After 37 years and 14 concerts, Bruce Springsteen finally gave me Incident on 57th Street

Having been blown away by the first Los Angeles show on this tour back in April and knowing that this was the last North American show on the tour, I didn't know what to expect from Bruce Thursday night in Glendale, Arizona. So, when he started off with his acoustic guitar and played "Surprise, Surprise" solo, my reaction was WTF. Why that song? Was Bruce trying to tell us something? We got our answer right away.

Next came an energetic version of "No Surrender", again somewhat of a surprise. Definitely one of the better songs from Born in the USA, and immortalized for the line "We learned more from a three minute record than we ever learned in school", the band absolutely nailed it. It became obvious that Jake Clemons has definitely become more relaxed and confident and the entire band was clearly into it. I realized that on this night anything might be played.

As if to prove my point, next up were two back-to-back River songs, "I'm a Rocker" and "Hungry Heart." Really? I don't think I've heard "Hungry Heart" in the main set since The River tour, it's always been one of the encores, if played at all. And "I'm a Rocker?" I know I haven't heard that since The River tour. Once again, they were both absolutely nailed by the band.

Then came the '78 version of "Prove it all Night," which I guess Bruce has been playing regularly lately. It was great hearing the piano intro from The Professor, and the only word to describe Bruce's playing of the solo is "blistering." I can't remember hearing Bruce play a solo like that before, it's almost like Tom Morello has rubbed off on him. It was incredible. At that point, I was simply in awe, dumbstruck at the setlist so far (this was a show on the Wrecking Ball tour, right? Where the hell were those songs?), and giddy with aniticipation of what might come next.

Next came "Trapped," which I always love to hear in a show. I was lucky to get that on one of the "Magic" shows I saw in Anaheim and it was a major highlight that night. It still amazes that Bruce can nail this difficult vocal, he is 63 years old, after all. When the song ended to the roar of the amazed crowd, I thought now we have to get some Wrecking Ball tunes. Right? I mean, we're six songs in now.

I expected to hear the percussion beginning of "We Take Care of our Own," but instead heard another piano intro from The Professor that seemed vaguely familiar. And then it hit me, and I turned to my brother with a look of shocked wonder, which was mirrored on his face, as I said "Are you fucking kidding me? Lost in the Flood?". Well, I haven't heard that one live since 1975 at my very first Bruce show. What I got in Glendale was a powerful, passionate, explosive and absolutely mind-blowing version of one of Bruce's best and hardly-ever played songs. Once again, the band was nails, they were perfect. And when the song ended, I was completely fried. Blown away. I couldn't believe what I had seen and heard. I started to wonder: could this be the night? More on that later.

The next four songs were standards for the tour: "We Take Care of our Own," "Wrecking Ball," "Death to my Hometown," and "My City of Ruins." All of them great, all of them played with passion and emotion. Bruce then took requests and surprised us once again with "Be True" (did someone really request that?) and "Light of Day." I seem to be on the "Light of Day" track because I get that a lot at the shows I attend. "Darliington County" would have been a good bathroom song, if I had needed to go. It was well done, but I've never cared for it all that much. "Shackled and Drawn" came next with all its power and emotion. Bruce lightened the mood after that with "Waiting on a Sunny Day" and the Apollo medley. Sam Moore of Sam and Dave fame was at the show, and he joined Bruce briefly during "634-5789."

Next came "The Rising," which I have never gotten tired of, and then "Badlands." I've heard "Badlands" so many times that I should be sick ot it, but clearly, I'm not. When Bruce sings that "it ain't no sin to be glad I'm alive", he does so with such passion and joy in his voice that it is contagious. I was singing my guts out, as was most of the crowd. I knew we were getting close to the end of the main set and I wondered what song he would finish with. I know what I wanted. And as Bruce played the harmonica intro, I knew my wish was fulfilled. Many people have written on this site and others that "Thunder Road" has become tired and plodding live. I have no clue what they are talking about. On Thursday night in Glendale, it was joyous and triumphant. As I stood there, singing and dancing along with the band, I looked around and saw almost the entire crowd on their feet. I will never get tired of "Thunder Road" live.

As the main set ended, I was clearly exhausted and enthralled. The setlist had been diverse and exquisite. This was my 14th concert of a journey which began 37 years ago when I was a freshmand in college. The one song which I had never gotten from Bruce just happens to be my favorite, "Incident on 57th Street." I've heard many different versions on many different boots, but it had never been performed at any show I had been at. I had resigned myself to the belief that I would never get it. But this concert seemed different. After "Lost in the Flood," it seemed anything was possible.

And so, the encores began with Bruce going over to the piano, giving Roy a break. Everyone around me was breathless, what was he going to surprise us with now. And then came the piano intro, and I suddenly knew my moment had finally come. Bruce began singing the words I knew so well, and I swear, I had tears in my eyes. It was just Bruce alone on the piano. He sang with emotion and power. He sang with longing and tenderness. The crowd was swept up in this amazing ballad writen almost 40 years ago and you could hear a pin drop in the arena, it was so quiet. And when it was over, I was simply overcome with joy. I was drained with emotion and felt a feeling of fulfillment and satisfaction that mere words can't describe. And I can never again say I've never had "Incident" played at a concert I attended.

The rest was anticlimactic for me. Oh sure, "Born to Run" was great as always, "Santa Claus is coming to Town" was fun, and "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out" was joyous and tender with its tribute to the Big Man. And then it was over. I don't think I could have taken much more.

There's not much else for me to say. The first time I saw Bruce in 1975 at my college in Oswego, New York, was probably the best concert I ever saw, and a life-changing event for me. Other shows I've seen have been almost as great, some may even have been better. But I don't think any of them since that very first time have been as special for me as Thursday night in Glendale was. I didn't know I could still feel that way at the ripe old age of 54. But I was wrong. Thank you, Bruce.

  

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The World Series of Poker

It was seven years ago when I first went to the World Series of Poker.  I played in one of the early events, a thousand dollar buy-in.  I lasted 15 minutes.  I was obviously clueless.  But I knew two things:  I could become a much better player, and I wanted to return.

Since then, I've read poker books, attended poker boot camp, played endless hours online (back when Americans could do that) and I played scores, perhaps even hundreds, of poker tournaments in numerous casinos in Arizona and Nevada.  I'm a much better player than I was, and over the years, when I cashed in tournaments or won money in cash games, I saved some of that money to someday fulfill my dream of returning to the WSOP.

This year, I finally fulfilled my dream.  I went back to the WSOP.  I once again bought into a thousand dollar buy-in no limit hold em tournament, event number 44.  The World Series has changed a great deal since then.  In addition to the bracelet events, there are satellite events, and three different deep stack tournaments every day.  They all qualify as WSOP events, and they are all filled with hundreds, even thousands, of poker players from all over the world.

I had several goals for this year's WSOP.  Goal number one was to last longer than fifteen minutes.  Goal number two was to make it to the first break, two hours into the tournament.  Goal number three was to play smart, but aggressive, poker.  The idea is to accumulate chips, make moves at the right times and when in the correct position, and try to win the tournament, not just survive.  Goal number four was to survive the first day.  Goal number five was to make it into the money, and goal number six was to win the bracelet.

I got to the Rio Hotel in Las Vegas (the permanent home of the World Series of Poker) at about 5:00 Saturday night.  I got settled into my room and went down to do the final registration for the tournament.  I also saw that a Deep Stack tournament was beginning at 6:00.  The Deep Stack tournaments are new events they have at the World Series.  You start off with either ten or fifteen thousand chips, depending on which tournament you play, and the tournament is completed the same day.  I decided to warm up for the big one on Sunday by playing in the 6:00 Deep Stack.  That turned out to be a major mistake.

For some reason, I don't remember much about the Deep Stack, except that I played very badly and had terrible luck.  If I had a pair, someone had a bigger pair.  If I had a big ace (that means an AK or AQ), someone else had a big pair which held up against me.  I chased hands, refused to lay anything down, and before I knew it, I was short-stacked.  I managed to hang on for a while, but I was knocked out at about the three hour mark.  It was a terrible showing, I played like crap and had no luck.  To make matters worse, my confidence was shot.

There was another tournament at 10:00, but I thought it was more important to stay in my room and study my poker boot camp material, and try to refresh myself with everything I had learned with the hopes of playing better on Sunday.  After several hours of study and serious meditation, I once more felt confident the next morning, and I was ready to go to war.

I played better on Sunday.  I waited for big hands and the right moments to make moves.  We only began with three thousand chips (unlike the Deep Stack tournaments where the smallest starting stack was ten thousand chips).  I easily attained my first goal.  I lost a pretty big pot with pocket queens, when a calling station at the table (a numbnuts who will call every hand and never fold even when he has crappy cards) called my preflop raise with just 8-4, and then got two fours on the flop to give him three of a kind.  I lost half my stack there.

I made it to the first break, two hours into the tournament.  I had about two thousand chips.  After the break, there was a hand where the calling station was in the big blind.  Everyone else had folded to me.  I looked down and saw pocket eights.  I figured I would make a move to take the blinds, so I went all in, expecting the two blinds to fold.  The small blind obliged, but the calling station in the big blind called the all-in.  I held my breath, and prayed.  I turned over my eights and he turned over Q-9 suited in diamonds.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  He had no pot odds whatsoever to make the call and yet he still did it with only a Q-9.  The worst thing was I was positive he would hit either a queen or a nine.  I didn't begin to breathe again until all five cards on the board were turned over and there was no queen or nine, and I had doubled up my chips.

A couple of hands later, the guy on my left had to make a move as he was down to almost nothing.  He went all in with about 850 chips.  Everyone else folded and it came back to me.  I looked down at A-Q, a hand that was to become one of my nemeses during the weekend.  However, at that time, I thought I was in the lead, so I called.  He turned over A-10.  He didn't get his miracle ten, and holy crap, I had actually knocked somebody out of a WSOP event.  I finally started to feel good about my play and settled down.  My goal was to concetrate, be patient, and play smart poker.

