Monday, March 2, 2015

Time For a New Query Letter, Charlie Brown!

I've always felt a kinship with Charlie Brown. I devoured Peanuts books as a child, I played Charlie Brown in a totally illegal eighth grade production of A Charlie Brown Christmas, and the first play I ever directed was You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.

Oh, and also? The football. I get his thing with the football.

So here's what happened, and I haven't talked much about it because it has taken awhile to process and come to terms with, but I feel like I should put it out there. Some of you may recall, and some may not, that not too long ago I signed with a literary agent, one employed at a legitimate literary agency. Not for anything Race McCloud related, but for my young adult novel Just Debbie. This was last May or so. In fact, I was actually offered representation via e-mail during the final dress rehearsal of You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown, during my second go-around with the musical.

In hindsight, that should have been my first clue.

My agent and her assistant and I spent much of the summer rewriting Just Debbie; or, you know, they made suggestions and I made edits. During that time, my agent (a woman about my age or a bit younger) happily informed me that she was pregnant with her second child, a detail I wouldn't bring up except, yes, it's relevant a little bit further down the blog.

Come the fall, we were ready to submit, and this, like everything in publishing, is a slow process. My agent told me that, at this point, my job was to sit back and let her do her job. That's a paraphrase, but it's an accurate one. And so I did. It was maddening, of course, but I busied myself by, you know, having a second child (well, I didn't HAVE the child, but I was nearby for it) and by tinkering on a current WIP, book although I'll be honest: most of my writing focus was on what was happening with Just Debbie.

I'm starting a new paragraph here to point this out: I've been writing seriously (or what I would call seriously) for about 16 years now, and signing with an agent was... not to overstate it, but it was a huge step. It was, in a way that probably seems a little silly, reaffirming and validating, sort of a "no, you're not crazy, you can write a little bit" moment for me. It's hard to understand unless you've looked for that moment for 16 years.

Now here's the part with the football.

In December, I got an e-mail from my agent that we needed to talk on the phone. I knew this was either good news or bad news or nothing at all, so in short I had no clue what was going on. After a few minutes of chit-chat she got down to it, and it was clear that we weren't talking about good news or nothing at all.

The agency I signed with was (note the past tense) a small boutique agency, owned and run by one woman who employed (past tense again) a handful of other agents, one of whom was mine. Here's what I learned that December evening: 1.) The agency's owner was retiring. 2.) She was shutting down her agency. 3.) My agent had decided that, with the baby coming and another young son already underfoot, this would not be a good time for her to either strike out on her own or find a new job. 4.) Though she would be wrapping up the final few manuscript submissions we had made for Just Debbie (a number of editors and several very nice publishing houses had wanted to read it), she would not be submitting to any new ones and. 5.) She felt very badly about this. 

All of which, in summation meant this: 6.) I no longer had an agent.

Sort of. Because, technically, Just Debbie was still out under my former agency's banner, and my agent was going to finish up with those requests (I think we're still waiting to hear back, but... well, it's fuzzy at this point). But, no, no more agent, no offer to connect me with a new agent (as of yet), and a few loose ends that still haven't been tied up.

Now, my former agent (you notice the redaction of names here) has been busy having a baby girl, and that baby has just been born and is beautiful. Yes, I've seen pictures. Yes, I remain on good terms with my former agent. Why? Because I'm not one to burn bridges, first of all, and more importantly, there's more to her decision to leave the business than I'm telling you here, more that isn't my place to share but more that I understand completely and better justifies it.

Which doesn't change the fact that I, once again, am an unrepresented writer. Which I've been before. But having had a taste of being represented... let me just say, it's been a lot harder this time around to get back up on the horse. I'm getting there, though. Trust me. If I wasn't, this blog post wouldn't exist.

Look: life is about how you respond to setback, and I lost my agent not because I stopped writing stuff good but because of a domino effect of extenuating circumstances. Besides, of all the things that can go wrong in life, having an agent pulled out from under you isn't the worst.

Still, I can't help but feel sometimes that, of all the Tom Hoefners in the world, I'm the Charlie Browniest.

