Heroes and Villains

“You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.”

The line is from Christopher Nolan’s stylish 2008 film The Dark Knight. The accuracy of the statement was evidenced this week in the sporting world.

Joe Frazier died on Monday. The former world heavyweight champion was the embodiment of why boxing, despite its inherent brutality, was once considered a “gentleman’s sport.”

Frazier was not flashy. He was a hard-working, persistent pugilist, who attacked relentlessly with hooks to the head and body, tearing down defenses until opponents inevitably submitted. He is considered one of the greatest heavyweight champions despite successfully defending his title only four times.

In a sense, Frazier was on the wrong side of history. His name will forever be linked to that of Muhammad Ali because his career was largely defined by his three bouts with Ali, considered by boxing experts among the greatest fights ever staged. Frazier defeated Ali in the first of those bouts on March 8, 1971, a 15-round battle that saw Ali dropped to the canvas for the first time, suffering the first defeat of his professional career. Ali took their next two fights, including the brutal 1975 spectacle referred to as the “Thrilla in Manila” that saw Frazier, blinded by Ali’s repeated jabs, prevented by his corner from emerging for a fifteenth and final round.

The 1971 Frazier-Ali bout was deemed “The Fight of the Century,” one of the most anticipated boxing events ever. Ali, a conscientious objector to the Vietnam war, was criminally charged and convicted in 1967 for refusing induction into the U.S. armed forces (his conviction was eventually reversed by the U.S. Supreme Court on June 28, 1971). Ali’s boxing license was suspended and he did not fight for more than three years. When Ali’s license was restored in late 1970, the stage was set for his 1971 bout with Frazier, a battle of undefeated champions in the prime of their careers.

Frazier lacked Ali’s flash and charisma. While Ali loudly proclaimed himself “the greatest of all time,” Frazier went quietly about his business of training and preparing for his next fight. He never attained the world-wide renown and adulation of Ali – yet many believe that Ali would not be Ali without Frazier.

Frazier retired from boxing in 1981 at the age of 37. His death was mourned by many who, like myself, grew up in the 1970’s and remember him as a quiet, proud man whose name and career were synonymous with professionalism. He is remembered fondly, particularly in his native Philadelphia, where he is considered a hero and community icon.

Contrast Frazier with Joe Paterno, iconic coach of the Penn State University football team.

For over six decades (four of them as head coach), Paterno had been the king of college football, overseeing one of the most successful programs in the country. Paterno was deemed an educator who valued sportsmanship and integrity more than his teams’ abundant success on the gridiron. At the age of 84, he was a beloved and revered figure in the sport, and the universal belief was that he would continue coaching until he decided it was time to walk away. When that time came, all assumed that he would depart the game with his head held high. His reputation and legacy were beyond reproach.

All that changed in the span of days.

Late last week, a grand jury indicted Paterno’s long-time friend and defensive coordinator, Jerry Sandusky, charging him with the repeated and systematic sexual abuse of young boys on university grounds over several years. Further, two university officials, including the school’s athletic director, were also indicted based on the grand jury’s finding that they were aware of, yet ignored, Sandusky’s actions.

Paterno testified during the grand jury proceedings that he was made aware by a graduate assistant of a 2002 incident involving Sandusky and a 10-year old boy in the showers of the team’s football complex. The graduate assistant had witnessed the criminal act and notified Paterno, apparently believing that Paterno would contact the proper authorities. Paterno immediately brought the incident to the attention of the university’s athletic director, following school protocol that required notification of Paterno’s superiors.

However, neither Paterno nor anyone else at Penn State ever notified university police, which allowed Sandusky to continue his alleged pattern of abuse unabated for several additional years.

Paterno is not being targeted in the criminal investigation. Local authorities have stated that, by notifying his athletic director, he complied with his legal obligation under the circumstances.

Whether Paterno complied with his moral obligation, given the nature and severity of the act by Sandusky reported to him, has been openly debated for the past week. When the grand jury findings became public, pressure mounted on Paterno and the university’s president to resign or be stripped of their positions.

Earlier today, Paterno announced that he would retire at the end of this season, indicating that the effects of the child sex abuse scandal have been “overwhelming.” This evening, the university's Board of Trustees terminated Paterno's tenure as head coach, effective immediately.

And so ends the career of the man once deemed to embody all that was good about college football. He leaves no longer a hero, his legacy tainted by a scandal unlike any ever witnessed by the sport.

