The Yang Slinger: Vol. LXXXII

On Nov. 3, 1996, Gina Naclerio was killed in a drunk driving accident. Her passing forever changed a family and a community. It also changed the way I approach writing about death.

I do not consider myself a particularly gifted writer.

Yes, I’ve had a long career with some high moments. But when I read a Wright Thompson or Louisa Thomas, I often find myself thinking, “I can’t match that.” When I study the reporting of a Jane Leavy or Jonathan Eig, I often find myself thinking, “I can’t touch that.” When I see Gary Smith’s flow, Susan Orlean’s touch, Steve Rushin’s smarts, Rick Reilly’s wit, Hugh Ryan’s feel, Sally Jenkins’ insight, Candace Buckner’s transitions—I mean, oftentimes I’m the kid in the shallow end of the pool, watching his peers leap from the diving board and envying their splashes.

That said, there is one thing I believe I do fairly well, and it’s a subject I’d like to explore today.

I am solid at writing on tragedy.

Dating back to my boyhood, I’ve always had a deep fascination with humanity’s darkest singular moments. I’m not sure why. If I had to guess, I think it has something to do with (of all the things) a back-in-the-era-of-knob-dials, made-for-TV offering called, “License to Kill.”¹ The film aired on CBS on Jan. 10, 1984, and it told the story of a girl named Lynne who dies in a car accident on the day she graduates high school. I was 11 at the time, and I remember sitting before the television in our living room, transfixed by the raw bleakness being depicted in front of me. Maybe I’d considered dying before “License to Kill,” but I don’t think the realness of it ever entered my mind. This idea that you can be alive one moment, gone the next. The idea that people are left behind, only they’re shattered and broken and never-the-same remnants of what they once were.

To be blunt, “License to Kill” did a number on me.

But not nearly as much as something that happened 12 years later.

Through the three decades of my journalism career, I have written a lot about tragedy. For example, there was this Bleacher Report story on Bryce Dejean-Jones, the New Orleans Pelicans forward who was murdered in Dallas. There was this SB Nation offering on Ricky Bell, the former Tampa Bay Buccaneers halfback who died of causes related to dermatomyositis, an inflammation of the skin and muscles. Two years ago, Golf Magazine called and asked if I’d consider setting aside my life to delve into the heartbreaking story of a van accident that killed six college golfers and their coach. The resulting article, SHATTERED: STORIES FROM THE UNIVERSITY OF THE SOUTHWEST GOLF PROGRAM’S TRAGIC VAN ACCIDENT, nearly broke me. But I did it, because … I dunno. These feel like the types of articles I’m supposed to pursue. We’re supposed to pursue. I know it’s corny and maybe self-indulgent. But I’ve always feel that, by writing about the recently deceased, you’re extending their lives, if just for a moment or two. Again—it’s corny and self-indulgent.

But … yeah.

I mention all of this because whenever I chronicle young death, I find myself haunted by the tragedy that I (inexplicably) feel I should have delved into—but did not. It took place on the morning of Nov. 3, 1996. In my hometown of Mahopac, N.Y. In front of the shopping center where, a bunch of years earlier, I worked as a CVS clerk and my brother David manned the photography department at Caldor. This was a quiet stretch of road in a quiet neck of a quiet hamlet. When I say nothing happens in Mahopac, well—nothing happens in Mahopac. It’s a place one sleeps well.

According to a police report, two cars—a green 1996 Nissan Maxima and a 1986 Pontiac Trans Am—collided across a double-yellow line just south of the Mahopac Shopping Plaza. The time of the collision was 2:40 am. Dark sky. Mostly empty streets. Six people were involved. Bret Frattellone and Matthew Shuster, ages 23 and residents of nearby Shrub Oak, were passengers in the Maxima. Both died, and the driver—Steven Fried, also 23 and also of Shrub Oak, lived.

The Trans Am was driven by Thomas Carley, a 22-year-old local kid who was ferrying his friends after a night out at a local bar, the Rhino. He had been drinking, and got behind the wheel despite (according to accounts from the night) a bartender momentarily taking away his keys. He survived, as did a passenger, Brian Rutledge.

Gina Ann Naclerio, 23-year-old Mahopacian, was thrown from the Trans Am.

She died on impact.

