West Essex cheerleader, Robben was...and I'm sure still is!)

Jerry was the league.

We were all Jerry's kids. He was the commissioner. the head ump, the coach, the best thing that happened to Essex Fells baseball. Every kid had an equal shot and we were all trying to be as good as his biological kids. Scotty was my measuring stick to compete against. Did I have to have the best one in the family to compete with? Yes I would haven't had it any other way. Yes, Scotty could hit it off the roof with the easiest swing you ever saw. I also witnessed Scotty's 1st Home run in Yankee Stadium. The minute it left the bat, me and the boys sitting behind the dugout were out of our seats. I was with Larry and John Fell and Tim Cutting. Never was I more proud of being a Fells boy, and here I was watching Scotty trot around the bases in the house that Ruth built. The only problem was, he was now in a Seattle Mariner uniform. The untouchable Yankee prospect had been traded to the West Coast team the previous season. The kid from the Fells a kid I played with at the field was in the Majors.

Thank you, Jerry for all the great times and letting us play in your league on your field. -- Steve Fusco (Jeff's Note: All I can do is apologize to Stevie for the winless Pirates...he was our only good player, and it wasn't fair that he got stuck with a bunch of second-graders! Stevie could play!)

What a beautiful tribute you wrote to your father on The Field.

Maybe, in that building, next to the field, you grew as "Studies Pass Into Character" into the fine writer you are today.

As one of the coaches in those days I especially enjoyed reading your reminisences. It was truly a meeting place, a home of many wins and losses, and the beginning of athletics for so many young children. Jerry and Mary both gave timelessly and frequently their time and talent to
the youth of Essex Fells.

I can remember the 1971 Essex Fells Reds fondly. In fact, still sitting on my desk here in Charleston, S.C. is an autographed baseball signed by that team which scraped through the season with a perfect 8-0 record. I can look at that ball today and remember Larry and John Fell, Carl and Billy Groves, Mike and Jimmy Sullivan, Nick and Mike Lieder, Claus and Mike Cassell, Tim Cutting, Bernie Degnan, Fred Osborne, Randy McAdam and bat boys Doug Gafney and Jeff Bradley. They were then and still are a fine group of young men.

It was so much fun to get home from work in N.Y.C., change into my red sweater and hustle to the field. What fun it was to coach and what great memories all those young men have provided over the years. Wouldn't it be great if it was still the case?

Jerry was always out there tossing B.P., encouraging the kids to try, and learning to win and lose. And, that garage door was always open for anyone who wanted to play ball. It was a time and a situation which will probably never be duplicated.

We send our regards to Mary and Jerry---they are in our thoughts. -- Bob and Ben Nita McAdam

Mr. Baseball

2009-03-27T08:26:00.018-04:00

Talking to a fellow Little League dad the other day, I was asked "What kind of league did they have in your town?" He was wondering, in modern-day youth baseball-ese, if we played by Williamsport rules or something different, like Cal Ripken Baseball.

My response was, "That's a hard one to answer."

The truth is, I played in my dad's league. I guess you could call it the Jerry Bradley League, even though we called it the Essex Fells (N.J.) Farm League. If memory serves me correct, the league did not run, like Little League, through the age of 12. It ran through 11, or maybe it was just through fifth grade, or sixth grade. Really, the details about the rules are incredibly unclear. "We didn't have a rule book," my dad told me the other day, when I asked him. "Basically, the dads who had the time to get involved agreed to wing it and let common sense prevail."

That's not entirely true. I remember a few of the Jerry Bradley Rules for Farm League. For one, no pitcher was allowed to pitch more than three innings in a game. It was not as scientific as today's pitch count rules, which are age-specific, but my dad figured it was a pretty reliable way to save kids' arms. And that was something my dad felt deserved a "rule." I also remember that week night games were five innings, not six, to get kids home earlier on school nights.

It's funny looking back, because Essex Fells is an affluent town, but we did not have an official Little League field with fences and dugouts (much less a PA system, press box and electronic scoreboard). We had two diamonds that were situated on opposite ends of the what Fells residents now and forever will refer to as "The Field." When your team was batting, you sat on "The Hill." If you were thirsty, you went to "The Water Fountain." No, we didn't have a snack bar. For that matter, Essex Fells didn't even allow for the Good Humor man to sell ice cream. If you were lucky, you had a coach who'd take you to "Stop N Go" (in Caldwell, not EF) for a slurpee after the game. If you were super lucky, you'd travel West to Carvel for soft serve ice cream...then Carvel shut down and became a Toyota (or was it Datsun?) dealership.

We also did not have uniforms. We got T-shirts screen-printed courtesy of Mr. Beard and his Annin Flag Company and plain hats that my dad bought at East Orange Sporting Goods. We wore blue jeans (also known as dungarees) or even corduroys as our "game pants."

Yes, I'm being nostalgic.

We did not hold a draft, but I do remember my dad in the living room with a legal pad filled with the names of all the kids, written in his very-legible (unchanged to this day) cursive. I remember having a day of "open play" and then I remember my dad sitting down at the kitchen table and trying to divide all the boys into what he liked to call "even teams."

The truth is, the teams were hardly even. I always played on the worst Farm League teams because if my dad was going to be the guy dividing up the kids, the easiest way to avoid "stacking" accusations was to make his son's team the worst. I believe we only played 10 games or so, maybe less, but I remember one year, I was on the Reds and we won one game. That was coming off my year on the Pirates, an "expansion" team that won...zero.

I remember the Pirates mostly because my dad, now 76, says his one regret from his Farm League coaching days was when he intentionally walked slugger Larry Fell in our final game of the season, because, as he recalls, "I just wanted you guys to win one game." He then quickly says, "I can't believe I did that...and I wish I hadn't." As you already know, we did not win. To that end, my dad believes he got what he deserved.

Before anyone thinks my dad's not a "baseball guy," let it be known that he was signed to play in the Chicago Cubs organization out of high school, only to have the Korean War interfere, but went on to play baseball (and football) at Upsala College, where he's now in their Hall of Fame. He doesn't know any of his stats, but will say of his Viking squads, "We were a small college that could go head to head with any of the big schools in the Northeast...Rutgers, Princeton, Yale." I've checked his yearbooks and Upsala not only played the big boys, they kicked their butts. The legendary, longtime coach at Rutgers, Fred Hill, was also a part of those Upsala teams.

My dad apparently just didn't see the need to push things too hard when we were 8, 9, 10, 11 years old. In fact, he didn't push too hard when we were 12 and 13, either. But, what he did do with the older kids was try to get them (at least those who wanted) ready for high school baseball. When work was done on the diamonds at "The Field," my dad asked if they could make one of the infields a little bigger. He moved the bases 10 feet farther down the line from Farm League distance (60 feet) and the pitcher's rubber back five feet (from 45 feet).

He called this "Intermediate Baseball" and he instituted things like leading, stealing and pitching from the stretch. Nowadays, it's called "50-70"...and it's a staple in American youth baseball. No, my dad didn't "market" it or copyright it, and for all he knew there were many other towns in America where kids were doing the same thing. For my dad, it was just common baseball sense.

In the Intermediate League, Essex Fells teams (the Firemen and Police) played against teams from neighboring North Caldwell. We actually got gray, wool-blend baseball pants at this point, to go with our T-shirts and hats. And, finally, my teams were able to compete and win games, mainly because of all the time my dad had spent pitching and hitting fungoes to me and my friends, the same guys who'd endured so many Farm League defeats.

Of course, it helped that I grew up across the street from The Field. When my dad would get home from work, he'd grab our bag of balls and go out and pitch to any kids who wanted swings. He also told other dads, if they wanted to use the balls, bats, helmets, just open up the garage and take what you need. I will always remember the sound of our garage door opening and closing, and knowing that meant someone wanted to play ball. And it was time to get my glove.

On Saturday mornings, all the Farm League kids would wear their T-shirts and hats from sun up 'til sun down...yeah, even those kids on the lowly Pirates. When the real games would end, games of unsupervised "lob ball" would begin. In lob ball, the pitcher's job was simply to lob the ball over the plate for the batter to crush. Believe it or not, many of us learned more about baseball playing in those lob ball games than in the "real" games. No coaches to fix our swings or tell us "two hands!" after we'd dropped a ball. No walks. Heck, no umpires.

You might guess what happened to most baseball players who came up in the Essex Fells "system." Yeah, not many amounted to much on the baseball field. The best athletes in town were typically tennis players and golfers at expensive private schools. We had some good soccer players, probably because soccer was such a suburban sport at the time. And we had some good ice hockey players because EF families could afford ice time at South Mountain Arena. (Old friend Tommy Russamano points out that Bo Sullivan's Essex Fells Falcons - and later - Bengals football teams produced good talent...Rusty Boyle even played for Penn State).

