Life is eminently fair to most of us. It is cruel to a few, those who suffer abuse, illness or accident. Gary Carter crammed a lot into his 57 years. He was very fortunate until brain cancer took hold of him, as it did Bobby Murcer, Dan Quisenberry, Dick Howser and other major-leaguers. Experts have been unable to find a common link. Carter was one of my favorites, always smiling and playing hard. By all accounts, he was a great person. He was the last piece of the championship puzzle of the Mets of the '80's. I remember being at my computer at 4 World Trade, entering trades, when Dougie came in and said a friend in the front office told him that The Kid was being sent to New York. "Yeah, right," I said skeptically, wary of Dougie's tall tales. Days later, the trade was announced. A year later the Mets were champs. Carter's two-out single began the rally that saw the Red Sox surrender a two-run lead in that incredible finish in Game Six when Mookie Wilson's roller went through poor Billy Buckner's legs. It was that talented team's only title. They were a wild, underachieving bunch. Too bad the rest of the players did not follow Gary Carter's lead. He was a rock. Rest in peace, Kid.
We had a perfect storm today on Avenue Z and East 13th: three authors, Bob Rubenstein, John Krulla, and yours truly discussing their forthcoming books. John is self publishing his novel on the war on drugs. Bob is overwhelmed at how the urge for revision won't let him go. I've got to scan the last 100 pages of the Killing file before I give Victoria my okay. I should be done tomorrow morning. My guess is it will be in print by the end of the month. Can't wait to see the expression on my sister's face when I hand her a copy.
I thank the two gentlemen who purchased books in Russian. One, a Ukrainian, apologized for his English. I told him my parents hardly spoke any, and that seemed to make him feel good. I also thank the young man who purchased four thrillers on my recommendation, including Anne Rice's blockbuster, Interview with the Vampire.
Now playing on the Edgewater Radio stream: Johnny Tillotson's Poetry in Motion. The .45 was in the jukebox in Sam's candy store at the corner of Bay 37th back in the day. I remember pointing to the title and telling the first love of my life, Vera Morosco, that it reminded me of her. She smirked.
Read Vic's stories, free: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature
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