2009 METS: BACK TO THE FUTURE

I am writing this book about being a Mets fan, and this is not for the average baseball lover but mostly for the true Mets fan: the real, honest to goodness bleeding orange and blue fan. I have been one of them all my life, and there are many of us out there. The book touches upon the big years of 1969, 1973, and 1986, but they are really years that are only part of the bigger picture. For the most part, being a Met and being a fan of the Mets is about losing, and the happiness that went along with just rooting for the home team and loving them, no matter what the final score and how bad the team looked in the standings.

I know there are other fans in other cities who understand this kind of thing: Cubs fans in Chicago and Red Sox fans in Boston (at least before the Sox turned it all around in recent years). Losing and continually losing becomes part of the fan psyche, and the idea is that you wear the colors proudly, almost defiantly, in order to honor the team and your own emotional investment in it, despite the fact that the basement becomes an almost permanent living arrangement.

The great New York Daily News sports cartoonist Bill Gallo created a character to honor the Metsies: Basement Bertha. Good old Bertha is as ugly as Ernie Borginine and has teeth like an old pirate, but she also captured the spirit of the good old orange and blue in such a way that she was, and still is, an endearing character. No such character could be created for the Yankees and their fans because they didn’t need a rough and tumble mascot like the Mets did.

I can remember wearing my Mets hat as a kid and having people say things about them to me. “They’re a bunch of bums,” was a usual one. “They’re meatballs” said the old fat Italian guy with a Yankees cap who always sat on his stoop across from the corner deli when I was going to get my Mom a quart of milk. I just would wave at him and say, “Have a nice day,” tipping the old blue cap with the bent orange NY emblem on it.

When I told my father about these things, he said I shouldn’t let it bother me. Though Dad had grown up a Yankee fan, he switched allegiance for me as a kid, which is about the nicest thing a Dad could ever do. I can tell you one thing, if my son ever grows up and becomes a Yankee fan, I don’t think I would have the same benevolence. The truth is though that being a Met fan means having gone through more twists and turns than Mr. Pretzel, and in the end you just can’t shed that orange and blue like it didn’t mean the world to you, because it did and always will.

My mother’s father was a diehard Brooklyn Dodgers fan. He intimately understood a team being called a bunch of bums because that was the Dodgers’ nickname: “Dem Bums.” Pop talked a lot about going to Ebbets Field to see the Dodgers, taking my mother and her sisters with him and his brother Matty. Sometimes they got in, and sometimes the kids had to watch the game through a knothole in the fence. They had a name for those kids: the Knothole Gang. Ah, those were the days.

So the allegiance to the Mets, fierce, determined, and unwavering despite their losing ways, was born out of Dodger suffering. We borrowed the Dodger blue and the NY Giants orange after they left for California, and those colors were then imbued upon new hats and uniforms, and soaked into the blood of every fan who switched allegiance if, for no other reason, as to have a team to root for that was not the Yankees.

As a kid I watched the games and never expected a victory, so imagine my surprise in 1969 when the Mets became the Amazins. There can never be a fully understood response to this unbelievable victory other than emotional euphoria that bordered on hysteria. People honked horns in the streets, banged pots and pans, screamed from rooftops, set off fireworks in alleyways, and set fires in garbage cans. My grandfather noted that the revelry reminded him of when the Dodgers won in 1955, and that was even more delirious because the Dodgers had beaten the hated Yankees, which was better than when he and lots of other guys beat the Kaiser in World War One.

All of this, of course, brings us to present day Met fans and their grief and misery and still unbridled happiness. Currently, no one on the Mets has ten or more homeruns, which does indeed remind me of the glory days when Ed Kranepool led the team with 9 homers (and we thought that was a lot back then). They are making errors in the field, dropping balls, misplaying balls, and throwing them like your five year old sister tossing a softball against the fence. Yes, the old Mets are back and I’m loving every minute of it.

Of course, that is because of nostalgia and a new stadium that is conspicuously like old Ebbets Field. There is a smell in the air of days of old, and the malingering notion of pennant or wild card does not even register because you’re going out to the old ball game, you’re getting your Cracker Jacks, and rooting for the home team. Sure, it’s a shame if they don’t win, but that is not what matters anyway. We’re Mets fans, born from losing, and they may be bums and meatballs, but they are our bums and meatballs, and we love them.