Yet somehow, there were my brothers, Rob and Scott, with no 200-foot fences to conquer, no trophies to earn, no All-Star spots to vie for, no Districts, Sectionals, no Williamsport, no Cal Ripken...just the Jerry Bradley League...And somehow, Rob earned four varsity letters on some of the best baseball teams West Essex High School ever put on the field, starting at shortstop as a freshman. And Scott...well, there's his baseball card over there (right).

What kind of league did they have in my town?

I'll let you all decide.

Thanks for reading.

The Man in the Mirror

2009-03-20T10:39:00.003-04:00

It's that time of year again.

Little League time.

Now I'm way too introspective to begin with, but nothing gets me looking harder in the mirror than when I coach Little League baseball. I have all-too-vivid memories of being a nervous baseball player (a kid with a lot of "want to" but not much ability) and try so hard to let my kids play in a pressure-free environment.

I am far from perfect, and that bugs me.

I coach both of my sons, and it can be hard to remain calm and positive, as much as I try... I had one particularly embarrassing moment with my oldest son, Tyler, a few years ago. I was hitting him groundballs before a game and I hit two right through his legs. Before I hit the third, I said, "Come on Tyler, get low, keep your glove down." I scored a hat trick, as a third groundball squirmed under his glove. "OK, Tyler," I said. "Anything but through your legs on this one, OK?" Well, of course, groundball No. 4 went right through the wickets. And I lost it. Seriously, I have no idea why (what's the big deal?), but I blew my stack.

How embarrassing, really, when I think about it. And I'm ashamed that it happened, and I've apologized to Tyler about 50 times for it. He has always shrugged when I do.

I should know so much better. Baseball is different than other sports. You don't need to be "psyched" to play baseball, the way you need to be "psyched" to play football, or even basketball or soccer, where "want to" is so critical to success. Think about it, to make a tackle in football...to play tenacious defense in hoops...to get stuck-in during a soccer duel..."want to" is half the battle. Not so in baseball. In fact, sometimes it's the exact opposite.

My older son works his butt off to be a good baseball player. Hits 'til his hands bleed. Will take groundballs in 100-degree heat for hours. He really has desire. My younger son, not so much. Now, I'm not going to say which one's the better player, but I will tell you that one seems to play better in practice and one seems to play better in games. You can figure it out, I'm sure.

Sometimes, in baseball, hard work can hold you back, make you press, squeeze the bat, etc. I should know. No one has ever worked so hard to be mediocre in baseball as I did. I was the guy who did everything a player is supposed to do in terms of preparation -- a million swings, a zillion groundballs -- but when the lights came on, anxiety held me back. A sports psychologist named Harvey Dorfman once told me a "tale" (I was interviewing him for a magazine piece) about a kid who wanted to be in the school play. He was given his one line, which was "Hark, the cannons!" He was to say the line after hearing the cannon blast. He rehearsed the line day and night, practicing in the mirror. "Hark, the cannons!" He changed his inflection. "Hark! The cannons!" He was going to work unti it was just right. On the night of the show, just as it was time for his line, the cannon went "Boom!" and the boy said, "Holy S! What was that?"

That was me.

So anyway, I make this pledge every Little League season, and I'll share it (and hopefully fulfill it).

*There is no better teacher than the game itself. Let the game teach the kids. Let them make mistakes and learn from mistakes without beating them over the head over mistakes. Get it?

*Don't be a fixer during games. When a kid swings at a pitch over his head, he knows what he's done and doesn't need you yelling, "Johnny, that pitch was over your head!" Ditto, "Get your glove down!" after a ball has gone through a player's leg does not help. Teach in practice.

*Remain calm. Baseball is a game that requires WAY MORE confidence and relaxation than intensity. That's why it's so hard. If it was all about "want to" there'd be a lot more good players.

*Continue to encourage your kids to work hard, not so they'll be good baseball players, but just because any kind of hard work is good...and will help your kids feel better when they succeed.

*Remember, always, "The most important play in baseball is...the next play."

Here's to a great season.

Has it Been a Month?

2009-03-19T12:32:00.003-04:00

Funny thing is, I really like blogging, even if I know no one's reading...

But it's been more than a month since I last posted anything, and so much has happened. There are just so many topics that I want to throw against the wall. What better time than Noon, on Day One of March Madness, to let a few things fly...

1. Jeff-Bradley.com is now kid friendly. Caught my 10-year old son Beau reading the site a few days back. Now, it's been relatively clean, but he was a little too intrigued by the drunken photo of Matt Leinart that I've decided to keep it really clean from now on. At least until he's 11.

2. I've withdrawn from the Boston Marathon. After about seven weeks of good, hard training and a long-run of 18 miles, patella tendinitis got the best of me. I tried icing it, stretching it, resting it, but a month later, it still hurts a lot. As much as I want to run on April 20, it's not wise to go that distance just to say you did it. What really bums me out is that I actually enjoy the training -- the four-month process -- as much as Race Day. Oh well, 45...

3. Recession Proof? I was intrigued by an ad I heard on the radio the other day for Barbasol Shaving Cream. Now, I used Barbasol for many, many years, mainly because it cost 99 cents and -- this is huge -- you could literally use it until there was nothing left in the can. The commercial made it sound like a great product, but didn't hit upon those essentials. Of course, I was pretty well floored that I was hearing a radio ad for...Barbasol.

4. I hope you'll all read my forthcoming story on Manny Ramirez in ESPN The Magazine. Been a while since I've had a cover story, and I think this one's pretty good...especially for seamheads.

5. On Day One of March Madness I always long for the days before the shot clock. Back in the day, a 10-point lead in the first half actually got you hooked on a game. Now? A 10-point lead doesn't mean squat until the game's down to the final 4-5 minutes. If there's been a shot clock when I went to college -- Carolina from '83-'86), I'd have witnessed a national championship. Instead, I got to watch Jordon and Co. lose to Dan Dakich and Indiana.

6. I liked The Wrestler, but think it was a tad overrated.

7. I've officially got Chuck Knoblauch Disease. Well, at least I've got it when it comes to throwing batting practice to Little League players. A couple of years ago I hit a kid -- hit him pretty good -- and now I have trouble letting go of the baseball from more than 30 feet away. I really want to overcome this, but have a feeling it's not going to be so easy. Advice?

8. An artist named Grant Lee Phillips has a fantastic album of 80s covers out...it's called Nineteeneightees and includes songs like So. Central Rain, Love My Way, Under the Milky Way Tonight, The Killing Moon and Boys Don't Cry. I highly recommend it.

9. The World Baseball Classic is an event that I like, but I cannot help but think it could be so much better if it was played during a time when no one had to worry about pitch counts, etc. The unpredictable nature of baseball lends itself so well to a great international event. There's got to be a way the MLB owners can come up with a way that they make so much money off the event that they're willing to let their players -- pitchers especially -- play straight baseball. That said, how can you not love the emotion that the players display during these games?

10. I cannot believe my son Tyler is entering his final season of Little League baseball. Of course, right now it's killing him (and me) that he's unable to practice because he and his buddy crashed their bikes a couple of weeks ago and Tyler ended up with a fractured arm. Is it me, or are doctors a litltle too cast-happy these days? I don't remember so many kids walking around back in the 70s with casts. When I tried to convince the doc that Tyler could simply "wrap" his arm (I really wanted him to be able to wear a baseball glove), he gave me that look that said, "I'm dealing with one of those dads."

The Beautiful Game and Me...

2009-02-13T10:00:00.006-05:00

I love the game of soccer. Played a lot of it as a kid (not well), have coached a lot of it as an adult. And, for a pretty long spell at ESPN The Magazine and ESPN.com (from 1998 through the 2006 World Cup in Germany) wrote quite a bit about it.

Shortly after Germany, however, something changed. First of all, my brother Bob (older by six years, believe it or not, and known to his family as "Rob") became coach of the U.S. national team. While I never felt real conflicts covering American soccer while Bob was coaching in Major League Soccer -- the Chicago Fire, the MetroStars and Chivas USA -- when he became coach of the national team, I just felt there was no way I could cover the American game without sticking my nose in places where there'd be a clear conflict of interest. That only got more complicated when Bob's son Michael earned a spot on the team and became every American soccer fan's favorite debate-starter (that's a nice way of putting it).

Now, I've been fairly ripped in e-mails through the years for "favoring" Bob's teams in MLS. I always found it comical because I really went out of my way to not write anything about the Fire, MetroStars and Chivas USA. And when I did, I usually couched it, saying, "of course, when it comes to this team, I'm not 100-percent unbiased." Look, I root for Bob's teams. He's my brother and it's more important for me to be a good brother than a tough reporter. Plus, it's not like I've earned my living for the past 20 years as a soccer writer. I was at Sports Illustrated and covering the Yankees for the Daily News -- that ain't the bush leagues -- while Bob was plying his trade at Princeton.