Thursday, February 26, 2015

That Dark POWER RANGERS Fan-Film (Or, "Let's All Calm Down Now")

Hey, did you see that fan-film short Power/Rangers? That fifteen minute dark-'n-gritty one starring Dawson and the blonde woman from Battlestar? No? Too bad, it's gone. Haim Saban, the owner of the Power Rangers brand, has demanded YouTube and Vimeo pull it, citing copyright infringement.

I got in under the wire, though, and was able to see it. I was, at best, a casual fan of Power Rangers back in the day, but I have kids now and I know it is still a vibrant and very much active franchise, so much so that the current show has built a legacy going back two decades in that it often references the older shows, and welcomes back as special guests members of the old casts. So, yes, if I were the producer of a hit kid's franchise and a highly publicized "dark-n'-gritty" version of said franchise hit the Internet, particularly when I was in the development stage of my own major feature film, then I, too, might set my lawyers on it.

The producer of Power/Rangers, Adi Shankar, as well as legions of Internet fans, are now yelling about free speech and copyright law and parody/satire protection and fair use and all the other stuff that often gets yelled about in moments like this. Full disclosure: I'm not a lawyer. But I'm a college professor who has designed and taught a course on sci-fi/fantasy fan culture, and in that class we spend a lot of time talking about and reading about and hearing debate about these very issues: fan-made work and copyright law and fan's rights, etc., etc. A looooot of time.

So. A few observations based on some things that I've learned/taught myself over the years:

1.) Copyright law and fair use and the like all live in a grey area, and intentionally so. You've got music and film and comics and novels and TV and everything else fans love and build upon, and the intermingling of fan-made stuff and copyright holder-made stuff can be very hard to pull apart and suss out. That being said... the law allows a great deal of latitude to the legal owners of an intellectual property. Essentially (and the precedent for this has been established in the courts in a number of cases): if the copyright holders of an IP can to a reasonable degree establish that a particular fan-created work may infringe upon their ability to make a profit, WHETHER OR NOT THE CREATOR OF THE FAN WORK IS CHARGING FOR SAID WORK, then the courts will more often than not sign with the holder of the IP copyright and issue a cease-and-desist.

This, of course, is why the napkin defense doesn't work. What's the napkin defense, you ask? James Kahn, the director of Power/Rangers, made a statement on Twitter to the point that if he draws a Power Ranger on a napkin and gives it to a friend, that's not illegal, so his film being on YouTube isn't, either. It's a nice thought, but doesn't fly. That napkin given to a single friend likely would not be viewed upon by the court as infringing upon the ability of the IP owner to make a profit, but the same court is far more likely to rule that a film seen by 9 million or so people on YouTube IS infringing upon the IP owner's profit-drawing ability.

2.) Satire and parody are both protected under copyright law, and now Shankar claims that Power/Rangers is a satire, or a parody, depending on which of his interviews you're watching/reading/listening to. An aside: if it's satire, it's piss-poor satire, as the only way anyone would ever know that it's satirical in nature is by reading a column where Shankar has to flat-out say, "Hey! This is satire!" Satire needs to be obvious, or else (IMO, I suppose) it is not satire. So I'm not entirely certain a court would agree with his claims that his film was meant as a satire or a parody. Ask yourself, if you saw it: did YOU think it was a satire or parody? Be honest, now.

3.) Anyone yelling about free speech, please stop. We're a long way from this instance providing any sort of a forum to debate freedom of speech, and I suppose if it made its way deep enough into the courts it could, but "Freedom of Speech" is perhaps the most misunderstood law in America, which is ironic because it's our most important law. Our freedom of speech is simply a guarantee that the government will not persecute you for stating in public your opinion, whatever that opinion may be. The parties in the case of Power/Rangers so far are Adi Shankar, Haim Saban, YouTube, Vimeo, and that's it. This has nothing to do with the federal government; this has nothing to do with freedom of speech. Not yet, anyway. And, honestly? "Freedom of speech" wasn't put front-and-center into the Constitution so people could make shitty Power Rangers fan films.

