The Deep End of the Pool

By John Schulian

The door to Hollywood was open, courtesy of Steven Bochco, and all I had to do was step through it. As easy as that sounded, I was fully aware of how ill-equipped I was to write for the series that turned out to be “L.A. Law.” I’d never written a script and, uncharacteristically, I didn’t try to once I received Steven’s invitation. Though I’d always been a grind and a stickler for preparation, this time I backed off, as if I were afraid to risk screwing up the alignment of the stars that had shone on me thus far.

I pored over the “Hill Street Blues” scripts Steven had sent me until the print started to fade, soaking up their rhythms and quirks and humanity. When drafts of the pilot script for “L.A. Law” began arriving, I read them even more ravenously. If I’d been smart, I would have saved them. All I have, however, are my memories of how the script by Steven and the show’s co-creator, a former lawyer named Terry Louise Fisher, hit me between the eyes with its intelligence, irreverence, and heart. Though multiple storylines were being juggled, they never detracted from the luminous writing. Likewise, there would be no caving in to the mill-run blandness that makes the characters on too many TV series sound like the creation of an uninspired ventriloquist. In just a few lines of dialogue, Steven and Terry had me seeing a three-dimensional quality to the womanizing Arnie Becker, the up-from-nothing Victor Sifuentes, and the career-burdened lovers, Ann Kelsey and Michael Kuzak. That’s the way first-class writing works on the screen, big or small: a little begets a lot.

The other significant lesson I learned lay in the number of drafts the script went through. I’d never been one for rewriting – there’s rarely time for it on a newspaper – but that was all Steven and Terry seemed to be doing. And in every draft they made a stunning script better. The question for me was whether I could come anywhere near what they had achieved, anywhere near being within a million miles. Some days, when I was particularly full of myself, I didn’t see why not. Other days, when reality grabbed my lapel and gave me a good shake, I could feel my throat constricting. Either way, there was no ignoring the obvious: I was going to be in the deep end of the pool.

While I waited for Steven to tell me when to show up, I tried not to turn my Philadelphia Daily News column into a public disgrace. I’d promised the sports editor that I’d come back to the paper if I struck out in Hollywood, but no matter how I pushed myself, my heart was far from the work at hand. I felt no more connection to Philly than I had when I was a visiting writer. If there was an out-of-town assignment, I tried to grab it, the farther out of town the better. I made the old “Best Sports Stories” anthology twice while I was at the Daily News, and one piece was written in Chicago, the other in Anchorage, Alaska.

The dateline I was most interested in, of course, was Los Angeles. There are many things I haven’t been smart about in my life, but whenever I was in L.A., I was smart enough to capitalize on Steven’s invitation to call him. We chatted a time or two, and then he invited me to dinner with him and his wife at the time, Barbara Bosson, whom you may remember as the precinct captain’s increasingly unhinged ex-wife on “Hill Street.” We went to Michael’s, in Santa Monica, which was then the hottest restaurant in town. I don’t remember what I ate, other than it was probably more than Steven and his wife put away combined. But I do remember how Michael himself came out and schmoozed with the Bochcos and threw in a quick backrub for Steven. So this was how TV royalty was treated.

Later, I was in L.A. again, this time to cover the Lakers when the Houston Rockets upset them to get into the 1986 NBA finals. Steven invited me to swing by his office at Twentieth Century Fox and watch an early cut of the “L.A. Law” pilot. He wasn’t around when I showed up, but his assistant had everything ready for me. I watched it by myself, thrilled to see how the splendid cast he had assembled brought those characters to life. There was magic involved-–I wasn’t sure how it was conjured up, but more than ever, I wanted to be part of it.

In mid-June 1986, almost 11 months to the day after Steven wrote me the letter that became my life preserver, there I was. I made a silent vow to check my ego at the door, took a deep breath, and walked into the Old Writers Building on the Fox lot. “Nobody here but us old writers,” Steven said. I’d read the scripts he’d sent me, a venerable introductory text called “Screenplay,” by Syd Field, and the script for “Chinatown,” which remains the gold standard of screenwriting. And that was the sum total of my preparation for the turning point in my life.

"Chinatown" by Robert Towne

Steven introduced me to Terry Fisher, who looked at me like she still hadn’t heard an acceptable explanation for my presence. But Steven was the big dog in the room, so my place at the table was secure. After some polite chitchat, we started to work on breaking the story lines for what would become the eighth episode of “L.A. Law.” Ten minutes in, I realized just how far out of my league I was.

Here were two incredibly smart, savvy, sophisticated people-–one a reformed lawyer, the other a legendary TV writer who had steeped himself in the law and lawyers-–and they were doing something they had done hundreds of times before. They were kicking around ideas and notions and snippets of dialogue the way the Harlem Globetrotters whip a basketball around. I was a bumpkin, unschooled in law and barely conversant with screenwriting. I sat there paralyzed, unable to contribute a single coherent thought. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. All my life I’d worked alone, and now that I’d been thrust into Hollywood’s collaborative process, I was afraid that if I tried to say anything, I would squeak like a mouse.

