(Almost seven decades of athletic mediocrity, save for some tennis success back in the 1970s/80s and a fluke game-winning walk-off base hit wearing a Yankees uniform at old guy camp in 2014, came to a sudden end on June 5, 2020. For the recreational athlete, and I use that descriptor very loosely, there are two standards to chase— a 300 game in bowling or the almost always elusive hole-in-one on the golf course. I’ll never roll 12 strikes in a row but six years ago this week I did get that ace. And then three years later a second one. Since 2020, SMC has been fortunate to gain hundreds of new readers so today on the sixth anniversary of the ace is a noteworthy time to rerun ‘A Close Shave’ for every hack chasing the same goal I did. Hope you enjoy.)

If we could have made it to December, we would have been together for fifty years. But we didn’t. It took one swing of a golf club to end the half-century romance. I’m sad but I’m also happy. I never saw the breakup coming but I’m glad it happened.

We were together longer than I’ve been with my wife and kids. We were partners for a long, long time and boy could we tell some stories.

The places we’ve been, the things we’ve seen and the stuff we can’t talk about.

Together we survived a quintuple bypass, the loss of my parents, 9/11, the birth of my kids, two marriages and one divorce. However, we just couldn’t make it through the pandemic.

We got together in December 1970 when I was a first semester freshman at the University of Miami. I was eighteen. I have pictures to prove it. It’s the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, but now it’s over.

Then, I still had three and a half years of college in front of me. Andi was just eight years old in bustling Gilbertsville, Kentucky. Cute as a button, no doubt. Jason was still a decade away from being born; Scott, thirteen years away.

The par-3 15th hole on the Mountain Course of our Red Rock Country Club was playing 126 yards last Friday. A slight breeze to our backs made the 97-degree Nevada day more than tolerable. Herbie Shainker and I were in the midst of a tight contest for two bucks against Rick Schnider and Dr. Gary Goldberg. Ten miles east of us the dice were rolling once again on the Strip but we were in our own high stakes game up here in Summerlin.

Normally from 126 yards I would use a pitching wedge. For a minute I contemplated a gap wedge, which might have been the right club with the breeze, but hit it less than crisp and the bunker in front of the green comes into play. No thank you.

Golf is a funny game. Also, an incredibly frustrating one. One day you’re on fire and then the next you’re lost. One day you’re Freddy Couples, the next you’re Freddy Flintstone.

I didn’t start playing golf until I was in my thirties. Prior to that I was a fair tennis player. I was never any good at golf but I enjoyed being out in the sun and every time I got to the tenth hole, I mean every time, I would light up a cheap cigar that would burn the entire back-nine. My cardiologist put an end to that in August 2017. I still don’t like the guy.

“You know, I’ve never seen you without a mustache,” Andi said to me early in our marriage and probably repeated it a couple of times a year for the next twenty-eight.

“Dad, are you ever going to shave off that mustache?” Scott would ask. “It’s a pretty dated look,” Jason would say to me in the 90s and every decade since.

I love my mustache. It’s me. Defines me. For the past forty-nine years we’ve traveled the sports globe together. We’ve been to the World Series, the Stanley Cup Finals, five Super Bowls, a half dozen college football championship games, the PGA, the Masters, Wimbledon, the French Open and the US Open. We were attached to each other. Inseparable, like when we were kids and a pesky, discarded piece of Bazooka got stuck to the bottom of our PF Flyers. That kind of inseparable.

Maybe a dozen people that are still in my circle have ever seen me without it. I finally told Andi and the kids, just so they would stop asking, that if I ever got a hole-in-one, the mustache comes off. That made it pretty safe because I never wanted to lose it. Ever since that mid-December 1970 day, I always sported a stache. Every day. Without exception. There wasn’t a safer or more self-assured statement I could make with the hole-in-one promise. It was a bet I would never have to honor. I was sure of it.

When I put the ball onto the tee, the wind was picking up just a little bit but I had already decided to use the pitching wedge and try to land safely on the green.

It’s easy for me to say, or want to believe, I never took golf seriously primarily because I was never any good at it. Some days I’d shoot an 85 which was an exception. More likely a 90 or 95. I’ve been to golf schools and spent thousands of dollars on individual lessons but nothing seemed to matter. I got so frustrated that the last two years we lived in Birmingham, 2017-18, I dropped my golf club membership.

About two months ago, after playing regularly out here for a year, it was time to get serious or find a pinochle game. With the gyms closed because of COVID, golf and bike riding became my only exercise. The sheer inconsistency of my golf game continued to plague and rankle me.

I approached Red Rock Director of Golf, Gerry Montiel, and offered him a challenge. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, maybe five lessons, maybe ten, fifteen or twenty but teach me how to play this damn game. He accepted. We now rendezvous every Thursday morning at eleven.

Over the years my mustache has turned gray and thin. Like a Trump presidency, my Gabe ‘Mr. Kotter’ Kaplan/Gene Shalit look parched over time. But we had been an item for so long, it didn’t matter. We were a duo. Part of each other. In good times like Sonny & Cher, Ike & Tina, George & Susan, Joe D & Marilyn and Donald & Marla. Me & Stache, not doomed to a separation like all the rest of those great combos. Instead, we were Ozzie & Harriet and Archie & Edith; in it until the finish line.

In only a couple of weeks the lessons with the pro have made a difference in my game. Please don’t tell Montiel I said that. My low 90’s have come down to the mid-80’s and I’m only a couple of silly mistakes away from really being formidable. Gerry has slowed me down, aligned me in addressing the ball (Hello ball!) and makes me use my hips more than Elvis.

When the Titleist Pro-V1 golf ball left my club, it felt good. I knew it would land safely on the green. It’s a green that rolls from left to right; the pin on this day was placed right-center. The ball hit about fifteen feet to the left of the cup, right on cue.

“That is a really good shot,” Rick Schnider said, and then his voice kept rising to a Barney Fife octave. “I think it has a chance!”

I stood and watched. Wide-eyed. It’s now my moment frozen in time. Like taking direction from Scorsese, the ball hit about pin high and then started tracking to the right. Tracking, tracking, tracking…plunk!

A hole-in-one smile. A mustache soon to be history.

I raised my arms over my head like Ed Hochuli signaling a touchdown. I didn’t believe what just happened. I’ve hit thousands upon thousands of golf balls and never have gotten a hole-in-one. Came close a few times but never closed the deal.

