"The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding."

- John Updike

On Losing Grantland

Today ESPN killed Grantland.

I never wrote for the site, read it only sporadically, and loved every minute.

I got introduced to Jason Concepcion and Rembret Browne. I developed a deep abiding love for the prose of Jonah Keri. I got into arguments with my friends over some of their lists.

More than that I learned. Grantland gave me a goal. They were a signpost in the distance - something to which I aspired. Sure, I write here occasionally and I put words to the page about games, but I still wanted  to be the best. 

I wanted to push myself and do long form pieces. Pushing stuff into my sent folder because I couldn't stare at the ink anymore never felt right. The desire was always there to go back and prune and cultivate.

Because that's what would have happened if I worked at Grantland.

Follow those writers. Learn from them, because I have no idea if we'll see another site like that again.

And that fucking sucks. 

EDIT: So shortly after I posted this, I was reminded that Grantland did some really shitty stuff (detailed here). 

That behavior is irresponsible and dangerous and should not be lauded. The desire to push young writers to be better should. 

This is not black and white - the site did good work on some fronts, and terrible work on others. 

Because of their role in the linked story, there should be a very heavy and healthy dose of criticism. 

Let's Go Mets

The last time the Mets were in the playoffs I poured my emotions into the games. I was in grad school and the games were a connection to home.

After they beat the Dodgers in the NLDS I got a call from my then girlfriend where she ended our relationship. And so I dove deeper into the NLCS against the Cardinals. 

It didn't go well.

So nine years later I'm happily married and the Mets are back in the playoffs, matched up again against the Dodgers. 

A lot has changed in nine years.

Let's not waste this shot guys.

Let's go Mets. 

Getting Words Out

Today I started wondering about why I started writing. I could have stopped. But I didn't.

Grad school demanded pages upon pages of words stapled at the upper right hand corner. These papers were required and I actively enjoyed proving my point.

Those two years working towards my Master's Degree were tough. I was nowhere near my comfort zone. College wasn't as hard of a transition - my best friend had already been there for a year and I recognized many faces in my own class. Buffalo may have been the same state but it was far from the same state of mind. I struggled. My roots - Magic cards and Case Logics full of my identity were lost in the transition. My boss and I clashed. I got dumped. 

That year I found comfort in words. I retreated into my books and worked on excelling in the classroom. Magic Online provided comfort - a collection as strong as my research university internet and as portable as my laptop. It was known and new. It was safe. I wanted to play more but was on a budget so I started writing to feed my habit.

Starting to write was hard. The first thing I had ever written for a major website was spurred on by my then girlfriend. She encouraged me to submit those words. During that first year she dumped me over the phone. I remember the long process of severing any strand tying myself to her and writing, even for me, was a frayed thread of her. 

Somehow, in my whiniest days, I overcame my own petulant self and started writing. 

I graduated, got a job, moved a bunch and stopped writing. Then I started again. I got poached, switched sites, added more responsibilities, got let go. At some point I crossed the 100 article mark. I think I'm over 150 now? I don't know. I write more now than I ever have even if I have fewer features. 

At some point, bemoaning a lack of funds to my content manager, I got a chance to take on the role of editor. My role started with news updates. I would slide my massive lap top (smaller than my first) into my bag and drag it everywhere in case stories broke. They did.

Weekends I would have to take breaks from dinner or cooking or laundry or fun to get push an update live. 

I've written on vacation - I was working towards deadline on a cruise ship when I regained wireless and saw I had been let go from a gig. I write in coffee shops and on my couch. Right now I'm waiting for that same best friend from college - my best man from a few months ago- and I'm working on a device I bought specifically for writing.

I couldn't carry around my lap top anymore. I bought it before I considered myself a capital double you Writer. Odd, since I had been earning money from it for six years at that point.

Last week I finally gave in and bought myself something specifically to put words out into the world. I've been writing for eight years. I don't know if I'll ever feel like I'm actually a Writer. But I guess I am?

That same content manager who gave me a job also told me to read a book - Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark. Something that stuck with me from Clark's words was a way around writer's block. 

Just start writing - let the words flow. That's what this piece is. It's getting words out.

I write because I'm a Writer. I don't know what I would write about if it weren't for Magic. I'd probably have some Hot Takes on sports or be a mediocre reviewer of obscure music. Maybe I'd be better - you can tell me since in the archives here are my attempts at other topics.

I don't know if this is a new start. I'm not leaving my other gigs - I love them too much. But sometimes, I just want to write about the Mets or doing a deep dive on a song. I want the words to get out. 

My head is cluttered enough as is. I just spent hard earned money on something that will let me write on my terms. I better well fucking use it.

