The Yang Slinger: Vol. LXXIII

My father, Stanley Pearlman, died earlier this week. He was a tremendous husband, father, grandfather, businessman and writer. He also was one mischievous SOB ...

I am writing this on Thursday evening, while sitting inside the Palm Beach airport, waiting for a flight back home to California.

Yesterday, my father died.

I still can’t believe I wrote those four words. It doesn’t feel real—and if that sounds cliched, lose a parent and get back to me. Earlier today I was at my parents’ mom’s place when her cell phone made a noise. I was certain—for a split second—it was Dad. Telling her where he was. Asking what she was thinking for dinner. Wondering whether she picked up the mail.

Then it hit me: My father could not possibly be texting.

He died.

Again—I can’t believe I typed those two words. My dad isn’t [I’m gonna mix in some present tense here. I apologize] merely my dad. He’s my best friend. My all-time best friend. He’s my hero. He’s my inspiration. My dad taught me more about writing than anyone I know, and taught me more about PR than anyone I know, too. He was a kind, warm, generous man who—and this is no exaggeration—refused to talk shit about people. Ever. He loved back scratches and cookies and the TV show “Adam-12.” He loves being a grandpa and the coffee at Fresh Market and telling stories from his lengthy business career.

I will get over this, but it’s brutally hard, and I am hurting.

I digress.

There are plenty of odes to lost parents, and I imagine most people—especially on a journalism substack—don’t want to hear about the time Dad taught me to drive (and lost his shit when I steered the ol’ Datsun 510 over a crank case and punctured the oil tank), or the time Dad took me to see Marvin Hagler and Sugar Ray Leonard fight on closed circuit TV at Westchester Community College (even though my father knew 0 about sports), or the time Dad and I ran the Lincoln Tunnel Run 5k, and our bibs were accidentally swapped, and even though I placed, he stood on the podium.

You don’t wanna hear that stuff here, and I can’t blame you.

So I’m gonna tell a journalism story.

My all-time favorite journalism story.

And it stars my father.

In the lord’s year of 2000, in the lord’s month of August, on the lord’s day of the 25th, my dad was reading the New York Times (as he loved to do—usually accompanied by a toasted half Lender’s bagel and a cup o’ coffee) when he came upon an article headlined, DOING THE MATH OF AIR DELAYS; TRAFFIC GROWS, BUT LAGUARDIA CANNOT. Bylined by Randy Kennedy, the piece delved into the issue of tarmac delays at one of America’s busiest airports. It ran on Page 1 of the B section—another interesting-yet-hardly-memorable offering in a newspaper that has churned them out since 1851.

For reasons I’ve never fully understood/he never fully explained, the article inspired Dad enough to write a letter to the editor. Only, instead of using his real name (Stanley Noel Pearlman), Dad signed it Stanley Herz. Here, take a look …

“Stanley Herz” was my father’s business name—“Herz” being my mother’s maiden name. Over the years he offered conflicting explanations why he dumped “Pearlman,” but it came down to either: A. “Pearlman” is a tougher phone name than one might think (I can vouch for this) or B. “Pearlman” is a fairly Jewish-sounding name, and when Dad came along there were (and, sadly, still are) lots of cliches and tropes and prejudices in the business world about Jews that my pop wanted to avoid.

Anyhow, that’s the letter he wrote. It’s a good letter. Nothing all-time memorable, but smart and well-written. And when it ran in the Aug. 30, 2000 Letters section, we were all plenty fucking thrilled.

My dad was a quiet guy.

He didn’t crack jokes or blurt out obnoxiously witty comments. He was a sly dude who picked his spots. For example, back in the late 1980s, when my Grandma Mollie was hospitalized in Washington, D.C., Dad and I took a break from visiting her to stroll the nation’s capital. Mid-walk, we came upon a bunch of signs for political candidates in the upcoming local elections.

“Why don’t we take one,” Dad said, “and hang it up on a telephone pole back home.”

And that’s what we did. Just … because.

When, in 1986, my dad published his sole book, “Conquering the Corporate Career: A Guide for Professional Success in the Office,” he hired two publicists—the highly regarded Arthur Haviland and David Kolberg. They sent out press releases, made calls, signed notes. They were skilled marketing executives who should have been working at major publishing houses, not at the beck and call of Stan.