Covering socccer was just something I enjoyed. Especially when it meant getting to travel to Milan to interiew Ronaldo in 1998. Getting to go to Liverpool for a story on 18-year old Michael Owen after the '98 World Cup. Writing about Manchester United's historic treble in 1999, covering the U.S. in their lead-up to the 2002 World Cup in Japan/South Korea (a World Cup I did not cover in person, by the way, because of baseball commitments). Writing about Landon Donovan and soccer in Brazil before the 2006 World Cup. And of course, getting to work in Germany, blogging daily and writing for The Mag, while stationed in Hamburg with the U.S.

Would I enjoy going back to covering American soccer on a regular basis? Sure, but knowing how hard my brother and nephew have worked to get where they've gotten, and knowing there's no way in hell I could watch them coach and play without 100-percent of my emotion tied up in it, I'm not sure how I can pull that one off. On Wednesday night in Columbus, in what was probably the biggest game of Bob and Michael's respective careers (until the next qualifier at least), I spent the night in the fetal position (exaggeration), with my face buried in a pillow (not so much an exaggeration) while chugging Maalox every 15 minutes. When the game was over, I allowed myself a few happy phone calls, a little on-line time to see who among my friends had messaged or emailed me, and then I started thinking like a damned coach. Next game...

Still, for what it's worth and to whomever may care, I'm contemplating a return in some form soon to covering American soccer...we shall see where that notion leads me.

A Leap of Faith for A-Fraud?

2009-02-10T15:33:00.004-05:00

Here's what A-Rod said, when asked if his HR numbers should count, should he some day pass Ruth, Aaron and Bonds*.

"You wanna throw 'em out?" says A-Rod. "Fine, throw 'em out. It was only those three years in Texas."

So now, because A-Roid has "come clean" -- not exactly spotlessly clean, mind you -- he expects us to take it at face value that he was, A. Clean in Seattle and, B. clean (including of HGH, which cannot be detected in a test) in New York. Yeah, Alex, we'll hop onboard.

A lot has happened during the A-Rod Era in New York. Too much to chronicle here. I mean, the nasty stripper in Toronto, Madonna (blech), his melt-downs under pressure...

Of course, nothing compares to Alex's greatest achievement, which is that he brought an end to the so-called Curse of the Bambino. Yep, soon as old Number 13 Alex "The Cooler" Rodriguez became a Yank, seemed all the Mystique and Aura and Ghosts of the Old Yankee Stadium left the building, and the Curse came to a screeching halt.

For me, I'm guessing the Ghosts of Ruth and Gehrig and Mantle took a hike when A-Roid decided, desperately, after getting sawed off by one Bronson Arroyo, in Game 6 of the 2004 ALCS, that he should turn into a punk Little Leaguer...no, that's too kind...a punk, stickball player in a pickup game that no one wanted him to be a part of...and took a slap at Arroyo.

It was total bush-league baseball, the kind of stuff a "True Yankee" would never even think of pulling, and I'm pretty sure the Curse ended right then and there. You decide to bring a rat (ok, a bigger rat than Reginald Martinez Jackson) into your organization and you pay the price.

Honestly, though, as a Red Sox fan, I absolutely pray that John Sterling is around to call the shot when A-Rod moves past Babe Ruth on the all-time Yankee home run list.

That will be priceless.

Oh, Alex

2009-02-10T15:30:00.002-05:00

Long Run Friday Set List

2009-02-07T07:37:00.003-05:00

Sometimes life gets in the way of training, so I had to cut Long Run Friday to 13 miles today (to St. Rose and Back). I had planned on going 16-18, oh well. I just want to thank my brother Scott for instilling in me a crazy fear of geese. Scott was attacked by a goose a few years back while running in Princeton. Actually had to body slam the dang thing after trying to kick it two or three times. Ever since he told me that story, whenever I run by geese (today I ran THROUGH hundreds in Spring Lake) the hair on the back of my neck stands up and I await a brawl.

Luckily, the geese left me alone today. My legs are not feeling so good lately. Knee pain, foot pain. Wondering if I've pushed too hard too soon? My weight is not dropping as I'd hoped and pigging out at Leggett's last night probably won't help. I'm about to go on (hopefully only) the 7-Day DL for something non-running-related (that's trainer speak), and I'm hoping those days off will help my body heal. April 21st seems like it's flying at me.

Here's The Long-Run Friday Song List...I put about 55% of it together myself and let the "Genius" do the rest. Not bad. Eventually I've got to dedicate myself to putting a real list up.

The Harder They Come, Jimmy Cliff
I Am A Patriot, Jackson Browne
I Miss You, Blink 182
I'm Shipping Up to Boston, Dropkick Murphys
Til Kingdom Come, Coldplay
Inside My Head, The Connells
American Girls, Counting Crows
A-Punk, Vampire Weekend
Back on the Chain Gang, The Pretenders
Born Under A Good Sign, Teenage Fanclub
Caravan, Van Morrison
Fort Hood, Mike Doughty
Hey Mockingbird, Dillon Fence
A Minor Incident, Badly Drawn Boy
Tiny Dancer, Ben Folds
Run, Ben Kweller
Rue De Lis, The Essex Green
Oxford Comma, Vampire Weekend
Off The Record, My Morning Jacket
Portions for Foxes, Rilo Kiley
Club Foot, Kasabian
Mr. Pitiful, Matt Costa
See The World, Gomez
Mansard Roof, Vampire Weekend
Catch My Disease, Ben Lee
Sweet Jane, The Velvet Underground
The Killing Moon, Echo and the Bunnymen
Banana Pancakes, Jack Johnson
I'm Amazed, My Morning Jacket
Saint Simon, The Shins
To Be Alone with You, Sufjan Stevens
Across the Universe, Rufus Wainwright

Remembering Ms. Tina Lane

2009-02-04T11:03:00.004-05:00

I guess this is the way I grieve. In a way, it makes sense. I am a writer, after all.

And I am a writer because of a woman named Tina Lane, who passed away on Monday...way too soon. So all I can do to honor and remember Ms. Lane is sit here this morning at my computer... and write.

I was telling an old friend this morning that I believe, 100 percent, that I could've worked my way through the ranks of my profession to my current position as a senior writer at ESPN The Magazine without a day of college. That's no knock on the UNC School of Journalism, which was fine, but more a knock on myself for being a slacker in college.

But it's also a credit to Ms. Lane, who taught journalism in High School.

I cannot name a single college professor who influenced my life. And, though it's 27 years since I graduated from West Essex High School, I can still recite Ms. Lane's aphorisms rapid-fire.

"Show don't tell."

"Maximize content, minimize words."

"If that's all you've got..."

"You've done the reporting. Now do some more."

And, I'm guessing, an expression that was probably more Jeff Bradley-specific.

"You want to put your name on that?"

Let it be known, that I was no prized pupil in Ms. Lane's journalism and creative writing classes. I was way more into playing baseball and soccer (which is funny, considering what a sub-mediocre player I was) than writing, but I was always captivated by Ms. Lane's teaching style.

OK, I confess, I was also captivated by Ms. Lane. She looked like a movie star and carried herself with more pure confidence than any teacher I'd ever laid my eyes on. I know I wasn't alone, having a little boy crush on Ms. Lane. Guys may not talk a lot about these things. But they talk.

It helped that Ms. Lane, back in the early 80s, was dating the coolest (and best) male teacher at West Essex, Mr. Montgomery, who taught history and political science. He was the male equivalent to Ms. Lane. Way cool, full of swagger, not afraid to tell you when you weren't getting the job done. Most of us figured T-Lane and Monty (nicknames you could call them to their faces) would get married some day. They did not.

Ms. Lane had a way of pushing me. At times, she used guilt to motivate me. "Look this over again, please, Jeffrey." Other times, she'd praise me, probably too much. "You have a gift, Jeffrey."

As my senior year was coming to an end, and we put the finishing touches on our final "Wessex Wire" -- I think it was some corny, Salute to Seniors thing that we passed out with everyone's yearbook -- I had the last of many heart-to-heart conversations I'd had with Ms. Lane in three long years at ol' W.E. "Not many people can make a living as a writer," I remember telling her. "Those who do, they're the gifted ones...not me."

While I can't remember exactly what Ms. Lane told me, I do recall she went back to the guilt theme. She said something like, "How dare you not believe me? I'm telling you, Jeffrey, you have the talent..."

To this day, I don't really think the word "talent" applies to me.

But how wonderful to know someone thought of me that way.

I Wish I Were Blind...Not Really, I Just Wish I Could Write...

2009-02-02T13:12:00.005-05:00

Write, like this..., that is...

My old friend Liz Clarke, from the UNC Journalism School...I haven't seen or spoken to her in over 20 years...spins this gem for the Washington Post Magazine.

She is, in my opinion, as real as it gets when you're talking about a Springsteen fan. I disagree with her regarding "Crush on You," a song I consider a decent frat-house rocker, but I happen to agree with almost everything she has to say in this piece, particularly the part about Bruce needing a thesaurus. I told a friend this week, after listening to Queen of the Supermarket that I believe Bruce must have writer's block, and that his pals must all be afraid of him, because a real friend wouldn't have allowed this song out in public.