I turned around and was embraced by Rick, Gary and Herbie. For a minute we were celebrating like it was 2019 again. We quickly regained our 2020 composure and distanced. I got emotional. It was a moment every golfer strives for, but few ever join the club. The odds are 12,500-1 against an average golfer getting a hole-in-one. For a hack like me even greater. I called Andi. For some reason when she answered the phone, she knew. It’s one of those wife-sensory things. She was screaming.

Hole-in-one tradition mandates you buy drinks in the clubhouse bar after the round. I never thought it would be me hosting. It was three o’clock on a Friday afternoon; the crowd was modest under COVID protocols. One of the guys in our group, whom I won’t mention by name but it wasn’t Schnider or Goldberg, asked, “As long as you have to buy cocktails and I don’t drink, would a shrimp cocktail be okay?” Though he will remain nameless, Herbie Shainker’s request made our entire religious tribe proud. The bill was $280, not including Herbie’s shrimp cocktail. Tack it on and it was the most enjoyable three bills I’ve ever spent.

As I left to go home two of our teaching pros were still in the golf shop. Kyle Dawson and Kevin Lim congratulated me and admitted neither of them had ever gotten a hole-in-one. I offered to take them out to the range and give them some pointers, but first I had to run home and take care of something long overdue.

When I bounced into the house Andi was waiting for me with a smile and a kiss. She then went into her command mode, pointed to the bathroom, and barked, “Get busy!”

Waiting for me on the vanity was a shaver, razor and a can of Edge.

In a matter of just a minute, almost fifty years of history and companionship were shaved away and floated down the drain.

Neil Sedaka was wrong. Considering the unlikely circumstance, breaking up really wasn’t that hard to do.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning. Today we have our Sunday coffee and biscuits in London at the legendary Wolseley on Piccadilly. I know I wrote back in February that after 30 combined business and personal London visits over the years I’d have no reason to return after our kids and granddaughter moved back to Los Angeles this spring. Well, this is another “never say never” for me much like never again playing old guy baseball but fully expecting to be in Pirates uniform come December. This journey was a late scheduled addition, summoned out of the bullpen to come over and represent Medjet (medjet.com) in our transport renewal conversations with brokers and underwriters at Lloyd’s of London, something I did for 20 years while still CEO of the company. Now a corporate director, coming off the bench, it’s an easy transition to make. I like London and I like visiting with the blokes and lasses in the Lloyd’s marketplace. In the meantime, before the Monday meetings begin, let’s Scramble:

For those old enough you might remember the National Airlines braggadocio slogan from the 1960s— Is that anyway to run an airline? You bet it is! Well, it’s something British Airways doesn’t subscribe to. A round trip ticket from Vegas to Heathrow a month before departure—$9K. Incredibly, that didn’t include a reserved seat which you can purchase for $156 each way or take your chances at check-in. Just to irritate a bit further, an email from BA five hours before departure that there was no Wi-Fi aboard the aircraft for the 10-hour journey. Is this anyway to run an airline? Shit no it isn’t.

Meanwhile and fortuitously like she knew I would be Wi-Fi less, a package arrived on Thursday, the day before I left. It was from Heidi Evans, with whom I had an unreciprocated teenage crush on during summer camp in 1969. I had no chance. Heidi’s dreams were about the rad camp athletic director and Art Shamsky who played for and was about to win a World Championship with the ‘69 Miracle Mets. Both were unavailable. I was but that didn’t move her needle. Heidi went on to a star-studded journalistic career which included a Pulitzer Prize in 2007. She just co-wrote, with Michael Feinstein and Josh Getlin, “Kids, Wait Till You Hear This”, the Liza Minnelli story which hit number one on the New York Times best seller list this past March. It’s not something that would normally be on my reading tray but when you know the author it doesn’t matter. I’ll finish it on the way home but so far, so good. Heidi, despite her incredible lack of judgment fifty-seven summers ago, and I are still close friends today. I love it when good things happen to good people.

As England now prepares for the World Cup and the expectation of the Brits to make a deep run, the showcase of the very busy English sports calendar ended last weekend with Arsenal winning the English Premier League (EPL) soccer championship, the first for the Gunners in 22 years. Good for them and their rowdy supporters. As great as the EPL and their fans are, the league doesn’t use a playoff system to declare a champion. Instead, whoever is atop the standings, or the table as the Brits reference, is crowned champion. Arsenal won the league on an off day when second place Manchester City played to a tie against Bournemouth making the Gunners impossible to catch. They watched from a pub or their couch or wherever but not on the field. Maybe it’s just me, but eliminating those spontaneous on-field celebrations, loses a little bit of the luster.

However, as far as I’m concerned, the best part of the Premier League is not who wins, unless it’s Chelsea or Fulham, it’s who loses. The EPL has a great system called relagation. The bottom three teams at the end of the August-May season get booted out of the league and relegated to lower play the next season in a lesser league, and have to work their way back and replace the next year’s teams who get relegated. Burnley and Wolverhampton are gone and surprisingly so is West Ham, an EPL staple for the past 14 years. If we did the same in American sports, for the basketball and hockey seasons just completed, New Jersey, Indiana and Washington in the NBA would be gone. That is one sure way to stop NBA teams from tanking for a higher draft choice. In the NHL Vancouver would be bye-bye along with two of the original six franchises, the Blackhawks and Rangers. Truly, in the EPL, every game matters.

Back to the homeland as the NBA and NHL seasons advance to the championship round. It’s Special K’s for me— the Knicks and the Knights. I’m not much of an NBA fan anymore but have been a Knicks fan since I was a kid. Following them regularly has become dormant; they haven’t won since 1973, but old habits die hard and I’m certainly cheering for the good guys against San Antonio to win it all. Even pulled out an old Knicks tee with moth holes accumulated over the past 53 years. However, I am still a rabid hockey fan and never more than now as the hometown Vegas Golden Knights will be playing for the Stanley Cup against Carolina. I’ve been a season ticket holder of the Knights for all of their nine seasons, in fact even before we moved to Las Vegas, which made me the only season member in the state of Alabama that first 2017-18 season. This Knights’ run has surprised me coming off a lackluster last couple of months of the regular season. This team is now exceptional, something very special, and it should be a fun couple of weeks. And as a little teaser for the final round, SMC took Vegas +1200 to win the Cup as the playoffs began.