I made it to the end of the third level.  We were three hours into the tournament.  I was on the button for the last hand of the third level.  The big blind was 100.  The guy after the big blind did a minimum raise to 200.  Almost everyone called the raise.  When it came to me, I looked at my hand and saw AK, the dreaded Big Slick.  It's a hand that can be a monster, if you hit an ace or a king.  If you don't hit, you can lose an awful lot with it.

I re-raised to 850.  The big and small blind both folded.  The original raiser re-raised me to 1800.  Everyone folded to me.  What the hell do I do now?  I was torn.  If I folded, I would have lost about one-fourth of my chips.  I also hated to just lay down the AK without at least seeing the flop.  But if I just made the call. I would have less than half of the chips I had at the beginning of the hand.  Calling made no sense to me.  My choices were fold or go all-in.  I should have just folded.  Of course, I'm saying that now knowing what happened.  At the time, however, I wanted to make a move to try to win.  And I stubbornly thought I had the better hand and he was trying to bluff me off the pot.  I went all-in.  He called.  He turned over pocket jacks.

This is the classic "race" in poker tournaments, a big pair against a big ace.  The player with the big ace either hits or he doesn't.  It's what they call the "all-in moment."  The flop came with a big, beautiful king, and suddenly I'm looking at doubling up in chips and putting myself in a position to go deep into this tournament.  The turn was inconsequential.  And then came the river.  The other guy had only two outs, meaning there were only two cards left in the entire deck which could help him, the other two jacks.  That's it.  And, son of a fucking bitch, one of those two damn jacks showed up on the river, giving the other guy three of a kind, and knocking me right out of the tournament.  I was in shock.  And that, my friends, is what is called a brutal bad beat.  I wanted to cry.

But there's no crying in poker.  I uttered a favorite profanity of mine, and then got up and left.  I was sick to my stomach, disappointed beyond belief.  I could hear one of the faculty at the Poker Boot Camp I did in February saying in my head that if you bust out making a move to win, that's OK.  You've got to do that to win, and you're going to lose 85% of the time, but you will be in a position to win more often.  It's the right way to play.  And after the voice in my head told me all those things, I told him to shut the fuck up.

There was nothing to do but play another tournament.  I signed up for the 6 p.m. Deep Stack.  I won't go into a whole lot of detail.  There were 480 players, and I made it to the six hour mark.  There were about 90 players left.  I had already lost with pocket aces, beaten by pocket tens when a third ten hit the board.  I lost almost every time I had AK or AQ.  But I still managed to hang on.  I won some hands with middle pairs, and just managed to hang in.  I was short-stacked and needed to make a move to hang on.  The guy who had previously beaten my pocket aces (a very nice guy from England) pushed all in about an hour or so later and I looked down at pocket kings.  Time to make my move.  I called the all-in.  He turned over AQ, a hand that I had been losing with all day long.  But not this guy.  He hit his ace.  There was no miracle third king for me, and I was knocked out yet again.

The next day I was ready to put all the disappointment behind me and start fresh in the 2 p.m. Deep Stack tournament.  I thought all the bad beats were behind me and there was going to be nothing but good luck ahead.  Yeah, right.  I was now playing well, making the right moves at the right time.  If I could just avoid bad luck, I would be OK.

About three and a half hours into the tournament, the blinds were 300-600.  I was the big blind with a stack of about 18,000 chips.  I put my 600 in and watched five players call the big blind, or limp in as poker players say.  No one raised.  I looked down at 10-3 offsuit and checked my option.  The flop was J-10-3.  I had flopped two pair.  The small blind checked and I bet out 5 thousand chips.  There were two callers.  The turn was a 3.  I almost jumped out of my chair.  I now had a dominating full house.  Time to make a move and build my stack.  I went all-in, hoping that someone would call.  Someone did, the most obnoxious, arrogant player at the table.  And I was about to put a hurt on him.  We turned over our cards and he was deflated when he saw my full house.  And then came the river.

Somewhere in the poker world, there are poker players who had worse luck than I did over a three-day period.  But I don't believe it.  I've never been so unlucky at any time at any place during my poker career.  The hand that the guy turned over was KJ, meaning he had two pair with the two threes on the board.  The guy had only two outs, only two cards in the whole deck which could beat me, the remaining two jacks.  Does that sound familiar, or what?  Guess what card came on the river.  I couldn't believe it.  He actually hit a jack, ended up with a higher full house than me, and knocked me out.  With a full freaking house.  I lost a hand and got knocked out of a tournament with a freaking full house!  That had never happened to me before.  I was totally crushed.

Oh, I played in one more tournament.  I actually shook off my depression and played pretty well.  I lasted six and a half hours, and finished 72nd out of 460.  I had AQ suited twice within a ten minute period and lost both times, the second time knocking me out.  I was 26 places from making it into the money.  I had played a grand total of 21 and a half hours of poker over five different tournaments, and didn't win a damn thing.

Heading out of the tournament area and back up to my room, I ran into Greg Raymer.  Raymer used to be an attorney like I am.  Seven years ago, he came out of nowhere to win the Main Event of the World Series of Poker and forever end his legal career.  He is my favorite poker player, my poker God.  I asked him if he would take a picture with me.  I had earlier asked the same thing of the great Doyle Brunson, who basically told me to get lost.  But Raymer is a gentleman.  We took the picture.  We chatted for a while.  I told him my name and that I was an attorney and that he was my favorite poker player and that I wanted to do just what he did.  I hope he enjoyed our few moments together as much as I did.  At least I was able to stop thinking about all my bad beats.

Being at the World Series of Poker this year was a dream come true.  I loved every minute of it, even with the bad beats.  I'm ready to get back to the tables as soon as I can.  I'm going to stop over-playing AK and AQ.  I'm tired of those hands killing me.  There's something called the Arizona State Championship, which is played at the Talking Stick Casino in Scottsdale in August.  I think I just might try my luck there.  What do you think?  

The Passage of Time

Today is my stepdaughter's birthday. She is 17 today, drives herself to school every day, and is thinking about college. She was five when I first met her. Where did the time go?

Nothing makes you feel more mortal than the silent, steady passage of time. Last week, I noted the anniversary of the murder of John Lennon. Like a slap in the face, I realized that 31 years had passed since that horrible night. Little Sean Ono Lennon, who in my memory is frozen as a five year-old boy devestated by his father's death, is now a 36 year-old man. How in the world can that be?

I can go on and on about these things. It's been 25 years since the '86 Mets won the World Series, 36 years since the night I saw Springsteen and the E Street Band for the first time. I've been practicing law for the last 25 years and my biological daughter, at times frozen in my mind as a little girl, turns 20 in February.

I've always been told that people get wiser as they get older. I'm not so sure I believe that. It seems that I've made some pretty stupid decisions in the last ten years, and the consequences have been brutal. But in the long run, maybe they were not so bad after all, and they have led to better things. I'm in a much better place than I was five years ago, both spiritually and physically, and that's clearly a good thing.

I still have my dreams and goals. Someday I will play in the main event of the World Series of Poker. Hopefully, I won't get knocked out in the first fifteen minutes. I look forward to seeing my kids be successful and happy, and yes, I look forward to some day being a grandpa. But not anytime soon.

I'm pretty disgusted at the direction this country has taken. The political mood is so divisive and I think we have lost much of what made our country great. So many people want to tell me how to live my life, and how to think, and how to vote. It makes me angry and pessimistic about the future. Maybe it was always like this, and I'm just looking at the world from a 53 year-old view, and not a 30 year-old view. Maybe not.

The worst thing is that there are too many people I have lost who mean so much to me. I miss them, and not even the passage of time has changed that. I would love to be able to talk to my Dad one more time, and have him give me that good, reasoned advice that he always gave me. I don't think I will ever get over the loss of him. I would love to hear my late brother-in-law sing and play his guitar one more time. And I would love to be able to see my aunt and know that she recognizes me and still loves me. And just once, I would love to hear my grandfather's voice again. But it just doesn't work that way.

We can only move forward. Time keeps marching on, and we can never go back. I can only do the best I can, day by day, to be the best person, the best husband, father, stepfather, son, and brother I can be. I can remember and love all the people who are no longer here, but I don't need to dwell on the past. It's much better to live in the present, and celebrate the wonderful things and people I have in my life. As the holidays approach, I will do my best to enjoy each day as it comes, and not get caught up in the whole getting older thing.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Adios, Mike. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out!

I suppose University of Arizona Wildcat football fans should be grateful to Mike Stoops for lifting the program out of the mess that John Mackovic made and taking the team to three consecutive bowl games. The truth, however, is that the team was competitive in only the first of those games, the Las Vegas Bowl of 2008. The Wildcats never showed up for the Holiday Bowl in 2009, embarassing themselves on national TV 35-0 to Nebraska. Last year, they were 7-1 after the first eight games, promptly lost their next three games to go into the rivalry game with Arizona State with a 7-4 record. The Wildcats scored a last-second touchdown to tie the score with only a few seconds left in that game. Their place-kicking had been abysmal all season, and I just knew as I watched the game from the upper deck that they would miss the extra point. Which they promptly did. Then in overtime, the Cats allowed ASU to score, only to answer with their own touchdown. Once again, they were faced with the conversion. Go for the extra point, and be content with a tie (if they made the kick) or go for two for the win. Coach Mike Stoops opted for the conservative, easy approach, just like he did against the Oregon Ducks in OT the year before. Despite the fact that the kicker had just missed an extra point. And once again, the place-kicker missed, and ASU had an inexplicable, ridiculous victory over the Wildcats at Arizona Stadium in Tucson. I cursed and screamed in my car for two hours as I drove home that night.

