Brewers Cubs NLDS, 2025

We should have known it would come to this. When Craig Counsell departed Milwaukee two years ago in favor of a bigger paycheck 90 miles south, I voiced my hope that he would experience five of the worst seasons known to man and be banished from Chicago in humiliation. Unfortunately, it’s hard to lose when you’re part of a well-run organization that has a big, fat, payroll. Oh, and when you’re a good manager with good players.

So I haven’t exactly gotten my wish, but man, there’s something satisfying about the Brewers winning the NL Central in 2024 and 2025, with the Cubs not even making the playoffs last year and having to beat the Padres in 3 games this week to advance. I mean, that SHOULD NOT be happening. The Brewers have no business winning the division, much less having the best record in baseball. That’s something I never thought I’d see.

Wanna know something else I never thought I’d see? A World Series title for the Milwaukee Brewers. And I fear that will remain to be the case this year. We might not even see an NLCS appearance, not because they’re not a good team, but because they’re very young and their pitching has been absolutely decimated. From having a surplus of starting pitching just a few months ago, they are now down to two starters in Freddie Peralta and Quinn Priester, and their bullpen has taken a hit as well.

But that won’t stop me from hoping. I’ve got tickets to game 5 on October 11, and I’m praying that somehow the Crew can win it in three or four and spare me the stress of another deciding game. I was in attendance when the Brewers lost to the Mets last year in game 3, and I was in attendance when they lost to the Dodgers in game 7 of the 2018 NLCS. I know that feeling, and I could do without it.

So here’s hoping. It’s been an absolutely thrilling season - one that had me wishing I lived back in my home town instead of commiserating with Cubs fans (there really aren’t any White Sox fans at present) - and it’s been so much fun watching a bunch of young guys with no expectations other than playing good, sound baseball. That this translated into winning streaks of eight, eleven and fourteen games wasn’t something anyone could have imagined.

But sometimes what we imagine is dwarfed by what’s possible. Maybe they’ll surprise us again.

Saying Goodbye to Robert Redford

How’s this for an eerie coincidence: on Monday, September 15, I stayed up late to watch The Natural, my vote for the best baseball movie ever, inching out Field of Dreams, A League of Their Own, and The Bad News Bears (and maybe Eight Men Out – it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that one).  Just a few hours after I finished the film and went to bed, Robert Redford, the star of The Natural, died at 89 years old.

My mom wrote to me after learning about his death: “All of the great ones are gone.” I don’t subscribe to that view, but I understand that if you’re in your 80s and have seen Gregory Peck, Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant and Paul Newman come and go, you might be inclined to think that the best is behind us.

It was my mother who introduced me to Redford, the actor, through movies like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Sting, but it was Redford, the director, who may have made the biggest impact on me. After my parents split up in ’79, my mother took me to films that she thought would shed a light on grown-up topics, including divorce and general family discord. There was The China Syndrome, then Kramer vs. Kramer, and then Redford’s Oscar-winning Ordinary People. These latter two movies were interesting choices, because the mothers aren’t portrayed in a particularly positive light, and goodness knows my mother blamed my father for their marriage’s demise. But these films dramatized troubled families and the subsequent fallout on the children, and that may have been the point: to see that others experienced difficulties similar to my own, and in the case of Ordinary People – far worse.

I grew to watch other Redford-directed films like The Milagro Beanfield War and Quiz Show, and filled in some of the gaps from his acting career, like The Electric Horseman, All the President’s Men and Barefoot in the Park.

But it’s The Natural I love the most. Hell, Randy Newman’s score alone does it for me.

Gene Siskel placed The Natural at number 10 in his list of favorite films of the year, saying, “I loved every corny bit of it.”  Ebert wasn’t so kind, giving it 2 stars, and writing, “Why did a perfectly good story, filled with interesting people, have to be made into one man’s ascension to the godlike, especially when no effort is made to give that ascension meaning?” He’s not wrong. The movie is flawed. It’s cheesy. It’s shallow. It’s a fable, pure and simple. But, like Siskel, I loved every corny bit of it.

And now I can say that I loved every corny bit of it while Redford was breathing his last.

All of the great ones are not gone. But we lost another one this week.