So, I put out of my mind the way Omar Minaya has messed things up for the Wilpons. I forget about that huge payroll, about the minor league system that is in disarray, and the wounded warriors that have left the field and are plagued by mysterious injuries and maladies that would drive old Sherlock Homes batty trying to investigate them.

There is no rhyme or reason for the 2009 Mets, but we old Mets fans never had it so good. No matter how many years spent in the basement, no matter how many times the guys across the river win the big one, we still know how to have fun and enjoy being the blue collar team in town. The Mets are always the underdogs, as are their fans, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. We can celebrate years like 1969 and 1986, but we can also cherish the many years of bumbling and losing in between, being true fans and not summertime Benedict Arnolds becoming fair weather Yankees fans.

The 2009 Mets are reminding me of the good old days almost in every game these days. It’s really just like the old Mets theme song put it: “Bring the kiddies/bring your wife/guaranteed to have the time of your life.” So, drop that ball, Luis Castillo; throw that ball away, David Wright; throw those lollipops to the opposition, Mike Pelfrey. It’s all okay. Good old Casey Stengel is looking down on you, and he still loves you. Basement Bertha does too, and so do a whole lot of fans who remember that the old ball game is more about having heart and loving your team than about anything else.

OBAMA AND THE AUDACITY OF POPE

If things had gone differently when Pope John Paul II died, President Obama could have been meeting with a black pope. Imagine the significance of that moment: the first black American president meeting the first black Pope. Well, the fact is that Benedict was chosen over candidates of color the last time around, so we are left with this meeting between the leader of the Free World and the leader of the world’s Catholics. What good comes from such a meeting as this?

It seems like a photo opportunity for the most part, at least at first glance. The picture I saw in my local paper here in New York featured a very conservatively dressed Michelle Obama, her head covered by a black veil, standing alongside the Pope as he exchanged papers with her conservatively dressed husband. It seemed such a reverential moment, and the respect and dignity the Obamas felt for the Pontiff were quite obvious.

We get the official version of things here. Yes, they spoke about abortion, stem cell research, and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. This is as we should expect it to be: two world leaders talking about important matters of the day but, of course, there is and has to be much more to this story.

What I would like to have heard is what was really said behind closed doors, away from the press and the cameras and Michelle, her mother, and the children. This would have been the conversation I would like to have heard.

As President of the United States, I am sure Mr. Obama, representing millions of American Catholics (including Senator Ted Kennedy, from whom he brought a personal letter for the Pope), would have talked with the Pope about the reality of American life in regards to many things. Besides big topics like abortion and stem cell research, there are many other issues pressing for Americans today.

How can our children attend Catholic schools which continue to be too expensive for average people? What can be done about a shortage of priests and other religious? Would you at least consider thinking about an option to allow priests to marry after taking their vows? Do you understand the importance of young people using condoms, not as a means of birth control, but to avoid diseases that will kill them?

The Pope would have plenty of things to talk about as well. He could have asked Mr. Obama to consider ending the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. That makes sense, but what about the wars happening right here at home? Can we condemn Iranians for killing a female protester in the streets without thinking about protesters who died right here in America at Kent State many years ago? What about our continued war on drugs? Is anything substantial being done to stop the flow of drugs in our streets?

What about the brutal attack on our children's sensibilities by all media? Sitting through an evening of American television, would the Pope not be disgusted by the ads about male sexual enhancement drugs, feminine hygiene products, and the general disdain for decency in shows depicting premarital sex and violence as regular and normal ways of life?

Yes, there must have been much to discuss on the table for these two men, but thirty minutes does not allow for much discussion beyond the pleasantries of introduction and pomp and circumstance. How much real discourse could have taken place? We know that gifts were exchanged, and that the Pope also gave Obama a lengthy printed treatise on the Vatican’s stance regarding stem cell research. This is a good start, but so much more is needed.

When these two men had a chance to sit down, one-on-one, with no cameras and no else present, what was exchanged? Obama is in dire need of direction when it comes to spirituality, and the Pope is in dire need of a lesson on the real world out there.

Hopefully, the Pope blessed Mr. Obama and will continue to pray for him as he leads this nation and the world in matters of significance regarding urgent economic, social, and political events. For his part, Mr. Obama should have offered the promise of continued and meaningful dialogue. Too often, it seems the President (and this is true for most administrations in my memory) of our country does not appreciate the importance of the man who is in charge at the Vatican.