While Paterno is not a “villain” in the traditional sense, his public image has been forever altered. It is sad to think that he will be remembered not for the positives he brought to the sport over a span of 62 years, but for the sordid scandal that led to his departure.

Yet when one thinks of the abuse allegedly wrought upon young victims by Sandusky, and the realization that one call by Paterno to campus police might have prevented several of the assaults, it is difficult to remember Paterno in any other light.

Almost

“Almost” only matters in horseshoes and hand-grenades.

This phrase was often repeated by a local Hell’s Kitchen character whenever my childhood friends and I discussed near accomplishments.

He was right, of course. We like to tell our children that “trying” is what is important, that “it is not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.” Yet no one remembers the name of the person who nearly discovered penicillin, nor of the aviator who came close to crossing the Atlantic before Lindbergh’s famous flight.

Last week, the Texas Rangers twice came within a strike of winning their first World Series. Theirs was a fascinating tale. Their best pitcher fled to Philadelphia after the Rangers lost the 2010 World Series, believing that his chances of attaining a championship would be much improved with the Phillies. Their best player, Josh Hamilton, abused alcohol and drugs for years, nearly losing both career and life, before coming to grips with his addiction and evolving into one of the best players in the game. As a tribute to Hamilton’s struggles and perseverance, after the Rangers won the 2010 American League championship, players celebrated on the field with ginger ale, rather than the traditional champagne. The team’s manager, Ron Washington, disclosed prior to the 2010 season that he had tested positive for cocaine during the previous year, a mistake which he acknowledged and for which he apologized. Many speculated that Washington would be fired, but management and ownership supported him, and he rewarded that support by leading the Rangers to the first World Series appearance in franchise history.

A Rangers victory in 2011 would have yielded an intriguing story. Yet that story will never be told. The St. Louis Cardinals battled back from the brink of elimination and defeated the Rangers in seven classic games. The thrust of journalistic attention will therefore focus not on the Rangers, but on the Cardinals’ historic championship run. St. Louis almost missed the playoffs, overcoming a double digit games deficit in September to qualify for post-season play on the final day of the regular season. That is what will be remembered from the 2011 baseball season – not the Rangers’ successful defense of their American League title.

In the early 1990’s, the Buffalo Bills played in four consecutive Super Bowls, the only team in NFL history to attain that feat. Yet the Bills are noticeably absent from discussions of the game’s greatest teams. They are never mentioned with the Pittsburgh Steelers, Dallas Cowboys, New England Patriots or San Francisco 49ers because the Bills lost all four of their championship games. Likewise, their on-field leader, Hall-of-Fame quarterback Jim Kelly, never attained the glory or stature of Joe Montana, Terry Bradshaw or Tom Brady, all of whom won multiple NFL championships.

In 2007, the New England Patriots took an unblemished record into the Super Bowl, matching the 1972 Miami Dolphins’ accomplishment. But the Patriots were defeated by the New York Giants in Super Bowl XLII. Thus, when we speak of classic undefeated seasons, only the Dolphins are mentioned. The Patriots receive little recognition for their near accomplishment.

The city of St. Louis is celebrating. Championship parades are being staged for the Cardinals and their retiring manager, assured Hall-of-Famer Tony La Russa. Thousands are expected to attend.

It is uncertain whether Dallas will host any parades for its defeated two-time defending American League champions. Yet, even if consolation celebrations are held, it is difficult to imagine thousands of fans lining the parade route and showering the Rangers with chants of “We’re number two!”

A Special Message from Netflix

Dear Netflix Subscriber,

We still can’t understand it. When we announced in September our plans to split off DVD rentals from streaming services, we assumed that our customers would embrace the opportunity to maintain two separate accounts (streaming on Netflix and DVD rentals on Quikster), with different websites, different ID names and different passwords at twice the cost of traditional Netflix services.

We were wrong. Since we made the announcement, nearly one million customers have left the Netflix family, and account cancellations continue to arrive daily.

Our investors are unhappy. They see our decision to abruptly deviate from the “ease of use” formula that has traditionally made Netflix successful as a corporate mistake rivaling Coca-Cola’s 1985 ill-fated formula change.

You have spoken and we have listened. The message is loud and clear: if we want to maintain control of Netflix and our substantial annual incomes, we must re-evaluate our plans.