At the time, I had just returned to New York after spending 2 1/2 years as a writer in Nashville. I was living at home in Mahopac with my folks, preparing to relocate to a Manhattan apartment. I remember sitting at the kitchen table on the morning of Nov. 4, opening the local newspaper (the Reporter Dispatch), seeing this …

… and staring in stunned silence.

I knew of Thomas, but didn’t know him. Brian and I sat next to one another in health class my senior year. He was a big kid. A football player. Cocky and rooster-like in that high school football star manner. And Gina Naclerio—well, Gina Naclerio was a hi-bye acquaintance. Hi when you pass in the hallway. Bye after you pass in the hallway. She was pretty in that cute, perky Reese Witherspoon-Dawn Wells-Kim Fields sort of way. Her boyfriend, Matt, was a classmate of mine who everyone liked. I can still picture the two of them walking hand in hand, chatting, laughing. In hindsight, it’s the youthful innocence we all seek to recapture as we age, yet—with wrinkles and back pain and mortgages—mocks us for its unattainability. You have one chance to cruise the school hallway with your girlfriend and your varsity letter jacket. Once it’s over, it’s over.

Deep into that Nov. 4, 1996 edition of the Reporter Dispatch, near the bottom of page 10A, sits an obituary for “Gina Ann Naclerio: teacher.” It was one of 11 obits—and Gina was the youngest death by nearly three decades. An ode to Mary Vigliotti, “Yonkers homemaker,” is directly above her. Mary was born in 1909. She died at St. John’s Riverside Hospital. She was 86. “She enjoyed television and radio, her family said.” The obituary is quick, but can be summed up in seven words: This is how it’s supposed to go.

Gina’s obituary screams the opposite: Life is unfair. The short piece identifies her as the daughter of Louis and Regina Naclerio. It says she graduated from Mahopac High in 1991, then SUNY Plattsburgh in 1995. It says she worked as the head teacher for the Infant Care Program at Field Home-Holy Comforter in Yorktown, and that she spent past summers working at Noah’s Ark Nursery School and Kindergarten in Mahopac Falls. She attended church at St. John’s in Mahopac and is survived by a brother, Nicholas, and sister, Lisa.

And as I sat there, absorbing the tragedy, I kept thinking, “That’s it?”

There was this young woman—one I had attended high school with. She had hopes and dreams and goals and plans. Somewhere out there was a man she would marry. There was a wedding that would never happen. There were travel plans never to be made. There were children never to be born. There were highs and lows to experience. There were movies to watch. Thanksgiving dinners to enjoy. Christmas trees to decorate. Gina Naclerio was supposed to dine on delicious meals. Gina Naclerio was supposed to squeal at the season’s first snowfall. Gina Naclerio was supposed to be a mother, an aunt, a grandma.

Again, I barely knew Gina Naclerio. But that moment … that death … that tiny obituary—it flipped a switch, just as “License to Kill” flipped a switch. Why did certain people live and certain people die? Why did Gina have to be in Thomas Carley’s Trans Am that night, at that sliver in time? Leave a bit later, the cars don’t collide. Leave a bit earlier, the cars don’t collide. Leave in that precise second, at the same time Steven Fried and his Maxima left at that precise second …

Everything changes.

And all these years later, I’ve channeled my emotions from that hometown tragedy to write about loss time and time again. I’ve learned how to sit across from grieving parents and hear about their darkest hours. I’ve learned how to knock on doors, to sift through accident reports, to be blunt while also being respectful.

Yet outside of a brief and inconsequential blog post of 15 years ago. I’ve never written about Gina. With every Bryce Dejean-Jones and Ricky Bell and University of the Southwest, I inevitably think about her. But pen to paper? Never.

So fuck it.

Why not now?

Lisa Naclerio is on the phone.

It’s the evening of Wednesday, Jan. 31. I hear both nervousness and trepidation in her voice, and it’s understandable. Gina Naclerio’s little sister does not make a habit of speaking about the greatest heartbreak of her life. She certainly doesn’t do so with reporters.

But … this is also a bit different. Even though we didn’t know one another in high school (Lisa was a freshman when I was a senior), we’re both products of the same rural New York town. We can speak fluently of Rodak’s Deli and Cacciatori Pizza, of the local Carvel and the roads that curve around Lake Mahopac. Every summer we both rode the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Fire Department carnival, and every Oct. 31 we bounded home to sort through our bags of Halloween candy. Like so many corners of America, Mahopac produced an everlasting tightness that, even in these divided times, remains oak-solid. Yankees or Mets, Billy Joel or Elton John, mushroom or pepperoni, Biden or Trump—the bond of our town is real.