The Wildcats still managed to snag a bowl game, the Alamo Bowl against Oklahoma State. They were once again massacred on national TV. For the second year in a row, the Wildcats were completely unprepared for the game and humiliated on the field. That was simply not a coincidence. Chalk it up to bad coaching with the responsibility sitting right at the feet of the head coach, Mike Stoops. In retrospect, after finishing the season with five consecutive losses, Stoops should have been fired right then and there.

After eight seasons at the helm, Mike Stoops should have built a power at the U of A. All the pieces were in place two years ago for a Rose Bowl appearance, or even last year. Instead, the team went backward. Quarterback Nick Foles is one of the best in the nation, and he is sure to be playing in the NFL next year. However, the offensive line has been decimated by injuries and Stoops did a terrible job recruiting new talent. The defense is even worse. And the special teams are simply beyond woeful.

This season, the Wildcats faced three games in a row against top ten teams Oklahoma State, Stanford, and Oregon, followed by the always tough USC. After an anything but easy win against non-BCS team Northern Arizona in the season opener, the Wildcats gave up 37 points to Oklahoma State, 37 points again to Stanford, 56 to Oregon, and then 48 to USC. Needless to say, they lost all four games. When they played winless Oregon State this past Saturday, they were amazingly favored to win, but proceeded to give up (what else) 37 points and lost their fifth in a row. It was the tenth straight loss to BCS teams, going back to last season. And it was the final straw. Stoops was fired as head coach yesterday. To which I say, good riddance.

Mike Stoops was simply an embarrassment to watch. His screaming and yelling on the sidelines, his explosions of anger at referees, and his belittling of his players was excruciating. He gave nothing back to the community and had to be one of the least-liked coaches ever in Tucson. Not that such abysmal behavior was necessarily fatal, if he had been able to produce a consistent winner, the bad behavior would have been overlooked. But a total collapse last year, two straight embarrassments in bowl games, and then ten straight losses to BCS teams (and counting) spelled the end for Stoops. Adios, Mike. Why don't you just run back to your much more successful brother at Oklahoma and go back to being a defensive coordinator? The reality is you were in over your head as a head coach.

So the Arizona Wildcats are right back where they started eight years ago, a program in ruins looking at the prospect of going winless in the conference. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. What is that eternal saying of Arizona Wildcat fans everywhere? Oh yes: when does basketball season start?

The Boss Does it Again

On Friday morning, I headed to work in a foul mood. It was the last day for me to work in this one particular place and I was not looking forward to it. I bickered with my wife, acted like a jerk, and in general, was not a happy camper. I realize now that the fact it was Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, had much to do with it. The "High Holy Days", as they are called, make me think of my Dad, who passed away four years ago. I miss him every day, but some days more than others.

I had a 45 minute drive ahead of me and decided to listen to E Street Radio, one of the Sirius XM stations I love the most (big surprise there, right?). It was the time of the morning when they do "Be the Boss." This segment is done every morning and it gives a different Springsteen fan every day the opportunity to play their favorite Boss songs and talk about them or about Springsteen in general. I did it back in March and loved it.

On Friday morning, the "Be the Boss" guy was from Staten Island. He first became a Springsteen fan in September, 1975, when he was a high school senior. I became a fan three months later while I was a freshman in college and the Boss played at my school, as I have described before on this blog. Right away, I identified with the guy.

The Staten Island guy started his segment off with "Jungleland," one of my all-time favorites, and as I listened to this Springsteen masterpiece which I have probably listened to a thousand times before both on record and live at concerts, I was lifted out of my mood. When he played "Born to Run," I was blown away all over again by what I believe is one of the few perfect rock songs. And finally, he finished off his set by dedicating his last song to the only person he knew who was a bigger Springsteen fan, his wife's brother. The wife's brother was a firefighter who died in Tower One of the World Trade Center on September 11th, and the song he played in his memory was "You're Missing," the heartbreaking song about 9/11 from "The Rising."

Wow, after all that, I was in tears. Sure, I still missed my Dad, but he lived a full and happy life, surrounded by children and grandchildren. My troubles are minor compared to lots of other people. And once more, like so many other times before, the Boss was able to lift me out of myself, and put me back in a better frame of mind. That's the power of great music and a great artist. It's why Springsteen is so important to me, and has been for the last 36 years. It's why I'm still a fan.

Thank you, Bruce, once again, for all you have done for me and continue to do for me.

Can it really be 25 years?

25 years is a long time. A quarter of a century. Two and a half decades. 25 years ago today, I was still single (although the clock was ticking--I was getting married at the end of August), Ronald Reagan was president, Bruce Springsteen was riding high with "Born in the USA," there was no Internet, no cell phones, no Ipods, none of that stuff that we seem to take for granted these days. I can only speculate how much gas was back then, but it was probably not much more than a dollar a gallon, if that. MTV was big, and other TV channels broadcast music videos on Friday and Saturday nights. People would watch them for hours at a time. I know I did.

I passed the Bar exam that year, and got married, and was Best Man at my brother's wedding in New York. It was a glorious year for many reasons. But the biggest reason may just have been the New York Mets.

The Mets were created in 1962, filling a National League void in New York that was created by the departures of the Dodgers and Giants a few years earlier. I was brought up a Met fan, I can recall going to games when I was just a little kid, rooting for guys like Ron Hunt and Jim Hickman. Then came the glory years, the creation of a great young pitching staff, anchored by future Hall of Famer Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, and that wonderful year of 1969 when the Miracle Mets won the World Series. It was great to be a Mets fan, and New York was a Mets town, as hard as that may be to believe today.

Then came the decline. One by one, the beloved stars from the 69 team were either traded, released, or retired. There was one more brief bit of glory, when the 73 team broke out of a very weak NL East, somehow beat the Big Red Machine in the LCS, and went on to the World Series, where they lost to the great Oakland A's dynasty of the early 70's. It was all downhill from there.

By the end of the 70's, the Mets were below mediocre. They sucked in every aspect, pitching, hitting, defense, and most importantly, the front office. New ownership came in the early 80's, and they brought in Frank Cashen to run the front office. He brought a new attitude and a pedigree from the Baltimore Orioles organization. His first task was to re-build the farm teams. It took some time, but talent started to emerge from the minors. Some of these talented youngsters were used to bring in some solid veteran help, others stayed. The turning point came in the off-season of 83-84, when the front office convinced Keith Hernandez, the former MVP and leader of the Cardinals, to stay with the team. They traded for a young starting pitcher named Ron Darling and brought up a youngster from the minors named Dwight Gooden. And they had the 1983 National League Rookie of the Year starting in right field, Darryl Strawberry. Former MVP George Foster was still on the team, and after battling injuries and lethargy in 83, he seemed ready to bounce back with a strong year. Hubie Brooks was a budding star in the infield, and there was fan favorite Mookie Wilson. Things finally looked optimistic for the Mets.

The 1984 Mets were one of the surprise success stories of the National League. They led the division for the first four months of the season, and held on to give the Cubs a run for their money. Too many Cubs had career seasons that year and they were too much for the Mets to overcome, but the Mets finally learned what it was like to win and experienced being in a real pennant race. Dwight Gooden was absolutely phenomenal, pitching far better than his 17-9 record would indicate, and became the second consecutive Met to win the NL Rookie of the Year award. Hernandez finished second to Ryne Sandberg for MVP, and might have had his best all-around season of his career. The front office made a couple of major additons in the off-season, trading five players (including Hubie Brooks) for All-Star catcher Gary Carter and landing former star of the Reds and Astros, Ray Knight. There were big expectations for the 1985 season.

If you look back at that season, it's hard to put together why the Mets didn't win the division. They barely lost out to the St. Louis Cardinals. Whitey Herzog, the Cards manager, was probably worth a couple of wins simply by out-foxing other managers (like Mets manager Davey Johnson), guys like Tommy Herr, Willie McGee, and Jack Clark had career years, and the Mets had some key injuries that limited the effectiveness of Carter, Knight and George Foster. Dwight Gooden put together one of the best years any pitcher has ever had, going 24-4 with an ERA of just over one and a half runs. He was as thoroughly dominant as any pitcher has ever been, and he probably should have won the MVP award, to go with the Cy Young that he did win (the first Met since Seaver to win that award). But it still wasn't enough. Back then there were only two divisions in each league, and no wild card. Once again, the Mets missed out on the postseason.

But in 1986, the Mets were not to be denied. They made a couple of more additions, pitcher Bobby Ojeda from the Red Sox, Howard Johnson from the Tigers, and Kevin Mitchell from their farm system. Lenny Dykstra had been brought up in 85, and now platooned in center field with Mookie Wilson. George Foster eventually lost the left field job to a platoon of Mitchell and Danny Heep. Strawberry anchored right field, Hernandez owned first base and Carter was the starting catcher. Second base was a platoon of Wally Backman and Tim Teufel, shortstop was won by steady Rafael Santana, and third base was supposed to be a platoon of Knight and Johnson. But when the season started and Knight started to hit like Willie Mays reincarnated, he ended up being the every day third baseman.

The pitching staff was unbeatable. Dwight Gooden, the best pitcher in baseball the previous two years, was only the second best on the staff in 86. Ojeda proved to be almost unbeatable. Darling was steady and Rick Aguilera made a solid fifth starter. The best starter in the rotation, though, was young Sid Fernandez. The chubby Hawaiian who had shown glimpses of greatness in 84 and 85 was simply the best starting pitcher in the league the first half of the season. Jesse Orosco and Roger McDowell anchored the bullpen, and the Mets simply took off from the first week of the season. They were unstoppable.