The first step in the re-evaluation process is a review of the origins of the idea. Why did we decide to make the change? Who was responsible? Our investigation has revealed that the source of the idea was a mailroom employee at Netflix’s main offices in Los Gatos, California. You may rest assured that the individual is no longer employed by Netflix and the company plans to post his address, telephone number and photograph on the Netflix website to give you, our valued customer, the opportunity to express your dissatisfaction directly to him. We will also include a direct link to the individual’s Facebook page, so that you may share your frustration with others. Our principal goal is to enable you, our valued customer, to assuage your rage with the same seamless ease that has traditionally defined Netflix.

The next step in the re-evaluation process is righting the wrong created by that ill-advised former Netflix employee. So we are going to keep Netflix as the one place to go for streaming and DVDs. That means no major changes: one website, one account, one password… in other words, no Quikster. The only noticeable change is that Netflix will now be called Netflix Classic, consistent with Coca-Cola’s resolution of its own PR fiasco.

Don’t get us wrong – we are still raising our prices more than 60 percent. We feel strongly that the increase is justified by the more than 3,500 second-rate TV episodes that have been added to our streaming selection over the past few weeks. We believe that the addition of thousands of shows no one wants to watch more than offsets our recent loss of the rights to top quality programs such as Showtime’s Dexter and our inability to secure the rights to any HBO programs (curse you, HBO-Go!).

So please, give us another chance. If you are one of the one million Netflix subscribers who left as a result of our former employee’s decision, please come back. We will make your return to the Netflix family as painless as possible. And, to avoid the possible stigma that may attach to perceived “turn-coats,” we will continue to charge your credit card for the entire period of your absence. It will be as if you never left!

We value you as a member, and are committed to making Netflix the best place to get your movies and TV shows.

Respectfully,

The Netflix Team

On the Field

The game is easy: throw the ball, hit the ball, catch the ball. The difficulty lies in execution. Baseball is, after all, a sport played by men with human flaws and frailties, subject to the ebbs and flows of life.

Spring training traditionally breeds speculation. Teams are analyzed and scrutinized based on previous years’ performances. Prognosticators anoint their would-be champions, favoring those squads that look best on paper. The problem, as traditionalists will tell you, is that the game is not played on paper – victors are determined on fields of dirt and grass.

The human element of baseball comes to mind due to last week’s release of Moneyball, the Brad Pitt vehicle directed by Bennett Miller, of Capote fame. Based on an excellent 2003 book of the same title by acclaimed author Michael Lewis (whose take on the 2008 financial crisis, The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine, appeared on bestsellers lists for several months), Moneyball relates the story of Billy Beane, long-time General Manager of the Oakland A’s, who successfully competed with large market teams during the early part of the new millennium by abandoning traditional scouting techniques and focusing almost entirely on statistical analysis.

Beane’s innovative twenty-first century approach, adopted by other small market teams in subsequent years, revolutionized a sport that, despite its glorification of records and numbers, had been reluctant to abandon the “gut check” method of scouting and player development. While the Yankees and Red Sox lured high profile athletes with big money and the promise of media exposure, Beane focused on less heralded college athletes who did not necessarily possess the traditional tools of the sport (such as power and speed), but who reached base often enough to earn high spots on the A’s unorthodox list of prospects.

The problem with Moneyball is that its principal premise is somewhat dated. After turning down an offer from the large market Red Sox to assume management of its front office (electing instead to remain in northern California, close to his daughter from an earlier marriage), Beane’s baseball success came to a halt. After trading away key players inherited from his predecessor with the A’s, Sandy Alderson (now General Manager of the large market New York Mets), Beane’s teams simply stopped winning. This unfortunate epilogue is conveniently omitted from the Hollywood version of the Billy Beane story.

The eventual dilution of Beane’s success is not surprising because, despite his efforts to prove otherwise, numbers in baseball do not tell the whole story. Quite often, the difference between winning and losing is a hard slide into second base to break up a double play, or hitting the cutoff man to keep the tying run from reaching scoring position – acts which take place on the field and can not be quantified or easily inserted into statistical columns. That is where execution and the human element assume paramount importance.

While the average fan may view baseball players as commodities to be preserved or discarded, depending on the needs of fantasy teams, the product which Beane puts on the field is a matchup of men against men. Beane’s men in recent years have lacked the skill of their opponents. Not surprisingly, the Oakland A’s have not fielded a winning squad since 2006.