Both men were (cough) my father.

I digress.

Five days after my dad’s entry ran in the Times, the Letters section published an offering that disagreed—fiercely—with my father’s initial take.

The person wrote …

It’s a strong letter with a strong take. Sitting around the breakfast table that Tuesday morning, my mom and dad passed the newspaper between them, absorbing each word.

And the best—absolute best—thing about it …

The letter was written by my dad.

The Quaz Five with … Dave Magadan

Dave Magadan enjoyed a 16-year Major League Baseball career, then served as a coach for myriad organizations. He has two World Series rings and now lives—happily, contentedly—in Florida, serving as a husband and dad.

1. This is a weird Q—but can an argument be made that being a former pro athlete is worse than not being a former pro-athlete? What I mean is, to have had this physical prime where you're a god before 50,000 fans ... vanish at, oh, 35 ... it seems like the remainder of life could be spent chasing that. No? Yes?: I think it depends on the individual athlete. If you take 10 athletes with the same amount of success in the same arena, you’ll probably get 10 different stories. Myself, I was cynical enough and realistic enough to understand that the feeling of being a “god” was not going to last (big assumption I was ever a god!). And while having the big crowds and adulation was awesome, my true love was the competition and the interaction with my teammates. That’s what I miss the most. I can get a taste of the competition playing golf, but it’s hard to replicate that everyday “in the foxhole” mentality for eight months with 30-40 men. But others can’t let go of that feeling of adulation of many thousands of fans. I've played with guys that couldn't let it go and ended up in a really bad place. Then the rest of the athletes fall somewhere in between. When you’re grounded going into it I think you stand the best chance of making the best of it after you’re done.

2. You won a World Series ring with the 1986 Mets. You appeared in 10 games, had eight hits in 18 at-bats. And I've always wondered—being in that sort of a position, all these years later, what does that ring mean to you?: The ring does mean something to me, but just not as much as the ring that I won with the Red Sox in 2007 as a full-time hitting coach. All of us call-ups in 1986 did feel like we were crashing a party. Our very small part of that team was that we gave the everyday players a chance to rest up for the post season. I'm honored to have the ring because it means so much to the fans in New York as it is their last championship.

3. You worked as a hitting instructor for many years. What, to you, are the differences between, say, a Gary Carter and a Ronn Reynolds? What I mean is, what separates the great from the mortals when it comes to hitting?: I think what separates the great ones from the rest of the pack is that the great ones truly are not satisfied with just being good enough. They want greatness. Nolan Arenado wants to be great, not just another good third baseman. David Ortiz wanted to be great. And they are all willing to do what it takes to achieve that greatness. They never settle for good enough. And as a coach you never have to worry that you want it for them more than they do.

4. You were 38 in 2001—your last big league season. And you were certainly solid, but not the same guy from your prime. Was does age do to a hitter? What, specifically, does it take away?: I think the first thing you lose, and unfortunately the most important thing, is the ability to make swing decisions in the same amount of time as when you were 25. You can still take great BP, and even some can continue to put on a show when they do. But the signal from brain to hands starts to get delayed, and you just miss pitches, or you're slightly late.

5. You and I have had political chats, and you're a pretty liberal dude. And baseball is, eh, not liberal. At all. And I've always wondered, considering it's a fairly diverse world: Why?: I honestly don't know for sure. I think there are some guys that slant to the liberal side, they're just not in your face about it or even vocal. I think guys on the right side of the political spectrum know there's more of them around the clubhouse so they're not hesitant to express their opinions. It's almost like they assume you think like they do. But I did find that many of the front office guys are more left of center. Again, not as vocal about it because most of the owners are not. I was with a team that my assistant was a big Trump guy, and he wasn't afraid to let people know about it. But he wasn't mean about it. And there were many times when we would be behind the cage and our GM would call him out about Trump. Confuse him with facts, so to speak. I do think most of the Latin guys lean more to the left.

Bonus: Rank in order favorite to least] Bip Roberts, California Pizza Kitchen, a warm fire on a cold night, the Coke Slurpee, Harry S. Truman, Rafael Santana, Olivia Rodrigo: Warm fire on a cold night, Rafael Santana, Coke Slurpee (love them but don't dare have them anymore. Haven't had a soft drink in 20 years), Olivia Rodrigo, California Pizza Kitchen, Bip Roberts, Harry S. Truman.