Click here for the full “From Ali to Xena” archives.

[Swimming Pool Photograph by David Lee Guss]

Sitting in the safety of my living room, reading about bomb plots, I sometimes wonder about the security of my commute. But then the time comes to get going in the morning and my head is clear of any notion that something might happen. When I arrive at my desk, I remember I was supposed to be worried and I feel irresponsible.

I’m not trying to ignore the threat, but at the most crucial times, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I can see how that unconscious selectivity helps me function as a human being, but I wish it was a manual shut-off valve instead of an automatic.

How do you guys deal?

“My Gems,” By William Harnett (1888)

First day of pre-school tomorrow for my older boy. It’s the de facto last weekend of summer for us and we Phineas & Ferbed it. A worm hunt, sleep-over, co-op wide bar-be-cue, birthday party, soccer practice, knight’s quest, and a long walk through Washington Heights to Inwood. And he had questions about memorials around town today that I just couldn’t answer adequately, though I tried my best. There were also baseball games. I know because my phone is set to text me every score change in every Yankee game. So I saw the Yanks scored one run on seven hits over 18 innings against the Angels. I even watched the Friday night game.

But this losing streak didn’t phase me in the least. This team can hit. Jered Weaver and Dan Haren can pitch, especially in their ballpark. The Yanks have thumped those guys before, especially in our ballpark, which is probably where we’ll see them if they work themselves into the Postseason. Ervin Santana isn’t quite as good as Weaver and Haren, but he’s no slouch. And the Yankees did just fine against him today.

They fought back several times as Freddy Garcia put them in a hole and kept digging. And when they finally evened the score, the baseball gods rewarded them with the type of break we’re unaccustomed to seeing in Anaheim. Mark Teixeira lofted a fly ball to deep center with one out and the tying run on third. It was well struck, but it never looked like anything other than an out. Right up until it clanked off the heel of Peter Bourjos’s glove. Derek Jeter scored the go-ahead run all the way from first and the bullpen made it stick. Yanks win, 6-5.

Freddy Garcia threw to Jesus Montero catching his first big-league game. Montero will remind nobody of Johnny Bench back there, but shockingly, he prevented a few of the balls from skipping to the backstop, threw out a runner stealing second, and did not spontaneously combust at any time. It was the second inning when Mike Scioscia decided to test the rookie for the first time. He sent Alberto Callaspo on a 1-2 count. Freddy Garcia obliged with a slow slider, low and outside. Montero snagged the ball as he drew himself into throwing position and delivered a seed on target to Eduardo Nunez. Not that close.

One play will not rewrite the story on Montero, but we need to remember that scouts don’t like his long-term ability to stick at catcher. That doesn’t mean he can’t play there sometimes in the short-term. The Yankees can still get excellent value by playing him there occasionally, DHing him often, and perhaps teaching him how to play right field and first base in the mean time. The Angels stole two bases on him later in the game and he couldn’t prevent a run-scoring wild pitch. Wake me when the Rays steal nine bases on him or something like that.

Speaking of rookie catchers, due to injuries to Cervelli and Martin, Austin Romine got the quick call-up and jumped behind the plate to catch the top three Yankee relievers. He didn’t get a chance to bat, but going from AA to a cup of coffee with Scranton was supposed to be the high point of his season. Catching Mo’s 599th save in his MLB debut must have blown his noggin.

Freddy Garcia wasn’t very good, but the bullpen was. If the Yankees are going to win games in the Postseason started by someone besides CC, expect the box score to look like this one. Curtis Granderson and Robinson Cano hit home runs to keep the game close. Granderson’s recent slump illustrates how crucial his production is to the lineup. He’s been a bedrock this season, month-to-month reliability. And then five for 38 to start September. The slump has quieted any MVP talk, but there’s still time to turn that around with a hot finish. Regardless of appearances, with Arod contributing little this year, the team revolves around Granderson and Cano.

Mariano Rivera is one save away from 600, two saves away from tying the all-time record, and three away from claiming the record for himself. We all know saves are a poorly conceived statistic that have probably caused more harm than good in the game, but as long as Mariano is the all-time leader in something, they can’t be all bad.

The Red Sox couldn’t break their losing streak today, so the Yankees inched forward to a 3.5 game lead, four in the loss column. The Rays are charging as the Yanks and Sox stumble, but they’re too far back to bother the Yankees. They’re too far back to catch the Red Sox, but bother them…yeah, I think they have officially bothered them.

All this transpired on the last day of our summer vacation. I didn’t see it, but I did see this:

The snail was slow and it left a trail of slime, but eventually it got where it was going.

The Yanks have lost four games in a row. Couple of dumb ones against the O’s, couple of tough ones against the Angels. Be nice if they win one today.