Andi and I went to see Sebastian Maniscalco at Wynn last Saturday night. Funny guy, great storyteller. Driving down Las Vegas Blvd was what looked like a temporary outdoor arena across the Strip at Resorts World on the site of the former Stardust. We had no idea what it was until reading about it the next morning. Just to prove there is something for everyone and nothing is off limits, the structure was the site of something called the Enhanced Games, a competition where the competitors are allowed, if not encouraged, to take performance enhancing substances in the pursuit of breaking world records. There were 42 ‘athletes’ taking part in the event, where nothing is off the table. The total prize pool is a cool $25 million. Included is a million dollar bonus for any competitor that breaks a world record. Four of the 42 chose to compete ‘clean.’ The public is not welcome, instead the 2,500 spectators were by invitation only. No word on whether Jose Canseco or Lance Armstrong threw out the first needle.

What TSA lines? Starting next month travelers leaving Boston’s Logan Airport and flying Delta or JetBlue can clear TSA 25 miles from their departure gates. Framingham, MA, will be the site of the new security clearance where passengers can check their bags, march through TSA protocol and get on a shuttle bus, then dropped off at the terminal inside of security. Eight such locations around the country have been authorized for this experimental program.

And if you are flying get those extra shekels ready. Over the past year airfares have increased by 21% with no relief in sight.

Driving isn’t that economical either. Costs for both new and pre-owned vehicles, never mind insurance rates, are at an all-time high pricing most out of the market. As a result, the average car on the road in the U.S. is almost 13 years old, an historical high.

There has been a slight shake-up on the prediction wagering markets for the 2028 presidential election. According to Kalshi of the $40m already wagered, Marco Rubio has jumped ahead of J.D. Vance with 19% of the money saying Rubio will win the White House while 17% is on Vance. Gavin Newsom is next with 15%. Then it drops significantly with 6% favoring both AOC and Kamala. And for those not willing to give up the ship, 2% of the monies say Donald J. Trump will finagle the system and somehow will stay in the seat he’s in.

And you think you have internet problems? Servers in Iran, throughout the whole country, have been down for the past 93 days.

And speaking of the internet, I really could use more e-mails like the one I received from my travel professional last week telling me that our cruise in Asia next May has been reduced by $5K. If I was vacationing in Iran, I would have never known.

Not a bad gig if you can get it. New York City’s Hotel and Gaming Trades Council negotiated a new eight-year contract with 250 of the city’s hotels that by year six will have housekeepers earning over $100,000 a year with free health care for the members and their families.

More union talk this time from Massachusetts. Last week Hub state drivers for Uber and Lyft became the first in the nation to certify a union. This will be worth keeping an eye on as ride share honchos have become notorious for changing compensation schedules for their drivers at their whim.

Our SMC of two weeks ago on the virtual demise of horse racing’s Triple Crown (royberger.com; Triple Crown Adieu-May 17, 2026) provoked some thoughtful conversation about the schedule and related animal welfare issues running horses again two weeks after the Kentucky Derby for the Preakness and then three weeks later at the Belmont. Consensus for all of us without a vote is to run the Kentucky Derby on the traditional first Saturday of May; the Preakness Stakes the first Saturday of June and then the Belmont Stakes in early July. Noted Vegas thoroughbred owner Barry Lieberman said to make it easy and schedule the Belmont every year on July 4. What a holiday bang that would be with a well-rested Triple Crown contender. It’s well past time to make the Triple Crown series great again.

The first season of Your Friends and Neighbors with Jon Hamm on Apple really went nowhere. Season two is now streaming and with the addition of James Marsden to the cast, the storyline and the neighborhood gets very interesting. Also, basketball fans will enjoy Soul Power on Prime. If you remember the old American Basketball Association from the late 1960s and early 70s, you’ll love this. Even if you don’t, the league that gave us the three-point basket and the red-white-blue basketball revolutionized the sport making the NBA the showcase league it is today. It’s four episodes and a fun watch.

And finally, some parental cannabis unrest. Throughout New York State in April, daily weed sales passed $5 million for the first time since becoming legal in 2022. However, that’s not the issue du jour in the Apple. Some parents are irate that pot ads are airing on local New York Mets telecasts at the risk of influencing their kids. Come on mom and dad, cut the kids a break. The Mets this season are among the worst teams in baseball. The only chance your kids have of staying interested is with a nice buzz.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

I certainly don’t mean to get personal but how’s your reminiscence bump? Mine’s not so bad, thanks for asking.

You know, the reminiscence bump, things we seem to retain a lot easier from our childhood when our minds were fresh and not overloaded with all the trivia we’ve accumulated throughout the years. The reminiscence bump filled with life’s firsts— school, friends, heartbreak, kiss, food. Today we forget names and what we did on Tuesday way too easily. There’s too much data in the silo. The reminiscence bump is friendly and easy.

Cognitive experts tell us the human brain recalls youth the best of all our eras. There is high memory storage during the years of self-discovery typically beginning about the time we hit 10.

Then through the decades we begin information overload which leads to memory fatigue as modern life bombards our brains daily. Our minds get so cluttered that we begin to discard older items and thoughts to make room for new ones. But the reminiscence bump always hangs around. And for most, that’s a good thing.

So, with today’s complicated world and tedious 24-hour-news cycle , I thought I’d close my eyes for a bit, actually during a root canal this past week, and tempt that reminiscence bump.

No doubt you have your own list, but maybe you’ll recognize some of these from sixty, sixty-five years ago on Long Island that did and still does make me smile:

The end of every Cub Scout meeting.

A Creamsicle.

Wearing a baseball uniform.

Avoiding Rudy Kemper in dodgeball.

An open-faced hot turkey sandwich on the elementary school lunch menu for twenty-five cents.

Doing six hip twirls with a hula hoop.

Rocking the baby with a Duncan.

The Shirelles.

A pogo stick.

Watching a Slinky walk down a staircase.

My cool blue Pez dispenser.

Any Dave Clark Five song.

Drake’s Ring Dings.

The bus ride home from school.

Any Pittsburgh Pirates’ win.

Mom’s spaghetti and meatballs.

My Zorro lunch box.

The Ed Sullivan Show, except for Topo Gigio.

The mailman bringing me the new Sporting News.

Hostess Twinkies.

A cold winter night listening to Marty Glickman’s play-by-play of the Knicks and Rangers on my Sharp transistor radio.

The Kramdens and the Nortons.

Bobby Hull’s slapshot.