Ask Jeff Pearlman a fucking question(s)

From The Cub: You complain a lot. What are you thankful for? I love this question. I’m thankful for my one-of-a-kind wife, who isn’t as much guru, coach, partner as she is mere spouse. I’m thankful for my daughter Casey, a college junior who amazes me with her oomph, guts, fight (and recently attained yellow belt in karate). I’m thankful for my son Emmett, a high school senior/hip-hop guru who will break his old man’s heart (while filling it with pride) by leaving for college next year. I’m thankful for my dad’s 81 (mostly) healthy years and the lessons he taught me. I’m thankful for my mother—who has given me more than I could list on 1,000,000,000 substack posts. I’m thankful for my brother David, and that he has found love. I’m thankful for my cousin Daniel, a family rock. I’m thankful for tall cups of coffee, for delicious blueberry muffins, for fireplaces, for holiday lights, for hoodies, for comfortable shoes. I’m thankful that, at 51, I’ve been allowed to live out so many dreams.

I am very thankful.

A random old article worth revisiting …

On Dec. 17, 2005, the Press of Atlantic City ran a piece from Scott Cronick about a Rutgers grad named Randal Pinkett, who won The Apprentice and was set to work for Donald Trump. And it’s weird—because that was 18 years ago, when Trump just seemed like an annoying-yet-harmless flimflam artist who somehow scored himself a bullshit TV show.

I long for those days.

[And there’s a 0% chance Pinkett supports Trump]

The Madness of Tyler Kepner’s Grid …

So unless you’ve been living beneath a pebble beneath a rock beneath a big hunk of cheese, you’re aware of Immaculate Grid, the daily game that’s drawn thousands of nerdy sports fans (guilty!) to its ranks. And while the NBA grid, NFL grid, NHL grid and WNBA grid are all fun, this game is at its best when it comes to baseball—where the names are endless and the transactions ceaseless.

Over the past few weeks I’ve often discussed the grid with Tyler Kepner, the Athletic baseball writer. And now, for kicks, every week I’m gonna feature one of Tyler’s bonkers grid results. He’s the ultimate baseball geek (I say this with great affection), and his outputs blow my mind.

So …

Tyler observations:

Houston row:

Dave Roberts played for the 1982 Phillies, the first team I followed, at the very end of his career. He was a No. 1 overall pick by the Padres who went straight to the big leagues but had a journeyman career.

Larry Yount, Robin's brother, is credited with one MLB appearance but didn't actually play. He was announced, hurt himself warming up and was pulled before delivering a pitch.

A photo of Nottebart celebrating his no-hitter is displayed in the Astros' press box.

Oakland row:

The late Eric Show was a pretty well-known pitcher in the 80s, Padres' all-time wins leader, played at the end for Oakland.

Mark Kiger never played in the regular season; his entire MLB career was two playoff games for the A's in 2006.

Mike Warren threw a no-hitter in September 1983. I remember hearing about it and thinking it was so odd that a pitcher I'd never heard of threw a no-hitter while my baseball hero, Steve Carlton, never had.

Boston row:

I covered John Flaherty with the Yankees, tremendous guy.

Dave Stapleton is the player who should have come in for defense at first base for the Red Sox at the end of Game 6 in the 1986 World Series. Instead, of course, Bill Buckner stayed in and Stapleton literally never played another MLB game.

Earl Wilson's no-hitter is part of a display about Red Sox no-hitters in their spring training press box in Fort Myers.

This week’s college writer you should follow on Xitter …

Jamar Brooks, Texas Tech University

A sports reporter for the Daily Toreador, Brooks has to be one of the hardest working dudes in college media. Hell, just head to the newspaper’s website and read all … the … stuff … Young Jamar … writes. Women’s soccer? He’s there. Men’s basketball? Also there. Football? Get me Jamar Brooks!

And, truly, this is how you make it in journalism. You bust ass, you hustle, you write and write and write and show off your versaility.

In short, you walk the path of Jamar Brooks.

One can follow Jamar on Xitter here.

Bravo.

Journalism musings for the week …

Musing 1: So I was reading a piece in the Nebraska student newspaper about Dylan Raiola, the high school quarterback who originally committed to Ohio State, then Georgia—and now, at long last, Nebraska. And while the writer, a student named Joseph Maier, did a lovely job reporting the story, one section caused me to stop and say, aloud, “WHAT?”