4.) The idea that big corporations are suppressing the fan artist is laughable. (For the record, Haim Saban is the sole owner of the Power Rangers property and he's not a corporation, just a very rich guy, so this particular debate has nothing to do with corporations.) When there are LITERALLY MILLIONS of examples of fan-created work available for anyone to peruse with but a few mouse clicks or screen swipes or what-have-you, it's really hard to talk about corporate suppression of such material. Disney, Warner Bros., Viacom... name the entertainment company, and 9.999 times out of 10 they just ignore fan-made stuff. Trying to police it is a hopeless quagmire and, frankly, not worth their time. Still, let's be clear: if fan-made stuff that used someone else's IP was brought to court, THE VAST MAJORITY OF THE TIME THE COURTS WOULD SIDE WITH THE IP OWNER. Again, though, as Warner Bros. in particular found out during the initial explosion of Harry Potter fan sites, the battle to suppress fan-made work is a tar pit of bad PR and grassroots anti-establishment efforts that seem very noble but really, when it comes right down to it, are fights for the right to take someone else's property and use it as you want to.

5.) "Fan ownership" is a fallacy. Look: there comes with love of and devotion to a fictional universe a certain amount of a sense of ownership, and the real diehard fans like to say that their favorite story, whatever it is, belongs to them, the fans, and that they made it what it is.

Which is, of course, untrue.

The modern fan is passionate and loyal and creative and appreciative and all of those good things, but far too often far too many fans become entitled and self-centered to the point where their fandom becomes all about THEM and what's important to THEM, and their interest in the actual original IP wanes significantly or, in many cases, turns to genuine disdain. Adi Shankar claims to love Power Rangers, and says that's why he produced his short film. And I'm like, "Dude, for a franchise you claim to love, you sure took one hell of a dump on it."

Which brings me to my final, totally subjective thought here...

6.) Power/Rangers isn't really all that good. No, no, wait... TECHNICALLY it's very impressive, and it's shot well and the effects are well done and the fight choreography is... pretty good, I guess. But the writing, and the plot, and the acting, and the tone... all of that, basically, is crap, which, again, is a subjective opinion to be sure... but I can only imagine that a feature film length of this version of Power Rangers would wear out its welcome very quickly. I mean, it's trying so VERY hard to be so VERY dark-'n-gritty (oh, wait, it's "satirical", wink wink), which is certainly going to play to the people who loved Power Rangers as a kid, grew up without actually growing up, and now have decided that Power Rangers (which by the way is still an EXTREMELY popular kid's franchise) now needs to be "mature." You know, people on the Internet... who are the most likely audience to download the film from Pirate's Bay, anyway. Who would this version of a Power Rangers film NOT play to? The families with kids who love the series now, and love The Avengers, and Star Wars, and Harry Potter, and other great adventure franchises that aren't angry for anger's sake. (I'd also like to discuss the idea that infusing something with blood, sex, drugs, and curse words makes it "mature". It does not. Doing that just turns something into what a little boy's idea of mature is, but it by no means makes that thing actual real-life-grown-up mature.)

All of this, though, is much ado about nothing. Everyone involved, from Dawson to Shankar and Kahn to Haim Saban, is going to get a go-around in the 24 hour news cycle, a little boost in notoriety, maybe a phone call or an e-mail or a lunch meeting, and then that will be that. There will be no lawsuit, no heads will roll, and Shankar will probably end up being hired as a consultant on the forthcoming Power Rangers film or something, which is probably all he ever wanted in the first place.

What, you think he'd turn that offer down on principle? Who do you think he is? A fan?

Sunday, January 25, 2015

Updating the Directing Bucket List

So in recent years I've directed INTO THE WOODS, RENT, the '99 version of YOU'RE A GOOD MAN CHARLIE BROWN, LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS, THE 39 STEPS... I think it's time for an updated version of my directorial bucket list.

That's right. Just what you've all been waiting for.


Adam Mace (@TheRealAdamMace on Twitter) and I are neck-and-neck as to who gets to this one first. One of the most underrated contemporary musical theater scores, and a great story about music and love and love of music, and figuring out how to grow up when you're already in your thirties.


Yeah, I'm the one. I love CHESS. I love the score, I love the story, I love the characters, I love the intrigue and cloak-and-daggerness of it. It's a musical about Cold War politics and an international chess tournament, so you understand why it isn't perhaps as mainstream an ABBA musical as MAMMA MIA. But I love CHESS.


Still haven't done it. Maybe the longest-standing show on my list.


