December 12, 2010: Sen. Bernie Sanders, Hero Extraordinaire and Mensch of The Year

December 12, 2010: Sen. Bernie Sanders, Hero Extraordinaire and Mensch of The Year

Since1992, Bernie Sanders has been on my list of heroes along with such people as Ralph Nader, Thurgood Marshall, and my dad, Bernie Novick.

I first met Bernie on the streets of Burlington, Vermont ––when he was running for Congress early in the summer of 1992. I was up in Burlington, playing a comedy club and Bernie was campaigning on the streets of the town where he was Mayor from 1981 to 1989. He approached me with a big smile, and in his Brooklyn accent asked me where I stood on the issues impacting the state. When I told him I was not from Vermont but from Brooklyn, he chatted me up anyway.

I asked him for one of his campaign buttons for my dad–– (Bernie was so well known in Vermont that his button just had one word on it ––“Bernie”). I told him my dad was named “Bernie” and was also from Brooklyn, and he said to me, “Then he must be a good man!”

Years before, I had read about Bernie in a New York Times Sunday Magazine section article about the “only self-described socialist mayor in the United States”. The article went on to describe how Bernie had been born in Brooklyn, and moved to Vermont and ran for mayor and beat out more well-funded Democratic and Republican candidates. Through his success as mayor in revitalizing Burlington’s downtown and his personal popularity, he served several terms.

After meeting Bernie that summer in 1992, I decided to support him in his race for Congress. And so, I organized a comedy show benefit that included myself, comedians Scott Blakeman and Henriette Mantell. The Sanders for Congress campaign arranged a location at a club in Brattleboro for October 14, 1992 (which happened to be the night of the Gore quail Stockdale vice presidential debate).

Scott is a wonderful political comedian who has worked for free for good political causes for many years. Henriette is someone you may know from The Brady Bunch movie, where she played Alice the Maid, and from her work as the co–producer of the documentary on Ralph Nader, “An Unreasonable Man”.

The comedy show only raised about $7000––but they told me that that was a sensational amount for any congressional race in Vermont.

I am still a strong supporter of Pres. Barack Obama, although I am disappointed in his continuation of several of the Bush policies including not closing Guantánamo, sending more troops to Afghanistan to lengthen that senseless war, and continuing the Bush tax cuts. Bernie Sanders has been on the right side of these issues since the very beginning.

And so, for his unwavering dedication to do the right thing and take a stand––even for eight and a half hours in his recent filibuster––I award Bernie Sanders the Mensch of The Year 2010.

By the way, he gave me the Bernie campaign button, which we have to this day.

The House That Ruth Built

In a way it’s ironic, that we are losing “The House That Ruth Built” at about the same time when so many people are losing their homes, too. Oh, well.

There is something about the great cathedral of baseball, Yankee Stadium, which the new stadium could just never have. It will take a while for me to call the new stadium with its luxury boxes, restaurants, shops, excellent site lines 'Yankee Stadium. This is the Stadium where all those 26 World Championships were won. This is where I learned about the world’s greatest sports franchise, the New York Yankees from my dad, Bernie Novick, a Yankee fan.

Today, rather than naming a baseball stadium after the team that plays there, ‘naming rights’ are sold for millions and millions. Stadiums are named after orange juice companies [Minute Maid Park- Houston Astros; Tropicana Field – Tampa Bay Devil Rays] or multi-national banks [PNC Park – Pittsburgh Pirates; Citizens Bank Park – Philadelphia Phillies] or world-wide communications companies [AT&T Park - San Francisco Giants; U.S. Cellular - Chicago White Sox]. You need a scorecard just to figure out which ballpark you’re in.

But not at Yankee Stadium. There, the product is written in big blue letters a mile high and two miles wide for all the world to see: Yankee Stadium. Home of the New York Yankees.

The last time I went to Yankee Stadium was two years ago. We arrived too late to see Memorial Field. But not the first time I went…in 1962. Summer, July. A mid- week night game against the old Kansas City Athletics...

It was a night game, and my father was taking me alone. Both of my brothers were in sleep-away camp, and I got to go to my very first baseball game with just my dad. From Brooklyn to Yankee Stadium was a mere 18 miles away. But on the subway, it would almost two hours. I did not care.