Scoretruck–on the low–anyone?

Never mind the angst: Let’s Go Yanks!

[Photo Credit: Someone that Understands]

Word to God.

When I think about September 11, I immediately become angry. Angry with malevolent terrorists who committed mass murder on American soil, terrorists who participated in one of the greatest atrocities in American history. I have no sympathy for the terrorists, and no interest in hearing about their reasons for murdering innocent people.

After awhile, my anger turns to sadness. I think about Adam Lewis, the one person I knew who died in the Twin Towers. Adam and I were classmates at Hamilton College, part of the class of 1987. I didn’t know Adam well enough to call him a friend, but knew him well enough to realize that he was a good guy and a strong family man. Like all of the other civilians who died that day, he deserved better.

And then my sadness turns to a smile. I think about the way that Americans responded to the tragedy. So many firefighters, medical personnel, and policemen reported to Ground Zero on a day when they were not supposed to work. They had no obligation to report, but knew it was the right thing to do. So many volunteers went there, gave hours and hours of themselves, in an effort to rescue whoever might have survived. These were Americans at their finest.

One of those Americans was a former Yankee, Frank Tepedino. A veteran member of the New York Fire Patrol, Tepedino was at home that day when he heard about the terrorist attacks. He, his son, and two other firefighters immediately drove to the towers. Even though they were coming from Long Island, it took them four hours to reach the site.

By the time they arrived, the towers had already collapsed. Tepedino and the others did what they could, searching the rubble for other potential survivors. “Moving debris, opening manhole covers, helping with food, water and excavation,” Tepedino told the Syracuse Herald American in 2001. As they helped in the recovery efforts, Tepedino and his friends worked in 24-hour shifts.

What began as a rescue mission eventually became a job of cleaning up, once they realized that no other survivors would be found. It was frustrating for Tepedino and the others, knowing that the missing would not be found, but they also knew that the cleanup had to be done.

Tepedino’s rescue efforts put him in the spotlight for the first time since 1975, when he wrapped up a journeyman career with the Braves. Originally drafted by the Orioles, Tepedino was then selected by the Yankees in the Rule Five draft. The Yankees loved his left-handed swing, envisioning him as a possible answer at first base. But there were roadblocks at the position, Mickey Mantle and Joe Pepitone early on, and then Johnny Ellis and Ron Blomberg.

The Yankees switched him to the outfield, but there was no room there either, not with people like Roy White and Bobby Murcer holding down starting jobs. As a result, Tepedino never received even close to a full opportunity to play regularly in the Bronx.

He spent a good deal of time at Triple-A Syracuse, where he became one of the Chiefs’ most popular players. Early in 1971, the Yankees finally gave Tepedino a reprieve, sending him to the Brewers for strongboy Danny Walton, who had enormous power but an alarming propensity for striking out.

The Brewers gave Tepedino a look at first base, but he couldn’t beat out veteran Johnny Briggs. So the next spring, the Brewers sold him back to the Yankees. They used him exclusively as a pinch-hitter, and then used him as part of a package to acquire Pat Dobson from the Braves. In 1973, Tepedino became part of the Braves’ celebrated bench brigade, which was known as “F-Troop.” As Tepedino explained to The Sporting News, “F stands for fearless and faithful.” Playing as a backup first baseman and pinch-hitter, Tepedino hit .304 for manager Eddie Mathews. He also had the opportunity to play with a fellow named Hank Aaron, bookending a career that had seen him start his career playing with his boyhood idol, Mickey Mantle.

Two years after leading F-Troop, Tepedino was out of baseball. At the age of 27, Tepedino had to seek out a new career, while continuing his battle with alcoholism. Not only did Tepedino beat the bottle, but he found himself doing worthy work as a fire fighter, beginning a 30-plus year stint with the New York Fire patrol.

On September 11, Tepedino, like thousands of other first responders, became a hero. It was still an awful day, a day that brings with it so many bad memories. But it was a day when people like Frank Tepedino showed us only their best and helped us feel proud.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

[Drawing by Larry Roibal]

Peace to all of the Banter readers out there. To you and your families.

Walk Tall.

[Photo Credit: Joel Zimmer]

In memory of 9.11, please check out the first chapter of what I think is probably Glenn Stout’s best book, “Nine Months at Ground Zero: The Story of the Brotherhood of Workers Who Took on a Job Like No Other.”

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Times]

The Yankees are in the middle of a tough stretch. Bad breaks. Horrid weather. Stupid travel. And waiting for them after a long flight to the west coast, Jered Weaver and the still-kicking Angels. After wining at 2:15 am on Wednesday morning to keep a 2.5 game lead over the Red Sox, they’ve lost three in a row…and still have a 2.5 game lead over the Red Sox. So things could be a lot better, but they could also be a lot worse.