You want to direct THE PRODUCERS. I want to direct the (imminently flawed) YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN. Don't judge. Actually, what I'd really like to direct is BLAZING SADDLES, but... alas.

[title of show]

No, really, that's the actual title. It's a musical about two guys writing a musical about two guys writing a musical. We'll hand out aspirin at intermission. I have a hunch I'll get to this one sooner rather than later. Four actors and a piano? Sign me up!


Actually, I think I don't actually want to direct this as much as I want to play Usnavi. One tan and one goatee later, and I'm in!


But only a low-tech version. I've got ideas.


One of my first ever favorite musicals. Story theater at its finest. My version involves no Megamix, puppets, and Jawas from STAR WARS. How have I not done this already?


Revelation: I apparently like Andrew Lloyd Weber a lot. I'm thinking: a presidential candidate, and YouTube. I don't know what that means, either.


I think I might have issues with religion. This will have to do until Trey and Matt do a SOUTH PARK stage musical.


That's who I'd be too, Shrek. That's who I'd be too.

It's coming. (Oh, relax. That's fan art.)


... and until FROZEN gets here, this other Bobby Lopez musical will have to do. (It's almost the same thing. Right?)


I don't think this has a plot. I don't care. Do YOU know the enemy?

I'm sure I forgot something, but this is a good start and I have clothes to go get out of the dryer. These should keep me busy for a couple of years, anyway.

Monday, January 5, 2015

I Invented a Sport

One of the great things about writing fiction, and spec fiction at that, is that you can never guess what the craft is going to ask you to do.

So without further ado, I present to you the rules... of Swaugerball.

  • The game is played on a large ringed field of grass; 3 large rings around a central green. Scattered around the field at random points are boom tubes, and in the center of the field stands the launch tube.

  • At the start of the game the seven man swaugerball teams line up on either side of the field and, at the starting burst, race for the launch tube, the goal being for one person on either side to be first to make it to the launch tube.
    • Swaugerballers may obstruct opposing players with use of a glout, a sort of hard-light luminescent glow stick. Dueling is common.
  • The first swaugerballer to reach the launch post and place hands on it for five seconds becomes the game’s first launcher.
    • When the launch round begins, the launcher’s teammates become slammers and the opposition becomes stuffers.
    • The launch round lasts five minutes.
    • All swaugerballers aside from the launcher are forbidden on the green once the launch round begins. Any swaugerball to encroach upon the green will earn a 5 point penalty for his team.
    • If the launcher steps off the green for any purpose, the launch round is immediately ended and the opposing team
  • Iron balls pop up from the launch tube and the launcher swats them around the field with the glout. As soon as he makes contacts, the ball becomes the glowing swaugerball, luminescent with the characteristic color of the launching team.
  • The launcher, with the glout, launches swaugerballs in the direction of his slammer teammates, who attempt to run the launched swaugerballs down, catch them mid-air, and then race to a boom tube to slam it in for a score.
    • The boom tubes are worth 2, 3, or 4 points respectively, depending upon how far away from the launch tube they are. The further away, the higher the score.
    • A swaugerball may not hit the ground or it is ruled out of play.
  • The stuffers will attempt to deflect the glouted swaugerballs or tackle down slammers with the swaugerball.
    • Stuffers must either catch a swaugerball or knock it to the ground to deaden it. Stuffers can not intercept and score on the other team’s launched swaugerball.
    • Slammers may pass the swaugerball to each other in any direction they like so long as the swaugerball does not hit the ground.
    • A swaugerball may be tossed into a boom tube for a score equal to if it had been placed in the boom tube.
    • The launcher may direct swaugerballs towards the opposing team in an attempt to assist his teammates in reaching a boom tube score.
  • Whenever a boom tube is stuffed, a firework launches up out of it. The launcher may then begin to glout swaugerballs up and into the firework explosion, which triggers another burst of fireworks.
    • The launcher may chain together as many fireworks as they are able; each new link in the chain is worth a half a point, but takes an extra second off of the launch round clock.
  • In the case that the launcher is able to clear the field’s outer wall with a swaugerball, unchainable fireworks are triggered along the stadium’s perimeter. The launcher is, however, permitted a victory dance, upon which the field judges will award him anywhere from 0 to 5 total style points.
    • The launcher’s victory dance may last up to fifteen seconds. All time spent on the victory dance will continue to tick down off the launch round clock.
    • The victory dance is the only time during the launch round during which the launcher is permitted off of the green.
  • In the case that the launcher is able to sink a swaugerball into a boom tube directly off of a glout strike, with no assistance by either the slammers or inadvertent assistance by the stuffers, such a feat is worth 5 points.
  • After the five minute launch round is up, the opposing team can choose to A.) take an automatic two-and-a-half minute launch round, or B.) reset the field in hopes of winning the race-off and earning a five minute launch round.
  • The game continues on until one team has reached 126 points.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

