So my daughter Casey, 8, loves writing, which makes her old man awfully proud. Below is her latest poetry effort, which I really loved. It came accompanied by the above illustration.
Please allow for a gushing dad …
In the Clouds/by Casey Pearlman
In the clouds
Dreams come true
Marshmallows dancing
Cupcakes prancing
Thinking this is nothing
But a dream
Even as cool as it may seem
Right?
During my junior year at Mahopac High School, I took honors English with a teacher named Carol Baral (pictured above).
Mrs. Baral was a nice woman—Jewish, in her 40s, from one of the five boroughs, I believe. She was warm and funny and kind, yet for some reason (probably the same reason kids these days text one another evil sexual obscene nonsense drivel) I didn’t particularly like her. I think, looking back, it had much to do with me being an immature, know-it-all-punk, and Mrs. Baral being sincere and decent.
Anyhow, one day Mrs. Baral assigned us an in-class essay, then left the room for 10 minutes or so. While she was gone, we all started talking about how she almost certainly would never read the papers. “How about we all write the exact same sentence in the middle of a paragraph,” I suggested—an idea everyone seemed to like. Tom Lombardi, a funny kid from the lacrosse team, suggested, “Anything with pineapples is good for me.” So, withou any debate, all 20 (or so) of us wrote our essays and, somewhere in the middle, stuck in, “Anything with pineapples is good for me.”
Probably three or four days later, Mrs. Baral returned the papers—all with check marks (the universal sign for OK). Being the brat I was, I asked whether she’d read the papers. She nodded, but quickly realized something was up.
“Well,” she said, “not that closely. Because it was just an exercise—not for grade.” A long pause.
“Why?”
Nobody ever told her.
I love using this site as a forum for up-and-coming writers trying to gain an audience. Hence, when John Cantwell offered his services, I jumped. John is absolutely fantastic, and a visit to his blog is a trip worth taking. Here, he offers up a quick (and fantastic) profile of Frenchie and his Brooklyn gym. Enjoy …
The first time you go to Frenchie’s gym he sits you down for his talk. He is positioned in a creaking office chair behind an old Formica-top desk, his hands folded gently across his stomach. You are asked to sit on a small weight bench next to the desk. He looks straight at you and says, in a reedy Puerto Rican accent, “What can I do for you?” And you reply, “I would like to use your gym.”
Soul or salsa or maybe reggaeton plays through the speakers mounted in the far corners of the gym. And there’s the clank and rattle of weights being lifted, mostly by pumped-up Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and Mexicans.
Frenchie gestures toward the space in which you sit, this gym. “What you see is what you get,” he says. “I don’t got no saunas, no showers. Nothing fancy. You wanna put a lock on a locker, that’s five dollars a month. No air conditioning. But in summer I open the windows.”
You understand Frenchie is telling the truth. There is not a frill in sight. The walls are lined with mirrors and above the mirrors there’s dark wood paneling like what you’d find in a suburban family room circa 1970. The floors are grubby black rubber; the ceiling is pressed tin painted dim white. The machines were perhaps reclaimed from a Soviet Olympic training facility.
You ask about the cost.
“Thirty a month, or 120 for six months. Pay upfront.”
Then you say yes, or you say no.
Frenchie is 72-years old. For 36 years, exactly half his life, he’s been the sole proprietor of Frenchie’s Gym in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
He is the benevolent dictator of this place, and a lot of people here call him Papa. There’s a Papa Frenchie T-shirt and everything—it’s an airbrushed portrait of Frenchie, showing his bald head, his long goatee, and the barbell-shaped earring he wears in his left ear. The script next to the head reads, “Papa Frenchie.” It costs 30 dollars.
Frenchie calls the gym members his disciples. As in, “My place is here with my disciples.” Some guys have been coming to Frenchie’s for decades, like Mo, who joined 27 years ago when he was trying to quit drinking, and now drives 45 minutes from Queens every day just to use the place. The walls are dotted with framed pictures of the disciples who’ve thrived here: they’re flexing in bodybuilding competitions, puffing up proudly next to a pool or at the beach.
In the 70s and 80s, when Williamsburg, like much of New York City, was overrun by drugs and left for dead, Frenchie’s was a rare bastion of positivity in the neighborhood, a place for self-improvement. Now, with rents soaring and gentrification squeezing in on all sides, it’s a proud symbol of the past. Something worth preserving.
The gym occupies the top two floors of a commercial building on the corner of Rodney and Broadway. On the first floor is a discount clothes store called Telco that used to be a Woolworth’s. The second floor was once a dentist’s office; now it’s where Frenchie keeps the ab equipment and the heavy bag. The old exam rooms were converted to locker rooms. Upstairs is the main floor, with the wood paneling, the pressed tin, etc. This is more like a loft, and it is here, from behind his desk, that Frenchie holds court and occasionally catnaps.
If you use the gym for a few months, as I have, you realize there is a certain perfection to it. Every inch of usable floor space is occupied by a piece of equipment, leaving just enough room for everything to move freely—it’s an elaborate, room-size jigsaw puzzle. And everything works. If the upholstery on a bench comes apart, it’s patched with material from a conveyor belt. When a treadmill breaks down, Frenchie tinkers with the motor on his desk while the guys gather around him, talking in Spanish, pointing at this thing or that thing. A few days later, the treadmill is working again.
On Friday nights Frenchie and a few guys play poker at his desk. In December there’s a Christmas party. The equipment on the third floor is pushed to the walls, and a table is set up in the middle of the room, filled with two big trays of pulled meat cooked by Frenchie’s wife, one tray of chicken, another of pork, the two helpfully differentiated by the roasted pig’s head in the pork tray.
