Fritz, Mike and me

The great novelist Richard Russo (Empire Falls, Nobody’s Fool) is a remarkably keen observer of small towns and the flawed, funny and unforgettable people that inhabit them. I love Russo’s work, partly because his towns are in upstate New York, where I grew up listening to the stories from and about quirky, eccentric and endearing characters.

I have been reading a lot of Russo lately and it reminded me of a story from my hometown of Hudson, NY, a historic former whaling port 40 miles south of Albany on the Hudson River (parts of the movie Nobody's Fool were filmed in Hudson). My story isn’t quite up to Russo’s high comedy but it does tie together my love of the Yankees, baseball and how a young boy reacts when blindsided by his heroes.

Nearly every hour of my childhood (even when I was in school) was filled with sports – reading, thinking, playing and watching them. Baseball was my favorite and I was a Yankees fanatic. Sadly, my Yankees weren’t the champion Yankees of Munson, Jackson and Nettles that would emerge in my late teens. 

The Daily News treated the trade with subtlety and sensitivity. From left: Marilyn Peterson, Mike Kekich, Susanne Kekich, and Fritz Peterson.

My Yankees were the awful but lovable Horace Clarke, Jerry Kenney and Jake Gibbs Yankees that sleep-walked through games and usually were out of the pennant race by July. In the late 60s and early 70s, the great shrine of baseball, Yankee Stadium, had become a doleful, dirty and deserted place.

Despite that, I still loved watching them on TV but you could only see them if they were on NBC's Saturday game of the week, which wasn't often because they were, well, bad. Then a miracle happened -- one of the local stations picked up the Friday night WPIX broadcasts of Yankee games. My cousin Mike and I prepared for every game by riding our bikes to Kenneally’s corner store to get soda, chips and candy. Unfortunately, the combination of M&Ms, bubble gum, barbecue-flavor chips and Coke combined with another woeful Yankee performance usually made us nauseous.

The Yankees’ incompetence did not deter our fanaticism. We collected Yankee trading cards, wore their hats and remained immovable in our optimism. One day my father brought me 4-by-6 inch color photos of a few Yankee players (I have no idea where he got them). Among them were pitchers Mike Kekich and Fritz Peterson. Remember those names. 

The Yankees were the perfect team for me as a player because I was as bad as they were. Every year at the Hudson Little League banquet, a Yankee – such as outfielder Bill Robinson or shortstop Gene Michael -- would speak and present the best players with trophies, none of which bore my name.

When I was 11 the speaker was Peterson, a good left-handed pitcher and an All-Star in 1970. I was shut out of the awards but I didn’t care because I was seated 20 feet from a real Yankee. I carefully studied Peterson like the fanboy I was -- how he ate, what he drank, how he walked. If it worked for him, maybe it could for me.

That's Mike Kekich in the upper right of the photo and me directly to his left in my brother's sport coat and tie at the 1972 Hudson Little League banquet.

By the time I was 12, my team – the Bucks – and I had improved enough to get a few trophies. Kekich, a mediocre pitcher and Peterson’s best friend, presented me with my baseball trophies. I also had won the local Punt, Pass & Kick football competition and was called forward to get that trophy.

Kekich handed me the statuette and then punched me in the arm – hard -- and said “I thought you were a baseball player.” I was too lightheaded to respond – a Yankee had spoken to me and actually punched me in the arm like we were buddies. I went back to my table, my arm still smarting a bit and said to my brother, “Holy shit, did you see that? He punched me!”

Needless to say, Peterson and Kekich became my favorite players and I put their photos on the top of the set my father had given me.

Sadly, the bromance soon ended when the strangest trade in baseball history happened. In March 1973 Peterson and Kekich announced at Yankee Stadium that they were trading wives. Yes, wives. Actually, they were trading families, kids, dogs and all. I was completely confused when I read the Daily News story. How in the name of Mickey Mantle do you trade wives?

But they did. Yankees General Manager Lee MacPhail is said to have quipped to the press that day, “We may have to call off Family Day.”

Compared to today's athlete misbehavior, this may seem tame – maybe even a funny and touching love story for some "rom-com" writer. But in 1973 it was a big scandal for the staid Yankees. By June, Kekich was trundled off to the lowly Cleveland Indians. I sent my Peterson and Kekich photos to the bottom of my trash can. 

Peterson is still married to Susanne Kekich; Kekich and Marilyn Peterson never married and later split. Kekich later said he felt "left out in the cold" by the whole thing. There has been talk of a movie involving Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. If it gets made, two things should happen: first, Russo should write the screenplay; and, second, I should play the shocked “say it ain’t so” young baseball fan. Makeup!

'My fellow Americans: One-two-three-four!'

A very successful person once told me that the only person in the world he would trade places with is Bruce Springsteen. I told him, "Get in line."