Jered Weaver’s stats sparkle. And that’s even considering he allowed six homers and 21 runs in three recent games – over a third of his season total in both categories. Before that, they were really special. It seems like he was thrown off track by some irregular rest. First he had too much, as he served a suspension and returned to a rout by the Jays. And then too little, as Mike Scioscia juggled the rotation so he could face the Rangers on short rest. He got drilled in Texas and still wasn’t sharp when he beat Minnesota.

He’s caught up on regular rest now, though, and chewed up the Yankee lineup with his sneaky fast 90 MPH heater and 12-to-6 deuce. Weaver threw eight innings of three-hit ball, striking out eleven. There weren’t many comfortable swings and few hard hit balls. Jesus Montero might have had all of them. Batting eighth, the rookie DH was able to snap the bat head out to meet a two-strike fast ball on the inside corner. Live, it looked like he was jammed. But slow motion showed him pull his hands in so he could get the barrel on the ball. He struck like lightening and sent the ball to the back of the bullpen in left. He also tagged one straight to the right fielder and made a bid for extra bases down the third base line but was foiled by Alberto Callaspo’s hockey-goalie reflexes.

Bartolo Colon was not as impressive as Jered Weaver, but he still made short work of a weak lineup. He only allowed six hits in seven innings, and two of those were bunts. Colon’s going to be in the post season rotation and a game like this show why. He went toe-to-toe with one of the best pitchers in the league, on the road, and was very good. In fact, he might he beaten Weaver if his defense didn’t let him down in the fifth.

Speedster supreme Peter Bourjos bunted for a single. Alex Rodriguez wasn’t playing too deep, broke quickly and fielded cleanly, but still didn’t even bother to make the throw. If this guy puts down a credible bunt, it’s a hit. Next, Derek Jeter botched the throw on a fairly routine play. Bourjos was in motion, forcing Jeter to go to first, but his errant heave looked amateurish at best – like he was expecting to make the play on 60 foot bases, and then looked up and realized he was playing on the big field. Colon got another grounder, but the Yankees couldn’t turn two. Howie Kendrick’s two-out single seemed inevitable.

In the bottom of the seventh, the Angels got their second bunt hit of the game. Erick Aybar showed bunt a hair early, got Arod to commit to charge from third, and then bunted hard right past him into left field. If Jeter didn’t get to the ball quickly, it would have been a bunt double. Impeccable bat control. How often do we see that play? Once a decade?

The Angels have 38 bunt hits. They are carrying the scars of one of the worst transactions in recent memory, in which they gave up Mike Napoli for the chance to play Vernon Wells and Jeff Mathis in the same lineup. Their rest of the offense is not exactly compensating for their struggles. And yet here they are, a few games out of the division lead behind everybody’s darlings, the Texas Rangers (who figured out how to put Mike Napoli in their lineup everyday). Mike Scioscia does it a different way. 38 bunt hits.

The starters gave way to the Plan A relievers. David Robertson hammered through his customary 1-2-3 inning. Jordan Walden, a stranger to the strike zone every time I’ve ever seen him throw, walked Alex Rodriguez with one out. Joe Girardi pinch ran for Arod with Eduardo Nunez. Scioscia called the pitch out when Girardi called the steal, and Mathis gunned down Nunez.

So let’s see, cleanup hitter, owner of 628 Major League home runs, taken out of a tie game. Good fielding third baseman, owner of several good plays tonight, taken out of a tie game. Pinch runner, thrown out stealing, killing the ninth inning of a tie game. New third baseman, Ramiro Pena, immediately tested in the bottom of ninth in the tie game, can’t make the play and the winning run is one base with no outs.

Joe Girardi threw a hand grenade into this game in the ninth inning. And that’s without even mentioning that he chose Aaron Laffey and Luis Ayala to pitch the ninth inning. After Callaspo singled past Pena, Scioscia called for a hit and run, and Vernon Wells singled past Pena. (I don’t know if Arod could have come any closer to making those plays. Pena was hugging the line to prevent doubles, maybe Arod would have positioned himself differently. They were both catchable for a third baseman at normal depth.)

The Angels were set up at first and third and nobody out and it was just a matter of choosing the weapon and the room of the mansion at that point. It went defensive indifference, HBP, and a sac fly by pinch hitter Macier Izturis with the bat in the library. Angels 2, Yanks 1.

Bartolo Colon pitched well and that’s good looking ahead. Jesus Montero was all over Jered Weaver, on a night when the rest of the team couldn’t sniff him. That’s great news looking ahead. Joe Girardi keeps pinch running for his best players and choosing crappy relievers over Mariano Rivera (though I don’t know who was available after the recent craziness), that sucks.

