Welcome to the Shorty Club!

In this cozy corner of contemplation, where the air is thick with the aroma of?bourbon?and the gentle wisps of a?cigar, we gather to muse upon life’s curiosities. Here, there are no rigid rules, no prescribed paths—just the ebb and flow of conversation, like the amber liquid swirling in our glasses.

Bourbon Whiskey: Our faithful companion, aged to perfection, whispers tales of oak barrels and distant Kentucky hills. Each sip carries the weight of history, the warmth of camaraderie, and the promise of shared secrets.

Cigar in the Ashtray: Resting gracefully, its ember glowing like a distant star, the cigar invites reflection. Its fragrant tendrils weave stories of contemplation, of pensive evenings spent unraveling the threads of existence.

And so, my fellow Shorty Club members, let us raise our glasses—whether they hold bourbon or simply the elixir of thought—and toast to the musings that bind us. Here’s to wit, wisdom, and the delightful randomness of it all. ??P.S. If you happen upon a particularly intriguing topic, feel free to share it with the club. We’re all ears (and taste buds).?

Star Struck Out

The light blue Volkswagen bug plodded along the Grand Central Parkway on a bright September day. My father, driving, was on his way to work and I was going with him. This was well before take your kid to work day became a thing, but this was going to be special. My father, a New York City Police Officer, was assigned to the Shea Stadium detail and worked every Mets game. Today, I was going in with him and was getting the inside baseball tour of the stadium and hopefully meet some players. It was 1978 and the Mets were in last place. Attendance at the stadium had been so dismal the press had begun calling it Grant’s Tomb. It would be no problem getting me in and a plum seat even though the league leading Philadelphia Phillies were in town. We arrived at the stadium several hours before the opening pitch and found a spot in the police parking lot near the press gate. The lot was nearly empty and as we approached the press gate my father warmly greeted a uniform officer standing there. They spoke for a moment and then my father introduced me. The officer was Mel Cop. No joke that was his name and I can still picture his name “Cop” on the nametag hanging underneath his shield. He was a nice man and gave me a hearty handshake. We walked the concrete corridor to the police room and entered. Inside were about a half dozen or so officers eating breakfast, reading the newspaper, or getting ready for work. I was introduced to each one; all were good guys. The one thing that stood out to me was that each locker had a sticker on it that said “Police! Don’t Move!”. This was in stark contrast to the phrase “Freeze Police!” that was popular in TV and movies of the 1970’s. Many years later the phrase “Police! Don’t Move!’ would be drilled into me during my own academy training. We eventually walked over the concession area and I met Mary, a longtime employee of the Harry M. Stevens Corporation who provided the concessions at Shea for many years. She made my dad a cup of coffee and offered me a pretzel. She was a kind woman, almost motherly, but with an edge that would only come from working hard in a business serving food and dealing with the public. She told me if I needed anything to eat or drink all day to see her. We walked the ramp up to the press level and there I met Larry, the usher for the press box seating. My dad explained that I would be at the game alone while he worked and asked for a press box seat. Larry obliged and said, “No problem, I’ll keep an eye on the kid.”? My food and seat secured for the day, now it was time for the important stuff, getting on the field for batting practice and meeting some players. We walked down several ramps until we were back at ground level and walked to a non-descript door. A guard stood outside, and he opened the door as my dad, and I approached. It was clear they knew each other and once again I was introduced but I do not remember his name. He was friendly and as I walked through the door he told me to have fun. The concrete corridor ran in both directions underneath the field level seating and went from bullpen to bullpen. To the right was the home team’s side and to the left was the visitors. We headed right and our first stop was the umpire’s room. I met a man I suppose was an umpire and he gave me an official ball which I would use for autographs. It was unreal to hold an official MLB game ball and I was elated! As we strode down the corridor, employees busied themselves as they got ready for the day’s game. Up ahead I could see the sign that said, “Mets Locker Room” and could see a lone figure approach the entrance. He was tall and young with dark hair parted down the middle. He was wearing a stylish 1970’s shirt and pants and walked confidently. This guy is a baseball player I said to myself. As he got closer, I realized it was the leadoff hitter and current star, Lee Mazzilli. A local boy form Brooklyn nicknamed the Italian Stallion. I had to meet this guy as he was the toast of the town on a last place team. I approached him before he reached the locker room and then I noticed it. A cigarette dangling from his lips. What, how can this be? He is an athlete, a professional baseball player. He cannot smoke. He flicked the cigarette to the concrete floor and entered the locker room all but ignoring the young fan holding up the baseball. I was in disbelief. Perhaps it wasn’t Mazzilli just someone who looked like him. A moment later a man came down the corridor and said, “Hey kid, you just missed Maz.” It was him, the Maz, who not only smoked but ignored me.

We turned and went to the area behind home plate where the grounds crew was gathering. My dad introduced to several of the men there including Pete Flynn. He was the head grounds keeper and would be for over 50 years before retiring. He was the field general, and he took me on the field with him as batting practice was underway. A field escort by Flynn was like having an all-access pass to the White House. He even took me to the dugout where I met a bunch of players who signed autographs and took photos with me. After Craig Swan signed one and gave me a firm handshake, a player emerged from the dugout walkway. It was him. Lee Mazzilli, #16 and centerfielder for the NY Mets. I momentarily forgot the brushoff and the cigarette and asked for a photo and autograph. He did so in an obligatory manner and then went to shag some fly balls. No conversation and no hearty handshake.

After some time, I returned to the press box seating and, after getting a hot dog and soda from Mary, sat to watch the Mets lose 8-2. Larry the usher checked on me several times throughout the day and when we were leaving one of the officers from the morning gave me a yearbook which I still have today.? I learned a lot that day. First, I watched my dad treat everyone, despite their title or role, with respect and a friendly word. He would continue to do that his entire life, and it is something I try to emulate as well as instill in my now grown children. Second, I would never again be star struck. Professional athletes, actors and even US Presidents (I have met three of them!) do not get any more or less respect than the hotel clerk, the postal carrier, or yes, the police and fire personnel I meet. The “regular” people I met that day in 1978 including Mel, Mary, Larry, and Pete took the time to be friendly and make a young boy at the ballpark feel special. Even Craig Swan, who would lead the National League with the lowest ERA that season, was a regular guy. Mazzilli was a young 23-year-old who had not yet realized his impact on youth and the importance of being a role model. However, the takeaway is that every interaction matters. We create lasting impressions, positive or negative, on our daily interactions. We may not have the reach or influence of others in the public eye, but in our own little corner of the word we can create positive impacts on those we meet by being real, kind and humble.