“The Christmas party is because I cannot buy a present for everybody,” says Frenchie. “It’s more than a shirt or a tie.”
There are black-and-white pictures of a young Frenchie hanging in the gym: you see a chiseled little man in a Speedo type thing mugging for the camera. Bald head, immaculate goatee. He was a wrestler, and in some ways he still is.
Through his 20s he trained at a long-gone Williamsburg gym called Mr. Puerto Rico, a few blocks from the future location of his own gym. His wrestling outfit included a gold satin jacket and a red beret. The beret gave Frenchie, whose birth name is Santos Ramos, his name.
J.C.: How would you describe your wrestling style?
Frenchie: Clean.
J.C.: What kind of moves would you do?
Frenchie: Oh, the whole ensalada. Flying dropkicks, walking on the ropes, flying off the ropes.
J.C.: What did you like most about wrestling?
Frenchie: Wrestling is an entertainment. You’re not trying to kill the other guy; you’re trying to kill the crowd.
Jose Estrada and Johnny Ross were two pro wrestlers who used to work out at Frenchie’s. One day they asked Frenchie if he wanted to come to Madison Square Garden for a WWF event. Impressed by the size of the wrestlers, how they towered over him, Frenchie, who’s only 5’3”, knew he’d never wrestle in the WWF. But he could referee.
He debuted in August 1979, before a crowd of 23,000 people at MSG. He reffed acrobatically. “I used to jump around a lot,” he says. “They called me ‘The Flying Referee.’” None other than Vince McMahon told him to stop jumping around so damn much.
Wrestling is about pride, and it’s about good versus evil. Wrestlers are forever avenging insults, smiting doubters, righting wrongs real or perceived. Some of these theatrics have become part of Frenchie’s permanent disposition.
For instance, last December Frenchie told me he was going to appear in a movie. I said, “Really?” and then Frenchie said, mock-hurt, “This guy thinks I’m chopped liver.” Frenchie opened his desk and produced a signed contract for his appearance in the film “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.” He played a boxing instructor with “some old guy” (Max von Sydow) in a scene that eventually wound up on the cutting-room floor.
Of course, Frenchie really has been fighting the odds and the doubters for years, running his business for nearly four decades almost exclusively on his terms. This is why the disciples call him Papa. He’s earned their respect.
In addition to the Papa Frenchie t-shirt, there’s also a Frenchie’s Gym T-shirt for sale: on the front it shows the Frenchie’s Gym logo, which is flanked by the image of two paramilitary bodybuilders wearing sunglasses, and the Puerto Rican and American flags. Below the logo and the bodybuilders are two of Frenchie’s operating mottos: Do It With Love, and We Must Survive.
The back of the shirt displays a hand-drawn Tyrannosaurus Rex holding a barbell between its teeth. The slogan beneath the T-Rex’s feet reads: “The dinosaur is still alive.”
J.C.: Where did you get the idea for the dinosaur?
Frenchie: They’re always saying, “Frenchie’s old, he’s a dinosaur.” But I’ll be here even if they have to carry me up the stairs.
Wrote this column for SI.com. They have a load of Bobcats stuff for today, however, and didn’t run it. No worries … stuff happens. But I didn’t want the great (and wonderful) Chuck Brown to vanish without a fight.
Here’s my piece on why the Bobcats need to sign him—now!
The phone works.
I know this to be true, because moments ago I spoke with Clarence Brown (aka: Chucky), and he told me his line is open and ready. “I’m game,” he said. “If they call, I’m in.”
By “they,” Brown was referring to the Charlotte Bobcats, the Barnum & Bailey-esque entity that has spent the past few months erroneously identifying itself as a member of the National Basketball Association. For those of you who (wisely) stopped paying attention, the Bobcats are not merely a gaggle of ballers. They are, in fact, (arguably) the worst professional team ever assembled; a collection of 12 men who would almost certainly lose to the University of Kentucky—especially if Crystal Riley is on her game.
I digress. Just how awful are the Bobcats? Michael Jordan’s team has now lost 20 in a row. Its best player, journeyman Corey Maggette, is shooting 37 percent from the field. Its second best player, rookie Kemba Walker, is shooting even worse. The team averages 14,717 fans per game, good for 26th in the league.
Things are not bad.
Things are not dreadful.
Things are hopeless.
And yet, a mere 161 miles away in Cary, N.C., a savior awaits. Though he is 44-years old, and a decade removed from his final NBA game, and working as a scout with the New Orleans Hornets, and not exactly in fighting trim, Brown is the one man who could put a positive spin atop a nightmarish campaign. Having played forward for 12 different franchises during his 13-year NBA career, Brown is tied for the league record (with Joe Smith, Jimmy Jackson and Tony Massenburg) for uniforms worn. Should the Bobcats sign him over the next couple of days, history will be made.
Well, sorta made.
“I could probably give ‘em 10 minutes,” says Brown with a chuckle. “Maybe six points, a rebound or two. I don’t think I’d embarrass anyone.”