Joe Namath, shoulders slumped, barking signals over center.

WMCA radio “Good Guys.”

Officer Joe Bolton

The OCD melody of the Good Humor truck.

Doing the Hokey Pokey.

Helen Crump.

Meadowlark Lemon.

Bob Hope.

Norm Crosby.

Crazy Guggenheim.

Cassius Clay on a rant.

Toody and Muldoon on Car 54 patrol.

Herman Munster’s laugh.

Anticipation the night before summer sleepaway camp begins.

The first night after summer camp ends sleeping in my own bed again.

Grandpa slipping me $10 every weekend.

Carvel swirling in a cup.

Playing catch with Dad on the side of the house.

Elbowing my brothers every time we walked past each other.

The hammock under the weeping willow tree.

Watching Mom and her friends play mahjong. Four bam, three dot, whatever that meant.

The smell of my grandmother’s latkes frying.

Eating the latkes.

School canceled for snow.

Reading the Long Island Press sports section.

Borrelli’s pizza.

Going to the bowling alley, Bowlerama, on Tuesday nights with Dad and his friends.

Any baseball player’s autograph.

Howard Cosell’s Speaking of Sports, every morning at 7:25 am, on WABC radio.

The New York World’s Fair in 1964-65. Eating at the Brass Rail.

A hamburger, fries and egg cream at Bernie’s luncheonette. Give him a dollar and get thirty-cents change.

A black & white ice cream soda at Jahn’s.

Going out to dinner on Sunday night, every Sunday night, with the fam.

A phone in my room.

A toasted strawberry Pop-Tart for breakfast right before school.

Taking the Long Island Railroad to New York City.

Christmas week on Miami Beach.

Reading NY Daily News sports columnist Dick Young.

Patty and Cathy Lane. Identical cousins, different as night and day.

Jackie Vernon on Ed Sullivan.

Vaughn Meter impersonating JFK on Ed Sullivan.

Orange Starbust.

Adjusting the red in Superman’s cape with our new Admiral color TV.

Perry White. Great Caesar’s ghost!

Uncle Martin, my favorite Martian.

Don Rickles. The GOAT.

That little dab of Brylcreem in my very fashionable for the era flattop.

To Tell The Truth and What’s My Line.

The Match Game with Gene Rayburn and that great opening tune. DaDaDum, DaDaDum….

An aging Casey Stengel trying to explain why the ‘62 Mets were so bad and forgetting his players’ names.

DJ’s Cousin Brucie and Dandy Dan Ingram.

Sergeants Bilko and Carter.

Broderick Crawford on Highway Patrol. 10-4.

Abbott and Costello.

Soupy Sales.

A Lionel train set.

The Three Stooges, except with the Joe’s—Besser and DeRita.

The enormity of Wilt Chamberlin and Haystacks Calhoun.

Wondering how Jim Nabors could sing like he did when he talked so funny?

Watching Hullabaloo and Shindig.

The last line of my bar-mitzvah Torah portion.

Playing two-handed pinochle at the kitchen table with my friend Phil.

A Roberto Clemente baseball card.

And finally, but by no means last in my reminiscence bump order, in fact maybe top of the line-up— Laura Petrie. Mary Tyler Moore, too. Va-va-va-voom!

Got your list?

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

There was a horse race run Saturday in Baltimore. Once upon a time it mattered to even the most casual of American sports fans. But it doesn’t anymore.

It’s called the Preakness Stakes. It used to be a big deal in horse racing. But as horse racing has become as relevant in our society as pay phones, yesterday few even knew the race was run. And even fewer cared. And that is throwback sad.

The Preakness used to be my favorite race of horse racing’s Triple Crown series, which dates back to 1875 even though I don’t. It’s been contested every spring since. A sporting competition to determine the best three-year-old thoroughbred racehorse in the world. The Triple Crown formula was simple and familiar—the Kentucky Derby on the first Saturday of May; the Preakness two weeks later, then the Belmont Stakes three weeks after that. Win all three in five weeks and it’s equine legend. In fact, over that 151-year span since 1875 there have only been 13 horses that won all three legs. That is greatness by any measure. The first Triple Crown winner was Sir Barton in 1919 when Woodrow Wilson was our president; a steak dinner at a restaurant was seventy-five cents, the Dow was 107 and the average annual U.S. wage was about $1,200 a year.

Since Sir Barton 107 years ago there have been 12 additional Triple Crown winners. Overall that’s a mere eight percent of the Kentucky Derby winners that have gone on to Triple Crown fame. Or .66% of the 1,957 horses that have ever run in the Derby can call themselves a Triple Crown champion. The percentage declines year by year. Perhaps it’s unlikely ever to happen again. Back in the day, when the sport was the sport and sometimes, sadly, animal welfare issues took a back seat, the winner of the Kentucky Derby in Louisville was given a ticket for a van ride over to Pimlico Race Course in Baltimore and a saddle to defend in the Preakness. Win that one, take a three-week holiday and get ready for that day in the sun at Belmont Park on Long Island.

Two weeks ago yesterday, May 2, the Kentucky Derby was run for the 152nd time. Maybe you knew about it but a dollar to a bag of oats, you can’t tell me who won. And once the winner crossed the Derby finish line, yes, it was Golden Tempo, my attention used to go right to Baltimore to see if that winning horse can even hold a mouth-bit to the greatest of all-time, Secretariat, my horse.

But alas that’s not going to happen. Golden Tempo’s team almost immediately said a trip to Baltimore was not in the offing so the son of Curlin and Currumba had yesterday off. Golden Tempo’s trainer Cherie DeVaux, the first female to ever saddle a Kentucky Derby winner, and its ownership group decided to forego the Preakness and a chance for Triple Crown glory for a shady spot in the barn to prepare for the long and grueling Belmont Stakes on June 9. Sitting the Preakness out may not be in the public’s best interests but Golden Tempo’s team felt it certainly was for the welfare of their horse.

In fact, three of the past five years, the Kentucky Derby winner has taken a pass on the Preakness. Quality racehorses usually need about a month between starts. To train at the highest level and compete again in two weeks becomes borderline inhumane. Some have concluded the toll of racing in such a short window has become too steep and dangerous for the thoroughbreds health. The animals are trained at a level they have never experienced before to even become a Kentucky Derby contender. Qualify for the Derby and train ever harder. Then the pounding of the best two minutes in sports, the running of the Kentucky Derby, in front of 125,000 May partygoers and the chaos going on around the horses as their handlers try to get them in racing mode. That’s a lot for any three-year-old to try and handle.