As for the halftime show, it was fine. It was for all those bubble-gum fans from 1984-on, who scream "Dancing in the Dark!" and "Rosalita" all night long, even when they're at an all-acoustic show on the Boardwalk in Asbury Park and have been told up-front by Bruce himself that it's going to be a night for slower, quiet music...

Call me a snob, but I have little tolerance for those who want to go see an Oldies Act. There's a band called Backstreets, a Beatlemania type act, here at the Shore...go see them.

To Tillie's Place, Long Run Friday Set LIst

2009-01-30T14:57:00.008-05:00

Prove it All Night, Leah, The Rising, Youngstown, Jackson Cage, The Price You Pay, Brilliant Disguise, Sandy, If I Should Fall Behind (Live), We Shall Overcome, One Step Up, You Can Look (But you Better not Touch), Independence Day, Thunder Road, Badlands, Long Time Comin', Mary's Place, Land of Hope and Dreams (Live), Sinaloa Cowboys, Man's Job, The Ties That Bind, Tougher Than The Rest, The E Street Shuffle, Tenth Avenue Freezeout (Live), Surprise Surprise, Incident on 57th Street, Rosalita, New York City Serenade.

This is part of my Springsteen Stimulus Package...an all Bruce set list for my run to Convention Hall and back today, 18 miles with the wind in my face all the way home. Mind over matter...

It's been a bad week for me and Bruce. You're probably all too aware. But this is how I bury the hatchet on our differences, by celebrating the songs that have been the soundtrack to my life (I even threw in one from the new CD). A lot of my friends think I worship Bruce. Nah. In the business I've been in for the last 20 years, sitting and talking to so many people who've been worshiped by so many, I know better. He's just a guy who fell in love with the guitar and poetry and had the ambition to be great. If he wasn't recongized at the right time, he might be playing at O'Neill's tonight, or reading poetry in some coffee shop, or better yet, looking to kick his feet up on a Friday night after a long week of work.

An Aside: Here's what I mean. I covered Don Mattingly for four years and most of my friends thought Donnie was a god. They'd ask me all the time, "What's he like? What's he like? Good guy? Bad Guy?" My answer was stock. If he didn't hit and field quite as well as he does, he could've been your gym teacher, putting a mark in a book if you forgot your locker combination or weren't wearing a jock. Just a dude. Hits better than you. But just a dude.

But no, Bruce is playing the Super Bowl. Speaking of which...earlier in the week, I said I was undecided how I felt about Bruce doing half-time. Upon further review...

I'm down on it. I'll watch, but I'm down on it. I dunno, part of me still rebels against the whole idea that Bruce plays concerts in football stadiums at all. Brings back memories of him pumping iron and wearing tight jeans and kinda deserting his old self, the skinny hippy dude who lived above the surfboard repair shop in Asbury Park. Stadium rocker? Blech. Have fun, Bruce.

Time for me to move on. I was just genuinely excited for this album drop because, well, because I loved The Wrestler and I figured when I heard that, Bruce was in a good writing place. Man, was I wrong. Seriously, I had a poetry professor at Carolina, Jim Seay (I think it was Jim). Dude wore an eye patch like a pirate (I have no idea why, but I think he chose the patch over a glass eye, or at least that was the legend). I think what Seay would've done with Queen of the Supermarket and, man, it wouldn't have been pretty. Seay would've spit it out.

And, remember, Seay was teaching poetry to a bunch of hungover college kids.

PS: I could not care less about the Super Bowl. Unless it involved the Giants, which excites my dad and my brother, I don't get into it. Like the halftime show, I'll watch it...

But I doubt I'll enjoy it. Hope ya'll do.

An Open Letter to the President of the United States

2009-01-28T15:27:00.006-05:00

Dear Barack,

I'm going to keep this informal, because it's about Rock and Roll, okay? First off, I'm going to call you out, 'cause I read in Rolling Stone where you said your favorite Bob Dylan song was "Maggie's Farm" and, well, no one's favorite Dylan song is "Maggie's Farm." I mean, I'm not sure it makes anyone's Top 10. Mr. Tambourine Man. Blowin' in the Wind. A Simple Twist of Fate. The Times They Are A-Changing, Forever Young. Do I need to go further? Ballad of a Thin Man (now THAT would've been a good call, Barack). Knockin' on Heaven's Door. So, I'm calling BS on Maggie's Farm, ok? You just should've said, "I wasn't into Dylan."

Instead you went "Maggie's Farm." Please.

But I'm willing to forgive and forget.

If...if...if you can sit down with your buddy Bruce Springsteen and bring him back to earth. Listen, I voted for you, but do not worship you. The way I look at it, you're just another dude with a chance to run the show for a while. I wish you luck. But, in the process of winning this election, you befriended a bunch of stars, who backed you and, somehow, somewhere, I'm not sure why, but we lost the Bruce Springsteen we all have known and loved for the last 30-plus years. I need no more evidence than the disaster of an album he released yesterday.

I'm blaming you, Barack, for Working on a Dream. Probably not 100 percent fair, but you're the new man in charge and sometimes it's tough in the Big Chair. I bet it was you who convinced him that whistling, not a Clarence Clemons solo, was the way to go on the title track.

Am I right?

While Bruce was out working for you, playing The Rising acoustic (that was good, by the way) and We Shall Overcome (tears in my eyes), you should've been reminding him, "Bruce, I'm way ahead in this race, bud, you better get back to work on that album of yours, bro. 'Cause, honestly, that Queen of the Supermarket deal? I mean, you couldn't have pulled that crap off when you were young and singing about Crazy Janey putting her fingers in the cake."

Make it right, Barack. Talk to Bruce and tell him to get back in the freaking studio and write some songs around the immense talents of the E Street Band. Rock songs. Guitars and drums, sax and, for god's sake, put Roy Bittan back to work on the piano! Danny Federici has already died, which broke our hearts, and no one in the band's getting any younger. An Obama Presidency was supposed to make Bruce happy, not turn him into some late 50s perv hanging out in the Rumson Shop-Rite (thanks, Bob F) ogling the checkout girls. So while we don't expect Darkness on the Edge of Town, is it too much to ask for some songs like Sherry Darling, Cadillac Ranch, You Can Look...sheez, I'd take Mary's Place...anything. I'm begging.

Bruce lives around the corner from me. I'm on the other side of the trestles, but you know what I mean. He and his kid surf at our beach and we leave him alone to enjoy the time. That's the way we like it. Just a normal guy ("There I was, one night, just a normal guy...") Most of us wish we were his friend. But we respect him and leave him alone.

But you are his friend, right? Or is that more Maggie's Farm bull-junk? No, no, I'm not going to call you out again. Just bring back our old Bruce, because real Bruce fans, we don't want to join the idiots at the live shows calling out for all the old stuff.

We just want some new stuff that rocks.

Thanks dude, your fellow American,

Brads

The Worst Springsteen Song EVER

2009-01-28T08:15:00.004-05:00

Hey, Jeff Bradley here.

That's me, at a Bruce show last summer at Giants Stadium. I've been to over 100 in my lifetime, starting back in 1980 at MSG. I consider myself a worthy judge of all things Springsteen...and like most zealots I've cut Bruce much slack through the years. For example, I kept Devils and Dust in my car's CD player for a good month before finally telling a friend (privately), "it kinda sucks, except for maybe four songs."

Anyway, I'm taking off the gloves today. And here's what I'm sayin'...

See ya, Cover Me. Adios, 57 Channels and Nothing On.

You're now safe, Big Muddy, Last to Die and Gypsy Biker.

You're off the hook boys...as of January 27th, there's a new worst Bruce song.

Here it is, folks.

Queen of the Supermarket

There's a wonderful world where all you desire
And everything you've longed for is at your fingertips
Where the bittersweet taste of life is at your lips
Where aisles and aisles of dreams await you
And the cool promise of ecstasy fills the air
At the end of each working day she's waiting there

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
As the evening sky turns blue
A dream awaits in aisle number two

With my shopping cart I move through the heart
Of a sea of fools so blissfully unaware
That they're in the presence of something wonderful and rare
The way she moves behind the counter
Beneath her white apron her secret remains hers
As she bags the groceries her eyes so bored
And sure she's unobserved

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
There's nothing I can say
Each night I take my groceries and I drift away
And I drift away

Guidance from the gods above
At night I pray for the strength to tell her
When I love I love I love I love her so
Take my place in the check-out line
For one moment her eyes meet mine
I'm lifted up, lifted up, lifted up, lifted up

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
Though her company cap covers her hair
Nothing can hide the beauty waiting there
The beauty waiting there

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket

As I lift my groceries in to my car
I turn back for a moment and catch a smile
That blows this whole fucking place apart

I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket
I'm in love with the Queen of the Supermarket

Working on 3 or 4 Songs worth Listening To

2009-01-27T08:42:00.010-05:00

There is no bigger Bruce Springsteen fan than Jeff Bradley (referring to myself in third person, suh-weet). Go ahead, ask around, if you don't believe me. I once took a week off from classes at UNC to follow Bruce around the Southeast, with no tickets.