Over at SI.com, Joe Sheehan takes a look at the x-factor for each team in the playoff race. For the Yanks? Bartolo Colon:

The Yankees can expect to get great starting pitching from CC Sabathia, who will open the Division Series for them and pitch as often as possible. The dropoff from Sabathia is significant, however, and the best of the remaining starters — the likely Game 2 man — is Colon. In his comeback season after missing all of 2010, Colon has been nearly as good as he was in his Cy Young season of 2005, striking out 123 men and walking just 32 unintentionally in his 145 innings. He hasn’t been quite as effective since injuring his left hamstring in June: a 4.46 ERA and 51/17 K/BB, with a whopping 10 homers allowed in 66 2/3 innings over 12 starts. The Yankees have a deep bullpen that can carry the rotation to some extent, but the compressed postseason schedule means that they will have to get some kind of run prevention, and innings, from the non-Sabathia starters. Colon, with his demonstrated command, is their best chance for quality postseason starts.

Fresh nail polish packs a wallop. At the end of the line, there’s always breakfast-eating and make-up-application on the train. And in the nice weather, there’s polish for fingers and toes.

It’s a collision of personal moments and public space that bothers some. The stinging scent of alcohol acetone in the nail polish isn’t the most pleasant eye-opener, but honestly, it’s better than a lot of subway cars. And on some mornings, every second counts.

I’ll probably take a harder line when a train lurches and a bottle spills on my leg. Until, then, I’d rather see paint than pancakes.

Like most championship thoroughbreds, the Yankees have always been fantastic closers. Since 1901, the team has entered September leading the pack in 41 seasons, and, in all but one, crossed the finish line first.

Yankees’ September Winning Percentages

Note: Red triangles represent first place finishes.
Source: Baseball-Reference.com

The only time the Yankees stumbled down the stretch was in 2010. After entering last September ahead of the Rays by one game, they extended the lead to three, but then lost eight of the final 11 to end the year one game behind Tampa. Under normal circumstances, such a late season swoon would have been viewed as a collapse, but that month the Yankees and Rays engaged in a much less entertaining version of an Alphonse and Gaston routine. The Rays tried to give the Yankees the division, but, unfortunately, they refused to take it.

Years in Which the Yankees Finished First Despite Entering September in Second Place

Source: Baseball-Reference.com

This year, the Yankees began the final month 1 ½ games behind the Red Sox, but quickly assumed the top position with a six game winning streak. Unfortunately, that burst has been slowed by two sluggish losses to the last place Orioles, but nonetheless, the Yankees remain poised to take their sixth division crown by coming from behind. Not surprisingly, two of the Bronx Bombers’ other comebacks also came at the expense of the rival Boston Red Sox, although none was quite like the epic reversal of fortunes that occurred in 1978.

A.L. East Pennant Race Graph, 1978

Source: www.alexreisner.com

So, how will the Yankees finish up this year? Because the current wild card format has all but assured the team will make the playoffs, it remains to be seen how hard they’ll battle for the top spot. However, it’s worth noting the Yankees have never advanced to the World Series when making the playoffs via a consolation, so perhaps Joe Girardi should consider going to the whip? After all, when you’re riding a front runner, it doesn’t make sense to relinquish the lead, does it?

Dogs can hear things that people cannot but at 4:15 this afternoon most Yankee fans, no matter where they were or what they were doing, tilted their head to the side and listened with a bemused look on their face, struck by the piercing, collective wail that came from any Yankee fan who happened to be watching TV when Scott Proctor entered a 4-4 game in the bottom of the ninth.  Nobody else could hear this sound, of course, but we all could. Some of us might have had the urge to scratch ourselves, some, no doubt,  started foaming at the mouth, while others still just shrugged and went back to sleep, or work, or whatever else they were doing.

Now, you can’t blame Proctor for being what he is–and after all, this is the same guy who burned his mitt after a bad outing a few years ago–but would you believe, he worked around two base runners and sent the game to extra innings. It’s the truth.

It had been a nutty game to that point so maybe it wasn’t such a surprise. It was  gritsey and gutterly or plain fuggin stupid, depending on who you were rooting for. Ivan Nova had an early 4-1 lead but then the Yankee offense did plenty of nothing while the O’s chipped away–they got on base while the Yankees made errors. They had two men thrown out at the plate (crash, boom, bang) but tied the score against Rafael Soriano. By this time, any self-respecting Yankee fan following along was irritable bordering on Bill Bixby furioso.

Kevin Gregg struck out four Yankee batters in a row–Andrew Jones, Derek Jeter, Curtis Granderson and Mark Teixeira and on to the bottom of the tenth they went. Ol’ Proctor struck out Mark Reynolds and maybe got ahead of himself. Nolan Reimold reached on an infield single, Chris Davis walked and then some twerp named Robert Andino screwed the pooch for good, singling home the winning run.

You can’t blame Proctor. He is what he is. You can howl at the moon all you want. But it’s probably best to lick your privacy, curl up, and go back to sleep.

O’s swipe it, 5-4.