Cleveland’s second round draft pick in 1989, Brown, a North Carolina State product, entered the league under the assumption that things would go according to a relatively standard plan. He would play a few years, maybe spend time with one or two franchises, hopefully earn a starting job down the line. Instead, however, Brown became the poster child for RENT, DON’T BUY. He spent 2 ½ seasons with the Cavs (“I even bought a townhouse in Cleveland,” he says. “Lesson learned—last time I ever did that.”), before being waved, then signed as a free agent by the Lakers. And, a year later, by the Nets (“I was raised in New York, so that was nice.”). And, a year after that, by the Mavericks (“I played in one game before hurting my knee.”). And, a year after that, by the Heat (“Nice weather.”). In February, 1995 he signed back-to-back 10-day contracts with Houston (“Best city I played in,” he says), stuck with the team for the remainder of the season (“I was hopeful!”) before being traded to Phoenix as part of a package for Charles Barkley. Brown was a Sun for all of four months, then was shipped to Milwaukee (“Nothing against the city, but I hated playing for Chris Ford. He took all the fun out of the game for us.”) for someone named Darrin Hancock and a second rounder. Brown enjoyed his time as a Buck, but proceeded to sign ensuing free agent deals with the Hawks, Hornets, Spurs, Hornets (again), Warriors, Cavs (again) and, lastly, Kings. During the 1998-99 season, Brown earned $850,000, the highest total of his career. “It was a good journey,” says a man who averaged 12.4 points and 6.5 rebounds. “It showed me places I’d never otherwise see. It brought me to a lot of great people.”
During his time with the Bucks, one of Brown’s teammates was David Wood, a forward out of Nevada-Reno whose career spanned eight teams over seven years. When the two would chat, Wood cracked that he longed to hold the most-teams record—not exactly a mark of excellent, but a mark nonetheless. Brown has always remembered those chats, and even today—long retired—would gladly accept one more moment. If Minnie Minoso could take an at-bat for the Chicago White Sox at age 54 in 1980, thereby setting the record for most decades played, why not give Brown his 13th jersey?
“I’ll tell you one thing,” he says. “I’ll play hard, I’ll work hard … and I’ll let the Bobcats have a little fun. Lord knows they can probably use it.”
* Welcome to the 47th installment of The Quaz Q&A. This feature—a question-and-answer session with a person from sports/entertainment/politics/whatever—will appear every Thursday on jeffpearlman.com. If you have any suggestions/ideas for people to speak with, hit me up at anngold22@gmail.com. I’m listening.
Confession: Alison Cimmet is a friend. Which means, technically, there’s some conflict in having her as a Quaz.
Confession No. 2: Alison Cimmet is a friend who fascinates me. Which means, undoubtably, she’s a perfect Quaz candidate.
Ever since I’ve known Alison (who lives in my town), I’ve wanted to ask her 1,000 questions about the life and struggles and triumphs of a woman fighting to make it on Broadway while also trying to raise two children. She’s had some amazing highs (starring in Baby It’s You!; a handful of huge national commercials) and some dispiriting lows (auditions upon auditions upon more auditions), but always seems to come packing with a warm smile and kind words.
Here, Alison dishes on what it’s like to have a play cancelled; what it’s like to stand on a Broadway stage and look over a packed house; how the audition process works and why Jorge Posada is so darn important to her life. You can visit her website here.
Alison Cimmet, the Quaz stage is yours …
JEFF PEARLMAN: Alison, you were a cast member of the recently closed Broadway show, Bonnie and Clyde. I don’t usually start these off of a downer, but I will here. What does it feel like when you’re in a show that’s canceled? How does the cast usually find out—and how did you find out here? Is there a sense of disbelief, or do people usually see it coming?
ALISON CIMMET: Bonnie and Clyde was a great experience with a great group of people; even though it was short-lived I’m so glad I was a part of it. It was many years in the making and there was a high level of commitment to (and belief in) the show. Throughout our preview period (about a month of paid performances at night while we continued to rehearse and make changes during the day) there was very positive feedback. So when we opened December 1 to universally negative reviews, it was crushing. Producers told us tickets were only being sold until the end of the month and that our future beyond that was uncertain. It was incredibly disappointing for all involved, and truly devastating for many of the major players (the writers, director, stars).
We finally got an official closing notice two weeks before the 30th. I got a call from my agent with the news, but many cast and company members learned the news through Facebook or by getting a text from a friend who had read the news on Playbill.com. Everyone was sad but we managed to keep our spirits up through the Christmas season, and we found out that in the new year we’d be recording the Original Cast album which gave us something to look forward to.
As for me, personally: having a husband and children means that my life is incredibly full even when I’m not working. I was able to keep things in perspective and look forward to my impending unemployment—after a busy year on Broadway I’d have lots of time to spend with my awesome family.
J.P.: You were the understudy to the lead on the show Baby It’s You!, which chronicled the rise of The Shirelles. On multiple occasions Beth Leavel was unable to perform, and, well, there you were. If you can, please describe what it felt the first time, when you knew you’d be starring that night. How did you find out? How did you feel? Is there an “in-the-moment” calmness, or were you freaking out?
A.C.: My job on that show was to be Beth’s stand-by (an offstage principal understudy). I attended every rehearsal and preview performance and took extensive notes. I had to learn all her lines, songs, onstage blocking, and backstage traffic. In the event that she couldn’t perform, I’d be there to fill in. Beth Leavel (who, by the way, is an amazing performer and a lovely human being) is known for being a tough cookie and hardly ever missing performances, so I was *certain* that I would never be called upon to perform my duties.
When she started to lose her voice a week after opening (and the day her Tony nomination was announced) it caught me off guard. I was listening to the show via monitors backstage and heard that she was struggling vocally. Before my brain even started working, my body was freaking out: heart beating heavily, stomach doing flip-flops. Because it was so early in the run they hadn’t yet created my understudy costumes, so during that show I had some “just in case” emergency costume fittings in the basement of the theatre to see if Beth’s costumes (more than 20 of them!) fit me. Luckily, they did. I then ran through my lines with a fellow stand-by, and lamented the fact that I had not had a full run-thru rehearsal; nor had I rehearsed any of the lightning-quick costume changes (more than 20 of them!); nor had I sung any of the songs with the band. I still did not know whether or not she’d be well enough to perform the next day. That night I hardly slept at all.