They won big and they won small. They came back in the ninth inning and they dominated from the beginning. At the end of April, they came into Busch Stadium to play the defending champion Cardinals for a four game set. Howard Johnson tied the score in the first game with a three-run homer in the ninth inning and the Mets went on to win that game. They won the next three to sweep the four game set. The Cardinals were shell-shocked, and never recovered. They spiraled down and never did challenge the Mets again. Indeed, no one challenged the Mets in the division. On this date, 25 years ago, the Mets were firmly ensconced in first place with a double digit lead.

On Friday night, July 11th, we were at Shea Stadium to see the Mets play the Atlanta Braves. We were celebrating my brother's bachelor party. The Mets were celebrating their dominance over a mediocre team (yes, the Braves sucked back then, as hard as that may be to believe). Gary Carter hit a three-run homer in the first inning. He came up in the second with the bases loaded and hit a grand slam. Strawberry was the next batter, and when he was plunked by the pitcher, David Palmer, he charged the mound, igniting a brawl on the field. We went nuts watching from the upper deck. The Mets ended up winning the game, and cemented their reputation as a bunch of tough, brawling, arrogant sob's who were not going to take any crap from anyone. They cruised to the NL East crown.

In the LCS, they played the tough Houston Astros. Former Met Mike Scott had become a split-fingered pitching master and won the Cy Young award that year. He was almost as dominant as Gooden had been the year before. Another former Met, the ageless Nolan Ryan, had enjoyed a career renaissance that season with the Astros. The Houston lineup was formidable and they were not afraid of the Mets.

That year's LCS was truly classic. The Mets came back to win a game on a walk-off home run by Lenny Dykstra, Scott was unbeatable for the Astros in winning two games, Gooden and Ryan matched up in a classic 2-1 pitching gem in game five which the Mets won in ten innings, and the teams then played one of the greatest games in the history of baseball in game six. Sixteen innings after it started, with the tying and winning runs on base, Jesse Orosco struck out the last Houston batter after Hernandez had threatened to fight Carter if he called for Orosco to throw another ineffective fastball, and the Mets managed to avoid Mike Scott in game seven, and move on to the World Series.

They faced the Boston Red Sox in the Series, a team loaded with stars like Jim Rice, Wade Boggs, Dwight Evans, Dave Henderson and Bill Buckner, a pitching staff anchored by young ace Roger Clemens and Bruce Hurst, and a fan base starving for a championship. After losing the first two games at home, things did not look good for the Mets. But they rallied to win games 3 and 4 in Boston, before losing game 5. They came home to New York, down three games to two.

Game 6 has now become legend and a part of baseball folklore. Everyone remembers the Bill Buckner play, but what has been forgotten is all the drama leading up to that play. The Red Sox had men on all night long, and Clemens looked unbeatable. They failed to score inning after inning, with Jim Rice being thrown out at the plate by Mookie Wilson in one of those innings. The Mets managed to scratch across a couple of runs, but the Sox were leading by a run entering the bottom of the eighth. The Mets managed to load the bases, but after Howard Johnson struck out with a foul ball on a bunt attempt (??!!) and Gary Carter hitting a sacrifice fly, the team could only score one run and tie the game. Both teams loaded the bases in their half of the ninth, but neither team scored.

The tenth inning began with Rick Aguilera taking the mound for the Mets. He promptly gave up a home run to Dave Henderson. Henderson had sucked the life out of the California Angels in the ALCS when he had homered with two out in the bottom of the 9th of game 5, tying the score and allowing the Sox to win the game and eventually win the Series in seven games, breaking the hearts of Angels fans everywhere. Now, here he was again, hitting a big home run which just might bring the Red Sox their first World Championship in decades. To make matters worse, the Sox scratched out another run and entered the bottom of the 10th, leading 5-3.

Personally, I'll never forget the sequence of events in that half inning. Backman led off by flying out. Hernandez followed with a long fly out to Henderson at the warning track. Carter came up next and singled. Legend has it that he told first base coach Bill Robinson that there was "no way I was going to make the last fucking out in the World Series." Mitchell came up next and singled to left, moving Carter to second. According to legend, he told Robinson the same thing as Carter did. Next up was Ray Knight. He managed to get his bat on the ball on an off-speed pitch away, and hit it into right-center. Carter came all the way around to score and Mitchell was on third. Shea Stadium was going crazy. Again, legend has it that he told Bill Robinson that he, too, was not going to make the last fucking out in the World Series.

Next up was Mookie Wilson. He quickly got two strikes on him, and then began staying alive by fouling off ball after ball. Then a pitch hit the dirt in front of catcher Rich Gedman, and skipped to the backstop. Mookie fell out of the way and frantically signalled for Mitchell to score. Mitchell skipped home, Knight went to second, and Shea Stadium went ballistic. Mookie hit the next pitch to first base, a slow dribbler to Buckner, and we all know what happened next. The ball dribbled into the outfield behind Buckner, Knight raced all the way home, and a legend was born. It was amazing.

After that, game seven was an anti-climax. Oh sure, it was a great game and the Sox had the lead early. But they were done. They knew it, we knew it, and most importantly, the Mets knew it. Knight and Strawberry hit big home runs, Fernandez pitched three crucial dominant innings in relief, and the Mets were World Champions.

Can it really be 25 years since all that happened? That Met team, so loaded with talent, never did win another championship, and only made the postseason one more time. Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry, seemingly headed to Hall of Fame caliber careers, fell to the temptations of drugs and alcohol. They were both eventually traded, did time in prison, and never fulfilled anywhere close to their expectations. Carter and Hernandez started to decline and although they were instrumental in leading the Mets to the postseason in 1988, the championship of 86 was clearly the apex of their careers, and their last hurrah. Kevin Mitchell went on to an MVP season with the Giants, and Dykstra and McDowell enjoyed a championship with the Phillies. As the team was broken up, the Mets once more went into decline. They haven't won a championship since, although there have been some good years. There's also been a lot of heartbreak, and chokes, and it's clear that New York is now a Yankees town. The Mets are an afterthought.

Ah, but it wasn't always like that. 25 years ago, the Mets owned New York. They were the toast of the town, the beast of the National League, and the champions of baseball. It was exciting and thrilling, and will never be forgotten. Hard to beleive it's been a quarter century.

Rest in peace, Big Man

The Big Man. Clarence Clemons. You either know who he is, or you don't. If you do, it's probably because his music and his contributions to the E Street Band have enriched your life in some way. If you don't, you've missed out.

In the fall of 1975, I was a seventeen year-old freshman at Oswego State University in upstate New York. I had joined the Program Policy Board, a group of students whose job it was to program entertainment at the college. I was on the film committee, but the main buzz that fall came from the concert committee, which had somehow managed to book Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band for a concert in December. Bruce had hit it big that fall, appearing on the covers of both Time and Newsweek in October, which coincided with the release of his seminal album, "Born to Run." By some combination of hard work and good luck, our little college programming board had outbid Syracuse and Rochester to land a show on Springsteen's triumphant tour that fall.

I knew very little about Springsteen back then. I had heard "Born to Run" and "Rosalita" and liked both songs very much, but knew very little about any of his other music. I was turned off by the hype and I just wasn't expecting much. I was asked to work security at the concert that night, and it was my job to stand in front of one of the exit doors at Laker Hall gymnasium.

When the band showed up to do their soundcheck, we were asked to leave the gym. We were ushered into a little hallway and the band walked right past us. I could have reached out and touched Bruce, Clarence and everyone else in the band, but I didn't. In retrospect, I wish I had at least tried to shake Bruce's hand.

The show started with Bruce alone, standing in a spotlight, singing a dynamite song to a piano accompaniement. All these years later, I now know that the song was "Thunder Road", and it was destined to become one of my favorites of all time. Then the lights came, and the entire band joined in on the rollicking and wonderful, "Tenth Avenue Freeze Out." And that was my first introduction to the big, black guy playing that amazing sax.

That night 38 years ago changed my life. The music of Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band has been a constant joy in my life. It has enriched the good times and has helped me get through the bad times. I have seen them 12 times over a span of 36 years, and I have grown into middle age with them.

To me, one of the defining sounds of the band is the Big Man's wailing sax solos. "Rosalita" is powered by the sax, as is "Spirit in the Night." Sometimes the solos are mournful, as in "Drive all Night," sometimes they are triumphant, as in "Badlands." Sometimes they give the songs a special rhythm, like "Born to Run." And sometimes the sax solos are so joyous, like the one that starts off "Sherry Darlin'", that they just bring a smile to your face.

The best, of course, is the "Jungleland" solo. There is so much power and emotion in that solo that some rock critics have called it the best three minutes in rock and roll. I don't need that hyperbole, I just know it as my favorite moment in one of my all-time favorite songs, and Clarence's personal triumph. Experiencing the song live, as I have done many times, is to experience a rock and roll celebration. Whether you're watching Bruce look on in awe as his friend powers through the solo, or pumping your fist in time to the music with several thousand other Bruce fanatics, you are experiencing a moment that you will never forget.

Clarence moved on to other things after Bruce broke up the band in the late 80's. He formed his own band, cut a few albums, and worked with other performers. And when Bruce reunited the band for good to do "The Rising" in 2002, Clarence was right there with him. The last two tours (the "Magic" and "Working on a Dream" tours) were undoubtedly difficult for Clarence, as he had endured some serious physical issues. But he was still there, wailing on that sax, and being the legendary Big Man. No matter how tough it seemed to be for him, you could still see the joy on his face as he performed with the band.

The Big Man was 69 years old when he suffered a serious stroke last Sunday. At first it appeared that he would pull through, but the word came out last night that he had passed away. The news has shocked and saddened those of us who loved him. How could someone like Clarence, so larger than life and so wonderfully talented, actually be dead? I still have a hard time believing it.

