Here's this week's missive from Scott Turner, who runs the Thursday night Pub Quiz at Rocky Sullivan's. Sorry he wasn't on the blog last week. For some reason, Yahoo wouldn't let his email through. We're glad he's back And thanks to our sponsor, Miss Wit,  the Red Hook t-shirt queen.

Greetings Pub Quiz Dance Floor Denizens…

Before getting into the week's business, here's this, from the Rocky Sullivan's staff:

We will be holding a benefit this Friday July 10th  at 7pm at Rocky's. 
Heather and Ariel our neighbors across the street tragically lost their
first born son Gabriel Neshamah last week after being delivered on his
due date but sadly not taking a breath.  We are holding a benefit to
raise money for baby Gabriel's burial.  We will be asking a suggested
$25 donation.  People who cannot make Friday can always leave a
donation in an envelope with the bar staff marked Gabriel.

Thanks in advance for your support.

Rocky's
neighbors and patrons are the reason we're still there.  If you can
bring something extra this Thursday for Gabriel's journey, that'd be
great.

* * * * * * * *

A few weeks ago I reconnected with my best friend from 1972.  Most people have best friends that last lifetimes.  I have Whit and Diane and the Skyline Five.  I'm lucky, and no, you can't force me to choose a single Best Friend.

In 1972, entering 7th Grade at Eastview Junior High in White Plains, I quickly made friends with Ray Schieber.  He'd moved to White Plains from Chicago. 
We found each other through obsessive sports fandom and, well, little
else.  We made up games throughout the school year, created new
baseball teams and leagues for them to play in, took each other on in
various baseball board games, plotted all sorts of shortcuts home from
school either to his folks' or my mom's apartment.

Ray's mom was wonderfully welcoming, his dad taciturn and
methodical in his reading of the Saturday night early edition of Sunday
Daily News, and his older sister put up with us, rarely successfully in hers or our minds.

Once we discovered ancient animal bones on the grassy slope leading
from the football field to the back of the bowling alley — ancient
until the science teacher we brought them to, Mr. Cutler, let
us down easy by saying "well, they might be dinosaurs, but more likely
it's one of the neighborhood cats."  On further review, maybe they
weren't the biggest oldest or oddest bones every unearthed.

There was a third friend, Scott Robeson.  Our triumvirate coursed through films, photography, sports, current events, Hi-C, bologna sandwiches, slices at the Italian Pavilion on Mamaroneck Avenue.  We made it through the school year with little to no sense that life was anything but friendship and collecting NFL Player Stamps at the local Sunoco.

There's a lot I'll leave out just now — from the endless eccentric
but harmless adventures Ray, Scott and I went on through to the smart,
covert and brilliant way Ray tracked me down.  He and his mom are
upstate, he's a brilliant and so-far unrecognized artist.  And Scott is
a super in a building in Manhattan who several years ago made the papers when he foiled a mugging attempt.

Why the one-year friendship?  At the end of the school year, my mom
and her new husband dropped the bomb — we'd be moving to North
Carolina at summer's end.  That kinda sucked.  I missed Ray and Scott
and for years we stayed in touch, until we didn't.  We took separate
paths, but they were always joined way back there in 1972.

Ray loaned me the Eastview yearbook from our one year together,
'72-73.  Here's our class photo.  Since homeroom was with a shop
teacher, there are only boys in this photo:


Scott Robeson (top row, far right); Scott M.X. Turner, Ray Schieber (bottom row, last two right)

One more thing.  Do you recognize the kid sitting, far left?  It's David Sanger, the New York Times' Pulitzer Prize winning Washington correspondent.  Back in seventh grade, David was that worst blending of personality disorders — a Mets fan with the arrogance of a Yankees fan.  That's messed up.  Because I was a catcher in little league, I'd taken a shine to Johnny Bench, my generation's greatest catcher.  (That's still true, by the way.)

David razzed me every chance he could.  He was churlish and
annoying and the kill-switch that even kids know to throw when they've
gone to far, David either chose not to throw it or never had one
installed.  I remember on several occasions really wanting to clock
him, but I never did.

That's right.  At least a good half dozen times, I nearly punched out a future Pulitzer Prize winner.

A future Pulitzer Prize winner who deserved it.

Sure, he's won a couple of Pulitzers.  Bet he has fancy seats at Tarp Field, too.

I'm glad Ray found me.  I'll pull out the old Sports Illustrated Baseball game (1972 edition) and we'll see who's still got it.