Around 10:30 the next morning I got the phone call that I’d indeed be performing in the matinee that day. The next few hours were surreal. I was super-focused and calm as I walked through the blocking on an empty stage before the matinee with the stage manager (who was wonderfully supportive), and discussed the costume changes with the backstage dresser (who was basically my hero). When fellow castmates asked me how I was feeling, I said that I was purposely *not* getting in touch with my emotions—otherwise I would have been a sobbing heap of fear.
So anyway, yes, I was very calm, kind of in a robotic fog. After my opening song I was able to settle in and have some fun, but the whole show was like an out-of-body experience. I ended up going on the rest of the week, and none of the subsequent shows were as thrilling as that first one. Ultimately I performed 10 times over the course of the run; by the last few I felt I was finally able to embody the role and make it my own which was very gratifying.
J.P.: How did you become an actress? Like, what’s the life path that brought you to this profession? When did you know this was what you wanted to do?
A.C.: My mom got involved in community theatre when I was very small, and then my older brother did as well. When I was 6 and my sister was 7 we followed suit and auditioned as a team for a local community production of “Finian’s Rainbow.” We performed a fully-choreographed version of “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile” for our audition. The director was so taken with us that, since we were too young for the chorus, he created a tiny cameo (a child leprechaun) that we performed on alternating nights. I was hooked.
I spent the remainder of my childhood in Portland, Maine doing as much theatre as humanly possible. When I wasn’t performing with my brother and sister in our living room, I was doing community theatre shows, school productions, and my mother’s audience-participation murder mysteries … sometimes juggling all these different projects at the same time! My parents were incredibly supportive, both financially and emotionally, and gave me access to incredible opportunities. I spent my summers at an acting camp called Stagedoor Manor, a high-school acting conservatory at Northwestern University, and a vocal performance program at Tanglewood. Then I started doing professional theatre during my summers while in college. As far back as I can remember, I knew that I wanted to be an actress. I never wanted to be rich and famous, I just wanted to work consistently and do interesting roles in interesting projects. I still feel the same way.
J.P.: There’s something about actors and actresses that often confuses me. It’s that need to always be on; the drive to be the center of attention; the loudest; the most creative. I’ve never felt that way with you, but I think you know what I mean. Truthfully, it irks the hell out of me. My question is—is this a byproduct of the profession, or is it something many performers just have? Or, am I way off and you have no remote idea whereof I speak?
A.C.: I think that assessment is a bit flimsy. There are all types of actors just as there are all types of folks in any industry. On the other hand, there may be a disproportionately high percentage of actors with those qualities you speak of—I like to call them “shmactor-y.” It might be a by-product of any combination of the following things: always needing to be “on” in case that person you just rode the elevator with is a casting director; adoring fans telling you how great you are; critics telling you how awful you are; deep insecurity; having people watch and then clap for your talent; your actual personal body being your “instrument” and needing to care for it with that in mind; naturally wanting attention and having that be what led you to the profession in the first place; the natural capacity many of us have to mistake attention for love; possibly just naturally being a narcissistic asshole.
I tend to feel uncomfortable in the proverbial spotlight and only comfortable in an actual one. Other actors always have to have attention, be the funniest one in the room, that kind of thing. I agree with you that it’s annoying, but I think that kind of narcissism is maybe only slightly more common among actors and is probably something you can find in any profession. Actors just have more public exposure than, say, accountants or pilots or gardeners. I personally find myself drawn to people (actors and non-actors alike) who aren’t always the loudest and don’t always have to be the center of attention (anyone who’s met my husband can affirm this).
J.P.: Of all the things you’ve done, I’m guessing you’re most recognizable from your turn as the secretary in the Staples commercial. How did you land that part? And how do you compare the satisfaction that comes from commercial work with the satisfaction that comes from the theatre? Is there any comparison at all?
A.C.: That was quite a ride! Within one year I did three big national commercials. I got recognized on the street for being the secretary in the Staples spot, the girl trying to shrink her clothes at the laundromat in the Cheerios spot, and the wife giving a pep-talk to her Ikea kitchen. All three of those jobs came through auditions my commercial agent set up for me, and then a series of callbacks for the casting team. It’s fun to think of commercials as little bite-size performances, and I suppose I’d say the artistic satisfaction is proportionately bite-sized as well. As for on-camera work in general (commercials, film, or television), it is an entirely different craft from stage acting. I enjoy it, but my experience and training and passion remains with live traditional theatre. I like the journey of the story telling and the in-the-moment aspect of live theatre. But commercials are a blast, and the money I make in a couple of days allows to me to pursue my less-lucrative theatre habit.
J.P.: Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t watch TV. Ever. How do you explain that? Isn’t it odd for an actress?
A.C.: Haha, well it’s true that I don’t have cable or any TV channels. We do own a television and watch a lot of Netflix movies. I do occasionally watch television shows through Netflix or Hulu. But, as I said in the previous answer, I’m a theatre actress at heart. And I go to see plays all the time!
J.P.: Your resume says you were on The Sopranos. Do tell …
A.C.: I dabbled in background acting for a short time when I was starting out. One of the shows I worked on was The Sopranos, in which I was a writing student for Tim Daly’s teacher character. I was in two different scenes, and in one of them I was quite recognizable. Once I amass more legitimate television credits (like the recent guest-spot I did for TBS’s Are We There Yet?), I will probably remove The Sopranos from my resume. But it’s a fun conversation starter!