Rest in peace, Big Man. Your legacy will live on for many years to come. You have enriched my life and the world has been a better place thanks to you and your music. I will miss watching you perform with the Boss, but I will always have the CD's, the DVD's, the albums, the books, and of course, my memories. Thank you for all you have given me.

Random thoughts

Well, it's been more than a month now since the end of the NCAA tournament. After two weeks of incredible excitement, the ending was definitely a let-down. Hats off to the Connecticut Huskies for winning it all and going on an incredible roll of winning 11 straight tournament games (5 games in 5 days in the Big East tournament and then 6 wins in the NCAA tournament). They deserved the trophy, they earned it fair and square, but still.....The Arizona Wildcats should have beaten them. After destroying Duke, the only ones who could beat the Wildcats were themselves, and that's exactly what happened. Oh well, shit happens, it was still an amazing season which far surpassed anyone's expectations. Nothing will ever take away the epic wins over Texas and especially Duke and Derrick Williams will go down as one of the all-time great Wildcats in school history. Sean Miller is one of the best college coaches in the nation, and he should receive the Coach of the Year award, but he won't. Still, the future is in his more-than-able hands, and I look forward to next season.

Which is great, because right now, I feel like a man without a sport. I've been a baseball fan my entire life, a Met fan the entire time, with the Arizona Diamondbacks being my second team for the last 15 or so years. I find myself, however, completely uninterested in baseball these days. Whether it's the mediocrity of the Mets and D'backs, the endless steroid scandal leading to things like the disgraceful and pitiful retirement of Manny Ramirez, or the complete dislike I have for teams like the Yankees and Phillies, the conclusion is inescapable. Last year, the San Francisco Giants beat the Texas Rangers in what had to be one of the most unlikely World Series of the past 20 years, and yet, I just didn't care. Not one iota. Can it possibly be true that my lifelong love of the "national pastime" is ending? I think of all the enjoyment and happiness baseball has given me over the years, culminating in the magical years of 1969 and 1986 for the Mets and 2001 for the Diamondbacks, and it saddens me to think that I just no longer care. What am I supposed to do with my limited free time, spend it with my family? Are you kidding me, or what?

I suppose I could get more interested in politics, but I'm as ambivalent about that as I am about baseball. I admit to being disappointed with Obama, I took him at his word about being about change, and other than his Supreme Court nominees (admittedly a pretty important issue in my mind), I haven't seen a whole lot of change. The economy still sucks, although it does seem to be getting a letter better, at least here in Arizona. The mood of the nation is angry and discordant, and the ridiculous amount of time devoted to such non-issues as whether or not he was born in the U.S. is pretty sickening. There is no way I will ever be convinced that racism is not behind the whole thing. And, of course, the Democratic party, which has become completely ineffective, has done nothing to support their President. I'm seriously considering leaving the party and becoming a total independent. Not that I would ever consider joining the Conservative wackos of the Republican party or Tea Party, but the current leadership of the Democrats disgusts me. In retrospect, Bill Clinton looks better and better.

I can't even get any satisfaction from my poker playing. For two years now, I have owned my own business and for the last six months, I have worked probably an average of 60-70 hours a week. It's taken a toll on my poker playing time. I haven't had time to play anywhere near as much poker as I had wanted to, and despite what I may have written on this blog after my performance at the Grand Poker Series last summer, I will not be going to the WSOP again or playing in the Grand Poker Series this year. In fact, I hardly play at all these days, and when I do, the bad beats are horrific. Last Saturday, after working for nine and a half hours in my office, I went to a local casino to play in a tournament. I lost a big chunk of my stack when my pocket jacks were beaten by A-J when the dude spiked an ace on the turn. Then, a couple of hands later, I went all in against this same dude. This time, he had pocket jacks and I had pocket queens. That's a winner, right? Not when another jack comes out on the board, which is what happened, and yours truly got knocked out with his tail between his legs. Brutal.

What can I say? It all comes under the title of that little thing called life. Yeah, sports may suck right now and my poker playing has come under a massive unlucky streak. Sure, I work way too hard and I suffer from serious burn-out. And yes, I am disgusted with the political situation in our country. But I have a loving, beautiful wife, a terrific home, and I am my own boss (sort of). We can even afford to take a second honeymoon in a couple of months. I may have bitched and moaned throughout this entire blog post, but I'm a lucky man and life is good. Have a great summer, everybody.

The Cats are Back

Like most long-time fans of the University of Arizona basketball team, I thought they had a chance to beat Duke last night. Maybe not a great chance, and it was far more likely that Duke would win (I had Duke winning it all on my bracket), but there was a chance. But I never once thought the Cats would do what they did in the second half last night.

I lived in Tucson from 1982 to 2007. There are no major league teams in Tucson, and the only really big-time sports in town is the U of A. Lute Olson came to Tucson a year after I did and built a collegiate basketball national power. A national championship in 1997, three other final four appearances, and twenty-five straight years of making the NCAA tournament spoiled the fans. We expected greatness every season and refused to accept anything less.

Lute's exit from the head coaching position was messy and protracted. Blue chip recruits reneged on their commitments and other talent transferred. The school hired Sean Miller from Xavier to take over the program. Miller seemed to be a good coach and had done a fine job at Xavier, but I had my doubts. Last year, the team struggled. They finished 16-15 and for the first time in a quarter century, the Wildcats did not make the NCAA tournament, or even the NIT. It was a dubious beginning for the new regime.

This year was supposed to be a rebuilding year. The only star from the team last year was Derrick Williams, now a sophomore. The rest of the team was a bunch of guys that no one knew about. The team seemed unfocused and lost in the early part of the season, but they started to jell in January. Williams was outstanding, and the supporting cast started to learn their roles. They began to exhibit a toughness and determination that they all said came from their coach. The turning point was in early February, when the team won a triple overtime game at Cal which vaulted them into first place in the Conference.

A couple of weeks later, they came to Tempe, AZ to play their arch-rivals the ASU Sun Devils, who had been awful all season. I went to that game and saw a first-place Wildcat team that looked terrible. Williams was off his game and the entire team played without much fire. They won by 15. I thought to myself if they can play so badly and still win by that much of a margin, then this just might be a special team.

The Wildcats got manhandled in LA on the next to last weekend of the regular season and lost to both USC and UCLA. But they won their final two games at home and won the Pac 10 Conference regular season. They lost the championship game of the Conference tournament to Washington on a last-second shot, but looked forward to a return to the Big Dance.

Their first game in the tournament was against Memphis, coached by former Wildcat player and assistant coach, Josh Pastner. Pastner has put together a great, young team of quick, talented players at Memphis. They gave Arizona all they had, and the Wildcats were lucky to come out of it with a two-point win.

Next up was Texas, which had actually been ranked number one in the nation at one point early in the year. They were big, tough, and talented. No one, including yours truly, gave Arizona much of a chance to win. And, indeed, despite running out to a double digit first half lead, the Wildcats gave it all back in the second half. Texas had a two point lead and the ball with 14 seconds left. It looked like the Wildcat season was about to end. But some tenacious Wildcat defense prevented Texas from inbounding the ball and the Longhorns turned the ball over. Somehow, Williams was able to penetrate through the Texas defense, made an unbelieveable behind-the-back shot which went through the hoop, and was fouled on the play. To that point, Williams had missed free throws all night. But he sunk that last one, and the Cats held on to their one point lead, and won the game. An improbable trip to the Sweet 16 had now come true.

But be careful what you wish for. The gift for making it to the Sweet 16 was a game against the defending national champions, the mighty Duke Blue Devils, and their future Hall of Fame coach, Mike Kzryzewski. No one, except Charles Barkley, gave them a chance.

Duke looked awesome in the first half. They pretty much did anything they wanted. The Wildcats, on the other hand, were a one man team. Derrick Williams was unbelieveable, making four three-pointers, grabbing rebounds, and slamming one of them back home with a tomahawk slam which will be talked about for years. Williams scored 25 points in the first half, but the rest of the team scored only 13, and the Cats were down by 6 at halftime.

Then came the second half, which will go down in school history as the best half of basketball every played by a Wildcat team. It started with point guard MoMo Jones suddenly penetrating and scoring. Before you could take in what was happening, every player in a Wildcat uniform seemed to be grabbing rebounds, pushing the ball up the floor on a fast break, swishing in a three-pointer, or slamming a basket. Duke didn't know what hit them. The Wildcats went on a 19-2 run and never looked back. They outscored Duke 55-33 in the half, out-rebounded them 25-9, and totally dismantled them. The Blue Devils looked like they had been gutshot. They lost the game by 16 points after leading by 6 at halftime. It was unbelieveable. I'm still in shock.

In 1997, the Wildcats won their only National Championship. In the Sweet 16 that year, they played No. 1 seed, Kansas, which had been ranked number one in the country for most of the year. The Wildcats upset the Jayhawks in a tough, close game and went on to win the national championship, beating two other No. 1 seeds, North Carolina in the semi-final and Kentucky in the final. It was magical and wonderful.

I haven't felt that way about any other Wildcat team since then. Until last night. Last night's win will go down as one of the top three in school history, right there with the wins over Kansas and Kentucky in '97. Sean Miller has proven to be an outstanding coach, and a worthy successor to Lute Olson. His team is made up of one superstar and a bunch of over-achieving, hard-working young men who wear their hearts on their sleeves and play like a team, without any semblance of ego or selfishness. They are a joy to watch.

I love this year's Wildcat team. Even if they lose in the next round, they will go down in school history as one of the best ever. They have taken what was supposed to be a rebuilding year, and moved on to one game shy of the final four with a signature win that will live for the ages. I am more proud of this Arizona team than any other. Bear down, Arizona. Beat those Huskies from Connecticut on Saturday.