Before we left, my father made sure I had my Yankee baseball cap, and glove---because we were going to sit in the ‘best seats at the Stadium’, my father declared, and sure a ball would be hit near there. My mother made sure I had a chicken sandwich for dinner and a sweatshirt in case it got cold. We were on our way.

We took the Gerritsen Avenue bus to the D Train at Avenue U and East 16th Street. But before we went through the subway turnstile, my dad asked me for the chicken sandwich in the brown paper bag. He took it and through it in the trash.

“At Yankee Stadium”, he said, “You have hot dogs for dinner, not a chicken sandwich.” I was very open to learning all about baseball protocol. “But, when we get back home, if mom asks ‘How was the chicken sandwich?’, you need to tell her with a big smile, ‘Boy, that was the best chicken sandwich I ever had!’ ”. So, I was tuned in to our own little subversion of the truth.

And all along the subway ride, my dad made me practice, smiling, rubbing my stomach and saying, “Boy, mom, that was the best chicken sandwich I ever had!”. I had to sound convincing. The D train went all the way from Brooklyn, right to Yankee Stadium. The subway got more and more crowded as we traveled through Brooklyn, through mid-town Manhattan, and on in to the Bronx. And I kept on practicing. It made the subway ride fun.

We arrived for a 8 o’clock game at about six thirty, to catch batting practice. As we exited the subway at 161st Street in the Bronx, I could see the Stadium in the distance. The streets were packed with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors all walking to the Stadium. We crossed many streets, and the Stadium got larger and larger. “We have the best seats in the house,” my dad proudly declared.

We took the escalator up and up. As we got to the first level, I asked, “Are our seats here?”. “Nope, our seats are much better than these,” my dad called out over the buzz of the crowd. We went up one more level. “What about here? Are these our seats?” “Nope, even better than this. We have the best seats in the Stadium,” my dad said again, very proudly. Finally, after three more levels, we finally got up to the highest level inn the Stadium.

As we walked through the tunnel from the escalator to the seats, I could see the greenest green of the grass in the outfield, the brownest brown of the infield dirt, and the bluest blue of the sky.

And there they were: The New York Yankees taking batting practice. Number 7, Mickey Mantle. Number 8, Yogi Berra. And Roger Maris, Number 9. We walked up a steep set of steps, to just five rows from the top, just behind the first base side.

“These are our seats? All the way up here?,” I asked somewhat incredulously. “Of course, these are the best seats. You can see the whole Stadium from here. You can see the people on the roof tops watching the game. This is where the real fans sit….but, if you want to sit down there…” he seemed to say derisively, “we can save money and get cheaper seats…”. “No!,” I protested, “Let’s stay here---in the good seats.”

“Now, you can have as many hot dogs as you want. But remember, when mom asks, what do you say?” asked, prompting me again. “I give her a big smile, and say ‘Boy, that was the best chicken sandwich I ever had!’”.

We stood for the Star Spangled Banner, and I stayed standing until every Yankee was
announced as they took the field. I will never forget that booming voice, welcoming everyone to Yankee Stadium, and telling everyone that any reproduction of the game broadcast without the written permission of the New York Yankees was not permitted. That seemed like a good idea, but I was only eight and no plans to broadcast the game on my own anyway.

My dad explained to me how to keep score. That the flags on the Stadium roof showed us what place the Yankees and all the other teams were in. How the people on the nearby roof tops could watch the game for free. And taught me how to call out to the guys carrying food, so that they would hear me and walk up all those steps just to sell me a hot dog.

First inning, one hot dog, one soda. I found it amazing that people would just bring food directly to you. Third inning, the same. As Yogi popped up a foul ball, I got some ice cream. After a Maris single in the sixth, popcorn.

After the seventh inning stretch, another hot dog. At the end of the top of eighth, Cracker Jacks, and I was done. More than full. By the end of the game, I was stuffed. And my dad still made me practice, with a big smile, ‘Boy, that was the best chicken sandwich I ever had!’.

The game ended [Yankees 7, KC 2] and the blue July sky turned darker, and darker and finally we walked to the subway, and caught the D train back to Brooklyn. For a good portion of the way, we had to stand, but that was OK. The rest of the way home, I sat on my dad’s lap, asleep. We finally arrived home with my mother waiting for us at the door.