This does not mean that Beane, a charismatic personality whose popularity will certainly be enhanced by his association with Brad Pitt, has failed. On the contrary, he will always be remembered as an innovator in a sport that has historically abhorred change – how else could one explain the sport’s refusal to accept black major leaguers until 1947?

Too much emphasis is placed on the off-field impact of men like Beane, whose success will always be measured by what takes place on the field. Players – not owners, managers or general managers – win games. The true role of back-stage players such as Beane is to select athletes, put them on the field, and let them do their thing – while trying to maintain a safe enough distance to avoid mucking things up.

Summer of '83

It was short commute, thirty minutes door-to-door. I hopped the A-train at 42^nd Street and emerged at Chambers Street to join a sea of grey and blue flowing in waves towards the city’s financial, business and legal centers.

One Hogan Plaza housed the offices of Robert Morgenthau, District Attorney for New York County since 1975. It was the summer after my first year of law school and I had been hired as an intern by Morgenthau’s office, a position that paid little but offered opportunities to delve into the law and observe trials. This was my first job within my chosen profession, and would help shape later decisions in my career.

I had been assigned to “Rackets,” a division housed by young, ambitious and idealistic professionals with the unenviable task of attempting to control the city’s organized crime. I was one of three interns with the Division. The others were Lisa, a pretty first-year student from St. John’s who, for some reason, spoke with a British accent despite her Brooklyn upbringing, and Jerry, a second-year student from Brooklyn Law, whose father was a judge in a civil division. We worked together in a common area, researching legal issues and helping the ADA’s prepare for hearings and trials.

“Rackets” was an elite division within the D.A.’s office. Most divisions were trial-oriented, its attorneys assigned to particular judges. ADA’s in trial divisions had virtually no down time; they moved from one trial to the next, with little time to prepare, relying on secretaries and interns to fill in gaps. “Rackets” was different. Trials were few, and preparation abundant. The ADA’s worked with investigators to prepare their cases and only filed charges when cases were ready.

Investigations often involved field work, and one of the highlights of my summer was a visit with an ADA to a temporary surveillance center in the basement of a building across the street from a target, a seller of furs suspected of trading in stolen merchandise. The center was everything that I imagined: televisions screens depicting activity inside the target’s store, detectives watching the screens and listening over earphones to selected conversation, with audio and video recorded for further analysis. I would later spend time reading through transcripts of audio recordings, highlighting those portions that would help make the case.

Because trials in “Rackets” were scarce, I was given the chance to observe trials in other divisions. I selected a second-degree murder case involving guns, drugs and adultery. The trial lasted three days and the jury deliberated less than two hours before returning a guilty verdict. Later that day, as I related my experience to one of the senior members of “Rackets,” he smiled and nodded. “Convicting the guilty is simple,” he said. “Only the great ones convict the innocent.”

When I think back over my career, I can attribute my decision to become a litigator to my experience that summer. I pictured myself standing before the court, putting on evidence, cross-examining witnesses. I imagined the adrenaline, the rush that every litigator experiences when a trial begins, and I knew that is what I wanted.

I told this to Jerry, my fellow intern, over lunch one day. Jerry was an expert on the local cuisine, having learned of the best places from his father, who presided in a nearby courthouse. We ate that day at what Jerry referred to as “the Chinese McDonald’s,” a small basement restaurant on Mott Street decorated with police photographs and memorabilia. It was a favored destination of the NYPD and featured the best Sesame Noodles in the city. Jerry and I spoke of our experiences, our goals and ambitions, all-the-while dining on Chinatown’s best.

After lunch we took a shortcut through a small alley to Baxter Street and walked south towards One Hogan Plaza. As we approached our building the crowds suddenly appeared, men and women in suits, walking briskly in every direction, heading back to their offices while lost in thought. The revolving doors to our building offered refuge from the waves, thousands of people pondering life, love, and future, lost in a dance of perpetual motion in the shadows of the World Trade Center.

In the Eye of the Storm

They were ahead of their time - a team built on speed, while others plodded.

The University of Miami Hurricanes of the 1980’s helped reinvent the sport of college football. Before Miami unleashed its aerial attack and defeated previously unbeaten and overwhelming favorite Nebraska for the national championship on January 2, 1984, the college gridiron was dominated by running games. Dominant teams like Oklahoma, Alabama and Georgia followed a simple formula for success: build offenses around big, wide country boys on the lines to open gaping holes for sure-handed running backs. The ball was only aired when absolutely necessary. Even Joe Namath, whose aerial heroics in the AFL and NFL would later earn him a spot in the pro football hall of fame, took a back seat to the running game with Coach Bear Bryant’s Crimson Tide.

