Coaching the Untalented

The dismissal of Rutgers University basketball coach Mike Rice for using gay slurs and firing balls at his players, among other acts of stupidity, started me thinking about the coaches I had while growing up. None I can recall even remotely approached Rice’s level of old-school intimidation techniques though my teammates and I undoubtedly tempted a few of them with our mediocrity.

Take poor Mickey Lione Jr., for example. Lione, one of the most successful and respected coaches in Connecticut let alone his hometown of Stamford, had the misfortune of coaching me on two of his few exceptionally unexceptional high school baseball teams. Our two squads compiled losing records versus the other city high schools, in the county conference and, obviously, overall.

My contribution that first season was that I never played an inning. As the backup to our one bright spot, an all-county catcher named Tony Romeo, I spent the entire spring in the bullpen warming up our perpetually in-demand relief pitchers.

Radio Radio – Uncool Hits the Internet Airwaves

How sad is the state of talk radio today?

Sad enough that I was asked to be a guest on a show about modern fatherhood.

I had the pleasure of forcing fellow dads Adam Dolgin of Fodder4Fathers and Lance Somerfeld of the NYC Dads Group along with WebTalkRadio host Meryl Neiman to tolerate my opinions, “jokes” and nasally whine for an hour on the Parenting with Playdate Planet Internet Radio show recently.

What’s that?

Yes, that is the sound of Marconi spinning in his grave.

As someone funnier than I first said, “I’ve suffered for my art, now it’s your turn,” so click to download our ”Let’s Hear It From the Dads!” segment.

A Day at the Ballpark

This is how the Uncool Family spent Monday, April 1, 2013. Once we made it out of the neighborhood, of course.

Given how low my beloved and beleaguered Mets are predicted to finish this year, the ballpark was not very crowded for Opening Day even though it was allegedly a sellout. As proof, I submit that this was the first and only line I encountered all day at the park.

Opening Day and Closing Doors

The bulging cooler, the teeny rusted camping grill, and four cobweb-encrusted folding chairs will be loaded into the back of the minivan. The kids, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes even after a school-less morning in, will climb into the middle seat. My Love will ride shotgun.

We’ll ease out of the driveway and go over the checklist.

Tickets?

Wallets?

Extra layers to fight the inevitable stinging winds?

We’ll have them all.

We’ll just have rolled to a stop at our neighborhood’s edge when My Love will ask, as she tends to do when we’re in hurry to get somewhere, “Did you close the garage door?”

Of course I did. I closed it this time as I did a million or so times before. It’s an automatic.

So automatic that I won’t actually remember reaching up and pushing the button next to the visor.

So automatic that I won’t really recall seeing the door shuttle down and seal itself against the concrete threshold.

“Dang you, woman,” I’ll say and slam on the brakes and then into reverse.