Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/25 - Wounds

I didn’t want to have to weigh in on the NFL officiating issue, but last night’s controversy compels me. Fans and sportswriters are in an uproar, citing incompetence. As Phil Mushnick pointed out in his column in the NY Post this past weekend, these are likely the same people who were excoriating the regular league refs just a few years ago. I’ve always found the officiating in pro football exasperating. Pass interference and holding, both offensive and defensive, can be called almost every play. If all violations were called, games would last six hours, if not longer. As a result, the penalty calls often seem whim, willy-nilly, forgiven one play, flagged the next. There is an extreme bias toward the offense. A defender who covers his man like a glove will be penalized if his timing is off a fraction. Poor timing between a receiver and quarterback is too often rewarded. Is there a solution? I doubt it. Fortunately, errors in officiating rarely, if ever, determine an outcome. They are merely annoying. Replay has helped correct some errors, but I’m still not sold that it’s a good idea. I hit the remote whenever a coach challenges a ruling. Someone please explain why simultaneous possession is ruled a completion, not an incompletion, which seems the fairest outcome. Even that rule is skewed toward the offense.

The floating book shop was closed today, as I accompanied a friend on a visit to the doctor. It was a three-hour wait, one of which was devoted to the newspaper. I took a walk and was shocked at the number of stores along 4th & 5th Avenue, below 75th Street, that had Arabic script on signs and windows. As I made the turn at 67th, I immediately looked toward a tall apartment building that stands before the Belt Parkway at 65th. A woman I was crazy about for a long time lived there, in 21A. I could feel it pulling me toward it. I had to resist the temptation to stroll by on the odd chance I might run into her. She probably doesn't even live there any more and she was probably at work. I haven't seen her for 21 years, yet I felt the churning of old feelings, positive and negative, beginning in my gut. I remember when they were so powerful my legs turn to jelly. I still think of her often. I occasionally enter her name in the Facebook search box on the chance that she may have joined. She is listed only at an alumni site, not classmates.com. She probably knows I've looked her up. If she wanted to friend me, she would have. I guess one never completely gets over such a love.    

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