When Secretariat won in 1973, he became the first Triple Crown winner in 25 years or since Citation in 1948, four years before I was born. Then back-to-back winners, Seattle Slew in 1977 and Affirmed the next year, fine racehorses but neither were Secretariat caliber. At least in my psuedo-fan book. We then waited another 37 years for a Triple Crown winner— American Pharoah in 2015 and Justify in 2018. Both were supposed to give racing a spotlight back on to our sports landscape but once the telecast ended, so did the conversation and any interest.

Back in the day, the 1940s, 50s and even into the mid and late 60s, horse racing used to be at the top of the American sports chain along with baseball and boxing. Professional football was just emerging; pro basketball was slow with little to no public appeal outside of an East Coast city or two; hockey a niche sport played then in only four U.S. towns and only as far west as Chicago. Nobody cared. Baseball was king; boxing on Wide World of Sports or the televised Friday Night Fights on the old Gillette Cavalcade of Sports a must watch, while horse racing still captured sporting types during the spring competition and then through the summer circuit especially at Saratoga, Santa Anita and Del Mar.

Since, boxing became overexposed and horse racing has all but faded away. A few racetracks remain around the country but most from the past are now warehouses, parking lots, casinos or on the verge of becoming a Chicago Bears football stadium. There will never be a new horse racing track built in this country again. The sport has no chance competing with lotteries, casinos, slot machines, at home gaming, thirty minutes between races and the public’s insatiable thirst for constant action. Racing generates none of that anymore. The core fan, from way back when, is either dead or on the doorstep.

Racing has tapped out but for one time a year, Kentucky Derby Saturday, when the sport gets briefly resuscitated but not for long. It’s just another excuse to party.

There is at least talk in thoroughbred circles of looking at easing the animals’ burden. Would an additional week between the Derby and Preakness, or three weeks, make a difference and encourage more Kentucky Derby winners to challenge in the Preakness? Then another three before the Belmont? According to top trainer Brad Cox, it won’t. “It’s not enough, no,” he told the New York Post succinctly last week.

Proof in the pudding, Saturday’s Preakness was won by Napoleon Solo, who didn’t race in the Kentucky Derby. Three horses from the Derby did run in the Preakness yesterday finishing fourth, fifth and ninth.

Which made Secretariat, and his 12 Triple Crown fraternity members, even greater. On May 5, 1973, the big red horse entered the Kentucky Derby as the favorite coupled with a stablemate Angle Light. Secretariat got out of the Louisville starting gate poorly, heated up and ran down the two front runners: Shecky Green, the horse not the Jewish comedian, and Sham to win by three lengths and set a Churchill Downs track record. Then a fortnight later to Baltimore, same pattern, come from behind, same winning margin as in Kentucky and set a stakes speed record. Ironically, the two horses that finished second and third to Secretariat in the Derby, Sham and Our Native, duplicated that once again on the Preakness surface.

Saturday, June 9, 1973, was Secretariat’s crowning moment. Belmont Park racetrack was maybe 15 miles from my front porch but I wasn’t going that day. Thought about it but I had something more important to do. I wanted to watch the race at home. With my grandmother.

Pauline Sachs, Mommy Paul to us, was 67 years old. An aggressive stomach cancer made it just a matter of time. She was visiting from her Manhattan apartment that weekend with my grandfather. I was 21, home between my junior and senior years at Miami. She wanted to talk Secretariat. So did the rest of the country. But my grandma wasn’t a horse racing fan, not by any means. This was a woman unlikely to be swept up in Big Red Fever. But she was. Mr. Ed take a back seat.

The Belmont Stakes of course was never in doubt. Only four other horses dared to challenge Secretariat that day. Instead, they should have stayed behind and ogled. Secretariat won by 31 lengths. On an American football field that’s 84 yards. It was classic. Just chilling to watch that level of greatness— it still is on replay. Even Sham approved, finally giving up chasing Big Red, finishing last in awe.

And we can argue great athletic performances all we want but for those two minutes and twenty-four seconds, over a mile and a half, still a track record that has never been beat, Secretariat was the greatest athlete, in terms of an athletic performance I’ve ever seen. Nothing or nobody even comes close.

But you know the best thing about that late spring afternoon? Not that Secretariat became the ninth winner of the Triple Crown. Not that no racehorse has ever run that distance faster. Or harder. Or more convincing. Not the noise coming from the grandstand when jockey Ron Turcotte guided Secretariat on his victory stampede. Whether you bet on him or not, all 80,000 were cheering down the stretch. Over 5,600 winning wagering tickets were never cashed, instead held for posterity or decades later an eBay auction.

The best thing I saw that 1973 day, this side of Secretariat’s heroics, was the smile on my grandmother’s face. I never saw it again. She died five months later. If horse racing never produces another Triple Crown winner, I’m okay with it. That day and that horse gave me something I’ll always treasure.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning and Happy Mother’s Day—the most special day of the year. If you still have your Mom give her a hug—virtual ones count too. If you don’t, then remember fond and happy moments. And if you are a Mom, your family are the luckiest people on earth. And Moms, I know what you’re thinking—Let’s Scramble:

Payroll processing giant ADP tells us that even though the job market for recent college graduates and young professionals is challenging, the best spots in the country for landing jobs are in the Sunbelt. In fact, the hottest is Birmingham, Alabama, where we lived for 20 years before retiring in Las Vegas. Next is Tampa while Raleigh, Tulsa, Nashville and Charlotte are also in the top 10.

Well, the U.S. penny is all but extinct and now go ahead and short the nickel. The five-cent piece has been in circulation since 1866 but probably not for much longer. It costs the United States Mint almost 14 cents to produce each nickel. See ya President Jefferson.

Let’s go Knicks! Speaking of gone like a cheap penny, how about championship parades in New York City? The capital of the world in finance, fashion, food and high living just can’t seem to figure out a way to win on the playing field. The graphic below, despite payrolls higher than the Empire State Building, is pretty eye-opening. With the Rangers, Islanders and Nets eliminated from winter sports season playoffs, the ticker-tape parade hopes now fall on the Knicks in the midst of a post-season run who haven’t won a title in 19,698 days, but that’s not the longest gap. Every Knicks fan of course thanks the Jets for that.