Moment-of-Truth Time in Queens

There's a faint beacon of light emanating from Flushing Meadows right now, one we haven't seen since, oh, let's say 2006. You know, nine years ago? That's right, it has been nine years. NINE YEARS.

That's how long it has been since the New York Mets haven't been embarrassing. A few years back, under the shadow of Bernie Madoffs, the Mets brought on board as their general manager one Mr. Sandy Alderson, the man charged with bringing the franchise back to respectability... and, apparently, doing it on a shoestring budget.

Every GM has his hits and misses, and Alderson is no exception. His hits, though, which include acquiring starting pitchers Zack Wheeler and Noah Syndergaard and catcher Travis d'Arnaud, have the potential to be much more important long-term for New York's National League baseball club than are his misses. A group of slowly cultivated players are now, perhaps, coalescing into something greater than the sum of the Mets' parts. The 2015 roster will include (unexpected trades not counted for): an ace returning from injury, the 2014 Rookie-of-the-Year award winner, a Gold Glove center fielder, an All-Star (by default) second baseman, a top catching prospect who hit for four months last season like an All-Star, a first baseman who hit 30 home runs in just over 500 at-bats, an all-franchise third baseman looking for a do-over on a lost season, a former batting champ in right field, a left fielder for whom the team has moved in fences and imported a hitting coach, about 56 quality starting pitchers, and a power-throwing young bullpen.

It's not a can't-miss team by any stretch of the imagination, but it's not a hopeless one either. There's one thing missing from that above list, of course: a shortstop.

Oh, sure, the Mets have some internal "options". Do you want Wilmer Flores? A much ballyhooed prospect who hasn't shown much ballyhoo in the majors with the exception of last September... and you can't count September, really, because that's when major league rosters expand and teams let anyone and everyone pitch, either to save their stars for the postseason or see what their young players can do. Besides, when in the field Flores has hands of stone. For those who don't understand baseball metaphors, that's not a good thing. How about Ruben Tejada? We've seen that play for a couple of years now. We know how it goes. Hit a (very) little, field a (little) bit better.

So it's moment of truth time for Sandy Alderson and his staff. Although, granted, those not directly involved in such conversations can never be entirely sure which players teams are and aren't willing to trade, more likely than not a is deal out there to be had that would bring back a major upgrade at shortstop, if the Mets are willing to pay the price in both dollars and players. Are they, as their fans believe, too broke and/or cheap to make a move? Is Alderson sincere when he says there doesn't seem to be much out on the shortstop market, or is he just playing things close to the fleece vest, much like he did when swinging his deals for Wheeler and d'Arnaud?

It's not always that the biggest need for a team is so obvious it may as well be tattooed across the GM's face. Alderson and his staff have spent the last four years slowly rebuilding the franchise from the ground up. They are on the cusp of that respectability they so crave. The only thing standing in their way is the need to acquire a game-changing shortstop. Will they do it? Can they do it? Do they want to do it? Can they afford to do it? Those standing on the outside looking in won't truly know the answers to any of those questions until the entire offseason plays out, spring training begins, and we see who is standing between second and third for the Mets.

What is obvious to all, though, is this: the brass ring is in sight. The NL East is suddenly, surprisingly weak. The Mets have been building, they tell us, for 2015. Well, here it is. The roster is almost ready. There's one move left to make.

It's time for the Mets to show the baseball world that, for the fist time in nine years, they're serious. It's time for the Mets to go out and get themselves a shortstop.

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


Two years ago, a baseball team that had been non-competitive for far too long took a look at the young talent they were meticulously developing and decided they were one key piece away. So they took a calculated risk, trading their top prospect, a can't-miss kind of young player, a move designed to bring in that one piece they thought they needed to become a contender again. It was, to say the least, not a popular move among the media talking heads and Internet message boards.