“So, how was the game?” she asked. “It was great!” I told her a series of disconnected facts about the game. About the subway ride. About the great seats we had. About the Stadium. “So, how was the chicken sandwich?”, she asked. Here was my big chance. My father looked at me. I looked at him. “Boy, that was the best chicken sandwich I ever had!”, I said proudly, rubbing my stomach. My dad smiled back. Success. We had fooled her.

“And how many hot dogs did you have?”, she asked. “Three!” came out the number, before I realized I had been found out. We did not practice that question! She looked at my dad, and he looked at me.

And so, Yankee Stadium, “The House That Ruth Built”, the green, green grass where Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jo DiMaggio, Yogi Berra, Mickey Mantle, Thurman Munson, Bobby Murcer, Ron Guidry, Reggie Jackson, Don Mattingly, Derek Jeter, and so many others played for the greatest team in the world ----and called 'home' ----is no more.

Thanks, dad for taking me to my first baseball game there. And thanks, mom, for the chicken sandwich.

Wisdom of My Father

Two years ago, my brother Paul gave me a birthday present of Tim Russert’s book, The Wisdom of Our Fathers.

Great book. Read it cover to cover. Or skim through it, and bounce around from story to story. It is a wonderful read, either way.

So, what wisdom did my father give to me?

Always keep your sense of humor.

My dad told great stories, always with a great deal of enthusiasm and joy. The stories were sometimes funny, sometimes moving. He was also one to be able to take a joke or play a joke on friends. He was always joyful in almost everything he did. This was reflected in all the friends he made in his life.

I am a stand-up comedian, speaker and storyteller because of what I learned from him about humor.

“It is what it is.”

My dad had a very simple almost Zen-like refrain when it came to bad things that happened that he could not control: “It is what it is.” That was it. It was a simple way of saying, ‘don’t over think situations’; ‘Keep things simple’; ‘Don’t overanalyze things’. Be pragmatic and deal with what is in front of you, and not what is not there.

Learn to forgive.

My dad had a very fluid, flexible way of looking at the world. He forgave others easily. Sometimes my mom might say ‘too easily’, but that is the way he was. If you don’t learn to forgive, I think I learned from him, you miss out on some wonderful feelings and the larger picture. And keeping the anger alive is not healthy, and forces you to keep the same perspective for too long a time.

An insatiable curiosity.

My dad would always ask questions about everything. He would ask me constantly about politics, my legal education. I remember one particular conversation about the field of sports law. He once asked me why baseball was exempt from federal anti-trust laws, while other major sports were not. For someone who did not finish high school, he really understood some fairly complex concepts at times. I was inspired in large part by his insatiable curiosity to go to law school. This evolved in to ‘question authority’, think outside the box, there are no stupid questions.

A love of sports.

Be inspired by the great and small accomplishments of others. Teamwork. And the fact that a dedicated group of people who truly believed in their task could accomplish almost anything.

Always make new friends.
My dad spent his life always making friends, everywhere he went. I cannot tell you how many people at his condo complex in Florida who would come up to me and say, “Your father was the first person who introduced himself to me when I moved here.”

This all started, my dad would tell me, on the army transport train from New York to Alabama in 1942. Here was this 20 year old Jewish kid from Brooklyn on his way south, away from home for the very first time in his life.

He sat by himself, all sad and dejected, until an older soldier came up to him and said, “Hey, kid why the sour face?”

My dad said, “Well, I don’t know anybody here, and I am all by myself.”

“You think any of these guys know any one here? The Army doesn’t draft people all from the same neighborhoods. Well, you have plenty of time to make friends. All you have to do is go up to someone, and offer your hand for a hand shake, and just tell them something ----any thing---about yourself, ‘Hey buddy, I’m Murray---and my old man owns a candy store on Flatbush Avenue. What does your old man do?’ That’s how to start a conversation and make some friends.”

“What if the guy is a wise guy, and doesn’t want to talk?”

“Well, then pass him by, and go on to the next guy. There are hundreds of guys on this train. Follow me, and we will meet some swell guys from all over.”