J.P.: What’s the difference between the tons upon tons of good actors and the truly great ones? Like, what separates a Streep or Brando from the pack? And do you feel like you’re good? Great? Do you have it in you, talent-wise, to reach the highest of highs, or do you feel a certain limit within yourself?
A.C.: I think sometimes a performer has, innately, something special that others can’t learn, cultivate, or imitate no matter how hard they try. These extraordinary actors truly and deeply inhabit the roles they play. As for myself: I am all too convinced of my own limitations, which is in itself a limitation. And anyway, I don’t really put any thought into being good, or great. Just about doing the work.
J.P.: It strikes me that auditioning for a play or film or whatever is somewhat torturous. What is the average experience like? And do you go to auditions generally thinking the best, or the worst?
A.C.: Oh boy, it really depends. Auditions and my feelings about them vary wildly. Mostly, I feel like auditions are like dating. No matter how much I have to offer and no matter how much it seems to be a perfect fit on paper, the date is sometimes a big flop. Other times it goes splendidly, and I get another date or two and maybe even end up in a long-term relationship.
The average audition … I get an appointment in advance, with a scene or two from the show that I need to prepare. I read the entire script so that I can approach my scenes knowing their context; sometimes I go to see the play if it’s currently running; I might watch a taped version at the Performing Arts Library; I’ll try to find clips or movies online to become more familiar with the material; often I will hire an acting coach and/or a singing coach. All of this can be time consuming and expensive!
On the day of the audition I go the studio where the session is being held, and wait outside with other actors, each of us with our prepared material and our headshot and resume. When my name is called, I go in and do some or all of the material. Sometimes I do it once and they say “thanks” and that is it. When all that preparation leads to a two-minute audition that falls completely flat, it’s definitely disheartening. Other times the director will work with me and have me do the sides several times. Most projects will have callbacks (sometimes the next day, sometimes weeks later), and I go through the same stuff all over again. Once in a rare while, I actually book the job!
J.P.: As you get older, do you find it harder to get roles? I mean, there’s always talk about women and Hollywood and the struggle? Is it the same on Broadway?
A.C.: Actually for me, I think it will only get easier as I get older. People always want to cast me as the past-her-prime brassy sidekick or a quirky mother of college-aged kids, but I’m still too young for those roles! Once I’m in my forties I’m hoping my career will totally take off!
QUAZ EXPRESS WITH ALISON CIMMET
• Fox calls. They’re doing a new movie, “Sarah Palin: Great American Icon” and they want you in the lead role. The pay is $3 million, buy you’ll have to do lots of press and talk about your admiration for Palin. You in?: Hell no. I do lack integrity, so I wouldn’t put it past myself to do an awful job just for the money. However I could never agree to lie and say I admire that woman.
• Rank in order: George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Paul Newman, Kirby Puckett, Celine Dion, vanilla ice cream, Billy Joel, your slippers, Tom Cruise: Newman, Clooney, Pitt, Joel, slippers, vanilla ice cream, Dion, Cruise. Who the heck is Kirby Puckett?
• Five greatest actresses of our lifetime: Maggie Smith, Meryl Streep, Catherine O’Hara, Viola Davis, Imelda Staunton.
• Do you think the Broadway experience is overpriced? Feel free to elaborate?: Hell yes.
• Have you ever thought you were about to die in a plane crash? If so, details …: I’m on a plane right now! Don’t put thoughts into my head!
• How did you respond to Jorge Posada’s retirement?: Who the heck is Jorge Posada?
• Can you happily watch a movie on an iPhone-sized screen?: If I were desperate for entertainment, probably. But it hasn’t yet come to that.
• Worst movie you’ve ever seen? Best?: Worst: I’ve blocked it out. Best (most beautiful): Amelie.
• Most talented performer you’ve ever worked with?: Oh geez. I’ve worked with so many extraordinary people. One of the most thrilling and inspiring was Harriet Harris, an insanely talented comedienne.
QUAZ DATABASE:
Quaz 1: Wendy Hagen
Quaz 2: Chris Burgess
Quaz 3: Tommy Shaw
Quaz 4: Russ Ortiz
Quaz 5: Don McPherson
Quaz 6: Frank Zaccheo
Quaz 7: Geoff Rodkey
Quaz 8: Meeno Peluce
Quaz 9: Karl Mecklenburg
Quaz 10: Amra-Faye Wright
Quaz 11: Phil Nevin
Quaz 12: Jemele Hill
Quaz 13: Drew Snyder
Quaz 14: Roy Smalley
Quaz 15: Michael Shermer
Quaz 16: Kathy Wagner
Quaz 17: Travis Warren
Quaz 18: Scott Barnhardt
Quaz 19: Chris Jones
Quaz 20: Cindi Avila
Quaz 21: Crystal McKellar
Quaz 22: Dan Riehl
Quaz 23: Prime Minister Pete Nice
Quaz 24: Glen Graham
Quaz 25: Dave Coverly
Quaz 26: Marie Te Hapuku
Quaz 27: Christian Delcroix
Quaz 28: Jack McDowell
Quaz 29: Jake Black
Quaz 30: Brian Johnson
Quaz 31: Craig Salstein
Quaz 32: John Herzfeld
Quaz 33: Jenny DeMilo
Quaz 34: Tina Thompson
Quaz 35: Seth Davis
Quaz 36: Dave Fleming
Quaz 37: Mike Sharp
Quaz 38: Kathleen Osgood
Quaz 39: Gabriel Aldort
Quaz 40: Lennie Friedman
Quaz 41: Rick Arzt
Quaz 42: Sean Salisbury
Quaz 43: Mac Lethal
Quaz 44: Cord McCoy
Quaz 45: Cameron Mills
Quaz 46: Jim Abbott
Quaz 47: Alison Cimmet
This is an embarrassing photograph.