With the four-part Hulk Hogan documentary now charting on Netflix (and it’s not bad), the tally from WrestleMania 42, a two-night event in Las Vegas a couple of weeks ago is in — 106,000 former Hulkamaniacs attended live at Allegiant Stadium with attendees coming from all 50 states and 69 countries. Digitally, the Wrestlefest had 1.3 billion, that’s billion, social media views. The fan following ‘professional’ wrestling has, even though they make no bones anymore about the fact it’s scripted, is really beyond belief. The Hulkster, who died last July, became a victim of his character as the documentary reveals, believing outside of the ring that he was Hulk Hogan, and not really Terry Bollea.

If you didn’t have a chance to see the April 26 CBS 60 Minutes broadcast featuring former Nebraska Senator Ben Sasse with Scott Pelley, try and find it. Senator Sasse, with terminal stage 4 pancreatic cancer, spoke candidly about faith, mortality and the future of America. It’s streamed and worth the 15 minutes.

Reverse nepotism? When former Yankee great Don Mattingly, 65, was hired as the Philadelphia Phillies field manager on April 28 he went to work for his 38-year-old son Preston, who is the Phils general manager. Perhaps some stern son-father talks in the offing?

Why did potential presidential assassin Cole Thomas Allen take the train from his California home to the Washington DC Hilton on April 25? Well, that’s not a riddle. Amtrak does not do TSA passenger screening before boarding their trains. Allen knew his bag filled with artillery wouldn’t be inspected nor questioned unlike the airlines. With the rails’ free-style boarding, we have a disaster waiting to happen one of these days. I want to be wrong but sadly it’s just a matter of time.

Ready, aim, fire! When the Vegas Golden Knights opened their second round Stanley Cup hockey playoff series last Tuesday night, they wanted to give the home fans a very unique opportunity to express their opinion of the opponent, the Anaheim Ducks. Every urinal throughout T-Mobile Arena had a target for the home fans to perfect their aim.

Legacy is a word tossed around too loosely at times. However, it’s rare to find someone who leaves a greater legacy and impact on the world than Ted Turner, who died on Wednesday at 87. Mr. Turner was an entrepreneur, philanthropist, conversationalist, victorious America’s Cup sailing captain, baseball manager for a day, rancher, landowner (over two million acres in six states) multi-sports franchise owner, restaurant chain impresario, Jane Fonda husband, a kook at times and of course a media mogul. He changed the world in 1980 with the founding of CNN. It has impacted all of our lives, stretching far beyond the international borders of his Atlanta, Georgia, home. And it will continue for generations and generations. That’s leaving a true legacy.

Gentlemen, I’m not sure where to go with this one but with costs rising everywhere, it appears being single just got more expensive. Malaysia’s Karex just announced that due to supply chain disruptions, their specialty product will cost anywhere from 20-30% more. Karex produces over five million condoms annually including leading brands Durex and Trojan. Or as the New York Post headline succinctly told us, it’s a “Condom Price Thrust.”

It only took about 18 months for the Las Vegas Sphere to be in the black. The $2.3 billion 18,000 seat concert wonder that opened in the fall of 2023 lost $325 million in its first year, but with all the opening overhead accounted for and wrinkles ironed out, the Sphere showed a profit of $33.4 million in the fiscal year just completed. Phish, just played a three-weekend/nine-show sold out run at the spectacle located behind the Venetian Hotel. Phish can lay claim to the highest ticket resale price of any act to take the Sphere stage. Phish’s secondary market sales averaged $798 a seat while U2 was $754 and the Eagles, still going, are $639. If you haven’t visited yet, it should be on your to-do list. I’ve said this many times but Sphere is the only concert venue you’ll go to where the act is secondary to the special effects. It’s that good.

And if a visit to Vegas for a Sphere show isn’t in the cards, you can hang on for a little while and wait for a smaller version, 6,000 seats, which is being planned for the National Harbor in Maryland, projected to open in 2030 just about the time Phish will be completing their second song from last weekend’s set. Also on the drawing board is a Vegas duplicate facility one day in Abu Dhabi.

A final Sphere note about the talent that has played there and people that keep these statistics— the aforepictured Phish, the four man jam/improv band who have been together since 1983, have headlined 13 Sphere shows and played 162 different songs. Dead & Company is next with 48 shows and 117 tunes; U2 40 shows, 40 songs; Backstreet Boys 35 appearances, 25 songs and The Eagles with 22 Hotel California hits over their 58 and still counting, scripted performances.

Watch out for the flying turkeys. That only means something to those who remember Andy Travis, Arthur Carlson, Dr. Johnny Fever, Herb Tarlek, Venus Flytrap, the luscious Jennifer Marlowe, Bailey Quarters and of course newsman Les Nessman, who had to report the 1978 Thanksgiving promotion that went terribly awry. They were the not-so-crack staff of mythical radio station WKRP in Cincinnati which ran on CBS from 1978-82. Well, WKRP is making a return—but this time as a legit radio station. WKRP premiered to listeners last Monday in the radio markets of northern Kentucky, Dayton, Ohio, and of course Cincinnati. It’ll be interesting to see the promo they cook up for November 26.

And finally, let’s not forget the legendary places and people who celebrated birthdays this past Wednesday, May 6. The Eiffel Tower, first opened in 1889, turned 137. The Channel Tunnel aka Chunnel, delivering rail service between London and Paris, a relative youngster at 32. Bob Seeger, 81; Tony Blair, 73; George Clooney, 65; Camp Impala Hall of Fame counselor Ted Sirota, 76 and Roy Berger, 74. Seventy-four? Whoa. How did that happen? But here I am and so grateful for the many different phases and stages of my life and all the people I’ve befriended. On Wednesday I received literally hundreds of texts, phone calls, and social media acknowledgements from friends and acquaintances through the years. Sure, with time a few cherished relationships have expired and I miss them, but that is the cycle of life. For those who remembered thank you all. It’s incredibly humbling.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Two weeks ago, I did something Pete Rose couldn’t—I got into the National Baseball Hall of Fame.

The late Mr. Rose played 3,562 more major league games than I did; he had 4,256 more hits than me but let’s not let trivial details get in the way. I got in. He hasn’t.

And yes, it took me a while. Three weeks before turning 74, this lifelong baseballer, despite being raised only 219 miles from its front door, finally made the journey to the sport’s holy grail in Cooperstown, New York.