A girl named Liz Clarke (now a fantastic sportswriter for the Washington Post) and I would walk around various arenas until showtime, searching for bargains and, if all else failed, Liz had a trick that almost always seemed to work. She knew when and where the band's unused tickets would be released. It was genius, pure genius. Liz was cool...a bigger junky than I was (and talks to Joe Posnanski about it here), if that's possible, and she knew bigger junkies than both of us combined. Fun times.

Why did we want to go to so many shows? Simple. Because it seemed (I'm not sure anymore if it's reality) that every Bruce show was different.

I've remained loyal. When Bruce releases a new CD (yeah, I still call them "albums"), I am there to buy it (or download it), on Day One. Even when it's one of those somber, mostly acoustic deals like the Ghost of Tom Joad or Devils and Dust, I buy it soon as it hits the shelves...or soon as the link shows up at the Itunes Store.

So here I sit today, listening to Working on a Dream, Bruce's latest...which is being released just prior to his appearance at the Super Bowl. Going on a tangent here, I don't know how I feel about Bruce doing halftime...I mean, we used to applaud when Bruce turned down the big bucks Chrysler was offering him to use Born in the USA as a jingle. We even used to cheer Bruce for not "selling out" by doing music videos...or appearing in music videos after he did Atlantic City...then came the Dancing in the Dark and Courteney Cox...and, well, we accepted it. Not sure we liked it, but we accepted it. It actually got bad for a while with a cheezy vid for I'm on Fire (where Bruce attempted to act), but, hey, it was Bruce...so you put up with it, I guess.

Back to Working on a Dream. Seems Bruce has gotten all into altering his voice with electronics (I'm no sound tech, but it's clearly nothing like the raw stuff back in the The River era), and a lot of heavy production. Whatever, I'm down with it. It's cool. It's the songs that leave me begging.

The first song, Outlaw Pete, is a "Western Ballad" (at least that's what I'm calling it) that, at eight minutes, seems to last too long. And this criticism from a guy who gets ticked off when I hear Incident on 57th Street and Rosalita does not immediately follow it, providing me with the full 12-minute experience. I'm all about the 15-minute version of Racing in the Street that Bruce used to do on the '78 Darkness Tour...Love Prove it All Night with a four-minute piano intro...etc. Outlaw Pete, however...I kinda wanted it to end at four minutes. Drone, drone, Outlaw Pete, Outlaw Pete...Can You Hear Me?...Can You Hear Me? Unfortunately, yes.

The next two songs you've heard already. My Lucky Day and Working on a Dream. I have to say, My Lucky Day is a good rocker, and I really like the Miss Soozie Tyrell violin...no complaints. Working on a Dream lost me with the whistling part. Is it too much to ask for a Clarence Clemons solo here, or maybe some harmonica? OK, it's a decent little pop song, obviously linked to Bruce's man crush on Barack Obama, but a Bruce Classic it's not. It's a B-minus song.

At this point, Bruce throws at you perhaps the most ridiculous song I've ever heard from the man. Queen of the Supermarket. Just brutal. It's a song about some dude obsessing over the checkout girl at the local A&P. And at the end, Bruce throws in his second-recorded F-bomb. And it basically comes out of nowhere. This, I don't get. I mean, Bruce had 1,000 times the raw emotion when he sang Streets of Fire or Adam Raised a Cain...and never needed an F-bomb.

The next few songs -- What Love Can Do, This Life and Good Eye -- just nothing I'll want to continue listening to. I'm hitting the skip button in my car and the FF button on my ipod. Sorry. Come to think of it, I'm deleting it from my ipod. It's going the way of Spare Parts and 57 Channels and Nothing On and Last to Die...see ya.

It gets better with a 2-minute 17-second ditty, Tomorrow Never Knows, which I like a lot. Just a good little Bruce tune, an album tune, not a tune people will clamor for live...but a good tune. Let me see if I can type the word "tune" one more time. Tune.

Skip Life Itself. It's been getting play on E Street Radio..and it's just not good. Kingdom of Days sounds like an outtake from Magic, which is not a bad thing. I'll call it a keeper. I also like Surprise, Surprise, which also reminds me of a Magic song...think Girls in Their Summer Clothes..and has nice 60s, Byrds-like, harmonies. Good, solid stuff.

The Last Carnival...hey, it ain't Wild Billy's Circus Story, but it's a nice song. This one I'll keep on the ipod and add to some of my chill mixes. Have a feeling this one will grow on me, the same way Drive All Night and Something in the Night and Further On Up The Road evolved from songs I liked to songs I loved over the course of time.

And, of course, the best track on the whole CD is the title-song Bruce wrote for the Mickey Rourke movie, The Wrestler. It's quite simply a song that helps me keep the faith that Bruce can produce music worth listening to as he nears 60 years... This song actually put a lump in my throat similar to the lump I used to get hearing Bruce dedicate No Surrender to Steve Van Zandt back on the Born In the USA Tour...and then he'd play No Surrender solo acoustic.

Honestly, E Street Radio has probably made "new" Bruce music a harder sell for me. When I get random live shows like Live From St. Rose of Lima School in Freehold, and random jolts of The Price You Pay and Independence Day and Atlantic City live...man, Bruce, you set the bar high. Now, I feel compelled to type the word "random" again. Random.

I'll buy the next album, I'm sure...but the days of dropping the needle (or hitting play) and just rolling with it for 45 minutes to two hours...I guess they're gone.

To the Bridge (Long Run Friday Set List)

2009-01-24T07:58:00.006-05:00

I'm a day late with my Long Run Friday song-list, but here 'tis. This week, I relied on the "Party Shuffle" mechanism on Itunes. After hitting refresh a good dozen times, I was satisifed that these songs would get me through a 15 mile run to the Mantoloking Bridge and Back.

Training is getting better. As I glanced at my reflection in the Martell's Tiki Bar windows on the Point Pleasant boardwalk, I thought I looked a lot more like a runner than I looked three weeks ago. Better stride, less jiggle.

The home stretch was difficult, as always, and the thought of tacking another 11 miles onto this distance, right now, seems ridiculous. From doing this five times before, I know that will change if I stick to the program. A month from now, as I begin to stretch long runs to 20 miles and beyond, it won't seem this bad.

During my two-hour, 10-minute journey today I thought a lot about baseball and how I'm starting to fall back in love with the game. I openly admit, the steroid mess hit me hard, probably because I (and many of my colleagues) knew perfectly well what was going on, and beat my head against the wall trying to figure out the best way to tell the story to America. In 2000, two years after the Mac and Sammy Freak Show Tour, I got this story published in ESPN The Magazine and it barely caused a ripple. At that point, even though I knew there'd come a day when this was the biggest story in baseball, I threw in the towel and basically became disgusted with the game.

But, finally, I'm getting over it. I have to credit having two sons who love baseball with the re-kindling that's going on. Working with them on the skills of the game, talking about our favorite players (this guy is the current guy in our house), basically, re-living my childhood, when the game was EVERYTHING, is helping me move on. I am really looking forward to spring training this year. And I haven't said that in a number of years.

Anyway, here's the music that moved me (and a few comments)...

Cigarette Eyes, Matt Costa...if you don't know Matt Costa, you must check him out.
If We Can Land A Man On The Moon, Surely I Can Win Your Heart, Beulah
Pretty Pink Rose, Ashton Allen
The Road, Jackson Browne...memories of Al Bartello singing this in the West Essex Talent Show.
Born To Run (live), Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band...far from my favorite Bruce tune.
The First Time, U2
The Harder They Come, Jimmy Cliff...the first song on a sublime mix tape I made in college, called Old, New, Borrowed and Blue...could've been called, "Music to Beer Pong To."
Hello It's Late, Stone Temple Pilots
Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head, Ben Folds...Ben does Burt Bacharach, really good stuff.
Leah, Bruce Springsteen...wish I could play this on my acoustic, dammit.
Airlift, The Connells
House Of Sand, Simon Lynge
Los Angeles, Counting Crows...beware, my party shuffle is about to go into Adam Duritz Overload.
Minutes To Memories, John Mellencamp...the only Cougar song on my ipod.
Far Far Away From My Heart, BoDeans
I Need Direction, Teenage Fanclub...Love this band and everything they sing.
Mr. Jones (acoustic, live), Counting Crows...ok, this CC song, I can listen to every day.
Soon We'll Be Found, Sia...weird for a running mix, but what a voice.
No Surrender (live acoustic), Bruce Springsteen...this song once made me cry.
It's Different For Girls (Live), Joe Jackson...sixth and Seventh grade memories, how's that possible?
Somebody's Baby (Live acoustic), Jackson Browne...Fast Times scene, anyone?
Usually, Traschan Sinatras...a 90s MetroSexual band introduced to me by A's GM Billy Beane.
When I Dream of Michelangelo, Counting Crows...ok, enough.
He Said, She Said, Bell X1
Listen to Me Girl, Smithereens...like baseball, I'm rekindling with the Smithereens lately.
Shooting Star, Elliott Smith...this dude died too soon, great songwriter, guitarist.
What If We Give It Away?, REM...anyone who went to college in the South in the 80s loves REM, or they do not hang with me.
I Can't Stand Up For Falling Down, Elvis Costello
Love Needs A Heart, Jackson Browne
Daring Night, Van Morrison...sing it, Van, bring me home.
Used To Love Her, Guns N Roses...a smile to my face at the end of a looooooooooong run.