I admit it. Make fun, make fun, make fun—it’s warranted.
To explain: I am wearing compression socks. Not because they’re funky or cool (clearly they’re not) or trendy. I’m wearing compressions socks because I’m aging, and I’ve been told they help with blood circulation. I also like how they feel, which leads me to believe I might like how pantyhose also feel. Which, well, uh, yeah.
The thing is, I’m not a fancy runner. The shirt in the photo above is my favorite running T. I’ve worn it in multiple marathons, a ton of races. Literally, it’s probably been pulled over my head, oh, 1,000 times. Where did I purchase such a fancy singlet? At an Oakland thrift store in the late 1990s. I believe it cost $2, and it definitely had some small blood stains on it. My sneakers, meanwhile, were purchased last week—$39.99 at Modell’s. I don’t particularly like how they look (black shoes seem slow to me), but they’re light and comfy, and I’ve sworn of Nikes.
The point of this post? I’m not sure.
Compress.
I recently read a book that was beautifully written, yet thinly reported.
In other words—no good.
I’ve written five books, which hardly makes me the ultimate expert. But one thing I know—like, know, know, know, know—is that the great biographers always make the next call. They don’t just settle for teammates and coaches. They want mothers, uncles, cousins, friends, enemies. I certainly aspire to this, and while it’s not easy, it’s of utmost important. Or, as I often tell the wife, you just never know where the next great informational nugget i coming from. One might assume that a book about, say, the 1980s San Antonio Spurs would depend upon the words of George Gervin and Johnny Moore. Truth be told, it depends on 1,000 levels beyond those two. It’s always seeking out more and more and more and more until an editor grabs your ear and says, “Stop! We! Need! The! Book!”
OK, night night …
Yesterday was one of the best Saturdays of my life—I served as an assistant coach for my 5-year-old son’s little league team.
I know … I know—enter the cliches. Warm days and green grass and the sound of bat against ball. Well, uh … yeah. All those things exist. Yet, really, it was much more. My son takes tennis lessons, and he sorta digs them. My son plays soccer, and he sorta digs it, too. Baseball, however, really seemed to grip the boy. He liked putting on his purple No. 2 shirt and the matching hat. He liked standing in the field and kicking up dust. He liked charging for the ball, stopping it and throwing (wildly) to first. Mostly, I think he liked having his old man standing by him, cheering him and his teammates on, complimenting every move, explaining the little rules.
As these things tend to do, I was returned to my own boyhood, growing up on the mean streets of Mahopac, N.Y. I was a Little League ballplayer for, oh, eight years, and some of the memories are remarkably vivid. My debut season, playing for Jenny Oil, starting at catcher and crying when a ball rolled (ahem, softly) into my foot as I dashed from first to second. A couple of years later, being forced into action at third and making a key putout. Hitting my first (and only) career homer off of a kid named Rocco Niccoletti.
The best of the best came in 1984, when I was a 12-year-old outfielder for Bill Bloomer Painting. We had a fantastic season, and advanced to the MSA (Mahopac Sports Association) World Series. It was a tight game—scoreless after five, I believe—and the tension was thick. Mr. Bloomer ran me out to left field for the top of the sixth, and all I wanted was the ball to fly anywhere but toward me.
Well, with two outs and a couple of runners on, Rick Oubina came up and socked a long fly in my direction. As it approached, I awkwardly lifted my glove, blocked out the sun … and caught it. My mom still laughs about the other mothers hugging and kissing her. In my head, I was 350 feet away. In reality, I was probably, oh, 100. Maybe 90.
Obviously, the memory has faded. Before writing this, however, I retrieved the the ball from a nearby shelf. It sits by my side … says 1984 WORLD SERIES in blue pen, with “THE CATCH” for added emphasis. Some of the signatures remain clear—Brian Hitney and John DeFrancesco and Richie Bradbury and Eugene Signorini and P.J. Molinari. Others have rubbed away.
I can only hope, one day, my boy has a ball of his own.
I turn 40 on Sunday.
And I’m not quite sure how.
I don’t think of myself as 40. I don’t think I act 40. I look in the mirror, and sure, there are a few more wrinkles than 30. But do I look 40? Do I look … old?
Maybe, maybe not.
I see 25. I always see 25. I see me as young and eager and excited. I see me as embracing a world of endless possibilities. I see me early on in a career, hoping to move up the ladder and accomplish great things. That’s how I see myself—how I always see myself—even when I’m looking in that mirror. Even when I’m tired and beaten down and feeling, well, old.
I don’t like the sound of 40. Elvis was fat, jumpsuit-wearing Elvis when he was 40. Eddie Murphy was doing The Adventures of Pluto Nash when he was 40. Ozzie Smith was limited to 96 games when he was 40. Tupac was dead. Jim Morrison was dead. Marilyn Monroe was dead.
The number 40 reeks of irrelevence. There are younger people itching to replace us. They’re the ones who go out after work, to the bars and clubs, as we once did. If we happen to tag along, it feels … pathetic. We’re there, but we no longer belong. We long to scream, “No! It’s me! I’m trapped inside this body, but I’m really 27!” It doesn’t work. It’s true and it’s not true. I’m not 27, I’m 40.