The Royals, though, now turn to that one piece as they begin their first postseason since their World Championship of 1985, and "Big Game" James Shields takes the hill against Jon Lester and the Oakland A's, hoping to propel Kansas City past the one-game Wild Care playoff and into the ALDS. So was the trade worth it?

This isn't about what Wil Myers, the prospect Kansas City traded to get Shields, has or hasn't done since he was sent to Tampa Bay. It's about a team desperate to be relevant again doing what they had to do, maybe even overpaying, to bring in that one veteran player that could supplement the young core talent they had developed over the years. Think of the Mets as Royals 2.0, a notion that would horrify most Mets fans except for the fact that, hey, Kansas City is in the playoffs and the Metropolitans have all gone home for the winter. The $91 million Kansas City payroll isn't even that far off (though too far off for the tastes of many) from the Mets' $82 million payroll. 

But like the Royals, the Mets have been grooming a core of young players they hope will, sometime in the near future, make them contenders for years to come. The difference is that the Mets have been growing arms, and the Royals' young stars, for the most part, are positional players. So two years ago Kansas City spent a bat to get an ace. The Mets have a top prospect, too. He came over from Toronto in the R.A. Dickey trade and his name is Noah Syndergaard, a lanky fireballer who has talent evaluators across the game salivating at his potential.

But the Mets have arms to spare: Jacob deGrom, Matt Harvey, Zack Wheeler, Dillon Gee, Jon Niese, Rafael Montero, Jenry Mejia, Jeurys Familia, Vic Black, Carlos Torres... even must-see-hitter Bartolo Colon is still under contract for 2015. And while pitching arms are that most combustible of commodities, should the Mets look to do some "Big Game" hunting of their own this winter? There are two obvious needs on the Flushing baseball diamond, at shortstop and in either left or right field (depending on where Curtis Granderson ends up playing next year.) In a line-up that would currently feature All-Star Daniel Murphy, 30 HR-man Lucas Duda, injury-returning David Wright, rebound hopeful Curtis Granderson, Travis "Vegas" d'Arnaud, and Rey-Ordonez-as-a-center-fielder Juan Lagares, should the Mets spend their best chip on a supplementary bat, a truly reliable middle-of-the-order line-up threat missing from the aforementioned group? Or do you believe in Wilmer Flores and Matt den Dekker?

(A side note: while Mets fans, and likely Sandy Alderson, dream of Giancarlo Stanton, in players he would probably cost Syndergaard AND deGrom or Wheeler, not to mention an impact bat the Mets don't have. That price is almost certainly too steep to pay.)

This comes back to the Royals, and the question of what matters more: that their acquired piece, James Shields, has played a key role in returning them to October baseball? Or that the traded prospect, Wil Myers, may very well blossom into an All-Star hitter for years and years to come? What matters more, immediate glory or long term potential?

The Royals decided that they had waited for long term potential long enough, and immediate glory was their most pressing desire. The Mets should take note. They have a major league established core of pitchers already. Maybe Syndergaard turns out to be the best of the bunch. Maybe not. The wait for long term potential in Flushing, though, has also gone on long enough. Not all trades work out as well as the Shields trade has for the Royals, but if the gamble is never taken the pot can never be won. The Mets have been irrelevant for too many Octobers. The answer here is clear. If the hitter is out there to be had, and Syndergaard is the price tag, it's a deal and a gamble that the Mets must make.