Springsteen, the iconic American rocker is nearly everyone's wannabe. Almost 67, he is having a moment, as they say about the famous. Vanity Fair gave him the full Annie Leibovitz cover treatment in its October issue. His much-anticipated memoir, "Born to Run," comes out this month. And he is completing an acclaimed 84-show tour celebrating his seminal 1980 album, "The River."

I was at the final U.S. show last week in Gillette Stadium, the football palace just south of Boston in Foxborough. It was a rollicking 33-song, four-hour show with barely a breath taken between songs by the musicians or audience, which danced non-stop. It was an amazing demonstration of stamina and durability; someone should find out what Springsteen's indestructible vocal chords are made of so we can make airplanes and baby strollers out of the same material. 

My last Springsteen concert was 31 years ago at New Jersey's Giants Stadium, which has since been torn down. That Born in the U.S.A. Tour was a rocket ride of musical muscularity in Reagan-era America that was feeling pretty good about itself. The Foxborough show was less rock and awe and more introspection and validation of Springsteen's rise from blue collar nobody to the world's best rock-and-roller.

Springsteen at 1985 "Born in the U.S.A." show

"Dorian" Springsteen at 2016 Foxborough show

It began with some of his early songs (more than 40-years-old!) interspersed with spoken stories about Springsteen's frustrating attempts to break into the music business. The denouement of each story was a song.

For example, he recalled a record company executive telling him that an early version of his first album lacked a hit song. Standing alone with his guitar at the microphone, eyes closed and speaking softly while projected on 100-foot video screens, Springsteen looked and sounded like he still felt the sting of that rejection. But Springsteen's smile returned when he told the crowd that he went out and bought a rhyming dictionary, and "one-two- three-four!" Springsteen is into "Blinded By the Light," his first, very rhyming single ("Madman drummers, bummers, and Indians in the summer..."). 

Another story recounted visiting a record company building for an audition and riding up, up, up in an elevator "above the trees...above the clouds...above where angels sing." As he arrived, a record company exec demanded, "Play me something." The story ends with Springsteen barking "one-two-three-four!" to begin "It's Hard to be a Saint in the City."

Music for Springsteen is not just a salve, but a celebration, which came when he took written requests from the audience via poster-size signs and one, "No Surrender," on a pleated paper fan. In the party-like encore, which lasted eight songs, Springsteen's genuine joy in performing saturated the stadium. 

It would have been easy for Springsteen and E Street Band to become one of those wax museum-like bands you see during on a PBS pledge week playing the same few songs over and over.  But Springsteen's endless well of creativity and passion for reinvention doesn't let that happen. The band's terrific new saxophonist is 36-year-old Jake Clemons, nephew of the late Clarence Clemons, the band's longtime larger-than-life sax man. Jake gives the band a new sense of energy and a feeling that this might go on forever, like the shows. Maybe it will. A 20-year-old college student sitting next to me said he and his friends love Bruce because "he writes music he cares about...I don't know...he's just a bad ass."

Indeed. I am not knowledgable or talented enough (see video below) to critique Springsteen's music so I'll just focus on how the concert made me feel. I left the show inspired, exhausted and wanting more. I couldn't remember the last time I felt that way walking away from a speech, show or athletic event.

Springsteen is real and raw, an open book that we want to read and re-read. Many political and business leaders, by contrast, are plastic and pinched, afraid to go off script for fear they may reveal some weakness, ignorance or bias. As a result, they are generic, uninspiring, even repugnant, despite their self-delusion of "boldness."

Springsteen is an approachable hero to the working class and affluent baby boomers who pack his concerts and buy his music. They like him even though his politics might not agree with theirs; Springsteen has supported John Kerry and President Obama and his "Long Walk Home" is not kind to President George W. Bush. In Foxborough, in his one brief political remark, he called this presidential election the "ugliest I've seen in my entire life" with appeals not to angels who sing, but "to our worse angels."

He is right. Maybe we need a little more originality, artistry and lyricism from political leaders. Here's an idea - maybe they should begin their speeches not with banalities, but with a meaningful and genuine personal story followed by Springsteen's catalytic words: "one-two-three-four!..."

30 pounds of fat

In my early teens I was convinced that I would play professional baseball. Preferably for the Yankees. I was a pretty good catcher and my Rawlings Johnny Bench model mitt was my favorite possession. I still remember the satisfying smell of its leather mixed with glove oil and the home plate-area dirt it had absorbed.

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Nothing got by my Bench, which sadly, is long lost

Of course, I was delusional. The reality was I wasn't much of a hitter and my catching skills were barely good enough for high school and American Legion ball. Turns out being an All Star in the Hudson Little League -- go Bucks! -- and Babe Ruth Baseball is no guarantee of professional stardom, fame and wealth. 