$12.50

The DNA of the New York in which I grew up was that of a diaspora. It was a place for the pieces that didn't fit with other puzzles. 

Except, of course, for the City.

On the bus to school I would take a world tour and the only thing that demarcated the borders was the shifting language on the awnings for the bodegas. They were all bodegas. The tongue didn't matter. You could drape a flag on anyone's shoulders but in they end they all pledged allegiance to the Empire. 

Even the lowest rung have their own outcasts. These were the characters in the storyboard of my youth. The homeless, the drugged, the unique. When Disney took hold some of them became attractions and others receded to the cracks. They are New York through and through. The City holds its own and spits out those that don't belong. I've seen it - a brief foray into urban entropy only to become the backwash in cul-de-sac slowing decaying corners of America. Characters remained part of the girder and rebar fabric.

It was these characters that were the extras in my childhood and for one day I got a bit part in their film.

Three weeks before my wedding I bought fifty prepaid MetroCards. The next week the fares went up. In order to make sure the guests from the corners had ways to get to one of the events associated with my nuptials, I had to find a way to add twenty-five cents to each card. A mere $12.50. 

On a Wednesday that was so cold it could have snowed but rained instead I retreated underground with my father. He was in so many layers that he resembled a Jewish turtle. I was a hare, tightly wound 120 hours before the start of the rest of my life.

There was no guarantee that this scheme would succeed. MetroCards are fickle things and flexible, not like the tokens of yore. Carefully I unwrapped the plastic and went to the machine. I hesitated a second before plunking down a quarter. Cling. Clang.

It worked.

So there we stood, soaking up most of an hour. My fingers slowly turned raw from tearing open so many wrappers and pinching for change. At some point I stopped reading instructions and simply let my fingers dance. This time in Spanish. Now French. I could have done this in Polish at the Greenpoint stations and it would not have mattered. Then the turtle chuckled and muttered:

"I'm surprised that attendant hasn't called the cops yet. I would. We look weird."

Which we did.

But no one looked. We had simply blended into the background and become the scenery in their New York stories. 

So I stood at the precipice of one of the signs of adulthood and remembered being a child. 

Tales from the Wedding: The Proposal

There are so many stories surrounding my recent wedding. I don't want to forget any of them, so I'm recording them for posterity here. This is lifted directly from our wedding website.

I knew for a long time that I wanted to ask Jaclyn to spend the rest of our lives together. When her parents visited New York in July of 2013, I spoke with them and got the go ahead. Jaclyn and I were planning on moving in together and I didn't want to wait too long after that. Jaclyn was also planning on running the NYC Marathon for the first time, and I wanted, with all my heart, to propose around that momentous event.

That did not happen.

Timing just did not work out. November was a crazy time between the Marathon, moving, and work. Jaclyn finished the race and three weeks later we moved in together to our wonderful apartment (in Brooklyn, but with a view of Manhattan). We got settled, and then I started thinking about how to pop the question. Thankfully Jaclyn had another race coming up in March - the New York City Half Marathon.

It was going to be perfect - Jaclyn often described it as her favorite race. I don't think she realized it but every time she said "Eh, maybe I won't run it" I tried to convince her otherwise. Thank goodness she listened (I didn't have another idea). With huge help from friends (Janie and Jocelyn, I'm talking about you) I put plans into place. Of course I nearly blew it the week before when I got sick and blamed the stress on her parents visiting the upcoming weekend. I couldn't well and good tell her was was actually freaking me out (but in a totally good way).

Sunday was race day and Jaclyn left early. I triple checked my pocket to make sure the ring was there and set out to cheer on my (hopeful) fiancee. We saw her at Times Square and Jocelyn was keeping her going strong. The three of us trekked down town in the bitter cold to meet up with more of our friends and my parents.

Jaclyn finished the race with a personal record and I met her at the finish line. Her first words to me were "I'm going to throw up." I was too. I patted my pocket to make sure the ring was still there and led her and Jocelyn (who did everything to keep Jaclyn moving forward) towards where our friends and families were gathered. Jaclyn made the rounds, hugging and saying hi, but she couldn't understand why everyone had their phones out. Behind her I got the ring ready and made her turn around. I dropped to one knee and could barely get the words out before she said yes.

"You need to put the ring on me stupid."

"I can't; you're crying into that hand."

But that's not all. After an afternoon of phone calls and congratulations, our families went out to dinner together. This was all a ploy to get our friends into the apartment for a surprise party (again, thank you Jocelyn and Janie). When we got back, Jaclyn was surprised.

"Why didn't you tell me to dress nicer?"

"I said you would want to look nice for the pictures. You wanted me to give this all away?"

It was perfect and magical. I am happy I don't have to do it again, because I could never top it.