At 40, we start fighting to turn back time. Suck in the gut. Cut off a few minutes from the real marathon time. A little dab of dye here, a pinch off the skin there. We’re not quite ancient, but we see ancient. It’s waiting there, taunting us with its cry of, “Stay home … watch TV … it’s too cold to go out … Hill Street Blues re-runs are on.” I have a friend who denies this all. He thinks he’s still cool, and proves such by bragging about hitting up this party with Zac Efron, that party with Usher. I’m sure, deep down, he knows that it’s mere cosmetics. That Zac Efron knows he’s old, and he knows Zac Efron is young. See, that’s the thing about it all—we can try and fool ourselves all we want, but 40 sucks. It hurts. It blows. It bites. Mostly, it stings. I can Tweet 1,000 times a day and wear my cap backward and say, “What up?” and “chillin’” all I want, but I can’t deny chronology.
I actually remember, as a teen, thinking I would never age. Somehow, it would happen to everyone else, but not to me. I would avoid it; push it away; fight it off. Even in my 20s, I thought, “Wow, this is lasting a long time. How wonderful.” But now time mocks me. One birthday chases another chases another chases another. I still vividly recall turning 21, throwing up in the parking lot alongside the Stone Balloon. I still vividly recall turning 30, walking into a surprise party. It’s all right there, memories as fresh as sponge cake. I can feel them and touch them, but—fuck—I can’t grab them. They slip away, down a long hole.
And here I am, two days removed from being 40.
Who wants to snort coke?
* Welcome to the 46th installment of The Quaz Q&A. This feature—a question-and-answer session with a person from sports/entertainment/politics/whatever—will appear every Thursday on jeffpearlman.com. If you have any suggestions/ideas for people to speak with, hit me up at anngold22@gmail.com. I’m listening.
Jim Abbott was, by all statistical measures, a mediocre Major League pitcher. Over 10 seasons, his lifetime record was 87-108. He had but five .500-plus runs and, besides a fantastic 18-11 finish in 1991, never totaled more than 12 wins. Although his lifetime ERA of 4.25 is digestible, it’s hardly Gooden-esque.
And yet …
There’s something about a man, standing atop a big league mound, armed with but a single hand. That Abbott (an Olympian, a first-round pick, a thrower of a no-hitter) accomplished so much as a lefty (and only a lefty) is remarkable. That he accomplished so much as a lefty (and only a lefty) with poise and grace and humility is beyond remarkable. It’s noteworthy.
Thirteen years after throwing his final pitch with the Milwaukee Brewers, Abbott, 44, had released his autobiography. Written along with the wonderful Tim Brown, Imperfect: An Improbable Life is a truly joyful read; a powerful, uplifting saga of an athlete refusing to let a disability keep him down—even when that disability should, by all logistical measures, prevent him from playing baseball at a high level.
Here, Jim talks Angels, Yankees, hands, Swen Nater and his Young MC ignorance.
Jim Abbott, the Quaz is yours …
JEFF PEARLMAN: Generally speaking, athletes write books while they’re playing and, especially, in the aftermath of a breakthrough. You gained great fame as a rookie one-handed pitcher with the California Angels in 1989. You haven’t played in a major league game in 13 years. So why write a book now?
JIM ABBOTT: Why now? I wasn’t ready write book when I was playing and, even if I was ready, I couldn’t have. The world of professional sports is very sheltered and protective, and to have written a book as an active player would have violated something. I would have had to expose myself and open myself up. Believe me, I had plenty of offers. But I was 28. What did I know? Also, like many people, I’ve had a lot of experiences I’ve had to reconcile. That takes time and maturity. I was finally ready.
J.P.: In the book, you describe your relationship with your hand as “blurred.” What does that mean?
J.A.: Well, it wasn’t always constant. It came in and out of focus. There were days and weeks when I never even thought about only having one hand. It never entered my experience. Then there were other periods where it was right up front and in my face. Maybe it was a tease or taunt at a playground; maybe a coach trying to exploit something.
J.P.: There’s no dirt in your book. Like, none. Zero, Zip. I was surprised, because I can’t imagine a publisher or editor wasn’t whispering, “So what you got on Matt Nokes?”
J.A.: You know what? I was surprised, too. I expected that pressure, and it never came. I’m glad, because that wasn’t central to what I was trying to do. I didn’t want it to be, “Hey, this guy did that, and I saw him do this …” Honestly, I didn’t even see that much, and I wouldn’t have felt comfortable with that, anyhow. I wanted to tell a story—my story.
J.P.: You’re 44-years old. This has been your life. Do you even think about the hand any longer?
J.A.: I do. It never goes away. It’s there, it’s me and it’s always part of my experience. But it enters my thinking now in other ways than just baseball. The opening chapter of the book is me going to my daughter’s pre-school class to speak. I’m going to talk about my career, but inevitably most of the questions are about my hand. When I go to the airport and I give the TSA agent my license, they double check and look at my hand. So I can’t say it ever goes away. But I’ve more than come to grips with it.
J.P.: Your Major League record is 87-108. On the Baseball Reference website, your numbers compare with forgettables like Steve Trout and Rick Waits. It seems that your one hand has given you a voice others lack? A forum to write a book …
J.A.: That’s definitely fair, and I’m appreciative of that. As a baseball player I always wanted to be judged on the standard of my pitching. And I still want to be judged as all others are judged. The intent of the book was never to take advantage. I’ve had a different experience than others, and I thought it was worth disucssing. I still receive a lot of cards and letters and e-mails from kids and parents. I send out a lot of responses that contain three-four paragraphs and a photo. I wish I had time to write more, but I don’t. So, in a sense, I view this book as an answer to those letters and calls. This is my response.
J.P.: You’re from the same town as Michael Moore, the documentarian. He has often gone to great pains to describe Flint’s decay—and often blames that on corporate disinterest in small-town America. Was wondering if you see Flint in the same way—and if you agree.