Wishing Everyone A Life-Changing Day

2009-01-20T11:12:00.007-05:00

My two-year old yellow lab got hit by a car yesterday. Chased a snowball thrown by my son right into the street. Thankfully, she escaped with only cuts and bruises. We were lucky.

Lucky to still have our dog. Lucky to not have to console a 12-year old boy and his 10-year old brother. Lucky to have survived such a scare, and lucky to have the chance to learn from a mistake.

In the past couple of years, I've dealt with other scary things. Health scares involving loved ones. Thankfully, everything's all right. I watched one of my bothers -- the hardest-working of all the Bradleys -- lose his job because of some nimrod boss. Watched as he had to pack up his family and move across the country.

I live every day, wondering how I'll be able to keep my boys on the right path. Wondering how a parent is supposed to deal with something like the internet, much less drugs and alcohol.

I wonder how, with all that's happened in the past year to our money (not just "ours" but everyone's retirement money and investments), I'm going to be able to educate my boys the way my parents educated me. I hope and pray every single day that I'm not going to be the next casualty as I watch so many colleagues lose their jobs.

I've got a lot on my plate. More than I can possibly control, but I view it as my job to do my best to look after those I love...and those who've loved me. That, in itself, is what occupies my brain.

And, what's the point of this rambling note? Well, I'm happy for everyone who's getting all teary-eyed over today's inaugural. I can appreciate the history that's taking place. From what I've heard, Barack Obama is an amazing speaker. From what I've read, he's a brilliant writer.

But I just don't see how my life changes all that much today. I don't see how Obama will be any better at keeping me and my family going than George Bush was. I mean, how's Obama going to keep my dog from running into the street. Simple answer is, he can't.

I guess there's a chance down the road I'll feel differently, if Obama ends the war in Iraq, keeps my boys from having to deal with a draft 5-7 years from now. That's why I voted for him.

But as of today, unlike so much of the country, who are rejoicing as if our retirement money's all going to re-appear tomorrow and our jobs are going to be safer, I'm in "wait-and-see" mode. I seriously hope that Obama turns out to be the greatest president in the history of our country.

And if everyone else I know sees their life change for the better after 12 noon today, than I'm happy for you. And that's sincere.

I don't know. I just feel like I've got to keep an eye on my own. Same as yesterday.

Heavy Hearted

2009-01-16T15:35:00.005-05:00

This morning, I received an email that was so very sad. The best teacher I ever had has fallen ill and is seeking help. I feel so powerless, I don't know what to say.

Ms. Lane, my high school journalism teacher, has Stage IV ovarian cancer. What's more, she recently left my old high school -- and teaching -- to become an administrator at a different school. She's non-tenured, already out of sick days, and trying to figure out how to cope with it all.

I saw Ms. Lane recently, at my induction into the West Essex High School Hall of Academic Distinction. Go ahead and laugh. I did, too, when Ms. Lane called me a couple of years ago to tell me she wanted to nominate me for the Hall. "I'm a sportswriter," I said. "You're joking, right?"

Turns out, Ms. Lane was not joking. She told me she'd followed my career (I hate even calling it my "career"...it's my job), from Sports Illustrated to the New York Daily News to ESPN The Magazine and she had shown her journalism students my work through the years.

She nominated me...and I was inducted.

And when I saw her in October at the banquet, man, was she proud. She introduced herself to my wife, gave her a hug, asked to see pictures of my children. She hugged my parents.

She told me (I graduated more than 20 years ago) that she regretted not nominating me for some senior award. I told her I had no idea what she was talking about. We both laughed.

It was so humbling, really. It's a long time ago, high school, but Ms. Lane was, let's just say, the only teacher who convinced me I could do this...do what I do...for a living. She didn't just talk it, either. She was our school newspaper advisor and she pushed me to make my stories better. To do more reporting. To write more vividly. "You're happy with that?" she'd ask, often, when she knew I'd mailed it in. So, it was back to work, trying to make the story...the paper...better.

The two or three of us who actually cared about the paper would work odd hours, trying to make deadlines. Ms. Lane was not averse to coming to school on the weekends to hammer things out. She would guide us well-past the hours when everyone else had gone home. She didn't have to.

Ms. Lane was also the teacher who took the time to ask me about things other than my grades. She wanted to know what, exactly, it was that I was looking for in college...and in life. I told her I wanted to write...maybe books...maybe for a newspaper...maybe a magazine...of course, I had my doubts. I was no ace. Certainly not one of the "gifted and talented" ones. Just a kid who liked sports and words who wondered if there was any way... Nah, it was a pipe dream. Right?

"If I were to tell you anything," Ms. Lane wrote in my yearbook, "I would tell you to work hard at what you enjoy. I hope to see your name in print, Jeff. May you possess all of the earth and the sun. There are millions of suns left."

I pray now that there are millions of suns left for Ms. Lane, as well.

If you care to know how you can help out, please get in touch with me.

ShoreBrads@aol.com

Long Run Set List

2009-01-16T15:23:00.005-05:00

I did not have the patience to create a long (two-hour) song list today, so instead I went for a theme. It was "All or Something...or Nothing"...from my ipod.

Here it is.

All Good Things, Jackson Browne.
All Her Favorite Fruite, Camper Van Beethoven
All I Needed Was You, Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes
All In My Head, Shawn Mullins
All My Life, Echo and the Bunnymen
All Night Long, Southside
All or Nothin' At All, Marshall Crenshaw (Springsteen Cover)
All Possibilities, Badly Drawn Boy
All Sinks In, The Connells
All Systems Red, Calexico
All That Heaven Will Allow, Bruce Springsteen
All the Dark Horses, Trashcan Sinatras
All the Small Things, Blink-182
All the Time in the World, The Connells
All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands, Sufjan Stevens
All the Way Home, Bruce Springsteen ((great, little-known song)
All the Way Home, Southside (Bruce Cover of great, little-known song)
All Too Much, Gomez
Something to Say, Ashton Allen
Something to Say, The Connells
Something Fine, Jackson Browne
Something For You, Dillon Fence
Something in the Night, Aram (Bruce Cover)
Something in tne Night, Bruce Springsteen
Something New, The Smithereens
Something Pretty, Patrick Park
Something So Strong, Crowded House (still an 80s guy from time to time)
Something to Talk About, Badly Drawn Boy
Nothing, Nada Surf
Nothing But Time, Jackson Browne (bookends)

As for the run, not much to say other than I got it done...14 miles, 14 degrees. To Avon and back, snotsicles hanging, face stinging. I think I'm down about five pounds in two weeks. I need to drop another 10 lbs. to be really equipped to run well in Boston.

The key, as always, is not to use all the miles as an excuse to eat everything in sight. That's tough, as is the fact that I've gone beerless for more than a week. I cannot remember the last time I went a week without enjoying a cold beer. Maybe I'll break down tonight.

My Hate List

2009-01-09T12:34:00.006-05:00

An hour and 48 minutes is a long time to run and a lot of time to think about all the things you hate. On my journey to Belmar and Back today, here's what came to mind.

I hate being out of shape. This is the No. 1 thought I have every time I begin to train for a marathon. Why didn't I just maintain? If I'd just continued on the right path of diet and running, I'd not feel so god-awful right now.

I hate being so uncool. But I hate even more when uncool people (like me) try to be cool. I think it goes along with my age (45). I mean, as much as I can buy the right jeans, the right shoes, the right shirt, it is sometimes impossible to pull it all off. I've got buddies who still dress like we did in college, crotch-hugging jeans and all, and...well...that doesn't work, either.

I hate that I look older than my age. My wife (who looks 25) asked a little girl the other day to "guess how old Mr. Bradley is." The kid replied, "50?" I'm not going to argue with the kid. I look every bit of 50. But, I'd rather have gray hair and look older than my age, than look like Bob Costas, Dan Patrick or any of those other dye-jobbers who look like complete fools. Oh yeah, add to my hate list...I hate people who say, "I've just got good genes!" Keep it to yourself.

I hate that I can't decide if I'm old school, or new school. I think I'm old school with my kids. Make them do their chores, keep a tight leash on 'em, etc. But I think, in general terms, I'm more new school. I prefer new music to classic rock. I am bored watching athletes who are described as "fundamentally sound." Yet, at the same time, I want Carolina to pull back a little from this Loyola-Marymount brand of ball they're playing the last few years. I'm confused.