I got a shockingly clear understanding of how pedestrian my baseball skills were when I was 13 or 14 years old. My father took me to see the team he loved and I hated, the Mets. From our perch in the second deck of Shea Stadium (hold on, an airplane is flying over and I can't hear myself write...okay, better now), I watched the Mets warming up on the field below. I was horrified. They could throw a baseball great distances -- 150, 200 feet or more -- on a line with seemingly little effort. They were sometimes talking and laughing as they did this! I knew I would never come close to throwing a ball that far even if I had a running start and I was throwing it down a steep hill.

My baseball dreams were over.

I had a similar shock recently when I spent a few days in the Blue Ridge Mountains of South Carolina riding my road bike with professional cyclists. The inclines were murderous and the temperatures merciless -- 100 degrees with high humidity. Now, I never had delusions that I could be a pro cyclist but I thought, maybe I could hang for a while with the pros on these tortuous climbs. It would be a story I could tell the kids.

Reality again was cruel. On nearly every ride, I was what cyclists call the "Red Lantern," the last rider in the group (the phrase comes from the red lantern hung on the last car of a train). Sometimes by a lot. Sometimes I'd fall behind even though others were doing things like taking phone calls while riding. Sometimes I caught up only because the group stopped for water. I'd see them ahead lounging in the shade of pine trees and wonder if they were talking about me.

I'd dismount and break out the excuses: "Did I mention I'm 56 years old?" Or, "Hey, I've had five knee surgeries." And "It's never this hot in Connecticut." They responded only with their eyes. 

Actually, they are all great guys and they often hung back with me to provide encouragement and instruction. But clearly I am not made of the same stuff as them. You can see it by just looking at the photo below. I am the shorter guy with the unshaved legs among three retired American cycling titans: Christian Vande Velde, George Hincapie and Bobby Julich.

Which one is not like the others?

Let me be more specific about the differences between these pros and me:

• Body: Even in retirement, these guys are lean and, I am, well, gelatinous. I figured I had about 30 pounds of fat on these guys. That's like strapping an average-sized English Cocker Spaniel on my back, although I don't know why anyone would do that. 
• Frame:  They are all legs, like Vegas show girls. I am no legs, like a Corgi.
• Skills: They could cook a five-course meal while riding. I couldn't order take out.
• Experience: They have competed in the world's great races such as the Tour de France against and with Lance Armstrong, Alberto Contador and Fabian Cancellara. In a recent charity ride, I got passed by a guy pulling a bike trailer with two kids in it.

Dreams are hard to give up and hills are hard to get up. I did both on the rural backroads of South Carolina.  

In Praise of Arm Hanging

One of my favorite things to do in summer is to drive with the windows down, the music cranked and my arm hanging out the window – the crook of my elbow on the sill and my hand extended straight down.

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Red Sheffer exhibiting Air Force cool

I got this from my dad, who looked super cool driving around our hometown, Hudson, NY, with his left arm hanging out the window of his white Pontiac. Dad, known to everyone as Red, had long, sun-freckled arms and a shock of red hair that warned everyone he was ready for a good time. The editors of his high school yearbook recognized his capacity for fun, writing that whenever there was a party, "Red's around." He was not deterred from this perspective by military service or getting married and having four children. Even the corporate chill of his employer IBM could not cool Red.

Cars were very important to him. As a young father, he bought the cars Detroit made during its glory days – long, sleek and muscular. When he grabbed his keys and asked if anyone wanted to go to the store with him to buy cigarettes, the Sheffer kids would put up our hands. We knew there was the possibility of candy, including my favorite, red rope licorice.

Dad would light up a cigarette as we drove to resupply his habit. He’d cup the cigarette in his hand, which hung all the way down to the middle of his door.  I watched his cigarette carefully from the back seat and wondered to myself if the wind was smoking it as he held it outside the car. One time he tossed a finished butt out the window and, to our horror, it was blown by the wind into the back seat. We all scrambled to find the small torch and disposed of it out the window as Dad watched calmly in the rear-view mirror.

My cars and my arms are shorter than Dad’s and I don’t smoke but I still mimic him when driving around Hudson. I know "10 and 2" driver's ed teachers are anti-arm hangers -- and rightfully so -- but there are advantages, including the ability to do a quick, lukewarm wave when you see someone you know, but not that well. Don't make eye contact, just flip your hand casually.

Arm hanging says I'm local, I know where I'm going and there's no hurry. There’s also the trucker’s tan but more importantly, you get to inflict your great taste in music on others. The three best songs for automotive arm hanging are: Hey Jude by The Beatles; No One to Run With by The Allman Brothers Band; and, Travelin’ Man, by Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band. There will be no arguments on this.

Admittedly, there are times when arm hanging is a bad idea, such as in heavy traffic, the months of November to March in the Northeast, after you’ve waxed your car, as you pull into the driveway of your prospective in-laws for the first time, and when following a truck carrying loose stone and gravel.

Some say the art of arm hanging reached its peak in the 1950s as portrayed in the movie, American Graffiti. I say its zenith was the 1960s on the streets of Hudson and its Picasso was my dad, Red Sheffer.