Academy Award special

The Academy Awards are just around the corner, and I wouldn't be a dedicated film buff and would-be reviewer if I didn't take this opportunity to put my two cents in. I haven't seen anywhere close to all the nominees, but I've seen enough to have an opinion. In a later blog post, I will be discussing a few of what I consider to be the worst Academy Award winners in Academy history. But first, my predictions and preferences:

Best Picture
The consensus seems to be that "The King's Speech" has this award locked up. My guess is that it will win, but my pick would be "Inception." My justification is the same argument I would have given last year, when I thought "Avatar" should have beaten out "The Hurt Locker." Both "Inception" and "Avatar" blew me away, they seemed fresh, exciting, and new. They were visually rich and made to be experienced on a big screen. They seemed to carve out new territory. "The King's Speech" is an excellent movie, and I will have no problem if it wins. I just don't think it's as exciting and overwhelming as "Inception."

Best Actor
Colin Firth will probably win for "The King's Speech" and I will have no argument with that. His performance was understated, subtle and magnificent. He may get beaten out by Jeff Bridges for his somewhat less-than-subtle, but equally impressive performance in "True Grit." But Bridges did win last year, and Firth's role as King George VI was much more difficult than playing Rooster Cogburn. It's not that Bridges' performance doesn't deserve an Academy Award, it's just that Firth's was better. I haven't seen the other performances other than Jesse Eisenberg for "The Social Network," and while he was very good, the other two were much better.

Best Actress
The only performance I've seen in this category is Annette Benning for "The Kids are All Right," and while the movie underwhelmed me, Benning was amazing. I have no problem with her winning the award, and only wish the Academy had had the good sense to nominate Julianne Moore for the same film, since she was equally as good. I think this award will go to Benning.

Best Supporting Actor
This is traditionally a strong category and this year seems to be no exception. I haven't seen "The Fighter", but I hear Christian Bale is excellent in that. Geoffrey Rush was fantastic in "The King's Speech" in a very difficult role and I think he will bring home the statue, although Bale could certainly win. Mark Ruffalo will have to be satisfied with his nomination, especially since so many worthy actors were overlooked (can you say "Social Network?").

Best Supporting Actress
It seems like the two favorites are the only two performances I've seen in this category. Hailee Steinfeld was simply wonderful in "True Grit," but she has clearly been nominated in the wrong category. She was the main character and had more screen time than anyone else and she should be up for Best Actress. Helena Bonham Carter was equally marvelous in "The King's Speech." Every look, every gesture was absolutely perfect in the part of the wife of King George VI. She never once upstaged Firth or Rush, yet she was unforgettable. My vote would go to her.

Best Director
How in the world is Christopher Nolan not nominated for "Inception?" He did an unbelieveable job with a difficult, challenging film. His film was a joy to watch and it was overwhelming and absorbing. His ommission is a crime. If I had a vote, I would probably boycott this category in protest. My prediction is Tom Hooper for "King's Speech," but of those nominated, I would like to see David Fincher for "The Social Network." And then I would like to see Fincher get up there and give his award to Christopher Nolan, who has been burned now for "Inception," "The Dark Knight," and "Memento". Shameful. He's the new Martin Scorcese.

Best Screenplay
As you know, there are two different awards for this, and I predict that "The Social Network" and "The King's Speech" will go home winners. Both scripts were witty, intelligent, and very entertaining.

And that's where I stop. I don't care who wins Best Song or Best Documentary or any of the others. I've made my predictions and I'm sticking to them. We'll see what happens Sunday night.

Another Jet crash and burn

Being a Jet fan is like that famous quote from Godfather 3: "Just when I think I am out, they pull me right back in!" That describes it in a nutshell. Just when I think the Jets can't disappoint me anymore, they find yet a new way to do it all over again.

This year was supposed to be different. A year removed from last year's giddy and improbable run to the AFC Conference championship game, they were now supposed to be one year better and more experienced. Mark Sanchez was now a second year quarterback, the team added standout wide receiver Santonio Holmes, to go along with Braylen Edwards and Jericho Cotchery, not to mention a re-invigorated Ladanian Tomlinson, and the defense was supposedly as tough as ever.

The team did great for the first three months of the season, then backslid over the last five games, which included a blow-out loss to the Patriots and an inexplicable loss to the Dolphins. The Patriots won the division going away, but the Jets made into the playoffs as a wild card. That earned them a road game against Peyton Manning and the Colts. The Jets came through with an epic win on the road, Sanchez leading them down the field in the final minute of play for a last second winning field goal. It looked like this might indeed be a different Jets team with a different destiny.

Things only got better the following weekend at New England. The Jets were decided underdogs, but ended up handing it to the Patriots big time. Tom Brady was knocked around, hurried, and sacked all day long, and the Jets came out with one of their most inspiring playoff victories in their history. Up next was a rematch with the Steelers (the Jets had beaten them in Pittsburgh five weeks before) with the winner going to the Super Bowl.

All week long, the Jets were their normal, confident, brazen selves. They had triumphed over Manning and Brady on the road in consecutive weeks, and they were not afraid of Ben Roethlisberger. It was hard for me, as a lifelong Jets fan, not to get excited and anticipate what would be only the second Jet appearance in a Super Bowl.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the Super Bowl. The Jets forgot to show up in the first half of the Conference championship game. The defense couldn't stop anything on the first Pittsburgh drive of the game, which lasted 15 plays and ten minutes, resulting in a touchdown. On the next Pittsburgh drive, Big Ben tossed a 50-yard bomb, which Jet cornerback extraordinaire Darrelle Revis jumped in the air for and had in his arms for an interception. Except, the ball bounced off his hands, off his chest, and onto the ground. The Steelers then marched downfield for their second touchdown. Later in the first half, the defense finally stopped the Steelers, who were forced to punt. Oops! One of the Jets rushed in trying to block the punt, got no part of the football, but ran into the punter, giving the ball back to the Steelers. And let's not forget the brilliant fumble by Sanchez and run back for touchdown late in the half by Pittsburgh. If not for a last second field goal, the Jets would have been shut out in the half.

The Jets did manage to show up for the second half, and made a stirring attempt to come back. It might have even been successful if not for a ridiculous 8-minute drive which culminated with a first and goal from the 2, and the Jets foolishly calling two terrible pass plays, and ultimately failing to score. That really was the game right there. Final score, Steelers 24, Jets 19. The fourth consecutive time the Jets have lost a Conference Championship game, with only one win in their history.

Frankly, I don't want to hear that I should be proud of the team, they came so far, they got to the AFC Conference championship game two years in a row, blah, blah, blah. The unmistakeable truth is they should have beaten Pittsburgh and won that damn game, but for whatever reason they just did not show up in the first half. The offensive play-calling was terrible, and there were way too many stupid plays and foolish penalties. They beat themselves, yet again, and disappointed their long-time fans. Yet again.

I really like this team. Sanchez, Revis, Holmes, Edwards, D'Brickeshaw Ferguson, Calvin Pace. There are some truly talented football players on this team. And they love Rex Ryan and are very loyal to him. And I have to admit that I love Ryan's confidence and bluster. No Jet coach has ever taken the team this far in back-to-back seasons. It's really inexplicable why they performed so poorly last Sunday. Oh, wait a minute, there is an explanation. It's on the front of their uniforms. It's spelled J-E-T-S.

The Politics of Hate

Like most of the nation, I am still stunned a day after the horrific shooting in Tucson of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and 18 other people. Six of those people died, including Federal Court Judge John Roll and the 9 year-old granddaughter of former Major League Baseball manager Dallas Green.

The truth is, I'm probably a little more stunned than most people. Tucson was my home for 25 years, from the day after I graduated from Law School in 1982 to the day I moved to Phoenix in 2007. It is still home to my mother, my brother, my sister, and my daughter and her mother. I passed the Bar exam there and began a legal career that is still going strong. I married my first wife there and had a beautiful daughter, and married my second wife there and helped to raise my two stepchildren. I met Ms. Giffords once, back when she was campaigning in what would be her first election to the U.S. House of Representatives. And I appeared in front of Judge Roll many times in Federal District Court in Tucson. I've been to that shopping center many, many times. These things are not supposed to happen in a place that you call, or have called, home.

The first reaction was one of total numbness and disbelief. That's always the case with senseless tragedies like this, but especially so when you know the place or the people whose lives have been taken for the ridiculous reason of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Judge Roll was a good man and a good judge. We weren't what you would call friends, but I appeared in his courtroom many times over the years, and I respected and admired him. The shopping center where the Safeway is located has a Chinese restaurant that I have gone to many times over the years. I don't know that I can ever bring myself to go there again.

The numbness and disbelief passes and what is left is shock and anger. Anger that some lone lunatic, obviously disturbed and deranged, is allowed to possess firearms and stalk an honorable public servant. Anger that the political discourse in this country, and especially this state, has grown so vitriolic and divisive that threats and violence are real dangers. And absolute fury that Sarah Palin can create a website that depicted certain Congressional districts on a map with crosshairs. Gabrielle Giffords was one of those members of Congress depicted by Palin as in the crosshairs of her movement. And how totally ironic and infuriating that Giffords herself pointed out the danger of being treated in such a manner. As far as I'm concerned, Sarah Palin, the Tea Party candidate who ran against Giffords, and the entire bigoted, racist, anti-Semitic movement has blood on their hands.

How did we get to this point? The political debate in this country has always been seriously divided among ideological grounds, but I don't remember it ever being this angry and divisive. There's nothing wrong with targeting certain Congressional races for a political party or movement to concentrate on, but to depict them with the crosshairs of a telescopic rifle? Not to mention the Tea Party candidate campaigning with a loaded rifle, aiming it symbolically at the incumbent. Don't these people realize that there are dangerously disturbed individuals out there who will believe that those messages are subliminal instructions to commit murder in the name of political zeal? How in God's name do these people justify their hatred and vitriol? How does Sarah Palin live with herself? Or is she such an ego-centric psychopath that she just doesn't care?