I figured it was time before the ticking clock runs down any further. Along with me was my son Jason who somehow went astray and is now a Dodgers fan. Maybe living in LA for twenty years does that to a guy. Jason, formerly a television writer and executive producer, is now in the sports card memorabilia business, a much more stable profession. He was the top draft pick to accompany me.

There are easier places to get to in this country, this side of Cascade, Iowa, than Cooperstown. Start by finding a flight to Albany, NY. Grab a car and drive 70 non-interstate highway miles, some two-lane road, through acres and acres of pretty countryside and farms. As you approach Cooperstown your eyes get transfixed on beautiful Lake Otsego. You enter Cooperstown right on Main Street where all the action is. Drive past the Hall of Fame building and honestly, I got chills. It’s a place revered all my life and there it was just to my left.

Continue another quarter mile on Main past all the baseball card shops, souvenir stores, baseball memorabilia outposts, coffee houses, a pizza joint, an Italian restaurant and a few pubs, all neighbors of the Hall. Make a right onto Lake Street and our accommodation for the night, the Otesaga Resort Hotel, stood stately. Opened in 1909, as you drive up the elegant driveway the structure exudes charm and history. It’s even better looking on the inside. Its 135 guest rooms sit right on Lake Otsego. You can see the first and last holes of the much in demand Leatherstocking Golf Course. It’s just about impossible to get a hotel booking at the Otesaga between Memorial and Labor Day, the high season in Cooperstown.

The Otesaga is an easy half-mile walk back to Main Street and the star of the show- the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum. And don’t think for a minute the Hall isn’t the economic driver of the village. Cooperstown has 2,200 residents; the HOF draws over 300,000 visitors to the town named after William Cooper who founded the settlement in the 1780’s. His son, famous novelist James Fenimore Cooper, immortalized the region in his writings.

Lore has it, though probably not factual, that the game of baseball was first played in Cooperstown by Abner Doubleday and his buddies. Doubleday was a career US Army officer and a Union major general in the Civil War. He was born in 1819 just outside of Cooperstown; he died in 1893. Somehow 15 years after his death, in 1908, Major Doubleday was credited with inventing the game that 118 years later the Mets still can’t play very well. Truth is the sport probably originated in the U.K. as a game called Rounders, brought to the States and soon after became our national pastime. However, a tribute to Doubleday stands tall in Cooperstown, a couple of hundred yards away from the HOF building as Abner Doubleday Field, a simple ballpark steeped in tradition and in action with organized youth games all summer.

The Doubleday legacy was enough for the baseball gods to establish the Hall of Fame and Museum in Cooperstown, as an independent, non-profit educational institution not directly owned nor operated by MLB but instead governed by a Board of Directors. It first opened to everyone but Pete Rose in 1936. The day Jason and I were there, April 15, the doors opened at 9 am. We went in before the clock hit 9:01. Having 4,256 career base hits may not be enough to get you in but $35 will. Instead, we upped the ante to $300 for a private 90-minute guided tour. Ours lasted over two hours as our guide, David, didn’t want to stop and we certainly didn’t keep looking at our watches. The $300 also made me a HOF member for a year, got me a membership card, a shiny button I’ll never wear and an incessant amount of daily promotional emails.

The word I use to describe the HOF visit is ‘overwhelming.’ Three floors for the public to explore; over 50,000 square feet with 16,000 of those dedicated to the Gallery where all the inductees’ bronze plaques are on display. There are 354 HOF members and 355 plaques. Pete Rose is not one of them. Three more will be added in July: Carlos Beltran, Andruw Jones and Jeff Kent. The first class to be inducted in 1936 consisted of Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Honus Wagner, Christy Mathewson and Walter Johnson. Not a bad pick-up squad.

So much to see. A typical visit to the Hall’s museum lasts about 90 minutes. We were there for four hours and would still be going if we didn’t have to get back to Albany for a two-and-a-half-hour train south along the Hudson to NYC.

Spent a lot of time at the Babe Ruth exhibit. I had no idea Ruth never played with the Yankees logo on his home uniform. The interlocking NY on the uniform chest debuted in 1936. The Babe retired in 1935. And if seeing Ruth’s jersey, cap, bat and glove weren’t enough, also on display is his Ebonite bowling ball and a Spalding golf ball he used for a 220-yard hole-in-one four years after he retired at a country club on Long Island. That was enough, thank you, to save me a trip to Arlington, Texas, and Pinehurst, North Carolina, to the bowling and golf Hall of Fame respectively.

And more and more. Harry Caray’s eyeglasses; Joe Pepitone’s bat that Mickey Mantle used for his 500th career home run and the one Mick borrowed from teammate Loren Babe in 1953 to hit a 565 foot home run in Washington, arguably the longest ever; Bill Mazeroski’s batting helmet he wore and then waved while circling the bases after the only World Series Game 7 walk-off home run in 1960. It rested in the same display case as the rosin bag Yankees pitcher Ralph Terry used right before he coughed up the Maz home run. The San Diego’s Chicken outfit is there; a whole section of baseball cards through the decades with a banner aptly tagged ‘The Cards Your Mother Threw Away.’ A ticket booth from the old Yankee Stadium; a movie theater with a short feature that plays hourly and a special kids’ section to introduce them to past heroes.

There were hundreds and hundreds of display cases with trinkets from the great history of the game. If you were a baseball fan in 1983 and someone said ‘pine tar’ to you, immediately George Brett’s bat comes top of mind. The bat he used to hit a two-run home run on July 24, 1983 in the top of the ninth to take the lead over the Yankees. Yankees manager Billy Martin protested there was too much pine tar on the bat. Eighteen inches of pine tar on the stick was legal; it was determined there were 23 on Brett’s bat. The home run was nullified. Anyone who saw it will never forget Brett’s reaction charging out of the dugout like a madman to confront umpire Tim McClelland. Go ahead and Google the video. What I never knew, until our tour guide David told us, was there was no competitive advantage at all on how much of the sticky stuff was on the bat. It was too far down the bat to help the grip and the last thing you want as a hitter is the ball sticking to the bat. Instead, it was a baseball economic decision: MLB didn’t want balls defaced by excessive pine tar so they could keep them in play and save money, thus the restriction on how far down the bat the substance could be applied. In today’s game, whenever a ball hits the dirt, fair or foul, it’s tossed out of play, pine tar or none.