So, again, Lisa Naclerio is on the phone. And she likes the idea of someone asking about her sister …

“It’s not easy for me,” she says, “but it’s heartwarming. Because just talking about her means we’re keeping her memory alive. And I know within our family and our friends, she's very present. She's very present in my household with my kids, they all know their Aunt Gina. I think about her every day. She's very present. But people move on with their lives, and …”

Deep breath.

“What,” she says, “can I tell you?”

On Nov. 3, 1996, Lisa was a Towson State junior, taking a semester abroad in Florence. She was a college kid doing college kid things—studying, partying, half an eye on the future, half an eye on the present. As the product of a proud Italian family², being in the old country was dreamy. The food. The sights. The language. The …

The call came from her mother. Lisa can still hear it. “There’s been an accident and you need to come home.”

Um …

“Mom,” Lisa replied, “what do you mean?”

“It’s Gina,” Regina Naclerio said. “She was in a car accident and she’s in surgery. You need to come home right now.”

Life is a blur. Things happen. Most of which we fail to recall. But Lisa, just 21 at the time, remembers the Florence airport was temporarily shut down, and she had to take a bus to Milan, then fly to Brussels, then to Chicago, then to New York. “Every time I would land in a different airport I’d find a pay phone and call home,” she says. “But nobody was answering. I couldn’t get any information. It was terrifying. All I knew was she was in surgery.”

When she finally arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport, Lisa exited the plane and spotted her parents at the end of the jetway. The daughter knew this was a bad sign. The air was thick with pain and anguish. Louis and Regina escorted Lisa to a private room and, within seconds, dropped to their knees and began to sob. “Gina didn’t make it,” her father said. “She’s gone.”

What?

“She’s gone.”

It’s fuzzy. All of it. The drive home. The funeral. The mourners. The well-wishers. We’ve been led to believe that definitive moments somehow brand themselves into our brains. It’s not true. We are only capable of processing so much information. Lisa was overwhelmed. Her sister couldn’t be gone. It made no sense. She was here a few weeks ago. Right here. “Nothing feels real in the moment,” Lisa says. “I know that sounds like a cliche—but nothing feels real. It’s more like a movie.”

This is where I expect Lisa to tell me how close she and Gina were. She does not. Growing up, the siblings were of different orbits. When I tell Lisa I remember Gina as this sort of perky butterfly, she chuckles. “It's so funny that you call her ‘perky,’ because her whole life, she was very much like an introvert and kind of a loner, and we were very different,” she says. “She was just in her room all the time with her door shut reading book after book after book, and very kind of nerdy, like your typical nerd, her glasses and her braces. She didn’t have many friends. And growing up, we didn't have the best relationship because we were so different. I was super outgoing, wanted to do everything and had a lot of friends, and she was the total opposite.”

Then, midway through high school, everything changed.

“She was doing these Jane Fonda videos in her room for months,” Lisa says, “and she came out and she was like this beautiful butterfly. It was her junior year, and that's probably what you remember her from because she had lost all of this weight and felt great about herself for the first time.”

Gina went off to SUNY Plattsburgh, where she joined a sorority, found a slew of friends, was embraced for the nerdy quirks that made her Gina. “She was obsessed with ‘Days of Our Lives,’” Lisa says. “She would record it on VHS tapes and watch a bunch of them back to back.” Gina loved science fiction, and sold her sister on the idea that she was a living, breathing vampire. “And she always sang at the top of her lungs,” Lisa says. “She had this little car and she’d be sitting on her pillow, blasting the radio, singing … whatever.

“The day she left for college—it was the worst day of my life. I remember crying when I had to say goodbye to her. We were sisters, and I loved her and I knew I’d miss her. Watching her leave … it crushed me.”

The worst part about death is the silence.

People come attached with their own volumes, and those sounds wind up a part of our life soundtracks. For example, two months ago my father, Stanley Pearlman, died from pancreatic cancer. We spoke every … single … day, and his Brooklyn accent, his funny quips, his old business stories—it’s the radio frequency I find myself desperately craving.