The Hurricanes, under coaches Howard Schnellenberger and Jimmy Johnson, took a different approach to the top. They developed a pro-style offense, throwing the ball frequently and sacrificing girth for agility. One by one, the traditional powerhouses fell to Miami’s inventive strategy. It soon became clear that the only way that others would successfully compete against the Hurricanes would be to emulate their approach. This forever changed the sport of college football.

Yet there was more to the evolution of the Hurricanes than a creative offense. The teams that Schnellenberger and Johnson put on the field, the teams that consistently defeated all others, were unlike any previously seen in the sport. The players were arrogant, unabashed, and decidedly urban, many emerging from inner city high schools (which often scared away recruiters) with apparent chips on their shoulders, a sense that they had something to prove.

The Hurricanes’ rise to the top was far from universally embraced. There was a sense of outrage that these players, so unlike anything previously seen in the sport, could so successfully thumb their noses at the establishment. Their antics were criticized, their accomplishments besmirched to such an extent that games against the University of Notre Dame were dubbed “Catholics vs. Convicts.” In the mid-1990’s Sports Illustrated columnist Rick Reilly, never a fan of the Hurricanes, went so far as to suggest that the University of Miami football program should be disbanded.

Recent revelations about problems with the university’s athletic program have unleashed a new bout of anti-Hurricane sentiment. Yahoo.com’s story about booster (and incarcerated ponzi schemer) Nevin Shapiro’s ties to the football team have reawakened university critics, with Sports Illustrated once more calling for the disbanding of the football program.

The story is decidedly not pretty, replete with allegations of millions of dollars spent by Shapiro over a decade on gifts for athletes while administration and coaches looked the other way, content to focus their attention on the thousands of dollars (reportedly ponzi funds) that Shapiro donated to the university. There are stories of South Beach parties, luxury yachts, big screen televisions, strippers, and even an abortion, paid by Shapiro for Hurricane players.

When questioned about these allegations, former Hurricanes now in the NFL did not issue the expected denials. Their attitude was not “that did not happen,” but rather “I don’t have time to deal with this.” The reality is that, if the money flowed as freely and openly as the Yahoo.com story suggests, denials would be useless. Thus, the former Hurricanes’ “candor” is as smart as it is refreshing in a sport where hypocrisy rules.

In January of this year, the college football national championship game was played between Auburn and Oregon, two schools under investigation for major NCAA violations. It was alleged, for example, that, before he settled on Auburn, the father of star quarterback and Heisman Trophy winner Cam Newton (the first pick in this year’s NFL draft), tried to sell his son’s services to other schools. While conducting its investigation (an investigation that is still ongoing) the NCAA cleared Newton to play in the championship game, thus ensuring big television ratings and big paydays for both schools, their conferences, and the NCAA.

The NCAA acts only when compelled. Its stripping USC of a national title was effectively forced upon it by a story (with an eerie similarity to that of the Hurricanes) about the lavish lifestyle of star running back and Heisman Trophy winner Reggie Bush funded by a generous booster. The NCAA (like the universities themselves) looks the other way until it no longer can, and then acts belatedly, after all (athletes and coaches) involved in the scandal of the month are no longer with the universities. When the NCAA brings down its enforcement hammer, it is usually on athletes and coaches who were not around when the infractions occurred.

That is what is happening at the University of Miami today. There is a new athletic director and a new football coach, neither of whom was reportedly alerted of the NCAA’s pending investigation and its possible consequences when they were offered their jobs. There is talk of the “death penalty,” the enforced closing of the university’s football program, which will effectively put the new coach out of a job, and leave many student-athletes, who may or may not have been involved in the sanctioned conduct, in a state of limbo.

The reality is that the NCAA is unlikely to impose the “death penalty” on UM, much to the chagrin of its critics. University President Donna Shalala is too politically well-connected, and the NCAA’s prior limited experience with the “death penalty” has not been favorable. Thus, if the allegations are proven, the University of Miami will likely be fined, stripped of scholarships and TV appearances, and forced to endure a decade of futility on the football field.