Palin actually had the nerve to state her condolences to the victims, and of course, deny that her actions had anything to do with the demented gunman in Tucson. The campaign manager of the Tea Party candidate who opposed Giffords (I refuse to use his name---my own personal decision to not humanize the cowardly s.o.b.!!) has said that there is no connection between the candidate and the nutjob gunman. They deny any responsibility whatsoever, the cowards. They make me sick.

Also dead in Tucson yesterday was Christina Taylor Green, a nine year-old girl who ironically was born on September 11, 2001, another day forever linked to senseless insanity and the horrific deaths of innocents. She was recently elected to her student council and wanted to meet her Congresswoman. And, not that it matters, but she had a famous grandfather who made a name as a Major League Baseball manager back in the 80's and 90's. She was apparently smart, loquacious, and a talented athlete. And now she is gone forever.

I mourn for my country, and my state, and the city where I lived for a quarter of a century. I don't understand why this has happened, how it can continue to happen time and time again. What is wrong with us that we have allowed our society to become like this? When will it ever stop?

The Desert Island---Part 3

I don't know about anyone else, but there is no way I could survive on a desert island with only CD's and DVD's to keep me company. I would have to have my favorite books along with me. So, in keeping with the theme of these posts, there are a few ground rules. I can only bring 10 books with me, and I can only bring one book per author, although if one of the authors has co-written a book with another author, then that is OK. And I'm not limiting myself to just fiction, any book which I absolutely must have with me and is one of my all-time favorites is eligible.

So, how do I pick my top ten? I'm certainly not going to pick the great classics that all the English profs love that I wouldn't pick up and read again if my life depended on it (sorry, WCK). So, you're not going to find any Dickens, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Orwell, or really any of the truly great authors represented on my list. What you'll find are the ten books that have affected me most, that I can read over and over again, that have influenced me in some fashion, or simply given me the most joy. Many are books I read when I was younger, even when I was a kid. One of these books helped influence me in my career path. And another remains my favorite book since the first time I read it. So, without further ado, here are my top 10 books, in no particular order.

1. "The Stand" by Stephen King
It should come as no shock whatsoever to anyone who knows me what my first choice would be. I have stated on this blog before that I am one of Stephen King's "constant readers", having read every one of his books and being a lifetime fan. "The Stand" came pretty early in King's career, and despite some game efforts, he has never equalled it in terms of scope and power. It is an epic in every way possible, and it tells a story that captivates almost from the first page. It presents vivid characters in compelling situations, and it starts off by killing off almost the entire population of the planet. But if there's one thing that "The Stand" does as well, if not better, than any other work of fiction, is present a fascinating and complex villain. In fact, it gives us not one, but three villains, marvelously drawn and endlessly interesting. There is Lloyd Henreid, the two-bit loser who rises up from the plague known as Captain Trips to become a powerful force in Las Vegas. There's the Trashcan Man, one of the most compelling and complicated characters in all of King's fiction. And then there is Randall Flagg, the Dark Man, the personification of evil who becomes one of the two dominating forces in the post-plague world. It's a classic tale of good versus evil, with all the usual wonderful King touches. At over a thousand pages, it is endlessly readable and never ceases to amaze. It's my all-time favorite.

2. "The Talisman" by Stephen King and Richard Straub
This is the kind of book that non-Stephen King fans love. It is not scary in any way, shape, or form, but more like an epic quest, sort of similar to "Lord of the Rings", without the complexity. Straub played the perfect foil for King and they created a wonderful tale of two parallel worlds, whose very survival depends on the success of twelve year-old Travelling Jack, and his pal, Rational Richard. They "flip" between both worlds as they fight bad guys and monsters in their quest to get the Talisman, and bring it back to save Jack's mother and the Queen of the Territories. A rich and compelling tale of heroism and sacrifice, this is a tremendous book which demands multiple readings to get the full essence of its greatness. Straub has never been better and the combination of he and King was pure magic, something they fell far short of in the sequel.

3. "Exodus" by Leon Uris
I've read most of Uris's books, but nothing has affected me quite like "Exodus." Maybe it has something to do with being Jewish, or maybe not. Uris does an incredible job of telling the story of the Jewish emigration to Palestine, the rise of the Jewish state, and the experience of these people in World War II, as they tried to survive the Holocaust. It's a powerful, touching, heartfelt story, and if it seems quaint in light of today's politics, it remains a wonderfully compelling read.

4. "The Godfather" by Mario Puzo
This choice pretty sums up what I was talking about in my introduction, I am less interested in bringing classic novels with me to my island than I am in bringing entertaining and enjoyable fiction. Many people deride this novel by stating that the movie was better, and if that is what they truly believe, they need to read the book again. The epic story of Don Vito Coreleone and his family remains an exciting, dramatic, and fascinating tale. The Godfather is fleshed out much more in the book than he was in the movie, and supporting characters such as Lucy Mancini and Johnny Fontaine are given far more time and become that much more interesting. A true American classic of history, intrigue, crime, and family values, during the tumultuous early half of the 20th century, "The Godfather" presents the classic tale of immigrants and how they made do and survived in their new country to become powerful and dangerous, without losing their character and culture. Well, at least some of them didn't.

5. "The World according to Garp" by John Irving
Has there ever been a book or main character quite like Garp? Or a supporting character such as Garp's mother, Jenny Fields? And how many books prior to this one presented a critical supporting character that was a transexual former pro football player with romance problems, a la Roberta Muldoon? Irving struck gold with this novel of vivid characters, fascinating situations, and topical issues. He successfully balanced joy and humor, with tragedy and pathos. And he does so in a readable and entertaining manner that he has never been able to attain since. No matter, Garp is his masterpiece and will make Irving memorable forever.

6. "Helter Skelter" by Vincent Bugliosi
I don't think I've ever read anything more fascinating than Bugliosi's story of the Manson family, the horrific murders they committed at the behest of their leader, Charles Manson, and the resulting trial in Los Angeles, which was prosecuted by Bugliosi. Unless you've hidden under a rock, you know the story, but it's hard to deny the fascination of reading about how it all went down, and was subsequently pieced together by Bugliosi. This was the book which influenced my career path, and I have not looked back since.

7. "Ball Four" by Jim Bouton
It's a shame that Bouton became such a pariah for writng this expose of baseball during the 1969 season. It seems almost tame by today's standards and the knowledge we now have of ballplayers. But back then, it was scandalous. Bouton was excoriated by the baseball establishment and he is still shunned by most retired ballplayers. But every kid in America back then, including the author of this blog, owned the book, and read it endlessly. I know some guys who bragged that it was the only book they ever read as a kid. And I know others who claimed that they only read it late at night, with a flashlight in their beds, long after their parents went to sleep. Quite simply, it's the best book ever written about baseball, maybe about all sports, and it is an absolute gem. Bouton should be enshrined in the Hall of Fame. Right, like that will ever happen!

8. "Seven Days in May" by Fletcher Knebel
I'm not sure why this book hit me as hard as it did when I first read it as a kid, but it did and still does. The story is compelling, the characters are rich, and the dialogue is first-rate. A wonderful Cold War thriller with a roller-coaster plot and a satisfying climax.

9. "Ragtime" by E.L. Doctorow
A great novel which combines real and fictional characters in a time that now seems almost ancient, "Ragtime" manages the difficult task of being entertaining, outrageous, and topical. The issue of racism has never been presented quite like this before, and the book manages to enthrall and enlighten at the same time.

10. "Catch-22" by Joseph Heller
An all-time classic, which manages to be funny, shocking, horrifying, ridiculous, touching, and mysterious. With a timeline which makes no sense, and a story that goes back and forth in time at a dizzying pace, Heller tells the story of Yossarian, the World War II pilot who wants nothing more than to complete his required missions and get the hell back to the states. Perhaps the best book about war ever written.

So, there it is, my top 10 list of books I need to have on my desert island. Good Heavens, in writing out my list, I've remembered a whole bunch of others that I should have, could have, included. Books like Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five" and Wolfe's "The Bonfire of the Vanities" should be on my list somewhere. Maybe I'll change the rules and take more than ten with me to the island.

The Grand Poker Series at the Golden Nugget

It was four years ago that I played in an early event at the World Series of Poker. I don't think a day has gone by that I haven't thought about it. Looking back, I know now that I wasn't ready. I really didn't have much of a clue. In retrospect, it's not surprising that I got knocked out fifteen minutes into the tournament.

Since then, I've been to a poker boot camp and learned from pros like T.J. Cloutier and Vanessa Ruosso how to play a no-limit tournament. I've played dozens, no, make that hundreds, of no-limit hold em tournaments in casinos, online, and at private homes. I've won a couple outright, chopped a victory a number of times with other players, finished at numerous final tables, and got knocked out in every which way possible. I now have a clue, and a strategy, and a game plan. I have confidence, and I always expect to do well, so that when I don't, I am disappointed.

The original game plan was to go back to the World Series this year, and play in an early event for a thousand dollar buy-in. Then, I recieved an offer from the Golden Nugget hotel to stay at an extremely discounted rate and participate in their Grand Poker Series of tournaments. Apparently, several Vegas casinos these days, including the Nugget, put on major tournament series to compete with the World Series. The buy-ins are much less than the World Series, but the competition was supposed to be stiff and the tournaments had the reputation of being extremely challenging. So, I opted to do that instead, and see how things went, as a sort of test for whether I'm ready for the World Series.

On Saturday, I played in a $135 dollar buy-in tournament. There were 372 players in the tournament, and we were in a huge room at the Nugget. Other than the WSOP four years ago, it was the biggest tournament I ever played in. The legendary poker brat, Phil Hellmuth, was there for the start and kicked it off. We started at noon with a chip stack of 12, 000 chips.

