Father Doesn't Know Best

Yeah...we're both Mets fans and we're representing the Red Sox this year. So what? It's not like he's playing for some other team like the Indians!

These shots are from last Sunday's game. On the left, Rick and I were having a little strategy session over near 3rd base, while the Pirates were making a pitching change. I asked him to try and steal home, on next wild pitch because our team was only up 6-4. Given the way we were hitting, I figured we needed to score more runs anyway we can.

Rick argued that he should stay put at third and let the new pitcher try and get out of the jam on his own. "If he's wild, I'll walk right in. If he's not we still have the bases loaded for the top of the lineup."

I was unbowed. I insisted on the steal.

He listened to me and took off for home when the Pirates pitcher uncorked a wild pitch. The ball hit back stop and bounced a foot from the catcher who was waiting for Rick as he chugged for home.

Walking back to the dugout, he shot me glare that said "I told you so." When the frame ended without any more runs scoring, I got a "Nice job, Dad!" from under his breath. He was pissed.

And he was right. I should have listened to him about not stealing home. My blunder allowed the Pirates to climb back into the game and tie it up in the 6th inning. The game ended in a 6-6 tie because of the time 2 hour and 15 minute time limitation. We could have won the game.

I tried apologizing to him after the game because he seemed pretty upset. He wouldn't let me. He gave me a hug and said, "It's just a game, Dad. You did your best."

Then he asked me for a few bucks for some candy and a soda.

What? Did you think he'd let me off the hook that easy?

We Are The Mohawks

I've been playing softball for as long as I can remember. I've played on some great teams and on some stinkers, but none quite like the Mohawks.

I wouldn't exactly call us The Yankees of the Lindenhurst Men's 35 and over softball league. Shit, I wouldn't even call us The Mets. But we are a team that was started in the garage of my best friend Dave, and despite the setbacks we've endured, somehow this team managed to stick together through seven seasons, three different uniforms, about 50 different players, and lots and lots of beer.

Dave and I started this team back in 2001 because we wanted to hook up with guys we knew could play ball and wouldn't mind our company, either. The name of the team had nothing to do with the Native American tribe, however. I feel some shame in saying this, but our team name was drawn from an Opie & Anthony radio bit where callers had to guess how a woman's genitalia was coiffed. Because this was a family league, we could not call ourselves the Two-Fingered Mohawks, so we shortened the name and it stuck. I never said we were saints. We're Mohawks.


There were very few rules on the Mohawks. All we ever asked of our players is to show up on time, play hard, have fun and don't be a dick. We usually carry anywhere between 15 to 18 players to accommodate for vacations and work. But carrying that many players meant that sometimes, some players would have to take a seat. In our league, only 10 players can take the field, but a total of 12 players can bat, and by league rule every player that shows up must play at least one game. Still we had a few who didn't get this concept and complained. They either didn't get it or would not buy into the Mohawks ethos. The rules applied to everyone no matter how good you were. It was the manager's job to enforce these rules. I can honestly say that rules enforcement was one of the parts of managing I enjoyed the least, despite there being so few.

We took a break in 2006 because I just got sick of running the team, and no one stepped up to keep it going. But Dave took over the reins this year because...well....we just could not stand to be away from the ballfield or play for a team other than one named the Mohawks. So, we pulled a Jay-Z, reformed the team, and told the league, "We're back, baby! Ungh! Ungh!"

The pics you see here is from our last game this season, which took place two Saturdays ago. We were bounced out of the playoffs by the what had been the worst team in the league, and I can't say we didn't deserve it. We didn't play terribly well.

But no one was particularly down about this fact that we lost. Quite the contrary. It's not like we never lost a game before, and it's more than likely we'll lose a few more. But as the beer flowed and players told their jokes and stories, it became clear to me why I come back to the team year after year; that somehow this team was something necessary. If not to get our fat asses some exercise, then to reaffirm our need for friendship and camaraderie that we would not get by just being fathers and husbands. We are the Mohawks -- a fraternity of imperfect men who simply want to play a game for the fun of it.

Spartacus Dishes

A fellow blogger and new friend, Franny, from over at FranIam has decided to interview me. By way of full disclosure, I have to say I asked for this. Really I did. I was reading the interview that Dr. Monkey von Monkerstein of Monkey Muck gave my dear Franny and felt a bit left out. So here I am, a fresh set of questions before me, just because I could not shut the fuck up......

What inspired you to begin blogging and to choose the name Spartacus?
I could lie and say that I was inspired by the disgraced Roman Legionnaire who led a slave revolt against Julius Caesar that was unsparingly crushed. After all, every one loves the underdog, right? But that would be wrong. There's no special significance to the name. I took it from the movie because it's an all-time fave of mine, Kirk Douglas is one of my favorite actors, and I needed something memorable with which to comment online.