Two remarkable men met in Rome yesterday. We can only hope that their meeting is the start of something better and not just a photo opportunity. The lives of millions, perhaps even billions, of people hang in the balance. In an increasingly violent and disturbing world, their leadership can make a difference; their joint cooperation may just be the thing we need to rise to a better level of understanding and affect real change in matters that are truly life and death issues.

The Posters on Our Walls

THE POSTERS ON OUR WALLS

Growing up in the 70s, my sister and I had numerous posters tacked up on our bedroom walls. Recently, people who were on two of those posters passed away: Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett. I haven’t thought about those long gone iconic images in years, but now it is hard for me to believe that these people are gone or that so many years have passed since those posters graced the walls of our rooms.

My sister was a normal teenage girl for that time. Michael Jackson’s poster was one of a number of posters she had that included images of David Cassidy by himself and with his Partridge Family, Bobby Sherman, Donny Osmond, Davey Jones and the Monkees, and Mr. Jackson. Even then I thought Jackson’s poster stood out: he had a sparkle in his eye, a tilt to his head, and a bright glow about him that made him out dazzle all the other guys on the posters in her room.

In my room there were posters of a different kind: Led Zeppelin, the Beatles, the Eagles, Pink Floyd, and Aerosmith, but in 1976 I cleared space over my bed for the famous poster of Farrah Fawcett, as no doubt did millions of other American boys who were as in love with the beaming smile, the fluffy hair, and the red bathing suit as much as I was. What is interesting is that Farrah was the first and only female to earn a spot on those walls, and I used to jokingly say goodnight to her before I went to sleep and goodbye to her in the morning on my way to school. I guess this seemed like some kind of a relationship in my teenage mind.

Now, when I go into my daughter’s room I see posters of the Jonas Brothers, Zac Efron, the Sprouse twins, Demi Lovato, Selena Gomez, and Miley Cyrus. These are the new teen and pre-teen icons, but truthfully I don’t see anything of the magic of Michael in these people. The girls, while cute, are no Farrah Fawcett, but maybe that is the whole point. These kids don’t need to out-dazzle one another because they have a ready made audience and exposure that Farrah and Michael could never have imagined.

Whenever my daughter wants to hear a song by one of her “faves” or see an image, all she has to do is put on the computer. Music videos, like those that built Michael into a star during the early glory days of MTV, are just a click away. She can check out all these songs without opening her little purse. She can also print images of these stars and post them in her room next to the large posters she gets from inside magazines.

Can you imagine Michael having that kind of exposure in his day? Or, for that matter, a group like the Beatles or someone like Elvis. If they were such mega-watt stars in the days of no technology, what would they be today? Of course, when I said that my daughter said something like, “Dad, they’d be just one of all the rest now.”

Ah, the truth out of the mouth of my pre-teen. She hit on something absolutely right: there is nothing extraordinary about any of these new stars because they are seemingly manufactured from the same mold, Disney or otherwise. Now, my opinions may reveal my age here by my lack of understanding their appeal, but I do not see how any of these people will ever be big stars twenty years from now, and maybe, come to think of it, not even ten years from now.

The new star is just a video or a song away. Miley meet Selena meet Demi meet whoever is next. One week it is Katy Perry and the next Lady Gaga and then maybe Lord Timberlake or Prince Eminem might come back for a spell. It doesn’t seem like anything substantial or even close to everlasting; perhaps, these days we cannot expect that or maybe no one wants it anymore.

People’s tastes are more fickle than ever. I remember lots of one-hit wonders in my day, but that seemed to be par for the course in the fairways to fame and misfortune. The old bands I liked are either gone or reconstituted to a point of really not being those old bands I used to go to see at Madison Square Garden or Nassau Coliseum.

Still, if you want a really great show, and one that will fill a stadium, you need an act that has some mileage like Sir Paul McCartney, who is playing soon at Citi Field here in New York in shows that sold out the stadium in less than five minutes. This is apropos since Paul, as a member of a little band called The Beatles, was part of the first concert ever held in a stadium. For those of you too young to know or remember, Paul and his mates played to a packed house at Shea Stadium back in 1965. Now, the first concert ever at Citi Field will feature Sir Paul.