I hate that I cannot play the guitar for beans. I've been banging around on a guitar for about five years now and I still cannot play anything but the most basic chords, and I can't play those all that convincingly, either. Along the same lines, I hate that I can't speak Spanish, especially when I feel I've put in a fairly good effort to learn the language.

I hate that I can't solve my dad's computer problems over the phone. Yeah, got back from my run and the phone rings and my dad wants to know what's wrong with his printer.

I hate that I'm hungry 24 hours a day. I am five-foot-six but can eat as much as an NFL lineman. How is this fair? I'm a little man. I should, therefore, have a size-appropriate appetite.

I hate when my whole family wants it to snow. You love the snow so much, let's see you all grabbing shovels tomorrow if the forecast is correct. I love New Jersey, love the change of seasons, but a winter with zero accumulation does not bother me in the least.

I hate what's going on in the newspaper business right now. Before our very eyes, an American institution is crumbling. An American institution that I have been a part of for, get this, more than 30 years. Yeah, I count my days of calling in high school games, my days writing stories for the Caldwell Progress (my mom did the typing) and even my days of swapping stories for lift tickets when I was working for the Olympic Committee in Lake Placid, N.Y. As great as the internet has been for so many things, it could very well make newspapers obsolete.

I hate Oprah. No explanation necessary. Of course, you could read further down the blog.

Long Run Friday Set-List

2009-01-09T11:45:00.004-05:00

The Genius once again provided an interesting set-list for my 12-mile run today. We keyed all off of Conor Oberst (pictured) and let it fly from there. Next week, I plan to take the time to create my own song list as I am not sure I consider the Genius to be even "gifted and talented." Have a look.

Conor Oberst, Danny Callahan
Calexico, Yours and Mine
The National, Ada
Griffin House, Let Me In
Ashton Allen, Dew Drops
The Beautiful Girls, I Need To Give This Broken Heart Away
Mike Doughty, Fort Hood
Patti Scialfa, Play Around
Vampire Weekend, I Stand Corrected
The New Pornographers, Streets of Fire
Ben Kweller, Family Tree
Matt Costa, Never Looking Back
Calexico, Two Silver Trees
Josh Ritter, Wings
Conor Oberst, Eagle on a Pole
Griffin House, Burning Up The Night
Counting Crows, On A Tuesday in Amsterdam
Neutral Milk Hotel, Two-Headed Boy
Marah, Angels on a Passing Train
Graham Parker, I Discovered America
Calexico, Lucky Dime
The Walkmen, In the New Year
Devotchka, Too Tired
Shout Out Louds, Impossible

At this point...the Genius list ran out...so I hit "Shuffle Songs," which seems to be every bit the genius...

10,000 Maniacs, Don't Go Back to Rockville
The Sundays, Love
Los Lobos, One Time One Night
U2, New Year's Day

Spam of the Day

2009-01-07T15:19:00.005-05:00

Got one today with the following subject line:

#1 Diet Recommended by Oprah in 2008!

The next line is, "Flush Out Up To 20 Pounds of Toxic Sludge and Undigested Food With The Acai Slim Diet. Oprah Approved!"

I don't even need to get into it, but did anyone get a look at Oprah in 2008? Not exactly what I'd call a career year in dieting for the Big O. I would say she digested more "toxic sludge" than she eliminated. In fact, recently, she's been talking about how depression drove her back to the Fudge Stripe cookies. What's funnier? The fact that Oprah's fat, or that she's depressed? People are losing their jobs all over this country and Oprah's depressed. Classic.

Are you going to care what diets she's recommending?

Anyone really looking to yo-yo for the next 15 years? It's bad enough that people buy books she recommends, even when they're full of lies!

Oh, by the way, my wife worships Oprah. Blech.

And He's Out of the Gates...

2009-01-02T14:00:00.003-05:00

So, training for Boston began in earnest today.

My friend (and former professional marathoner) Nick gave me my marching orders for January and today he called for "12 miles at a pleasant pace" (u should be able to hold a conversation during the run, nothing fast.) So that's what I set out to do...

I've done a few seven and eight-mile runs recently, so I've been building up slowly for January.

Since I don't have one of those fancy pedometers, I base everything on a 9-minute pace (in reality, I probably train at 8:15-8:30), and since I was told to run comfortably, I felt that 9:00 was a safe guess. So, I ran for precisely one hour and 48 minutes, which I assume got me to 12.

It was cold and pretty windy outside and a check of weather.com showed me that the wind was out of the South/Southwest, so that meant I would South to begin, so the wind could blow me up the coast on the way home. That's my typical approach and the main reason is, if you run with the wind at your back you will work up a good sweat, even on a cold day, and if you turn back into the wind you freeze your butt off. I know this from firsthand experience.

So, today's route was Manasquan, over the bridge to Point Pleasant to Bay Head to the Mantoloking line. Back up the coast, up the Point Pleasant Boardwalk, back over the bridge and home. It was not pretty, people. As the process continues, I will be able to share the thoughts that crossed my mind on a run. Today, I can just tell you that it hurt...a lot. My feet, my legs, my back. I caught a glimpse of myself in the long windows in front of Jenkinson's and I was pretty much a fat load moving along like a sloth. Embarrassing. Pitiful. This is the way it always starts.

I blogged a while back that I've added an ipod to my training (after years of resisting) and I'll share the songs that came out of a "genius" playlist that was songs "linked to" Semi-Charmed Kind of Life by Third Eye Blind. Now, before people start trashing my taste in music, this is not my playlist, but the playlist of the little "genius" inside my new ipod. As you will see all the "Genius" does is choose songs from a similar genre and era. Hence, a lot of 90s tunes.

1. Semi-Charmed Kind of Life, Third Eye Blind.
2. One Headlight , The Wallflowers.
3. Run-Around, Blues Traveler.
4. Two Princes, Spin Doctors.
5. Hey Jealousy, Gin Blossoms.
6. Let Her Cry, Hootie and the Blowfish.
7. When I Come Around, Green Day.
8. Linger, The Cranberries.
9. You Were Meant for Me, Jewel. (yeah, I know)
10. Interstate Love Song, Stone Temple Pilots.
11. Stay (I Missed You), Lisa Loeb and Nine Stories (yeah, again)
12. Look What You've Done, JET.
13. Jumper, Third Eye Blind.
14. Hands Down, Dashboard Confessional.
15. Buddy Holly, Weezer.
16. Runaway Train, Soul Asylum.
17. Sixth Aveneue Heartache, The Wallflowers.
18. Basket Case, Green Day.
19. A Long December, Counting Crows.
20. Dreams, The Cranberries.
21. Who Will Save Your Soul, Jewel (Dammit!)

At that point, the ipod went off, not sure why...so I ended up with a chosen song.

22. Moab, Conor Oberst.

Any of my music-loving friends can feel free to suggest songs as this endeavor continues. I'll post my "set lists" from every Long Run Friday. I need to go weigh myself. And take a nap.

It Was a Good Year, After All

2008-12-31T09:18:00.012-05:00

What good does it do to whine?

Sure, nearly half of our retirement savings is gone. Yeah, the value of our house -- once our "Can you believe what our house is worth?" dream-come-true -- ain't what it used to be. We just spent more than we (translated, "I") wanted on Christmas presents for our spoiled kids, but...

It's all good. And, yeah, I know "it's all good" is so 2006...

In 2008, I got to spend so much time with my family. What's better than that? OK, so I'm mad at my buddies for not planning a golf trip.

I got to coach both of my sons baseball teams. Got to see almost every one of their soccer games, too. I got to caddy four times for Tyler on the U.S. Kids Tour (his final year on that Tour).

Watched Tyler and Beau's teams win "town" Little League titles. And Beau's All-Star team won District 11. I had the honor of managing Tyler's 11-year old All-Stars and, even as we bowed out in three games in the Districts, we took part in three of the craziest baseball games ever. As my pal Tim Kurkjian likes to say, "You can watch a baseball game every day and still see something you've never seen before." Our loss to North Wall and our win over Ocean were proof of that.

I got trounced by both boys (10 and 12) in our Five-Mile Turkey Trot. Not even close to either.

I got to play a good amount of golf with my dad...something I treasure so much. And my dad also got to play quite a few times with Tyler, something Pops treasures, I'm sure. I was also happy when my dad accepted new irons for his birthday. Usually, Pops says, "I don't need new irons" and asks us to return them.

I took Tyler on an assignment, to beautiful Akron, Ohio...and he thought it was "awesome." I think what he thought was really awesome was that, for three days, he ate like a sportswriter.

Linda and I renovated our house (see before and after), turning it into our dream house. Now, we just have to pay for it. A minor detail.

We all got to see my nephew Michael score against Bayern Munich on television (that's him below). That was a great moment.