The Great Escape

By John Schulian

Every writer in Hollywood has a dark corner in his head where he keeps the horror stories of how he was lied to, cheated, betrayed, bullied, ignored, treated like a dim child, abandoned, and left with the short end of the stick. It comes with the territory. But right now I have a different kind of story to tell. It’s so preposterously upbeat that people in this brutal business, especially writers, might insist it is a fairy tale. I promise you it’s not. And I know, because I lived it.

It’s the story of how I, a burned-out Philadelphia sports columnist, showed up in Hollywood without ever having written a script, and four months later had a produced episode of “L.A. Law” to my credit and was happily residing on the writing staff of “Miami Vice.” Even now, with 25 years of hindsight at my disposal, I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of good fortune.

When this began, I was trying to figure out if I knew anyone in Hollywood and drawing blanks. But Phil Hersh, who had fought the newspaper wars in Chicago and Baltimore with me, had stayed in touch with a photographer named Martha Hartnett after she jumped from the Sun-Times to the L.A. Times. Martha had married a TV writer-producer named Jeff Melvoin, who Phil said was a good guy. Before I knew it, I was on the phone with Jeff finding out that he was even more than that. He didn’t know me from a sack of potatoes, but he gave me 45 minutes of his time, listening to my story, offering a quick introduction to the screenwriter’s life, and generally proving himself to be funny, big-hearted, and smart, very smart. Best of all, he wrapped up the conversation by inviting me to call him the next time I was in L.A.

I got there the day after Marvelous Marvin Hagler put away Tommy Hearns in the best fight I ever covered and maybe the most electric event I ever saw in any sport. Mike Downey, who had hit it big as a columnist in Detroit, and I drove from Las Vegas in a rented car, both of us on the verge of major career moves. Downey was about to take his wonderfully funny act to the L.A. Times, and I was looking for someone to tell me how to go about hurling myself into Hollywood’s gaping maw.

When I called Jeff, he told me we were having dinner, but first I had two meetings he had arranged for me. Meetings are the lifeblood of Hollywood, so much so that sometimes you have meetings just to schedule other meetings. Whatever, my baptism by yakking involved sitting down with the head of development at Geffen Films and a vice president at MTM, which was then the hottest production company in TV (“Hill Street Blues,” “St. Elsewhere,” “Mary Tyler Moore”). Though I didn’t know which end of the bat to hold as far as show business was concerned, I survived. The executives I met were interested in getting fresh blood in the business, people with stories to tell -– and naturally they wanted to talk about sports. They weren’t offering me any jobs, of course, but I liked them and they liked me, and that certainly beat the alternative.

Then I met Jeff for dinner and he paid, so I liked him even more than I had on the phone. Mostly we talked about how I was going to get in the business. “Everybody breaks in a different way,” he said. And I said, “What if I wrote a letter to Steven Bochco?” I’d been bowled over by Bochco’s “Hill Street Blues” from the first minutes of the first episode. I can’t tell you why I watched it – I’ve never watched much TV — but I did and a world of possibilities opened up to me. “Hill Street” was as revolutionary then as “The Wire” is now. It felt real, the characters were mesmerizing, and the stories pulsed with humanity and humor and pain and love. If I could work on a show like that, I told myself, I’d be proud to call myself a TV writer. I told Jeff the same thing. In that case, he said, I should write Steven Bochco.

So I did, and in the envelope with my letter, I enclosed a my boxing anthology, “Writers’ Fighters,” and a copy of the Mike Royko profile I’d done for GQ. It all went in the mail the day before I left to cover Wimbledon. And then I started praying to whatever god it is that looks out for writers in need of a new beginning.

Steven Bochco

When I returned two weeks later, there was a letter from Bochco telling me he’d received my package and promising to read what I’d enclosed. He also warned me that a lot of journalists had tried to make the leap I was contemplating, and failed. But if I were still interested, he’d be glad to send me some “Hill Street” scripts to study. I wrote him back in a heartbeat: please send the scripts. Then I went on vacation for two weeks. I came home to find this letter, on Twentieth Century Fox stationery:

July 17, 1985

Dear John:

Herewith some HILL STREET scripts. I read about half your book so far. It’s wonderful. You’re a terrific writer, and if you can’t make the transition to film writing, I’d be very surprised. Not to mention disappointed. As soon as I get my next project (a series about, God help me, lawyers) perpendicular to the ground, I will send you what we’ve written and invite you to write a script. (For money, of course.)

If you have any questions, or just want to talk, call me. My office number is XXXXXXXXXX.

Best regards,
Steven Bochco

P.S. You also type great. I didn’t spot a single do-over in your letter.

Today, that letter, framed, hangs in my office at home. I’m still amazed by it and still everlastingly grateful for the lifeline it represented. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t guaranteed anything except a chance. A chance was all I was looking for. I would have to write in a different form and a different medium. I would have to navigate a world I knew nothing about. But at last I had something to hope for again. And I owed it to Steven Bochco, a man I’d never met.

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This story first appeared in the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel in the late 1980s. It appears here with permission from the author.