Saying Goodbye to Rick Davies of Supertramp

I wrote about Supertramp’s Breakfast in America eleven years ago and later included it in my list of all-time favorites, along with the band’s album, Crisis? What Crisis?  In my summary of those two inclusions, I wrote:

I can’t overstate how important this band was to the young version of me, insecure and creative, the youngest child of separated parents. Hodgson’s lyrics were the empathetic voice I craved, though I can’t say for sure that I understood them all at the time. Listening to Supertramp nearly forty years on, the band’s output still holds up. I’ve always loved the juxtaposition of Davies’s and Hodgson’s respective oeuvres, one cynical and cranky, one spiritual and nurturing, and together they were greater than the sum of their parts. 

Rick Davies died a few days ago, and as important as some of Hodgson’s lyrics were to me as a youth, it was Davies’s piano skills that attracted much of my attention, as I moved beyond the Michael Aaron piano books I’d been trudging through for years and started to explore playing songs that I loved. When I was twelve, I purchased the manuscript book of Crime of the Century, and I studied those songs with curiosity, amazement and confusion, unable to play some of the licks to my satisfaction. Easiest among the lot was the title track, and for a brief period I played the song in the living room of classmates Jon and Scott Witkopf, who added drums and guitar to the mix. It was my first foray into playing with a group, and it jumpstarted my excitement to be in a band as I dreamed of music stardom.  

My brother soon encouraged me to learn “Another Man’s Woman,” a piano tour-de-force that begins with a terrific percussive groove and culminates with an equally terrific solo, and I managed to do a fair job of replicating it by ear rather than a manuscript. Soon to follow were songs like “Asylum,” “Just Another Nervous Wreck,” and “From Now On.” This band was inspiring!

But for any pianist, it was “Bloody Well Right” that set the standard, with Davies’s extended blues-based Wurlizer solo instantly recognizable. I must say that I fumbled through it as a child, only kinda-sorta achieving the spirit of the solo if not the actual notes. It wasn’t until I was in my 30s that I finally sat down and transcribed the solo note for note, slowing the tune down to identify some of the faster runs, and even today it’s an intro that I break out from time to time.

Beyond the obvious piano chops of Rick Davies, his sonically-edged compositions helped to compensate for Hodgson’s sweeter side. Davies basically played Lennon to Hodgson’s McCartney, or Amy Ray to Emily Saliers of Indigo Girls, offering a bit of cynicism and realism to the philosophical Hodgson. I thought that Davies really hit his stride on Breakfast in America and Famous Last Words…, the final Supertramp albums before Hodgson left the band. I loved songs like “Gone Hollywood,” “Oh Darling,” “Just Another Nervous Wreck,” “Put on Your Old Brown Shoes,” and “Waiting So Long.” They may not have been hits, but they helped elevate the Supertramp releases into satisfying listening experiences, making them “complete” albums, and not just some filler songs amongst a few of Hodgson’s hits.

I got to see Rick Davies twice: once at Alpine Valley in 1983, and then two years later at MECCA in Milwaukee. For the latter show, I was excited that Davies would have more of a chance to shine as the only songwriter left in the band. Unfortunately, the setlist was lacking, as was Davies’ ability to hold an audience. It was decent, but it was clear that Supertramp missed Hodgson. Unfortunately, they would never play together again.

It was just two weeks ago that Hodgson lost a publishing royalty appeal between him and the rest of the band. A sad way to end the legacy of a great band.

The Grayness of Human Beings

A couple of months ago, a patron at a Chicago White Sox game made some very meanspirited and personal remarks to Arizona second baseman Ketel Marte, and the fan was subsequently banned from all MLB games indefinitely. Reports are that the 22 year-old was “very apologetic and remorseful,” which is promising; I hope he uses this unfortunate experience as an opportunity to recalibrate his life. I also hope that Major League Baseball doesn’t banish the fan for life, or even for a year, but rather invites him back to enjoy baseball with his regrettable indiscretion behind him.

People can be cruel. People can be dumb. The world is run by cruel and dumb people, for crying out loud. But I’d also like us to give people a little more leeway than what is often offered on social media, podcasts and YouTube. Lord knows that if I were held accountable for all the stupid shit I spouted as a 22-year-old, I’d be banned from all sorts of businesses, websites and homes – including my own! I’m wiser today, I’ve smoothed out some of the rough edges, and I try not to utter every stupid thought that pops into my brain.

As we look around the world today, on the news or on internet comments or social media, we’ll witness words and actions that exemplify the worst of humanity. If we look a little harder, we’ll also see words and actions that exemplify the best of humanity. It’s so easy to observe the worst in someone and use it to summarize their entire being. One false action, one slipup of a remark, one viewpoint that doesn’t correspond to our own, and WHAMMO! You’re now an asshole. A pariah. A “them.”