Like many other penalized schools, UM will survive its moment in the NCAA spotlight. There is little new about the Hurricanes’ story. The major difference between this and prior scandals, such as Ohio State’s “tattoos for memorabilia” allegations that cost coach Jim Tressel his job, is the apparent openness with which UM athletes thwarted the system.

The University of Miami is, once again, a groundbreaker in the sport of college football. Rather than hide their transgressions, Hurricanes past and present appear to be embracing their renewed “outlaw” image. And perhaps the public should, as well. After all, the Hurricane name is now universally associated with money, parties and strippers – and isn’t that what college football is all about?

Milestone

Twenty five years.

Much happens in a quarter century.

In 1986, I was a first-year attorney, learning my craft, beginning to understand the elusive concept of “the law.” I had moved to Miami from New York the prior June after graduating from NYU. For the first time in two decades I had no classes to attend. I was a grown-up working in a grown-up world – or at least pretending to be.

Patricia moved to Miami in early summer and enrolled in the MBA program at UM. Our wedding was scheduled for December, two days after Christmas. We bought our first house, a pre-construction, zero-property line dollhouse, designed with the look of New England in a small, un-gated community called “Hampshire Homes.” We awaited our nuptials, and completion of our home’s construction, in a small, second-story apartment in a lesser part of Coral Gables.

I was an avid sports follower back then – much more passionate than I am today. I was particularly enamored of the Mets, and 1986 was a great year to be a Mets fan.

They were the best and most colorful team in baseball, a collection of characters with nicknames such as Mookie, Nails, Mex and The Kid. While first baseman Keith Hernandez and catcher Gary Carter were the leaders of the team, veteran all-stars with an affinity for the media, the future of the franchise was in the hands of two young players approaching superstar status. It was universally assumed that Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry were launching what would assuredly be Hall-of-Fame careers. They were young, tall, athletic and very talented. Their future appeared boundless.

The Mets dominated the National League East, winning a major league high 108 games, and finishing 21.5 games ahead of the runner-up Phillies. After edging the Houston Astros in an exciting six games in the National League Championship Series, the team squared off against the Boston Red Sox and their own assured future Hall-of-Famer, Roger Clemens, in what would be acknowledged as one of the best World Series ever played.

Game six was the classic. Trailing by two runs with two out in the tenth inning, and two strikes on Gary Carter, the Mets staged an improbable comeback, highlighted by Mookie Wilson’s slow roller through the legs of Bill Buckner that allowed the winning run to score. I watched the entire rally on a small bedroom black and white set, while Patricia studied for an exam in the living room. My hand rested on the on/off button during the entire bottom half of the tenth inning. I resolved to stay with the game through its conclusion, but had no intention of watching the Red Sox celebrate after the final out. The final out never came, my fingers left the on/off button when I leapt into the air as Ray Knight crossed home with the winning run. There was then no doubt that the Mets would win the Series, and the Curse of the Bambino, which had plagued the Sox for more than sixty years, since the team sold soon-to-be immortal Babe Ruth to the hated Yankees, would again become the subject of sporting conversation.

I look back at our wedding photos from that December and can not believe how young we looked. Many of the faces on those photos have disappeared, taken by age, illness or distance. Much happens in a quarter century.

Patricia and I are celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary this December. The intervening years saw us celebrate the birth of our twins, mourn the loss of Patricia’s father, and survive the devastation of Hurricane Andrew. Through it all our love and commitment for each other has endured. When I look at her, I still see the girl with whom I fell in love.

The Mets have not won another championship. Sure Hall-of-Famers Gooden and Strawberry saw their careers derailed by drugs and alcohol. Roger Clemens stands accused of lying to Congress concerning his use of performance-enhancing drugs. He will likely be boycotted by Hall-of-Fame voters. The Red Sox forever put to rest the Curse of the Bambino, winning two championships after the millennium, and leaving the Chicago Cubs alone in lamenting their own Curse of the Billy Goat. “The Kid,” Gary Carter, is fighting for his life, trying to overcome a series of brain tumors.

My office near the center of the Gables overlooks a small movie theater featuring foreign and independent films. It is a recent addition to our neighborhood and brings to mind the days of my youth in New York, before multiplexes spawned and standing in line for a movie was a regular weekend event.

I am no longer the bright-eyed novice embarking on a legal career. I am instead a partner in a firm of fourteen that bears my name, charged with management of people and cases. I like to think of myself as I once was, but the reality is that change comes to all, and we either embrace it or mourn an unattainable past.