However, here are some names that were also given brief consideration: Mick-lovin-spic; McBoriqua; Patatas-hervidos (boiled potatoes). However, none of these do well to describe what happens to a Puerto Rican who fell hook, line and sinker in love with a beautiful Irish lass back in 1988. So, I dropped the whole idea and went with Spartacus. (No...I'm Spartacus! No...I'm Spartacus!!!!!) The tattoo on my avatar is the symbol of my love for E.

Tito Puente - yes or no. In either case, explain why.
Yes and no.

Yes, because the man was, without a doubt, one of the greatest latino jazz musicians to walk this earth. The depth and the sheer size of the musical legacy he left behind makes me proud to be a fellow 'Rican. His influence can still be heard in many of today's salseros.

But no, and sadly no, because while I could hear his music blare from my bedroom window in the projects, and was very excited the day he came to my neighborhood to perform live at a block party, I was too smitten with my oldest brother's interest in sex, drugs and rock and roll. I was a front row witness when Gus first played Lou Reed, the Rolling Stones and David Bowie on my dad's combo TV-Stereo set and I simply caught that bug. By the time I got to my senior year at Aviation High School in 1981, and got past my very brief fascination with disco, I was living in Queens, and too far into The Ramones, The Police, The Sex Pistols, The Clash to have any time for my father's music. I know it's a sad comparison to make with the King of timbales, but at 17, I wasn't really thinking in terms of the cultural significance of my choice.

I regret it now and I've been getting back into it lately, ever since I got the XM satellite radio hooked up to my ride. But I've got a long way to go before I can ever consider myself an aficionado. No time better than the present.


You meet George Bush in an elevator and you have 45 seconds to say whatever you want. What happens?
First, I would push the emergency stop button on the car we are riding in and deliver the biggest ass-whooping that faux-Texan, AWOL, SOB has ever experienced. While I was going thug life on his ass, I'd ask him "Where my money, bruh? I heard you been passin' mad cheddar out in crates over in Iraq and you ain't got shit for us back home? Whas wrong witchu? Whatta about NOLA mu fukka? Whatta about them kidz in uniform with bad equipment?" Then I'd bitch slap him a bit more before pulling out the emergency stop button to let the car come to a landing. I'd then surrender myself to the waiting platoon of SS agents, who would drag me to an isolated, windowless room and beat the living shit out of me. Can you tell I've imagined this scenario? The ass-kicking trade off would be well worth it.


What is the Spartacus top 10 list of important books to read?
The problem I have with this question is that for me, it's much too broad a question. Top10 list of important books? Hmm. On what topic? Religion? History. Literature? Science? Well, I'm going to take liberties with this one because you said I should feel free to change or add a question. So here goes Spartacus's list of the top 10 list of important books I've read since 9/11, in no particular order:

Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies – Jared Diamond

Grand Illusion: The Untold Story of Rudy Giuliani and 9/11 – Wayne Barrett, Marty Collins

The Great Influenza: The Epic Story of the Deadliest Plague In History – John M. Barry

Paris 1919: Six Months That Changed the World – Margaret MacMillan

Downtown: My Manhattan – Pete Hammil

I'm a Stranger Here Myself – Bill Bryson

Truman – David McCullough

Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln – Doris Kearn Goodwin

The Journey of Man: A Genetic Odyssey – Spencer Wells

The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and The Future of Reason – Sam Harris

Please note that this is an ever-evolving list, as I am always reading something. Ask me tomorrow and the list could change significantly.


What is the most important thing you will leave your kids, and money doesn't count. (not that I thought it would!)
Besides 23 of my best chromosomes? I think what I want to leave my kids is a sense of respect for themselves, their family, and for the world in which they live. I also want them to have a healthy sense of skepticism and to maintain their critical thinking skills. Sure, I'd like them to have fabulous careers at high-paying salaries so that they can support me and E. when we are old, decrepit septuagenarians, but I don't feel any of that is possible without showing them how to stand up and think for themselves. In the end, only they know the path to their happiness. All E. and I can give them now are the tools to get them there and a safe laboratory to help them work out their theories.

Phew! Man that was work. Great questions. Thanks for the opportunity. Peace. (Blows two-fingered kiss to the blogsphere.)

UPDATE: I changed the title of the post. I like the way this one sounds better.

One for us old guys....

He's 41 and he's now a member of the 300-win club in major league baseball. He's a dad, a husband, and a friend to everyone who knows him. He takes the ball every five days the way you and I jump on a train and in a car to go to work. I know this is really schmaltzy, but I tip my cap to Tom Glavine, pitcher for the New York Mets on this outstanding achievement.