And that is exactly what my dad did. He got up, and walked the train from car to car, and made lots of friends. Some for just that train ride. Some for just the time he was in the Army.

And some for a lifetime. But it was a habit he never got tired of.


Tell a good story. More than once, if needed.

When I was a kid, I thought hearing the same stories over and over again was boring. Then I got older. And the stories stayed the same, but my perspective changed. So, the stories of my dad in the army, growing up in Brooklyn, getting married, of his early life took on new meanings, new lessons. And upon each telling, they took on new meanings---like hearing a song you like, seeing an old movie, re-reading a good book.
Be proud of your all your children.

Whenever I appeared at The Comic Strip in Florida, my father would take pride in inviting any and all of his Florida friends to see me. After one particularly good show, I was hanging out with my parents and their friends. My father’s friend Irving remarked to my dad, “You must be very proud of your son, Joey.” Without missing a beat, right in front of me, my dad said, “I am proud of all my children.”

In the late 1950s, my parents brought in to our home Jerry Amancio, a foster child at the age of 6 ½ . Jerry came from a divorced family and a very troubled home. My father used to spend many nights taking to him, giving him the attention he so needed to help solve his many problems. He spent a lifetime being a dad to Jerry, and received the ultimate gift when Jerry turned 50: Jerry had his last name changed from “Amancio” to “Novick”.

And so I am very proud of him, and all the wisdom he left me. Happy Father's Day, Dad.

As Dan Qualye said, “The future will be better tomorrow.”

Years ago, my dad and I drove to the 1964 World’s Fair in our 1954 Buick Special.

Upon arrival, we made a bee-line for the Ford Motor Car Company exhibit to see what the cars of The Future would look like.
In the 21st century, Ford told us, American-made cars would dominate the world.

They’d zoom at 75 mph along a massive connection of complex highways that would get Mom & Dad & the Kids anywhere in the country virtually traffic free.

Cars would have fins and look like rocket ships. Satellites would guide your Ford car with directions to grandma’s house. From your car telephone you could call anywhere in the world. And gas would always be about 30.9 cents a gallon.

But the single thing that impressed this 11 year-old from Brooklyn the most was a TV in our car.
The thought of being able to watch “My Mother The Car” on car trips was more excitement than I could bear. Who cared about my dad getting us lost yet again, if I could be watching “Get Smart” on long Sunday trips to Long Island to visit my Rosentraub family cousins.

And for Bernie Novick, the most impressive feature was having a phone in the car. This way, he could call my Uncle Philly to let him know we’d be late ‘cause we were lost yet again.

“Are driving you on the Belt Parkway or the BQE?”, my Uncle Philly would yell in to the phone.

As Dan Qualye said, “The future will be better tomorrow.”
Just not in New Jersey.

Flash forward to 2007: Gas is over $3.00 a gallon. During rush hour, we don’t so much ‘zoom along’ the Turnpike as ‘creep along’. Kids in the backs of Japanese-made mini-vans can watch Shrek The Third over and over again.

But if my dad, gets lost in New Jersey, can’t call or text message my Uncle Philly to let him know we're gonna be late. Not without incurring the wrath of the New Jersey State Police.

From the Philadelphia Inquirer from last week:

The state Assembly and Senate are expected today to approve legislation that would allow police to pull over and ticket drivers for talking on handheld cell phones or text messaging on the road.

Yup. The state has ratcheted up the penalties on text messaging and cell phoning in the car while driving in NJ. And made it a primary, rather than secondary offense. I guess it makes sense.

Most of the people I know from NJ politics are always calling or texting from their cars.

“I can get lots more work done in the car that way,” one of them told me. And he’s a guy I know from the PoliticsNJ List of the Top 100 Most Powerful Pols. Probably got there as a function of deals he was able to cut while driving in the car on the cell phone.

The bill would make New Jersey the first state to make cell phone use and texting while driving primary offenses, meaning drivers could be pulled over for doing either.

So, if you’re lost on the NJ Turnpike with your kids and you’re trying to call your Uncle Philly to get directions, wear a headset. Or call hands free.

Or the next cell or text message you may receive may be from that State Trooper near Turnpike Exit 14 stating, “Pull over”.