Thursday, September 18, 2014

The Retirement of Derek Jeter: A Narrative Journey

And so the day will come when one final time, Derek Jeter, Yankee captain and shortstop for a generation, will doff his cap to the crowd and disappear off into the sunset, even as cries of “Derek! Don’t leave us!” echo through the Bronx.
Those cries shall go unheeded. Derek Jeter will leave the Yankees behind, leave baseball behind, leave all of us behind. And as the man has found himself standing in the blazing white spotlight for his entire adult life, a spotlight under which he has never wilted, never misstepped, never said the wrong line nor sang the wrong note… can we fault him his disappearance? His fade into the ether of memory? No, we can’t. And we won’t.
At first.
For before long, just a blink and a sigh and an offseason away, looms Old-Timer’s Day at Yankee Stadium, the day when the pinstriped heroes of yesteryear reunite and try to recapture just a sliver of the glory days of our youth. And while bleacher creatures and businessmen alike will applaud (politely) the usual parade of legends and Yankeeography subjects, all eyes will eventually drift to the hole between second and third, forever empty on the field and in their hearts, unoccupied and abandoned.
Many a pinstriped heart will break again in that moment of realization, as one by one the Bronx faithful realize: Derek Jeter has not returned for Old-Timer’s Day.
“Why not?” they wonder. “Doesn’t he love us? Doesn’t he care? Doesn’t he miss us as we miss him?”
And it’s a question that will ring again, louder and louder on and around all Old-Timers Days to come, days that all end up being entirely sans-Jeter celebrations. Finally, enough will be enough, and all but the most die-hard Jeter loyalists will turn. “Who needs him?” they’ll scoff on the radio and in the streets, in the bars and subways. “Who does he think he is? He’s nothing without us fans! We made him who he is!”
The obvious question, of course, will fail to rise and make itself heard through the self-reverent indignation of the sports fanatic, that obvious question being: “Just where the heck IS he?!”
On the day Derek Jeter retires, he climbs into his Ford Edge and drives to his Manhattan penthouse, locking himself in through the length of October. Derek Jeter, after all, should not be seen in public during the baseball playoffs if he is not playing in them; now that he’s retired, he sees no reason why that should change.
Once the playoffs are done and the world has looked away from baseball, Derek emerges, near unrecognizable through the coarse, wiry beard he’s sprouted over 30 days spent unshaven. He would wonder, if he cared anymore of such things, if nearly 20 years of beardless regulations has left his facial hair confused and uncertain so to how best to deploy.
But he no longer cares about such things.
He comes and goes only to attend meetings about Derek Jeter Books, the new book imprint being set up for him at a Manhattan publishing house. The publishing executives are all very excited about this imprint… although truth told, this new Jetes, all beard and flannel and distracted eyes, gives them pause.
Once he is satisfied his book imprint is shaping up the way he likes, Derek Jeter climbs back into his Ford Edge and drives it to an orphanage. He grabs a faded canvas bag from the trunk, rings the orphanage bell, hands his car keys to the astonished nun who opens the door, and walks away with his bag over his shoulder. Will the good sisters discover the check he left in the glove compartment? The one for his entire net worth? Perhaps, perhaps not.
Derek Jeter purchases an old beater from a used car dealership and hits the highway, heading north, his canvas bag in the backseat. He stops only for coffee, cigarettes, and to rescue an old basset hound limping along the side of the road somewhere in Vermont. He lets the hound sit shotgun. He names him Duke.
Derek Jeter and Duke make their way into the great state of Maine, stopping only for maple syrup and lobster and maybe some blueberries, until one night somewhere past midnight, along a stretch of wooded roadway at a spot just a few hours south of the Canadian border, Derek slows the used junker down to a stop and climbs out. He stands still, completely still, for more than ten minutes, and then he sucks in a great breath of air, tasting the bite of the great northeast on his tongue, and says simply, “Here.”
Derek Jeter and Duke leave their car on the side of the road and make their way into the woods. They will hike for several days, surviving on fish Derek spears from brooks and springs, and one night enjoying a luxury feast from the final bits of their lobster and maple syrup. Duke licks spilled syrup out of Derek’s beard as Derek blows a blues tune on an old tin harmonica dug out of the recesses of his canvas bag. Derek Jeter is content.
