![\"When](\"https:\/\/nypost.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/2\/2016\/06\/mad.jpg?quality=75&strip=all\")
<\/p>\nI hope\u00a0there is one thing that remains clear as crystal with this column, after almost 14 years in The Post, after close to 20 writing for newspapers in and around New York City: It is a blast. It really is. It still is. Mostly, that\u2019s because after all these years, I still do love sports, love watching them, love writing about them.<\/p>\n
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And yes, sure, there are perks to the job that you never much imagine starting out, stuff that happens when you happen to be at a ballpark or an arena or a racetrack or the right saloon or the proper auditorium. We don\u2019t know the athletes as well as sportswriters of another generation did. We don\u2019t hang out with them. Still, serendipity does sometimes smile \u2026<\/p>\n
Memory I<\/strong>: Port St. Lucie, spring training, 1999.\u00a0<\/strong>The Mets had fired Tim McCarver the previous fall, replaced him in the TV booth with Tom Seaver. Seaver was due to report one March morning in his other role as a spring pitching adviser, and we were ready for him with our hard questions: me. Keegan of The Post. Quinn of the Daily News. Then, Seaver was late, and not a little late. Yes, we were going to interrogate him but good \u2026<\/p>\n Then Seaver showed up, cap askance, smile on his face, No. 41 on his back, baseball in his hands, he strolled over to where the group of us was, all of us, tough guys with our tough questions queued up, and Seaver \u2014 The Franchise, Tom Terrific, 311 lifetime wins \u2014 asked, \u201cSo, who wants to have a catch?\u201d<\/p>\n And with that, we had to literally physically restrain ourselves from falling over each other and yelling \u201cME! ME! PICK ME! PICK MEEEEEEEEEE!!!\u201d (I don\u2019t remember any of the questions that followed. I doubt they spilled any blood).<\/p>\n Memory<\/strong>\u00a0II<\/strong>: Sitting in a dugout in Tampa one year, chatting on my cell phone, and I recognize Joe Namath sitting next to me. We shoot the breeze about stuff. Somehow, a Hempstead Turnpike bar I frequented in my youth came up and Namath smiled. He knew the place. Somehow, someone produced a football.<\/p>\n \u201cThink quick,\u201d Namath said, spinning the ball my way. I am grateful every day of my life that I got both hands on that football, secured it to my chest. Namath winked. I felt like Don Maynard in the AFL title game. Wouldn\u2019t let go of the ball till they tore it out of my arms.<\/p>\n Memory III<\/strong>: This is the one I\u2019ve been thinking about most of the past few days, understandably. This was Gallagher\u2019s Steak House, less than three weeks after I had joined The Post in December 2002. Muhammad Ali was there to promote a magazine to which he had lent his name. Ali was \u2026 well, Ali, even though he was slowed by Parkinson\u2019s. He performed magic tricks for the writers. Someone asked him about the reluctance of modern sporting icons \u2014 specifically Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods \u2014 to take stands about anything, let alone the ones for which Ali paid such a dear price in the prime of his boxing career.<\/p>\n Ali shook his head slowly.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can\u2019t do things because I did them,\u201d he told us, the words tumbling in a painful drip-drip-drop. \u201cIt\u2019s got to come from the heart.\u201d<\/p>\n More magic tricks. More fans approaching with magic markers and old photos. All at once, he caught my eye. \u201cHello, young fella,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n I was caught off guard, so I told Ali that my professional mentor was Jerry Izenberg, the longtime columnist in Newark and at The Post, one of the first writers who stood up in print for him. Their friendship was already 40 years old. The stories Jerry had shared with me were priceless. And remain so.<\/p>\n \u201cYou know Jerry?\u201d he said, and his face formed into a frown. Then slowly, he raised his right arm, formed a fist, and nudged my jaw with a benign jab. \u201cYou\u2019re ugly. Just like him.\u201d And then he smiled. \u201cTell him I said that.\u201d<\/p>\n I told Jerry. Are you kidding? I told everyone I know. I still do. Mostly, they say, \u201cMan, you have a great job.\u201d<\/p>\n And mostly, I tell them: \u201cYou don\u2019t even know the half of it.\u201d<\/p>\n Gray Fitzmorris<\/strong>: David Bowie, Prince, Muhammad Ali \u2026 2016 isn\u2019t even half over and already I dread what I\u2019ll find out when my newspaper hits the driveway.<\/p>\n Vac<\/strong>: As John Lennon sang, \u201cI read the news today, oh boy \u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Patrick<\/strong>\u00a0Kirk<\/strong>: I\u2019m just glad the Knicks got a decent coach, it wasn\u2019t looking too good there for a while. This city is so starved for just a decent Knicks team, it isn\u2019t funny. We wouldn\u2019t even care about the Yanks and Mets (at least for a little while). But we\u2019re still a [long] way from a 50-win Knicks team.<\/p>\n Vac<\/strong>: I tell younger folks all the time, and they find it increasingly hard to believe me: It wasn\u2019t all that long ago that baseball season in New York didn\u2019t really start until the day after the Knicks were eliminated.<\/p>\n @zeb01cah<\/strong>: Time for Rene Rivera to be the Mets\u2019 everyday catcher. He\u2019s just too good with the staff to be playing once a week.<\/p>\n @MikeVacc<\/strong>: He\u2019s so impressive defensively that hitting even .230 would be a bonus. Of course, when he hits home runs, as he did Friday night \u2026<\/p>\n Jim<\/strong>\u00a0Maisano<\/strong>: Having watched virtually every Knicks game in 1982-83 and \u201983-84, Hubie Brown was a terrific coach that dragged out every possible bit of talent possible from a subpar roster beyond Bernard King.<\/p>\n Vac<\/strong>: Jim\u2019s right. I should have included Hubie among the good ones the Knicks have hired through the years. My memory is blinded by the Dumpster fire his tenure became at the end. But those two years especially were an awful lot of fun.<\/p>\n You may look at James Loney playing first base and wearing No. 28 on his back, and it might conjure for you an image of a former Met now playing in Washington, who played a little first in his time here. Me? Twenty-eight, first base, will forever be John \u201cThe Hammer\u201d Milner.<\/p>\n It really is fascinating watching how even accomplished major league hitters have no choice but to guess and pray whenever one of Aroldis Chapman\u2019s 102-mph heaters sizzles their way, like they\u2019re in a strange carnival game.<\/p>\n I must admit: We gave up on \u201cBloodline\u201d last year in my house a little before hitting the finish line. But too many TV-o-philes whom I know and trust have urged me it\u2019s worth taking a second look, so I will. Mostly because of you, Coach Taylor.<\/p>\n You know who must find the notion of Ryan Fitzpatrick being a $12 million quarterback a little amusing? A certain Joe Willie Namath.<\/p>\n![\"Muhammad](\"https:\/\/media.vanityfair.com\/photos\/5755662b2351f6412a073534\/master\/pass\/ali-poynter.jpg\")
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<\/p>\nWhack Back at Vac<\/h3>\n
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\nVac\u2019s Whacks<\/h3>\n
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