J.A.: Flint is a tough town, but it was a great place to grow up. I grew up in a really nice middle class neighborhood. What I remember about Flint was the generosity of the parents, coaches, teachers and teammates that I was surrounded by. People who took the time to help a young kid who often felt like an outsider. Tough surroundings, but fantastic sports town and great resilient people. That’s how I think of Flint.
J.P.: How did you know, for 100% certainty, that your pitching career was over? And, at age 31, how difficult is it to accept that this dream you had … this lifelong ambition, was done?
J.A.: I don’t know if you ever think that 100 percent you are done. There is always some little voice in your head that tells you a new pitch, or a sidearm delivery, just might be the answer. But at some point reason takes over, and you know the hitters are making it clear that your stuff is short. It’s very difficult to leave the game.
J.P.: You played for Buck Showalter in New York. I’ve covered Buck, and while I like him as an interview subject, I’ve always thought he’d be a pretty miserable manager to play for. How would you describe his style? And am I right, or off?
J.A.: I like Buck. He knew how to put guys in positions to succeed especially in putting together a line up. He was very interested in guys around the league and what type of character they had. I think the disappointing seasons I had with the Yankees colored my relationship with Buck, that was unavoidable, but I have great respect for his baseball intelligence. He has a funny sense of humor—that always surprised me.
QUAZ EXPRESS WITH JIM ABBOTT
• Five most talented ballplayers you ever played with/against: Roberto Alomar, Mark Langston, Frank Thomas, Tino Martinez (most clutch), Jimmy Key (smartest).
• Rank in order (favorite to least): Joe Ausanio, your wallet, Young MC, sweet potato french fries, the city of Milwaukee, Steve Jobs, Celine Dion, ESPN the Magazine, Swen Nater, socks: Steve Jobs barely squeaks by Joe Ausanio. Any City on Lake Michigan is great so Milwaukee is next. Sweet Potato French Fries (have to be crispy), good socks, ESPN the Magazine, Swen Nater, hate wallets, Young MC (not sure who that is), Celine Dion.
• Fans want to know—what was it like to play with Donn Pall?: Don Pall—”The Pope.” Sweet man. Great teammate, very popular.
• You are the only man to ever be teammates with Claudell Washington, Eddie Zosky and Ron Karkovice. How does it feel to make history?: Saw Claudell Washington flip over the right field wall chasing a ball hit by Bill Buckner. “CW,” Claudell’s nickname, disappeared in the stands, Buckner circled the bases while Kirk McCaskill looked on in amazement from the mound. Inside the park home run. It was the funniest thing I ever saw in the game. CW finally popped up from behind the wall with mustard on his uniform. Full moon that night in Boston. Zosky was a really good defensive player and very funny, and Karko was one of my favorite battery mates. Great guy.
• How long does the buzz of a no-hitter last?: The buzz from a no hitter has lasted until this day.
• Have you ever thought you were about to die in a plane crash? If so, what do you remember?: Every time I fall asleep on a plane that first jolt of turbulence sends my heart rate soaring. Terrible feeling … that I never experienced before my children were born.
• Worst movie you’ve ever seen?: Godfather 3. Loved the first two so much. Try to pretend that the third never happened.
• Would you rather have to eat 70 slices of pizza in one sitting or write a 300-page book on the 1999 Brewers?: The ‘99 Brewers had a bunch of great guys and real characters. Would much rather write the book. Eric Plunk, David Weathers, that old Milwaukee bullpen surrounded by chain link fence, actually I think that could be a pretty funny book.
• Best joke you know …: There’s one about a plunger that I can’t repeat. I never remember the best jokes, but my former teammate Kirk McCaskill is the best joke teller I know.
• Would you rather overflow a stranger’s toilet at a party or be locked in a shopping mall for the night?: Much rather be locked in a mall. Terrifying to see that water on the rise
QUAZ DATABASE:
Quaz 1: Wendy Hagen
Quaz 2: Chris Burgess
Quaz 3: Tommy Shaw
Quaz 4: Russ Ortiz
Quaz 5: Don McPherson
Quaz 6: Frank Zaccheo
Quaz 7: Geoff Rodkey
Quaz 8: Meeno Peluce
Quaz 9: Karl Mecklenburg
Quaz 10: Amra-Faye Wright
Quaz 11: Phil Nevin
Quaz 12: Jemele Hill
Quaz 13: Drew Snyder
Quaz 14: Roy Smalley
Quaz 15: Michael Shermer
Quaz 16: Kathy Wagner
Quaz 17: Travis Warren
Quaz 18: Scott Barnhardt
Quaz 19: Chris Jones
Quaz 20: Cindi Avila
Quaz 21: Crystal McKellar
Quaz 22: Dan Riehl
Quaz 23: Prime Minister Pete Nice
Quaz 24: Glen Graham
Quaz 25: Dave Coverly
Quaz 26: Marie Te Hapuku
Quaz 27: Christian Delcroix
Quaz 28: Jack McDowell
Quaz 29: Jake Black
Quaz 30: Brian Johnson
Quaz 31: Craig Salstein
Quaz 32: John Herzfeld
Quaz 33: Jenny DeMilo
Quaz 34: Tina Thompson
Quaz 35: Seth Davis
Quaz 36: Dave Fleming
Quaz 37: Mike Sharp
Quaz 38: Kathleen Osgood
Quaz 39: Gabriel Aldort
Quaz 40: Lennie Friedman
Quaz 41: Rick Arzt
Quaz 42: Sean Salisbury
Quaz 43: Mac Lethal
Quaz 44: Cord McCoy
Quaz 45: Cameron Mills
Quaz 46: Jim Abbott
.