1972

It is a peaceful, wet early November morning in NYC as I reflect upon the days crowing with the roosters far outnumbering the nights hooting with the owls (when did this change, and is this a sign of getting older, or did I just surround myself with morning people?). Sports bring out the extremes in emotions (i.e., thrill of victory, agony of defeat, etc.). Mike Sack and I lost our childhood idol, the Mick, this past summer and saw his slightly tarnished star polished brighter than ever before. Donnie finally made the post-season though ended prematurely in the wee hours of some night in Seattle (sleepless—too cliched, though I was hooting with owls that week). Then Mr. Stainbummer squeezes Buck out (Buck we hardly knew ye), but then again, who in N.Y. would have thought he would have lasted that long. Finally, the Giants, dashed hopes of less than mediocrity (say what, Ray Hand ley). All this is minor compared to the "Nightmare on Euclid Avenue."

During a magnificent summer, Cleveland laid claim to the best team in baseball, winning more games in a shortened season than most pennant winners in a full 162. Yes, they built the Jake, and they did come. In the Cleveland exurb of Chicago, Gotch, Fred, and the B-Man chanted "Go the distance' while Chip echoes in attempted harmony from Princeton. To Burkie's chagrin, the Bosox faced another notch on the belt of the "Curse of the Bambino." The upstarts from Seattle cooled off (a week too late for my taste), and were just a speed bump on the way to the World Series of the Politically Incorrect. Where have you gone Albert Belle? Where were the bats of yesteryear? A pennant after 41 years, but again no series, but still a young team and the B- Man yells "Wait 'til next year!" with the soul of a true Brookly nite. Did anyone say Walter O'Malley? Or was that Robert Irsay? Or did Jackie Gleason call for a little traveling music, maestro? The leaves had just turned, frost was barely on the pumpkin, and the heart of rock and roll was torn out, the Browns, like Elvis, are leaving. How does one cope with this betrayal when one of the institutions of a city just packs up and leaves (for commiseration the above-mentioned can consult with Bill "daWeasel" Price, Stu "the Enforcer"Simms, and Rudy "Rudy, Rudy" Ellis on Sports Teams - Exits (see Colts)? Now let me propose a trade. Cleveland needs a football team, New York has an extra one, we will give you the Jets (you can work on tales of Euclid Joe Namath). Leon Hess is too old to move, but George Stainbummer (a native son of Cleveland and a selfavowed football man) wants to move across the Hudson, so why stop when you have already rented the moving van, he can buy the Jets and move them to Cleveland? Art (boo, hiss) Modell is a New Yorker who wanted to move back east, he can buy the Yanks from Stainbummer. You see there is some logic to this. Now Baltimore would still need to kick in something, so how about some tickets to Camden Yards for some Cleveland and New York games?

One final note (file under erratum): 1973 class secretary Bill (sic) Conway wrote, "Dear Joe(?), Call off the dogs...call in the search party! You're looking for the wrong man. Gary "Bum Scoop" Dicovitsky (a friend from Aquinas House where we were house officers) has incorrectly advised you that Wiliam McDonough '73, dean of UVA's School of Architecture, is a member of your class."

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