The Fromson File

From what I've seen of blogs, the most interesting ones are those with a personal touch, a story to tell; perhaps including a touch of history. The Fromson File is just that, reportage and commentary on issues in the news that intrigue me, anger or just plain bug me. With more than 50 years of experience behind me as a journalist and journalism professor, covering wars, politics and the foibles of humanity, my cup runneth over. Whether it has to do with Iraq, North Korea, politics in California where I live or the nation that I observe, the state of the economy, the way the rest of the world sees us, the nuttiness of nation-building, the plight of Korean, Vietnam and Persian Gulf veterans who share the burden of memory disguised as the homeless of America, I'll vent my spleen from time to time. Even talk about the cost of health care. For instance, I'd like to stand in front of Walter Reed Hospital in the nation's capital and hold up the benefits card (I guess they do get one of those) given members of the U.S. Congress and scream out, "This is what those millionaires get and they won't give you!" I wish our most serious newsapers and thoughtful network news broadcasts would do it, but I am not holding my breath. Nevertheless. let's get down to the serious business of the day. Baseball. Avid fans or not, have we ever seen such a wonderful example of superlative pitching over such a short time span? Just about every game has produced a gem. It's what the national pastime is all about. Oh, I like football and basketball too. I started out as a sportwriter, like so many journalists. But to me baseball is something special. Having said that, I am prepared to outrage many who read this blog by saying that I'm a lifelong Yankee fan and proud of it. Uh oh. I know what to expect. My family prepared me for it the other night as we sat around a dinner table breaking the fast of Yom Kippur. What was the talk all about? You guessed it. I got it from my son, a Chicago Cubs fan since I took him to his first game in the Windy City back in the year of the Great Swoon, 1969 the year of Ernie Banks, Ron Santos and Billy Williams. I also heard from his Colombian wife, my Israeli daughter and her husband and, horrors of all, even my wife who doesn't care much for the game. All of them are what I call Cubnuts. Not only that, they inflicted the worst curse of all, like so many of America's nostalgia-driven fans and non-fans. They hunger for a Cubs' World Series with the Boston Red Sox! Having written this as I was watching the Yankees win Game Five of the ACLS against the Sox, I have a hunch that the Gods are with us once again. Despite that ugly monstrosity known as the Green Fence, I have to hand it to the Beantowners. They frightened me every time their sluggers came to the plate. Nonetheless, David Wells is a money pitcher and he could not have been much better than he was today. I am fully aware of the jealousy and rage the Yankees arouse in some frustrated fans, especially those in Boston. After all, there is something mysterious and perplexing about the curse, not of the Bambino but the one that prevents them from winning so often even when they have some of the great players of any era on their roster: Ted Williams, Johnny Pesky, Bobby Doerr and Dom Di Maggio to name a few. But also Vern Stephens, Carl Yaztremski, Carleton Fisk, Jim Rice and many more. To understand why some of us are dyed in the wool Yankee fans, you would have to understand history, the history of those of us who grew up during the Great Depression in the Bronx, not far from Yankee Stadium. The Yankees were the only winners in an era of ultimate losers. They gave us hope and they also gave us joy when there wasn't much of that to go around. Imagine an eight year old squirt like me in 1938 sitting in the 10 cent bleacher seats of the Stadium with my uncle to watch the Detroit Tigers and their star, Hammerin' Hank Greenberg. In those days, we kids could make our way toward the dugout before the game began when none of the ushers would stop us. Down at the rail, we would plead for autographs and at one incredible moment. Lou Gehrig heard me cry out for his signature. He walked toward me, leaned over the railing and pulled me onto the field. Then he took my hand and led me to the dugout. I was so scared, I couldn't control my bladder.. After all, there were these legends in pinstripes, young Joe DiMaggio, Charlie Keller, Twinkletoes Selkirk and Bill Dickey. "Hey fellas," Gehrig said, " meet my friend...what did you say your name is kid?" I whispered in his ear. Frankie Crosetti laughed as he walked to the batting cage. Gehrig took me back to the railing with my autographed scorecard and lifted me into the stands whereupon the other kids tried to tear the program out of my hands. They failed. My last visit to Yankee Stadium was in 1947 when I was brought to New York from California that summer by my great aunt. I saw Allie (the Chief) Reynolds pitch and win both ends of a doubleheader against the Cleveland Indians. About eight years later when I was a reporter for The Associated Press in Tokyo, the bureau chief called me in and said he had heard I was a Yankee fan. Well, the Yanks were coming to Japan for an exhibition series and I was being assigned to cover them. Imagine, Mantle, Whitey Ford, Billy Martin, Bobby Brown, Gerry Coleman and Yogi Berra. Exciting enough, but the most intriguing aspect of the tour was riding from Tokyo to Kyoto in a car with the skipper, Casey Stengel. Those were the days before the supertrain and we drove for some six a half hours, subjecting me to endless Stengelese. The only thing missing was an interpreter. He spoke so rapidly and in such a whimsical pitch that I thought I was listening to the High Lord Executioner in The Mikado. The years have passed, years when I was preoccupied with covering the war in Vietnam and the arcane doings of the Politburo in Moscow as well as presidential campaigns in this country. So keeping track with the Yankees was tough. But in 1996 I flew to New York in hopes of getting a couple of tickets to the World Series with Atlanta. I was destined to fail, but with a few friends and hundreds of other people who crowded into a bar on Manhattan's Amsterdam Avenue, I lost my voice cheering the victory in Game Number Six and the emergence of a bright young shortstop named Derek Jeter. It was an unforgettable moment, one of many cheering for the team that so many of us think of as something special. Go Yankees!