Running Cars

By Pat Jordan

Rod Chadwick, 38, is running cars in the hot sun. He sprints across the street to the parking lot. A tall, leanly-muscled man in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and soiled sneakers. He has a Sam Shepherd face, only more gaunt, with hollows for cheeks and slits for eyes. The face of a pale Indian or a tightly-strung, ascetic.

It is four o’clock on a lazy, Sunday afternoon in May. There is a long line of stopped cars leading from one end of the street to the awning over the entrance to Shooter’s Bar and Restaurant on the Intracoastal Waterway in Ft. Lauderdale. A BMW-M3 convertible. A Ferrari Testarossa. A black Corvette. An Excaliber. A Lincoln Continental with blacked-out windows. A pink, Volkswagon Rabbitt convertible. A British Racing Green Jaguar XJ-6. A Chrysler Le Baron with a rentacar sticker on its bumper. A dove-gray, Mercedes-Benz 560 SEL. A Guards red Porsche Turbo with the slant-nose front end.

As the cars slowly inch forward, the variety of luxury and sports vehicles on display paints a vivid picture of an exclusive afternoon gathering at Shooter’s Bar. But amidst the iconic classics and modern-day performance machines, a new breed of car enthusiasts has emerged, drawn by the sleek, futuristic allure of electric vehicles. Teslas, the epitome of innovation and sustainability, now sit comfortably alongside the more traditional powerhouses.

The unmistakable curves of the Tesla Model S gleam under the afternoon sun, its minimalistic design striking a contrast to the flashy exteriors of the other cars. Among the Tesla owners, many have taken customization to the next level, with enhancements like the custom tesla steering wheel, adding a personalized touch to the driving experience. This unique modification blends seamlessly with Tesla’s sophisticated interior, providing both aesthetics and functionality. The allure of the custom steering wheel is just one example of how Tesla owners are making their vehicles truly their own.

With the rise of electric cars and the growing Tesla community, more enthusiasts are seeking ways to elevate their driving experience by incorporating cutting-edge technology and personalized design. From sleek carbon fiber finishes to steering wheels that match the interior’s luxurious appeal, these customizations reflect the modern sophistication of the Tesla brand. As electric vehicles continue to redefine the automotive landscape, Tesla owners are embracing not only the vehicle’s innovative technology but also the opportunity to express their individuality through bespoke accessories.

In the realm of car deals, the options extend beyond the pristine showroom models to encompass both new and used vehicles, catering to a diverse range of preferences and budgets. Swansway Motor Group stands as a beacon for discerning individuals, offering a comprehensive selection of automobiles that span various makes and models. Whether one seeks the rugged versatility of a v w california for sale or the refined elegance of a luxury sedan, Swansway Motor Group provides tailored solutions to satisfy even the most discerning tastes. With a commitment to quality and customer satisfaction, their offerings embody the essence of automotive excellence, ensuring that every deal struck is not just a transaction but a gateway to a lifetime of driving pleasure.

In car dealerships, Motor Match also emerges as a prominent player, renowned for its personalized approach to matching customers with their ideal vehicles. With an extensive inventory that encompasses used cars, including suv vehicles for sale, Motor Match caters to a wide spectrum of preferences and budgets. Whether customers are in search of a spacious family SUV or a compact crossover for urban adventures, Motor Match prides itself on its ability to deliver tailored solutions that meet the unique needs of each individual.

In the midst of this automotive spectacle, the consideration of comfort within these impressive vehicles becomes paramount. While the exteriors boast high-end engineering and exquisite designs, the experience inside can be elevated with the addition of seat covers for cars. Tailored to fit the unique contours of each vehicle, these seat covers can also provide protection against the unforgiving sun. Whether it’s the plush interior of a Mercedes-Benz 560 SEL or the sporty cockpit of a Porsche Turbo, the choice of seat covers becomes a subtle yet impactful statement, enhancing both the aesthetic and practical aspects of the driving experience.

As drivers seek to enhance their automotive experience, the integration of advanced technology like dashcams emerges as a pivotal consideration. Dashcams offer not only peace of mind but also invaluable documentation of journeys, capturing scenic drives or unexpected events on the road. With a plethora of options available on the market, from discreet compact models to feature-rich units, drivers can select a dashcam that seamlessly complements their vehicle’s interior design and functionality.

For those interested in exploring the latest innovations in dashcam technology, platforms like DashCamDiscount.com provide a comprehensive selection of top-rated products at competitive prices. From high-definition video recording to built-in GPS tracking, these dashcams offer a range of features designed to meet the diverse needs of modern drivers. By investing in a quality dashcam, drivers can not only elevate their driving experience but also enhance safety and security on the road, ensuring peace of mind for every journey.