The first four hours were absolutlely brutal. Other than A-K one time, I never got a premium hand, not in the whole four hours. And when I did hit with a hand, Lady Luck kicked me in the ass. Here's an example of what I'm talking about. We were probably about an hour or so into the tournament. The player on my left was very aggressive, but not very smart. He was one of the few mediocre players I saw all day. Anyway, he had foolishly lost more than half his chips, and he was scuffling with about 4,000 or so chips left. I was in early position, and I looked at 10-J suited in spades, normally not a hand you want to play in early position. But I had barely played a hand all tournament to that point, so I put in a raise of three times the big blind, which Mr. Aggressive promptly called. The blinds also called my raise, so it was just the four of us. The flop came A-K-Q, rainbow, which means all different suits. I had flopped top straight, and I held in my emotions as I checked to Mr. Aggressive. He took the bait, and went all in. The two blinds folded, and I called. He had A-10, and almost cried when he saw that I had already made my straight. He got up to leave, and then on the river, a Jack fell, giving him a straight as well, making us chop the pot, and giving this jerk new life. And that's the way things went for the first four hours. Most of the time, I had nothing but crap, and had to fold. I won two other times when I had to chop the pot with someone, and I was watching my stack dwindle.

I made it to the second break and called my wife, telling her that I would probably be out soon. It was disgusting, crappy cards and crappy luck. I had managed to stay disciplined and patient, I refused to gamble with garbage hands, and the few bluffs I made were done when I was in position and there had been no raises in front of me. Even one of those backfired, when two 9's came on the flop and one of the other players at the table called my continuation bet after the flop. I checked the turn, and when he fired out with a bet that would have put me all in, I folded. Other than that, I remained disciplined and patient, but my stack was dwindling, the blinds were going up and it was only a matter of time.

About five hours into the tournament, I looked at my hand to see pocket aces for the first time. The big blind was 1,000 at that time, and the guy to the right of me raised to 4,000. My stack was only about 8,000, so I shoved all-in. Everyone else folded, and he called. With the blinds, antes, and our bets, there was about 21,000 chips in the pot. He showed pocket queens, I had the aces, and there was no miracle queen on the board for him, so my aces held up and for the first time that day, I won a big pot.

About a half hour later, I was the big blind, which was now 1,500. A guy three seats to the left of me raised to 4,500, and the guy next to him made it 10,000. Everyone folded around to me, and then I looked at my hand (when I am in the big blind, I don't look at my cards until it is my turn to act). I looked down at pocket aces one more time. In the big blind, of all things. I thought about how I wanted to play it, and knew that at least one of these guys, if not both, would have to be aggressive and probably call a re-raise if I made one. I wanted to make it as expensive as possible for them to call, so that if they sucked out on me (ended up with a better or winning hand with the cards on the board), they would have to pay to do so. I pushed all in with a stack of about 20,000 chips.

The first guy thought long and hard, for him to call meant throwing all his chips in, since I had him covered. He ended up folding after thinking about it for quite some time. The other guy called. There was just under 50,000 chips in the pot. I turned over pocket aces, and he turned over KQ suited. The board was an absolute blank for him, and I scooped in a huge pot, and crippled the guy, who up to that time had shown that he was a good, solid player.

The dinner break came after hour number six, and I was overjoyed to have made it that far, considering the horrible cards and horrible luck I had in the first four hours. Not to mention, the level of competition. Other than a couple of donkeys, the vast majority of poker players in this tournament were very good players, solid and somewhat intimidating. And I was holding my own with them.

The tournament continued, and I continued to play solid and disciplined. I never was able to get on the kind of run that would give me a huge, commanding stack, but I picked my spots, played aggressively when I had a good hand, or was in position, and continued to hold my own. I never got much below 35,000 chips and never quite got up to 50,000, but I continued to hold on, as hour after hour passed, and players kept getting knocked out, three of which were courtesy of yours truly.

The bubble position was 37, which meant the person who got knocked out in 37th position would be the last player to win nothing. Everyone after that would be in the money. When we got to 37 players left (including me, incredibly), they asked if we would agree to take $200 off the winner's share, and give that to the bubble. We all agreed, and so, just like that, we were all in the money. It was after midnight, and we had been at this thing for twelve hours.

I don't remember a whole lot of the next 45 minutes or so. I folded the crap I got, and went all in when I had a hand. I was no match for the monster stacks of some of the other players, and I was just trying to hold on. Several players who had been knocked out earlier in the day or night came back into the room, some of them had been at my table. They looked at me and remarked about how impressed they were that I was still there, I had been short-stacked pretty much all day and night. Obviously, it takes superb playing to last as long as I did without getting a string of great cards. I was exhausted, but still focused and determined.

At 12:55 a.m., there were 31 of us left. I looked down at A-Q suited, and went all in. Everyone folded, and I finally scooped a pot that put me over the 50,000 chip plateau. I remarked to one of the other guys at the table that it was the first time all day I had reached that milestone. The very next hand, I looked down at pocket 8's, so I figured I would be good to do it again, and increase my stack. I went all in, and then was surprised to be called by one of the monster stacks at the table, who had about 7 or 8 times as many chips as I did. When he turned over pocket aces, I could feel my heart break. And then I watched the board, waiting and praying for the miracle 8, which would allow me to continue to play. But it never came. And I was done. 13 hours and only God knew how many hundreds of hands later, I was knocked out in 31st place. That's 31st out of 372. I shook hands with several players as I got up to leave. There's a comaraderie that builds up in a poker tournament, and when you get that far in a major tournament, you win the respect of all the other players at your table. Luck can only get you so far, you need skill and solid play to get as far as I did. Especially considering the field, which was dominated by solid, excellent poker players.

I got my winnings, and headed up to my room, where my poor wife was waiting in bed, having spent 13 hours by herself in Vegas while I played in this tournament. I was exhausted, mentally drained, but absolutley exhilarated. I had made it into the money, finished 31st out of a field of 372, stayed focused and disciplined for 13 hours. I felt triumphant.

The Grand Poker Series tournament was a major test for my poker playing, and I came through with flying colors. All things considered, it was my best performance in any poker tournament, and as I write this three days later, I am proud as hell. I feel like I've turned a corner, and I will be ready for the World Series of Poker next year. I can't wait.

The final episodes of "24" and "Lost", or What in the world am I going to do on Monday and Tuesday nights from now on?

Two of my favorite TV shows wrapped up last week, "24" and "Lost." I came to both shows late, became entranced with them, caught up by renting the DVD's and then followed them to their finales. I believe that they are two of the best TV shows ever produced, and they will be missed, at least by me.

"24" was my once a week vacation from the realities of my life. It gave me a larger than life hero, exciting stories, complicated characters, and intensity from start to finish. More than that, though, "24" provided a unique premise, with each episode comprising one hour in a continuous day told in real time. I believe it's the premise more than anything which made the show work.

This season's story was great for the first few episodes and then sort of lost its way. What was missing was a dynamic villain, always a key element in "24." Finally, they brought back disgraced deposed former President Charles Logan, one of the all-time great TV villains, and the show rocked from that point on. The finale was exciting, suspenseful and touching. The final tender moment between Jack and Chloe was heart-breaking, and very well acted. It was a wonderful, albeit surprising, ending since practically everyone was expecting Jack to die. It left open the possibility of more seasons (which won't happen) or a "24" movie (which I hope to hell won't happen). And it showed once again how crucial the performance of Kiefer Sutherland has been to the success of the show. Before "24", Kiefer was a moderately successful young actor, probably best known for being the son of Donald Sutherland, and for playing the teenage punk/bad guy in "Stand by Me." "24" has provided him opportunities to grow and transform as an actor, and he has not disappointed. Kiefer has become a star, and it will be interesting to see where he goes from here.

"Lost" was a very different piece of escapism for me. A show that was often maddening in its endless mysteries and plot twists, the creators have spent this season answering all the questions. And while not everything has made perfect sense, the final episode did bring some finality.

In keeping with the show's history, the final episode was open to several different interpretations, including the very wrong "they all died in the plane crash and the entire show was just a dying dream of Jack's" (I always thought it interesting that the central character of both shows was named Jack and were actually very similar). Anyone who believes that interpretation wasn't paying attention. So here's my interpretation:

The island was a real place, complete with a special magnetic force and other mystical, special qualities. Jacob was the protector of the island, and he was flawed in his treatment of his brother, the "Man in Black", whose goal was to kill Jacob and get off the island. The island was settled by the Dharma initiative, which built a village and several scientific laboratories or stations. The others, and their offspring, including Ben, were brought to the island by the Dharma initiative. Jacob hand selected several individuals, or candidates, to come to the island to take his place as keeper of the island. He manipulated them to be on the plane, and then created the events which caused the plane to crash. Everything that happened on the island, and to the "Oceanic Six" really did happen. Jack died in the last episode re-igniting the force and light, and Hurley became the keeper of the island, while Ben became the "Number two", or the replacement for the Man in Black. The flash sideways stories of the final season was the fantasy world, how the characters would have liked their lives to have been. Those stories took place after the characters died, in some sort of after-life, and when they remembered each other and were re-united in the church, they were in that after-life place, sometime in the future after they all had died. Ben did not come into the church because he had more to do, and could not be part of the reunion.

Or, at least, that's my interpretation. It makes sense to me. And it illustrates what was so great about the show, its complexities, its different interpretations, and its fascinating story. Despite its maddening premise, the show kept me riveted week after week. The writing was great, the acting was solid, and the setting was utopian. Like "24", it provided a wonderful hour-long escape from the reality of my life. And that's what can be great about television, that you can for one hour escape into some fantasy show, and forget about your problems and everyday stresses. Both "24" and "Lost" succeeded in that admirably, and I will miss them both.