And we were able to get all the Bradleys together (Mom, Dad...Scott and Mary and Kevin, Kyle and Scotty...Rob and Lindsay and Michael, Kerry and Ryan)...along with me, Linda, Tyler and Beau...for Christmas.

That day alone made 2008 a great year.

Here's to 2009.

Nearing the End

2008-12-19T12:00:00.002-05:00

Well, I'm getting down to the final couple of days of this fantastic journey to Hull and back. Don't expect anything well-worded or cogent at this point as my focus is on the words that will matter.

Still, I feel the need to let a few thoughts fly.

1. It's very difficult to eat in pubs in this part of England. Even places that advertise "Food All Day" look at you cross-eyed when you try to interrrupt their pint business. And, honestly, when I'm in a place where NO ONE is eating, I am usually not going to step up and ask for a menu.

2. This is my fifth hotel on this trip. And it is the fifth time I've struggled with getting the temperature right for a shower/bath. Now, before anyone thinks I chose a bath on purpose, you should know that my last stop was at a fantastic Bed and Breakfast in the wonderful town of Beverley. All that was missing from my cozy room was a shower. Wish I had some Mr. Bubble.

3. We speak the same language, yet we don't speak the same language. Just had some Fish and Chips in a place that's mostly a Take-Away joint. I tried to keep it simple, ordering a small Fish and Chips. "Wrapped or open?" I was asked. I had to ask for an explantion. Wrapped was to go, Open was to eat right away. I went for Open. "Can I have some ketchup for my chips, please," was my next question, and the answer shocked me. "Ten pence each, sir." Say what? Yes, a packet of ketchup goes for about 17 cents at Toby's. And, the amount of ketchup in the packet was so little, it got me through about three fries...errr....chips. On a positive note, the "small" fries put an American large to shame. In lieu of ketchup, I loaded on the salt.

4. My latest hotel is a World Class dump. And could someone please get the British to hand over a real bar of soap in a hotel room, please? I have had it with the hair and body gel in the squeeze bottle or packet. Next time I come over, note to self, pack a bar of Irish Spring.

5. I ran from Beverley because the owner of the B & B (and adjacent) pub was trying to entice me to stay by showing me his backroom "disco" that will be hopping tonight (Friday). One thing England does not need to see is my arse on a dance floor. And another thing this 45-year old does not need on Day 9 of this extravaganza, is a night in a disco.

Also it's the night before the game and The Gaffer wants me fit. Cheers and thanks to all who've taken the time to read my tales from England. See you all back in the States.

Who Ate All The Pies?

2008-12-17T06:22:00.005-05:00

A memorable sporting event can show up where you least expect it, or so it seems right now as I thaw out in my hotel room in Northeast England. A last-minute decision I made, based mostly on industrial park hotel boredom, led me to Glanford Park, a tiny football stadium nestled behind a strip-center. Yes, an American-made Toys R Us, KFC, McDonalds, Travelodge ensemble that had me thinking for a second that my pony-tailed cab driver made a wrong turn on Doncaster Rd. and put us somewhere outside Fort Myers, Fla.

The 35-mile trip was for a match between Scunthorpe United (aka The Iron) and Tranmere Rovers in the Northern Semi-Final of a competition known as the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy.

If that don’t get the juices flowin’, nothing will.

I got to the ground in time for a pre-game pint and a little pre-game conversation with Scunthorpe fans at the Iron Club. I settled into a standing-room spot behind the goal in the home supporters end, got myself a Pukka Pie (it was a meat and onion pie, and I purposely did not ask for the pronuncation of “Pukka”).

It was yet another one of those taste sensations that is both delicious and gross at the same time (see previous blog item about Sour Patch Kids and the McDonald's Southern Style Chicken Biscuit). Pies are all the rage at football matches in England, more popular than hot dogs by a long shot. The Pukka Pie did not agree with me, or perhaps it was the sausage roll I chased it with. I was later told that you don't go with back to back pastry.

It would be too easy to say the game was like a minor league baseball game, because the crowd size, about 2,600 would remind you of a Class-A game somewhere in the U.S., but as I listened to conversation all around me, it became clear that, to the good folks of Scunthorpe, this is The Show. These guys dissected the lineup, criticized the formation, ripped into players who have been "in poor form" of late. They took this match and their team seriously. Mere mention of Premier League Club Hull City, who in recent years have battled against The Iron got the following reaction. "F--- Hull City." Brilliant then.

In all likelihood, most of the fans’ fathers were Scunthorpe fans, as well as their grandfathers and great grandfathers…and “mums” and “nans” too. You're born into this stuff and it sticks.

When The Iron took a 1-0 lead in the first half, the home fans began to sing, “Que Sera Sera. Whatever will be, will be. We’re going to Wem-ble-lee.” That would be Wembley Stadium in London, where the finals of the Johnstone’s Paint Trophy will be held. For a club like Scunthorpe or Tranmere Rovers to play at Wembley is a thrill, even if it's to play for a less-than-glamorous trophy named after a paint company.

Tranmere tied the match, 1-1, in the second half and their supporters (about 300 made the two-hour trip from Liverpool on a Tuesday night) sang the same song.

As the minutes ticked off the clock, I was told that there would be no extra time if the game ended in a tie. It would be straight to penalty kicks. “But,” the fellow next to me said, “We have a flair for the dramatic. We have been known to score in stoppage time.”

On this night, however, it did not seem likely as the clock moved past 90 minutes. That was when Scunthorpe manager Nigel Atkins brought in striker Paul Hayes, who had broken his cheekbone and was too injured to play the game. He was being brought in for the purpose of taking one of his team’s penalties in the shootout and was wearing a half face mask reminiscent of Jason in Friday the 13th. But with the referee just about to blow his whistle to end the game, a foul was called on a Tranmere player about 30 yards from the net. Hayes stepped up to the ball and banged a hard right-footed shot that deflected off a Trannere defender, skipped off the wet grass, then clanged off the right post and into the net. The masked man had done it.

“Que Sera Sera. Whatever will be, will be. We’re going to Wem-ble-lee,” the Scunthorpe fans sang once again. “Told you so!” my new friend said to me, giving me a high-five.

Indeed you did, mate, and I won’t forget it.

How Little of the Giants

2008-12-15T18:03:00.002-05:00

I did not intend to watch the Giants game last night, but on Day 3 over here, the jet-lag, time-difference crap hit me like a frigging Louisville Slugger to the temple. So, at 1:30 a.m., that's 8:30 Manasquan Standard Time, the Giants and Cowboys kicked off and I watched.

And I watched, and watched. And I turned the TV off two, maybe three times, and I could not sleep, so I watched the whole dreary thing. Not good considering I had an 8 a.m. (3 a.m. MST) wakeup call. So, you do the math. Finally nodded off around 4:30, got me 3 and a half, solid.

Then it was a full day of work that I will not bore anyone with. Too much driving, too little food and a return to the hotel at 10:15 p.m. to learn that they stop serving food in the restaurant at "half past nine."

Mother-bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep!

"We can have a cold sandwich made for you, sir," the gal at the front desk said, to which I think I replied, "Gimme, gimme, gimme...." Snorted a chicken salad sandwich on "brown" bread, threw back some hot nuts (right) and a Guinness..and God, help me get 6-8 hours tonight. Please help me, dude.

This is when, at 45, I get homesick. I do not like 11-day roadies anymore. Three nights away and I'm usually ready to get back to Linda, Tyler and Beau. That's where I am right now. Yeah, yeah, I know what you're all thinking, "Cry me a river, Brads." I think I just need some sleep.

Big news is that I'm checking out of Hotel Sterile -- in some industrial park -- and into some neighborhood Inn. Once Brian (the owner of the Inn and I are now mates), told me they had wireless internet, I was in. Being in England is only fun if you can get out and see things. When you have to get a cab any time you want to see something that doesn't look like Lyndhurst, then why the hell do you want to be in England, anyway? So, I'm moving into the Market Cross soon.

Met and interviewed a lot of good people today. Might be able to see me on telly here soon. I'll let you all know. As many of you know, I'm about as comfortable on TV as Albert Brooks in Broadcast News (how 80s is that reference? Does anyone but me remember that flick?).

No games to keep me awake tonight. Let's hope there's not a sequel to the Blondie Documentary.

Lovely then.

Just Because it's My Blog

2008-12-14T18:31:00.002-05:00

Sometimes having limited TV channels to choose from can lead you to some great viewing.

Last night, not much to watch on my four channels here in England, so I buckled in for a documentary on...Blondie.

All I can say, as someone who earns a living trying to draw interesting stories out of celebrities (athletes), I wish everyone had as compelling, surprising and crazy a story as Deborah Harry and friends. I also would love for athletes to be as open and honest about their past screw-ups as DH and her bandmates were on this show. From punk to disco to pop, this band lived it all...amazingly they're all still alive to recount the gory details.

One more thing, I instantly had to go in search of Blondie's amazing comeback tune, "Maria"...