Gina Naclerio had her own volume. She was goofy and funny. She possessed a sweet laugh and an endearing smile and Oreo-sized blue eyes. She didn’t fill up a room, so much as she felt out a room. Having earned her degree in child family services, the plan was to devote her days to helping children. “She loved kids,” Lisa says. “Being around them, comforting them. That was her passion.”

In the days after the car accident, the Naclerio family was overwhelmed by the level of compassion. Gina was laid to rest at the Gate of Heaven cemetery in nearby Hawthorne. Hundreds of people attended the wake and funeral. Everyone wanted to know what they could do, how they could help. Pastries are baked. Flowers are delivered. Grief is smothered in love, and one is reminded how fortunate they are to have so many people who care. “It was massive,” Lisa says. “Just massive.”

But then—life goes on. There are tasks to attend to, jobs to man, lunchboxes to fill. A new movie opens. The local bar is having $1 draft nights. A cousin is visiting. The people who embrace you in the tightest hugs stop calling so much. Folks are flawed. They forget. “After a couple of days, everybody leaves and you are just in the house in this silence, this dark sadness,” Lisa says. “People continue with what they were doing. As they should. But you can’t understand that when you’re in it. What do you mean everybody else is moving on? This is my sister! This is my sister!”

This was her sister.

Gina was not the only victim from that night.

A year after the accident, the Journal News (our local newspaper changed names) ran a piece headlined THEY NEVER SAW THEIR LOVED ONES AGAIN, concerning the 13 area people who died in drunk driving accidents over the past year. The reporter, Bill Dentzer, spoke with Barbara Frattellone, Bret Frattellone’s mother. Her son—a passenger in the Nissan Maxima—recently started his first job as a local disc jockey. And now, like Gina, he was gone.

“That night comes back to me every night,” Barbara said. “We died with him that night. We really did. His father and I went with him. And the way I feel now is that we’re just living the ultimate nightmare. Every day’s a struggle.”

Lisa and I spoke for roughly an hour. She’s a teacher, a mother, a warm and engaging conversationalist. And one of the the things that struck me most from our time together was a snapshot from the aftermath. Brian Rutledge, the passenger in the Trans Am who lived, had been a big, burly dude who strutted through the Mahopac High corridors with a regal confidence. I can see him, clear as the mug of coffee before me, towering over most of his classmates, thick shouldered, meaty forearms, Paul Bunyan laugh. I used to play basketball against Brian, and to try and box him out was to lean up against a steel pole.

The morning of Nov. 3 destroyed him. Brian spent weeks in the hospital—myriad bones broken, a traumatic brain injury rendering him a shell of his old self. There is a single photo I have seen of Brian, on Facebook, from about a decade ago, and it haunts me. Vacant eyes. Doughy. The same. But not the same.

“He lost a lot of his memory,” Lisa says. “But he remembered Gina and how much he loved her. And I think he would seek solace in my family, so for a good amount of time Brian would come to our house. It was usually unexpected—Brian just showing up. It was very hard for him, and it was very hard for us.

“I think he needed that connection. Grief does that, right? It makes us seek out connection.”

Lisa pauses.

“Brian was looking for something he lost. But my sister is gone.

“There was nothing for him to find.”

The Quaz Five with … Stephanie Vozza

Stephanie Vozza is a veteran journalist who writes about leadership for Fast Company. You can follow her on Twitter here.

1. OK, Stephanie—you write about leadership for Fast Company. What does that mean? What's the leadership beat?: It can cover a broad range of topics, but they all come down to how to succeed in business without being a total jackass. I recently interviewed a former FBI interrogator on how to read a room. I’ve written about how to spot a bully in a job interview, how to know if you’re on losing on the losing side of a salary negotiation, how to tap into your intuition, and more.

2. In 2006 you launched a company, The Organized Parent, that "offered product and tips to streamline family life. I have no idea what that means. What does that mean?: Before I had kids, I was super organized. Once our second child came along, my skills went out the window. I got a call from the school one morning, telling me I had forgotten to pack my then-second-grader’s lunch. So? It was Tuesday. Chicken nugget day at the cafeteria. His favorite (and only) day to buy lunch. I was reminded that they were going on a field trip, and he needed a brown bag. I jumped into the car, assembling a PBJ on the way, and caught his class in the parking lot as they were boarding the bus. I couldn’t figure out why life seemed so much harder at home versus an office, so I search for tools to help me get a grip. I found planners, filing systems, chore carts, etc., and launched a website, where I shared it with other moms who might be struggling, too.