It’s this …

Can we all stop for a moment and discuss how fucking batshit crazy out of control this stuff has gotten? You have this kid from Arizona, who commits to playing football at Georgia. So the family … moves to Georgia for his senior year of high school? And then the kid winds up back … in Nebraska? Where he’ll probably last a year before transferring to USC or Oklahoma or Toledo A&I?

The normalization of this stuff dumbfounds me.

Musing 2: What a beautiful column from Mark Murphy in the Savannah Morning News about the passing of his father. Headlined SAVANNAH MORNING NEWS COLUMNIST BIDS AN EMOTIONAL FAREWELL TO HIS FATHER, the piece is not merely an ode to a tremendous man, but a reminder your local newspaper still delivers the goods. Bravo.

Musing 3: A new Twitter journalism rule: Stop DMing other writers links to stuff you’ve written without a note or reason for sending the article. It’s both annoying and sorta arrogant. Like, if I write something that relates to Jim, I’ll DM Jim the link with a note saying, “This made me think of your uncle” or whatever. But to just send an article sorta blows. It’s weirdly presumptuous. And get off my lawn.

Musing 4: I don’t know the inner workings of CBS’ morning programming, but—man—you have to have to have to make sure the on-air folks know the proper pronunciations of names. This is just … not good.

Musing 5: Donald Trump being disqualified from appearing on the Colorado presidential ballot brings me no joy—but it also speaks to the damage this non-man has done to our nation and democracy. Step by step by step, norms have been demolished, expectations have been destroyed, kindness and understanding has been bulldozed. This is a person who—quite literally—led an insurrection on the Capitol after refusing to accept a loss. There should be no defending of this. But, because Donald Trump is humanity’s greatest conman, about a third of the nation thinks he’s somehow been wronged. It’s maddening.

I don’t like banning folks from ballots. I really don’t. But this isn’t a judiciary overstepping its bounds. This is an evil creature doing evil things—and being held responsible.

Musing 6: The rise of Tommy DeVito is the type of story I genuinely dig—and the type of story that fades on the quick. I get the feeling we’ll all look back two or three years from now and say, “Remember that shitty Giants season, when the kid from Staten Island played quarterback?”

“What was his name again?”

“Tim.”

“No, Tom.”

“I’m pretty sure it was Tim.”

“Maybe.”

Regardless, it’s been really fun, especially in the midst of another crap year for New York football.

Musing 7: I’ve been thinking a lot about Deadspin lately. Not entirely sure why, except the site has really started to bug me. And, were I advising the editors and big guns at the joint, here’s what I’d advise: Report. Report. Report. Report. Fucking report. None of the site’s articles are reported. They’re just lukewarm opinions from writers you likely have never heard of. And that’s not a diss on the writers. There’s talent. But if I’m gonna read about, say, Aaron Rodgers, why am I seeking out Sam Fels when I can seek out Mike Vaccaro? What can Stephen Knox (a genuinely excellent writer, to be clear) tell me about Ja Morant that I won’t learn from one of America’s 500 NBA scribes?

So, from a guy who has contributed to Deadspin in the past, I urge the site to do the work. Roll up sleeves. Make calls. Add stuff to your work that others won’t have. Grind. It pays off.

Musing 8: Tom Junod may well be the best writer walking the planet, and WAS FRANK GORE THE LAST NFL RUNNING BACK? shows why. This, in particular, leaps from the page …

Musing 9: I’m way late to this, but what a fantastic USA Today article from Stephen Borelli on Sam Lacy, the groundbreaking Black sports writer who has never received the credit he deserves. Writes Borelli: “Sam Lacy looked out at the field on April 15, 1947. It was a day in New York City predicted to be partly cloudy, perhaps in more ways than one. Every time the ball was hit in Jackie Robinson’s direction, the sportswriter felt a lump in his throat. He feared the stress would be too much for Robinson to handle.

“Lacy listened to the crowd.

“Come on, Jackie, we’re with you...

“There was reason to exhale.”

Musing 10: This week’s Two Writers Slinging Yang stars Bob Rose, former San Francisco Giants media relations guru …

Quote of the Week …