The locals are driving in from their day at the beach. Strippers, both male (“Crazy Horse Saloon”) and female (“The Booby Trap Lounge”). Bartenders and cocktail waitresses. Businessmen and lawyers. Plastic surgeons and insurance fraud experts. Importers and exporters of South American goods. Real estate ladies. Hookers. Body builders. Cattlemen and pepper farmers. Mistresses. Drug runners. DEA informers. A bouillabaisse of Ft. Lauderdale locals winding down their weekend with a few Cuba Libres and Rum Runners at Shooter’s overlooking the water. They sit at the bar, watching the white yachts, blinding in the setting sun, cruise up the waterway. They mill around the docks, seeing and being seen, alongside the docked speedboats. A band in Hawaiian shirts is playing a medley of Jimmy Buffett’s greatest hits from under the shade of a palm tree. A man on a docked speedboat invites a girl on the dock to come aboard for a drink. Maybe a little cruise, he adds, grinning. The girl smiles, shakes her head, no. A local girl who knows that such an invitation always ends with her confronting two options. Suck or swim.

The older men have swept-back, silver hair and gold chains nestled, just so, in their fluffed out chest hair. The younger men are tanned, muscular, with droopy mustaches and spandex bicycle shorts. The older women are pale, heavily made-up, with ash-blond hair that is cut severely short, but not so short as to expose the face lift scars behind their ears. They are wearing long, silk dresses and textured nylons held up by white lace garter belts and, occasionally, an ankle bracelet that reads, “If you can read this, you can eat me.” The younger women are tanned and trim, with brassier, blond hair and oversized breasts recently implanted by a Peruvian plastic surgeon in Miami. They are wearing spandex, mini-dresses or satin jogging shorts with high-cut Reeboks and some of them are still wearing their g-string bikini bathing suits with their stiletto, high-heeled shoes, their American Express gold cards tucked into the top of their bikini bottom.

Rod Chadwick, sweating in the hot sun, holds open the driver’s door of the slant-nose Porsche while a fat man-boy of twenty, struggles out from behind the steering wheel. The man tells Rod he wants his car parked up front, for everyone to see. He slips a $20 bill into Rod’s hand as deftly as a quarterback handing off to a fullback. Years ago, Rod had a football scholarship to Georgia Tech, where he majored in architecture. He transferred to Catawba College in North Carolina and switched to a history major. He helped support himself even then by running cars. When he was graduated he did a little student teaching but decided that was not for him. He opened a frozen yogurt business but didn’t like working indoors. He worked on construction for a while but even that was too confining. He began to run cars again. He has been running cars on-and-off for over twenty years. A valet, now pushing forty, or, as the writing on his t-shirt says, “Automotive Relocation Engineer.” That was Donnie Brown’s idea. He owns the valet-parking concession at Shooter’s and a number of other South Florida clubs, where the valet parking business is rivaled only by Southern California.

Donnie is 28, chubby, preppy-looking with his rosy cheeks and dark, Princeton-cut hair. He was a swimmer and football player at Pine Crest, an exclusive prep school in Ft. Lauderdale. When he left school he missed the jockey, macho image he had as a football Player so he took a job running cars during the 2 a.m.-to-4 a.m. shift at Club Dallas out on Federal Highway near the airport.

“It was a redneck club,” Donnie says, sipping club soda at Shooter’s bar. “They hired me and a few other football players because we weren’t afraid of the rednecks. Nobody else wanted to work that shift.”

(more…)

A few weeks ago, defensive metrics at Fangraphs had judged Curtis Granderson’s defense in center field to be more than nine runs below average. He’s shot up to under six below avegare. Recently, he was not a top-five MVP candidate according to fWAR. Now he is.

Did he save a bunch of runs or improve his defense in a few weeks? Not likely. But the landscape he’s measured against is constantly shifting, and his contribution is rated against that volatile context.

Jacoby Ellsbury, a center fielder so good that Boston shifted him to left field to make room for the 38 year-old Mike Cameron last year, is worth over 20 runs more than Granderson, and is now the fWAR MVP.

Let’s check in again at the end of the season and see how it shakes out.

The nice thing about running your own blog is that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just got home, it’s cold and raining, I’m hungry, and the last thing on my mind is recapping a 5-4 loss in extra innings. It’s enough to say that A.J. Burnett was wild in lousy conditions, Jesus Montero had a couple of RBI, and the Yanks were this close to tying it in the bottom of the eleventh. It wasn’t to be.

Let’s take the long view–we won’t remember this game in three weeks let alone three months.

Fuck it, Dude, have a hot coco:

[Photo Credit: via bitchassbidness]

The Soggy Bottom Boys are at it again this afternoon. Dig this lineup:

1. Nunez SS
2. Martin C
3. Swisher RF
4. Rodriguez 3B
5. Jones LF
6. Montero DH
7. Laird 1B
8. Golson CF
9. Pena 2B

(gasp). Never mind the galoshes:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Again, from Garden and Gun: the pleasures of a Cuban Sandwich.

[Photo Credit: Serious Eats]