No matter how wonderful the Jonas Brothers or any of these other acts are today, I don’t think any single one of them could sell out a large stadium like that. If you want to do that, you need the old boys to have top billing: McCartney can still do it, Springsteen too, and maybe Bon Jovi or the Rolling Stones if they come around again.

So, as I sat there this weekend looking at my daughter’s posters on the wall, I thought about the posters on the wall of my sister’s and my room over thirty years ago. So much has changed since then, and now Farrah is not just one of Charlie’s Angels but something much more, and Michael is somewhere between here and Alpha Centauri, no doubt dazzling the heavens with his sparkling glove and socks, singing with that ethereal voice and dancing a moonwalk as a now eternal boy-man who is and ever will be a blazing comet across the sky.

In pace requiescat, Farrah and Michael.

Christmas Stocking Tales

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care;
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
-Clement Clarke Moore

As I sat pensively staring out the window this Christmas morning, I was holding my week-old son in my arms and giving him a bottle. This oft-repeated act done by parents the world over for centuries in and of itself was satisfying, but I couldn’t help but drift back to my own childhood memories.

Christmas has always been about family for me, even on those Christmases when I was not able to be in New York. The tug of the power of home was always greatest at this time of year, and I suspect that this is the same for many people. Above all for me it was being able to celebrate with my parents, grandparents, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins as we had done every year since I was a boy. Any break in that tradition caused much angst as I scrambled to find (in those dark ages before cellular phones and e-mail) a payphone to call home.

There is a layering of Christmases past for me, sort of like an onion tree ornament that can be peeled off to reveal each year. Sometimes they coalesce and the good memories are revealed in an array of colors fanning out in my mind: the twinkling lights, the ubiquitous carols playing somewhere in another room, the clinking of plates and utensils, the hoisting of drinks and toasts made, the reverberations of laughter from grandparents and aunts and uncles now long gone but never forgotten.

Christmas has never been the same since my mother passed away in May 2006. I have tried to get into the holiday spirit as best as I can. I hang the stockings on the mantel, remembering how she did this for me as a child, and I feel a tug on my heart as I watch the lights reflecting off the vibrant reds and dark greens in the fabric, knowing Mom is with me even if she is not here.
So, as I sat giving my infant son a bottle, I counted my blessings. I sat in a warm house with a fire in the hearth. Numerous presents for my son and daughter rested under the tree waiting to be opened, and the music played softly in another room just as it always had in my youth. Just as my son finished his bottle and I prepared to hoist him onto my shoulder for a gentle patting to illicit his passing of gas, Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song” drifted across the room and I felt a shiver of all those who were gone being present with me, seeing my son in his infancy and knowing how truly life goes on.

I recalled my father’s father telling me of the poverty he escaped from. One of eight brothers and sisters, my grandfather lived in a tenement on the Lower East Side of Manhattan as a boy in the 1890s. There was no fireplace; there was no heating system. It was known as a “cold water flat” and they had a small coal heater in the kitchen and a stove. Strangely enough, the bathtub was also in the kitchen, which was obviously the center of family life in more ways than one. When he needed to use the toilet, he had to go all the way down the hall and hope that no one from the other five apartments on his floor was in there using it.

My grandfather slept in the same bed with this three brothers until he was old enough to get out of the house. He had to make his way in the world early on because his father died when he was in third grade, so that ended his educational journey and started him on the road to working for the rest of his life. In the summer the rooms were unbearably hot, but he and his brothers could escape the heat by going upstairs and jumping into the water tower on the roof (apparently all these buildings had them as a way to fight fires in those days). The roof was also a place to play games, including one in which they released rats caught in the traps each night. My grandfather laughed as he recalled he and his brothers emptying at least ten traps each day into the street below from the rooftop. Pity the person walking by at the time.

Christmas was a bleak time in the tenement. They never had a tree in the apartment, but the brothers would each hang an old sock on one of the bedposts in hopes of getting something from Santa Claus. They believed in celebrating the religious aspect of the day, and my grandfather said the night before Christmas always involved the whole family going to visit his grandmother’s apartment in Brooklyn. Even though the famed Brooklyn Bridge was new in those days, the family preferred walking across the East River to get to Williamsburg, since each year the river froze over so solidly that it was a safe and fast path to Norna’s house. They would all go to Mass that morning and then have a modest dinner with Norna in the afternoon. Meat was rarely available, but fish and polenta were to be had and bowls of tapioca pudding for dessert.