3. You sold the company five years later. I've never owned a company, or sold one. What does selling the product of your hard work feel like? What are the emotions?: It feels amazing. FranklinCovey Products found me online. They wanted to expand their reach and felt my site was strong in the mom category. It was a dream come true because I had been a FranklinCovey devotee in the workplace. We partnered for a year, and then they bought the company. I knew I had taken the business as far as I could on my own. Letting go felt like teaching a kid to ride a bike, wobbly at first and then pride as you see them hit their stride. It felt like birthing and launching a third kid out into the world.

4. From 1993-2005 you wrote for The Tennessean, my first newspaper. I look back at Gannett and think, "Eh, meh." What about you? What was the impact of Gannett on newspapers, in your opinion?: I feel so old. I loved my time at The Tennessean. I think newspapers used to be where you cut your teeth as a writer. The need to constantly find a story, hit tight deadlines, and be part of the community. Hate mail came in the actual mail, so you lived in a bubble where you weren’t second guessing your worth as a writer every day because some troll could easily fire off an email or social media comment from their basement. I just don’t know where you can get that kind of experience today. That said, you asked about Gannett’s impact, and my answer is, I dunno. Local newspapers feel like a dying medium. I don’t know what Gannett could have done to make it different.

5. Back in the lord's year of 1992, you were employed as a speech writer for Anthony Franco, Inc., one of Michigan’s largest public relations firms. What goes into speech writing? Were you good at it?: Oh, jeez, you had to ask that? I sucked. I wrote two speeches and was quickly shifted into writing an employee newsletter for a company that made paper. Speechwriting is very different from feature writing. It’s an art, and I didn’t have it. I was laid off a few months later.

Bonus [rank in order—favorite to least]: spicy tuna rolls, the Loras College cafeteria, Knoxville, Lamar Jackson, Pearl Jam, the American Society of Journalists and Authors, Lauren Boebert, Ken Griffey, Sr.: Well, ASJA (they gave me a grant from their writers’ relief fund when my husband was sick and I was able to take time off), Loras cafeteria (who doesn’t love a Cap’n Crunch continental breakfast?), Lamar Jackson (I’m a huge football fan, but I’m also a Spartan, so the Harbaugh connection here is slightly problematic), Knoxville (unless it’s Johnny Knoxville, then move him into second place), Pearl Jam (not afraid to admit Last Kiss is my favorite Pearl Jam song), spicy tuna rolls, Ken Griffey, Sr. (I’m not a baseball fan, so this ranking has nothing to do with the merits of Mr. Griffey), and (duh) Lauren Boebert.

Ask Jeff Pearlman a fucking question(s)

From Tina: Do you think the Republicans will consider replacing Mitch McConnell with a moderate person who can help bring the country together?: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

From XanderOl2: What type of pen do you prefer?: Interesting old-school question. Way back in the day, I sought out those silk smooth felt pens that glide with each letter. But now pens feel sadly obsolete, and I grab any ol’ motel lobby model I can find. Which sorta sucks—but it’s true.

A random old article worth revisiting …

On Sept. 24, 1965, Frank Murray of the Hollywood (Florida) Sun Tattler wrote the following piece, headlined SOME MENTAL HOSPITAL AIDES ILLITERATE. Which, from afar, doesn’t seem like a top-of-the-fold front-page scandal. But then you get to the guy who was punished with icy showers for the crime of pooping himself. And, yeah. Shit got crazy.

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 thoughts …

• Andrew Lorraine pitched for a lot of teams in a short period, including the Mariners when I covered them.

• Steve Sparks, now an Astros broadcaster, was a knuckleballer for the Angels team I covered. He’s also really good at Immaculate Grid; we compare scores every day.

• Juan Beniquez played all over the place in the 1970s and ‘80s. Very useful for this game.

• Ray Burris I remember from my baseball card collection.

• Roger Mason was a postseason stud for the Pirates and Phillies in the 1990s. Talked to him for my World Series book. (He never should have been taken out of Game 6 in 1993.) Started his career with the Tigers and ended with the Mets.