It is the next morning that Derek Jeter and Duke begin construction on their new home, right on that very spot. Using a hand axe from his bag and some whittlin’, Derek erects within a matter of days a simple yet cozy two-room log cabin, one room for livin’, the other for rockin’. Over the next several weeks, as winter closes in, Derek Jeter prepares their home for the elements: he collects firewood and stacks it on the side of the hearth, he kills and skins four bears, preserving their meat in mud pits packed with the newly fallen first snow and using the skins for rugs and for sleeping. He daubs the crevices of his new log home tight with clay and silt, insulation as the good Lord intended, and every night he and Duke hunker down in front of the hearth, an iron pot that Derek Jeter carried to his new home in his canvas bag perched above a roaring fire, full of piping hot bear stew.
Life, Derek Jeter decides, is good.
Derek Jeter doesn’t lie: that first winter is hard. He and Duke go through some rough, lean times. Companionship, though, is all they need, and as long as they have each other, Derek Jeter knows, they will be all right.
Spring comes, and with the thaw comes opportunity. Derek Jeter is excited: he now has a full summer to himself, at last, time he can use to properly spruce up he and Duke’s log cabin. Using naught but what the land has to give him (along with whatever his handy canvas bag has to offer) Derek Jeter crafts curtains, furniture, a new hearth and a bed for Duke. He mines salt from a nearby mine and sets to preserving half his daily hunt for the coming winter. Derek Jeter is learning.
One day in the middle of July, a man from Derek Jeter’s former life bursts in through the cabin door, bedraggled and sweaty but excited beyond compare. “Derek!” he cries. “It’s me! Your agent! I’ve found you! You have to come back to New York, Derek! Everyone is wondering where you’ve been! Is that an ax?”
That man is never heard from again.
Back in New York City, the publishing house that had once been so excited about the Derek Jeter Books imprint begins to lose faith. They had hoped for sports stories; they have received instead three packets of esoteric poetry, composed on parchment paper and tied crudely with brown string. There is no return address and each package is signed simply, “Derek”. The publishing house quietly cancels the imprint.
Winter approaches again and Derek Jeter has taken a bride. A comely lass of fifteen, the daughter of an old hermit from a cave fifteen miles away. She has a limp in the leg and a lazy eye, but Derek Jeter loves her grandly. She bears him seven children. Derek Jeter has his hands full now, expanding the homestead he and Duke once shared alone, making room for the children, raising them, playing with them. Life is busy. Life is full. Duke passes on. Derek Jeter mourns, but Derek Jeter is at peace.
Derek Jeter’s children are grown now, ages 8 to 18. Their mother has gone to a better place, taken by a harsh winter, and Derek Jeter is restless. He is sixty years old, his dog is gone, his wife is gone, his children are growing up and asking questions about the world outside their little log cabin. Why, even the cabin is plum worn out, and the roof won’t stand another patching. So Derek Jeter gathers up his brood and, with nowhere else to turn, they make their way to New York.
It is Old-Timer’s Day at Yankee Stadium. As has become tradition, wreaths have been laid by the outfield wall, just in front of the number 22. Up in the bleachers, a man with scraggly long, gray hair sits with seven rough-and-tumble children, ages 8 to 18. He is unrecognizable beneath his twenty-year old beard and under his faded Red Sox cap. His second-hand clothes attract no further inspection. Some of the children appear garbed in clothes crafted by hand. A woman in the next row moves a seat further away from them while the rest of the packed stadium observes the customary moment of silence for Derek Jeter, long gone but never forgotten.
Names are called, players are introduced, children of heroes lost are honored in memory of their fathers, former diamond warriors. The men who once played alongside Derek Jeter stand on the third base line and wave and smile. None will dare cross near shortstop position. They will walk around it in broad circles, superstitious even in old age. The current Yankee shortstop would avoid going to the position today if he could. They would, to a man, burst into tears should their fellow in the bleachers reveal himself to them. He does not.
It is the seventh inning. Derek Jeter leans over to his eldest son. “I’m going to get a hot dog,” he says, then gets up and walks away.
It is well past the end of the game. Derek Jeter’s children are still seated in the bleachers. The younger ones are getting scared. An usher approaches. “Hey, kids,” he says. “Ya gotta go.”
“We’re waiting for our dad,” the eldest replies.
“Who’s your dad?” the usher ask.
“Derek Jeter,” the eldest replies.
The children are kicked out of the stadium. That, they are told by several very serious looking security guards, wasn’t funny.
Derek Jeter’s children make their way, by hook or by crook, back to the cabin in Maine. The roof has fallen in again, but they are resourceful. Within a few days the roof is fixed and their home is habitable once more. Their father never returns. The little ones do not understand, but the eldest knows. His father is a wanderer, a vagabond, a restless and incomplete soul.
He must be free to seek his path. He must be free to move on. He must be free to find Derek Jeter.