When he returned to the apartment every year after the trip back across the frozen river, my grandfather would run into his room to check the tattered stocking that he had hung from the bedpost. Somehow Santa found a way to put a peppermint stick in the sock, and sometimes a ball or new pair of socks. Believe it or not, my grandfather thought he was blessed to get these gifts and smiled in his old age as he recalled the happiness of getting anything in those austere times.

My grandfather never felt deprived about his Christmases past and, like I feel now, he seemed to think wistfully of those days and wished he could revisit them once again. As I sat there this morning, I felt amazed at how far our family had come from those times. My parents had raised us well in a comfortable home, providing us with opportunities for college and graduate school. As I looked into my son’s eyes, I felt fortunate that I could provide him with everything I had and, hopefully, a good deal more.

When my daughter and wife came downstairs and the presents began to be torn open, I placed my son in his bassinet and went over to the fireplace, staring at his and my daughter’s brimming stockings. I touched mine and it too was filled very well, but at the top a solitary candy cane glistened in the Christmas lights. I understood my grandfather’s happiness and felt blessed in so many more ways than I could ever be able to count at that moment.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good 2009!

Love's Labor Is Not Lost

For many people (especially children) there is an uneasy feeling when the calendar page is turned from August to September. The primary reason for this is that “no more pencils, no more books” time is winding down. Children and teenagers have to shake the dust (and sometimes sand) off their thinking caps and have to face the realization that the long sunny days of free time are over, and they know that means “early to bed and early to rise” time, followed by studying, homework, and test taking.

Saturday was September 1 and I was on the next to last day of vacation with my wife and daughter on the East End of Long Island. That morning as they slept, I slipped out the door to get coffee, breakfast, and the newspaper. What was very surprising was the brisk wind, the clear blue sky after a night of rain, and the overall feeling in the air that summer was really over. We all know that in reality summer doesn’t end until later in September, but that first day of the month and, more importantly, Labor Day, basically signal the end of summer as people close up cottages and bungalows, stop wearing white, and prepare for the long, dark days of winter.

We returned home late today and, since the cupboard was bare, I ran into the local drugstore for some milk, juice, and other supplies to hold us over until tomorrow. Imagine my surprise to be greeted, not by Back to School signs, but by Halloween decorations hanging all over the place. This kind of intertwining of seasons is particularly confusing since I was just swimming and sunning on the beach, and I don’t associate those activities with Halloween since it’s usually rather chilly around here by then. Yes, I knew summer was ostensibly over, but I guess I didn’t realize just by how much (at least in the retail world).

I started thinking about the importance of Labor Day, not just as a day to honor workers (which I think is quite an admirable thing in and of itself), but more as a benchmark in the calendar year that reminds us of something tangibly important in life: reality. While we all love the freedom of summer days and the carefree lifestyle associated with it, we know it cannot last forever (unless we are some self-appointed “dudes” living the all-year-round dream in Hawaii or the Seychelles or someplace else like that).

I live in shorts, T-shirts, and sneakers during the summer months, that is when I’m not diving into the ocean or a poolsomewhere. I enjoy being able to read what I want (as opposed to the books or reports and documents that are necessary in my other life as an educator), sleep late, and spend time with my wife and daughter doing “fun” things. I can sneak some writing in during these times too (my three published books were all completed during the summer when I had the time to put finishing touches on them).

There is the opportunity to travel, whether it is a long voyage across the globe or a jaunt to the end of Long Island. There are long days available for seemingly endless games of baseball, Frisbee tossing, or interminable volleyball matches between all the assorted family members assembled for barbecues in backyards. There is the wonderfully fecund scent of the grill sending good smoke into the sky, the sizzle of the hot dogs and hamburgers, the sweet chill of the glass of lemonade in one‘s hand, the buzz of the insects being sucked into the blue light of the zapper hanging on the porch, and the soothing sounds of crickets chirping the night away.

All the wonderful fleeting moments coalesce and touch memories for those of us old enough to recall many summers past. Having lost my mother and aunt last year, I remember many happy summers in our beach house at Breezy Point (New York). After Mom was done hanging out clothes on the line (my shirts never smelled better), she and Aunt Margie sat on the porch telling stories while the mosquitoes tried to attack, and I had the feeling that the calendar was forever stuck on July and I was free for an “Endless Summer” as promised by the Beach Boys album. Every time I hear their song “Surfer Girl” I get a bit choked up as I recall those happy boyhood days.