• Mike Kinkade was a catcher the Mets included in their deal with the Orioles for Mike Bordick at the trading deadline in 2000, when I covered them.

• Tommy Lasorda pitched for the Philadelphia A’s; there’s footage out there of him in a game at Yankee Stadium.

• Eddie Mathews appeared briefly in the 1968 World Series for the Tigers

• Hoyt Wilhelm played for a bunch of teams and he’s the last guy to throw a complete game no-hitter against the Yankees, in 1958. Fellow knuckleballer Tom Candiotti played him in the movie 61*

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

Jessica Oakes, Ferris State University

Oakes, a senior and editor in chief of the Torch, recently penned a lovely piece for the student newspaper about looking forward to spending spring break at home … with her mother. On the couch. In Florida.

Writes Oakes in SPRING BREAKING WITH MY MOM:

One can follow Jessica on LinkedIn here.

Bravo.

Journalism musings for the week …

Musing 1: Ben Strauss of the Washington Post recently wrote AS SPORTS ILLUSTRATED SPUTTERS, ITS OWNERS THROW A PARTY FOR ‘THE BRAND.’ And, lord, is it depressing. In short, the once-great brand is now run by a bunch of douchebags who wanna hang with celebrities. Ugh.

Musing 2: So I’m way late to this, but if you wanna read an absolutely beautiful slice of sports journalism, check out GHANAIAN GRACE from Kevin Armstrong at nj.com. Writes Kevin: “When Ecuadorian children in Newark’s Ironbound district see Ransford Gyan, the best high school soccer player in America, receive the ball at Riverfront Park, a remediated brown field, they drop their scooters. ‘Black Messi,’ one whispers to the other. Then, they stare, awaiting a singular burst or strike from the muscular midfielder who grew up playing barefoot on dirt streets in his remote Ghanaian village and now wears No. 10 for St. Benedict’s, the nation’s No. 1 team. His speed is a spectacle. He moves with gypsy grace.”

Musing 3: So my colleague and friend Peter King announced his retirement earlier this week, and while there are a million old articles to read and even more scoops that he broke, what stands out about Peter to me is this: Kindness. Pure kindness. In an industry of egos, Peter remains as nice and gracious a colleague as I’ve ever met. That, to me, is the mark of an all-timer. And a worthy legacy.

Musing 4: Not a great look for Mecole Hardman, blasting the New York Jets this week and explaining that—while still with the green and white—he begged the Chiefs to take him back. Yes, the Jets have been an awful organization for decades. But professionalism matters.

Musing 5: Charles Blow of the New York Times with an infuriating column, ARAB AMERICAN FURY TOWARD BIDEN. Like Nihad Awad, a co-founder and the national executive director of the Council on American-Islamic Relations, I am not thrilled with the Biden administration’s oft-unconditional support of Israel. But … really? You’re gonna turn around and support a man who (checks notes) wants to ban Muslims from the country? Really?

Musing 6: Sports Illustrated’s Albert Breer makes the case Zach Wilson can still become a competent NFL quarterback. I just don’t see it. Writes Breer in ZACH WILSON CAN STILL MATURE INTO A STARTING QB–JUST NOT WITH THE JETS: “I believe he can be, but a new team will have to thread a needle with him to get him back to where he was coming out of BYU three years ago. Wilson lost confidence quickly as a pro, with some warts certain teams identified on his college tape—one of which was his tendency to pass up layups and easier throws within structure to hunt big plays—manifesting in the NFL and turning into a full blown case of the yips.”

Musing 7: Me mad. Me no like being made fun of. Me grumpy. Grrr.

Musing 8: Last night my son Emmett told me that Kevin Durant has a feature on a new hip-hop song—“and he’s pretty good.” I was skeptical. Then I listened to “Scared Money” by Stalley with … Kevin Durant. And Emmett is correct—K.D. sounds dope.

Musing 9: The new Two Writers Slinging Yang stars Franne Golde, the legendary songwriter who has penned hits for everyone from Diana Ross and the Commodores to the Pussycat Dolls and Selena.

Quote of the Week …

1. Strangely, the relatively anonymous cast of “License to Kill” included a young actor named Denzel Washington.

2. Mahopac was a strong Italian-Irish-Catholic mecca.