This isn’t the best way to go through life, for it too easily distills a complex human being into a one-word pejorative. I’ve had discussions with my children about this. There is a celebrity who’s done some amazing things but who’s also made some remarks that my children don’t agree with. This celebrity is now banished from their lives, relegated to the island of assholes who aren’t worth their time, which is unfortunate, because it doesn’t address the full human being; it cherry picks the one thing that they find abhorrent and ignores all the good they’ve done.

People are gray, sometimes impressing us with their words and actions, and sometimes letting us down. Goodness knows that I don’t always live up to my highest ideals. There are a multitude of words and actions from my past that I wish I could take back, but it would also be wrong for someone to take a few of those words and actions and make a blanket statement about who I am as a person. I am more than my missteps. I’m also more than a guy who holds a different viewpoint that you do about a particular subject. It’s OKAY to have an opinion that doesn’t align with yours.

People are numbskulls. People are geniuses.
People are despicable and amazing.
They’re pathetic and inspiring.
They’re disappointing and promising.
They’re mean-spirited and kind, cowardly and brave.
People are dishonorable and commendable, capricious and steadfast,
stingy and generous, hypocritical and trustworthy.
They’re hateful and loving. Weak and strong. Lazy and indefatigable.
They are painfully serious and side-splittingly funny,
They’re boring as hell and engrossing.
They are black and white and red and orange and yellow and brown and…
GRAY.

Let’s try to refrain from painting a broad brushstroke about someone’s entire being based on one or two things that we don’t appreciate. Okay?

Billy Joel and "Code of Silence"

HBO’s excellent new documentary, Billy Joel: And So It Goes, praises Joel’s chameleon-like ability to compose in multiple genres, something that few music critics did during his time dominating the charts. Instead, they accused him of uninventiveness and trend-hopping, constantly shifting styles to match modern fads. But what crtics missed, most songwriters understood: a lot of artists adjust their songwriting styles, but not many of them do it well. By contrast, Joel’s prowess as a songwriter might rightly be compared to mid-century masters like Cole Porter or Irving Berlin.

One of Joel’s attributes that the documentary spends less time on is his expertise at wordsmithing. At his best, his ability to perfectly capture a character, a feeling, or a situation, is second-to-none. Listen again to songs like “Always a Woman,” “I’ve Loved These Days,” “Goodnight Saigon” and “Innocent Man,” and you might conclude that he’s achieving something far beyond composing catchy hooks.

For me, I can’t think of Billy Joel without recalling a lesser-known tune that he co-wrote with Cyndi Lauper, “Code of Silence,” from 1986’s The Bridge, one of the last vinyl records I purchased before switching over to CDs. It was a letter from a friend of mine that prompted me to examine the lyrics of this song with more attention than I was accustomed to, a letter I still have today. In it, my friend alludes to a past event in her life and how it impacted her, and then goes on to write out the entire lyric of “Code of Silence,” adding that the song describes her “to a ‘T’.”

This revelation hit me hard then, and it’s clearly continued to hit my hard over time, because it led to my composition, “The Diary You Keep,” from my album Trainsongs, and it also inspired an important character in my unpublished novel, Things I Hate About My Mother. I can’t hear “Code of Silence” without thinking of her. She had clearly experienced some sort of trauma, and I don’t need to work too hard to imagine what it might have been.

The lyrics of “Code of Silence” are effective because they express the victim’s point of view so well:

You’ve been through it once
You know how it ends
You don’t see the point of going through it again

And you can’t talk about it
Because you’re following a code of silence
You’re never gonna lose the anger
You just deal with it a different way
And you can’t talk about it
And isn’t that a kind of madness
To be living by a code of silence
When you’ve really got a lot to say?

And later in the tune:

And it’s hard to believe after all these years
That it still gives you pain and it still brings tears
And you feel like a fool, ‘cause in spite all your rules
You’ve got a memory

Joel gives most of the credit to Lauper, who happened to be recording her True Colors album next door to Joel, resulting in the collaboration. In an interview, Joel said “She did all the work.” Regardless of who contributed the lion’s share of the tune, as far as I’m concerned, the Joel-Lauper pairing was a match made in heaven, and I wonder what might have transpired had they committed to composing more songs together.

I’m a melody guy, first and foremost, with lyrics often falling a distant second. But man, when melody and lyrics are coupled together perfectly, it packs a punch. Give it a listen and see if it hits you the same way.

And to my old friend, wherever you might be, I hope you’re well, and I hope you’ve been able to crack the code.