Of course, the younger people reading this may only have a few summers to remember, but no matter, I am sure they represent the same thing in a different way. There is a feeling of relaxation that permeates the mind and body, a sense that all the things that matter really don’t anymore (even if they will again in September). Summer is a recurring honeymoon, a bon voyage that is always rather “bon” by nature, the express train to Candy Land, Oz, and Disney with no return trip needed. Kids run wild and free in the sunshine, a blur of tanned limbs and bobbing heads as they rush up a hillside, across a beach, or through a forest.

Yet, despite all this celebration of being free, I find the turn of the calendar to September exhilarating, and I have felt this way since childhood. I always loved the smell of fresh school supplies: sharpened pencils, blank notebooks, and the stiff pages of new textbooks. There was always a feeling of awe with my thinking that I, as a tabula rasa each school year, would be etched upon and thus become closer to the essential knowledge of the ages, passed down from Aristotle, Euripides, Einstein (et al) to the teacher or teachers of the moment.

I still feel this excitement now, wondering about meeting new colleagues, seeing my new students for the first time, and learning as much (if not more) from them as they will from me. It is this symbiotic aspect of education that has always had the greatest appeal for me: the idea that we learn and teach as we teach and learn, thus making ripples start in the small pond that will someday become waves in the ocean. It is an always occurring and reoccurring process, and that is what I like most of all. Education always begins anew each September, but it never ends.

So, as we celebrate Labor Day, let us not forget those who work hard to educate our children. Let us remember all those who work hard everywhere doing all sorts of jobs, but also let us acknowledge that this is the day that marks an ending and a beginning. In this way we can embrace the change in calendar and seasons and face the reality of responsibility, but also know that with those cooler days and falling leaves comes the fright of Halloween, the bounty of Thanksgiving, and the beauty of the holiday season.

Occurring and reoccurring, the cycle brings us back again and again. Thus, we get to a point we have always known and yet we revel in the great expectations of what each new day will bring. Ladies and gentlemen, I think that is what reality is really all about. So, let us appreciate the days and months ahead and remember that summer will return for our enjoyment in 2008.

High School Musical 2: We're All in This Together

When I first reviewed the original Disney movie High School Musical, I had no idea what I was getting into. Before I watched it, I believed (rather naively I might add) that this was going to be just another TV movie concocted for kids, some pabulum-like entertainment that wouldn’t hold my interest.

Boy, was I wrong, and then some. The first film was intelligent and fast-paced, with bright young actors and actresses who brought out the best in the music and dance numbers. Repeated viewings didn’t lessen how much I enjoyed the film, and since my daughter (now six) has watched it at least twenty times since its premiere, I’ve had plenty of time to absorb the overall message of the film and understand its lasting impact.

Of course, along the way, it became a cultural powerhouse that has affected people of all ages. Students everywhere are putting on their own versions of the film in school productions, and the concept of “musical theater” is now more popular than it has been since John Travolta strutted his stuff in Grease (1978). My daughter understood right from the start that this was something bigger than “big,” just the way I did when I sat on the living room floor and stared in excited wonder at the Beatles on The Ed Sullivan Show while my parents felt they were nothing more than a flash in the pan. Yeah, right!

After my first review received over 2,500 comments (and still counting), I realized that High School Musical was a Disney juggernaut comparable in some ways to the success of the Fab Four with tweens and pre-tweens like my daughter. Anything somehow related to the movie (posters, lunchboxes, backpacks, pajamas, T-shirts, toys, etc.) was selling out fast and, as the young stars made the rounds on talk shows and other appearances, the squealing girls certainly reminded me of that Beatles phenomenon from my youth.

With my skepticism thrown to the wind, this time I was enthusiastically on board for the exciting ride and my daughter and I watched the movie together as I sat with pen and pad in hand. I can happily announce that director Kenny Ortega and his singing and dancing minions (all the original cast returns, even Zac Efron with slightly darker hair from his tour of duty in Hairspray) deliver a slam-dunk sequel that in some ways is even better than the original (and I don’t think I’ve said that since... gulp... Godfather II).

In an obviously more lavish (and thus expensive) production, all the stops are pulled out as the East High kids prepare for summer vacation. The old stomping grounds at their Albequerque high school (the film was actually shot in Utah) are revisited during the opening number “What Time Is It?” We briefly see Troy (Efron) and Gabriela’s (Vanessa Hudgens) tormentor Mrs. Darbus (Alyson Reed) from the first film, but she is merely part of a fast-paced exposition that sets the East Siders free for what should be a carefree summer. The kids go through the now familiar hallways, cafeteria, and eventually finish on a high note on the outside campus with the school building in the background. The message is clear: school is out for summer; let the party begin.

Unfortunately, reality wriggles its way into the story. Troy and his teammates play basketball with his father (Bart Johnson), who happens to also be the team’s coach. Dad/coach establishes the idea that summer is also a good time to make some money to either buy a car, get things they want to buy, or perhaps save for college. This is the pivotal point in the rising action, for Troy’s concern about the cost of college leads him and his friends to take jobs at local resort. Unbeknownst to them, this has all been set-up by the snooty Sharpay (played with a touch of evil glee by Ashley Tisdale) in order for her to get closer, much closer, to Troy.

As the old gang descends on an upper-crusty New Mexico country club, we discover that Sharpay’s parents own the place, and she has not learned her lesson from the first movie and still foolishly has her eyes focused on Troy Bolton. Troy has wisely found a way for all his buds from East High, along with his favorite gal Gabriela, to get hired with him, making the situation ripe for sparks to fly as the annual talent show literally sets the stage for conflict.

There are solid dance numbers performed throughout, with some of the ancillary stars from the first film getting a little more to say, do, and sing this time around. The best one is “I Don’t Dance” set on a baseball field under a crystal clear blue desert sky. Here, Chad (Corbin Bleu) and Ryan (Lucas Grabeel) face-off in a battle of wits and physical prowess. It is what was once called a “showstopper” and manages to lift the spirits while propelling the plot forward nicely, slipping Ryan into the “in” crowd he never thought he could ever join.

Sharpay somehow manages to suck Troy into singing with her in the talent competition, based on the notion that it will help him land a college scholarship (and she mistakenly believes this will gain Troy’s affection). This temporarily alienates his friends and his lady love, thus giving Efron even more opportunities in the spotlight to flex his acting muscles. He earnestly proves his worth here, singing stronger and better than in the original and showcasing the maturity that will inevitably make him a really big star like the previously mentioned Travolta.

As in the first film, major conflicts seem to be quickly dissolved or resolved at the end. I won’t ruin the denouement for those who have not seen the film, but let it suffice to say that the overriding theme of the first movie (we’re all in this together) resonates in this sequel, and by the time we see everyone singing and dancing in a rousing finale, we can rest assured that all will be well with the East Side gang until the next sequel (if Disney can somehow find a way to lasso Efron’s rising star).

Credit must be given to all involved in this production, especially director Ortega. Obviously Disney gave him the time, money, and talent to mount a superior production, and (just as he did in the first film and Cheetah Girls 2) Mr. Ortega knows his audience and shows deference to their cultural touchstones, such as previous Disney films they have all grown up with.

The sub-textual references to all the princess movies are obvious here, with Sharpay literally in her ivory tower staring down at Gabriella and Troy, her dashing Prince Charming to be sure. No matter how much Sharpay stares into the mirror, Gabriela will still end up being the fairest of them all and manage to snag her Prince in the process. All the sprinklers in the world can’t be turned on to douse that kind of love, and Ortega not only knows that his audience understands that but he also respects it, too.

Thus, I tip my cap to all involved in making this wonderful film. It actually does more than entertain; it motivates kids (and their parents) to get up and dance and sing. Besides the aerobic benefits from all this, it’s just good, sweet fun and, in an ever more troubling world, we can all use that.

Bonds, Rodriguez, and Glavine: Are Their Records Really Historic?

This week we have been witnesses to three players making history: Barry Bonds of the San Francisco Giants hit home run number 755; Alex (A-Rod) Rodriguez of the New York Yankees hit home run number 500, and pitcher Tom Glavine of the (my beloved) New York Mets notched his career win number 300. All impressive Hall of Fame achievements, right? Shouldn't we be honored to have seen baseball history in the making?

I'm not so sure about that.

First of all, as a Met fan I am not so giddy about Tom Glavine getting his 300th win. Mostly this is due to the fact that the majority of those wins came when he was wearing another uniform, and it wasn't just any uniform, folks: he was an Atlanta Brave. Now, many of you non-Met fans are probably saying this is crazy, but I have trouble with the Mets celebrating the achievement of a guy who used to beat them while pitching for an opposing team in the same division (by the way, the only more despised opponent is the Yankees).

I know that many of his current teammates celebrated with him, but whom do the guys on ESPN call when they want some perspective on this accomplishment? Glavine's former Braves teammate and bud John Smoltz, that's who. Gets me thinking that Glavine is still in his heart of hearts a Brave and wishes he won this game down in Atlanta and not on some sultry night in Chicago wearing a Mets uniform. Still, by all accounts Glavine is one of baseball's "good guys" so I can tip my (Mets) cap to him if ever so slightly.

Not even considering the steroid factor in any way, baseball fans (besides those McCovey Cove zealots in San Fran) have not embraced Bonds in his quest for the Everest of baseball records. Think how McGwire and Sosa were seen as baseball's darlings as they raced for the single season home run record. That good feeling was akin to watching Cal Ripken ride around on a horse in Baltimore when he had his farewell ceremony. But Bonds seems to have always been not the straw that stirs the drink but more the one that blows bubbles into it. Even if steroids were not an issue (and believe me, they are no matter how you want to look at the matter), I'd say Bonds is not liked and that has all to do with him reaping what he has sown.

A-Rod is another sour pill to be sure. He talks a good talk but struggles with his walk. He came over to the Yankees expecting a ring and all the associated bling, but things haven't turned out the way he planned. Yankees fans will always like Derek Jeter better (hey, they even like a guy like Robinson Cano better) and feel like A-Rod has waltzed in as a golden boy, anointed by George Steinbrenner to be the next B-Ruth. Unfortunately, A-Rod is right-handed and even though he hits all these homers and knocks in all these runs, all Steingrubber's men really can't put him back together again after stories about cheating on his wife and ego clashes with Derek.

Despite all the things noted above, the main problem I have with these achievements is that they have not occurred in the consistency of service to one team. Bonds and A-Rod have bounced around a bit, while Glavine only took the Mets' offer because he couldn't get the same from Atlanta. This is a bit of pure mathematics that has nothing to do with baseball statistics and everything to do with dollars and cents.

Yes, I know this is the world of free agency and that Catfish Hunter paved the way for the poor baseball players, freeing them from the oppression of working for the baseball owners who made Simon Legree look like Little Orphan Annie. Still, no matter how we slice it, the piece of the American Pie is a lot bigger for these ballplayers, even the ones who make less like David Wright and Jose Reyes. I mean, wouldn't you rather work seven months a year (hopefully eight if you make the playoffs) playing a game you love rather than doing something else?

In the end, when I think about these records the feeling I get is nothing close to warm and fuzzy but more like moist and fetid. These guys followed the bucks and they didn't care about the fans, the most important people in the baseball kingdoms run by these baseball kings and queens. If anyone has "serf" status it is the fans, since we have to work the land and still pay for it (whatever happened to the $1.50 general admission seats of my youth?). The players are less than knights in shining armor to be sure, but they have been touched by the sword and certainly live a charmed life at home and on the road.

It doesn't help that Bonds plays for the Giants (who left New York for sunny California and put a hole in so many hearts), A-Rod saunters around for the Yankees (a team that believes it's royalty as much as its owner thinks he's King George), and Glavine pitches for the Mets (working class scrubs to be sure but still hated because the team is in New York).

There is also the truth that loyalty is a forgotten notion and that really hurts. While I hope Wright and Reyes play their whole careers in Queens, I am not certain of it. Jeter (no matter how much I hate his team) is probably the last stand-up baseball guy; the last future Hall of Famer who played his whole career with one team. There's a reason Lou Gehrig said he was the luckiest man on earth (even when he was dying), and the fans in attendance at Yankee Stadium that day intimately knew why because they were fortunate too since Gehrig played every inning of his career as a Yankee.

We will never see the likes of those kinds of days again. Free agency, steroids, and greed have seen to that. So these records mean nothing more than numbers in the book when they should mean a whole lot more. For that, every baseball fan should be more than angry because as we are witnesses to baseball history we can also testify to the fact that it has been compromised probably beyond repair, and that's more than a damned shame, it's a disgrace.