Pete Rose’s uniform is on display as are his caps and gloves. Everything but what he coveted the most—a HOF plaque. Of course, Rose was banned from the game for gambling. Hell, he gambled on his own team to win which sure beats betting the other way. Rose was declared ineligible for induction from 1989 until 2024 when the ban was lifted because he died. Laughably the baseball powers-to-be decided he was no longer a threat to the game which actually he never was. Rose was not my favorite person. I had a couple of encounters with him in the 1970s that weren’t really pleasant but he was the best pure hitter baseball I’ve ever seen. Now that the ban has been lifted, I hope he will tell them from the grave to go to hell if his name ever does appear on the ballot. Pete Rose never cheated the game— his talent and enthusiasm was pure. Pitcher Gaylord Perry cheated the game. He made a living by throwing a spitball, which has been illegal since 1920. No matter. His plaque was hung in Cooperstown in 1991.

Also missing, in my book, are HOF plaques for Thurman Munson, whose life was cut short by an airplane accident in 1979. He played for 11 years with the Yankees. He was a seven-time all-star as a catcher and team captain for two World Championships. His contemporaries of his day, Johnny Bench and Carlton Fisk, are both in. So should Munson. I can also make a case for Maury Wills, the great Dodger of the early 1960’s whose speed changed the game forever. There is a pair of Wills’ cleats on display but that’s not enough, he deserves a plaque. And how Don Mattingly, a .307 career hitter for the Yankees over 13 seasons who led the American League in hits twice and as nine-time Gold Glover was one of the best defensive first baseman in history is not in, I need help with that one. Mattingly represented the game and the Yankees with class during a down time for the New York club. He is a statesman and an ambassador of the sport if there ever was one. Today Mattingly is the field manager of the Phillies. He deserves to be on the wall.

The flip side is of the 354 inductees, only one has two plaques and that just happens to be my favorite player as a kid— Roberto Clemente. In 1972 just months after the Pirates great got his 3,000th career hit, he was killed in an airplane crash on a relief trip to Nicaragua bringing supplies to earthquake victims. By special accord, Clemente was inducted into the Hall of Fame six months later. His Cooperstown plaque originally read ‘Roberto Walker Clemente.’ Twenty-seven years later, in 2000, someone in his extended family realized the plaque was wrong, it should have read ‘Roberto Clemente Walker’ to reflect the Latino culture in which a man uses his mother’s maiden name after his surname. The change was made but the original plaque wasn’t tossed. Instead, it now hangs in the kids’ section—thus the Puerto Rican legend is the only two-plaque inductee in Cooperstown.

And there’s more, so much more. Special displays dedicated to the Japanese impact; history of baseball in Latin America; the women of the game; the legendary Black baseball history and a favorite of mine—the writers’ and broadcasters’ section. So much to take in, so much to digest. To me the one obvious area missing was the history of old ballparks, something I always find nostalgic and fascinating. However, the most stunning tidbit our guide told us is that only 10-12% of the artifacts in the Museum are actually on display. The rest are kept in storage in the sealed off floors below. If you have been to the Hall, you can just imagine the magnitude of that statistic. Museum curators on a regular basis rotate the artifacts, which means the next visit you make to the Hall most likely will include memorabilia not on display the previous visit.

Was four hours enough? Probably for now. Might go back one day to see what I missed. But there’s no way I’ll ever go to Cooperstown again without a room at The Otesaga. That wasn’t a home run. It was a grand slam. Pete would have liked it.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

(This afternoon is the NASCAR 500 race from Talladega Superspeedway in Alabama, which I’m fairly certain that anyone who reads this space regularly has no idea is happening. It also signifies ten years since I drove a race car at Talladega. This piece was written as a Facebook post on May 22, 2016, a decade ago and two years before Sunday Morning Coffee was ever brewed. It’s one of my favorite escapades because it was so out of character and so absolutely harrowing.)

If you’re Jewish there are some things you just don’t do. Not kosher as we say.

You don’t eat a pastrami sandwich on white bread or smother it with mayonnaise.

You don’t sprinkle bacon crumbles in your matzah ball soup.

And it’s probably not a real good idea to invite the rabbi over for a pork chop dinner.

And if you’re a Jew, you’re probably not a big NASCAR fan either. The two go together like Easter dinner on Yom Kippur. Don’t know why but demographics don’t lie.

Except if you’re Jewish and live in the South. Then you might take a peek at the NASCAR broadcast on a Sunday afternoon, but make sure the remote is nearby because you don’t want to hover on Fox too long enough for anyone to see what you’re watching.

In Southern grade schools, the kids have to know two things: the Pledge of Allegiance and the NASCAR Cup standings. And not necessarily in that order. Some even combine the two:

I pledge allegiance to the flag of NASCAR united, and to the racetracks over which it flies, one redneck nation, under Dale Jr., indivisible, with Bud Light and checkered flags for all.

So yesterday, Saturday (May 21, 2016), while Torahs were being read in synagogues across the country I represented our tribe at Talladega Superspeedway, about 45 miles east of our Birmingham home and 100 west of Atlanta, doing something I’ve wanted to do since we moved here 17 years ago: drive a NASCAR. All Andi Berger could say was “Have you lost your mind?” We’ve been married for 25 years and only now she asks?

It’s one of those fantasy experiences, like my baseball camps over the past six years, that the various NASCAR tracks host on a rotating basis every six or eight weeks allowing the weekend fan to feel the thrill. Though I did quickly figure out the difference between driving a NASCAR and playing camp baseball: in baseball if you make an error, shake it off, there’s always another play. With the NASCAR experience, one error behind the wheel and it’s probably game over.

As my debut approached, so of course did my second-guessing. Someone asked me if I knew how to drive a stick shift? Of course I don’t. Jews don’t chop wood, use power saws, change oil, don’t know how to spell carburetor without spell-check or drive stick shifts. Oh, maybe you’ll find an isolated one or two who can, but that’s like finding a Yankee fan who lives on Commonwealth Ave in Boston. You’ve gotta search hard.

The truth is I’ve never driven a stick. Maybe we had one in Driver’s Ed simulator class in 1968 but who remembers and more importantly, who paid attention? So I called Talladega to see if knowing how to drive a stick was a pre-req and they said, “It’s preferred but if you don’t know how we’ll teach you.” That really wasn’t too comforting as one shifting error could be my last. I almost wished it would have disqualified me but no such mazel.

I arrived about forty-five minutes early for my 10 am session and the clouds looked ominous; visions of a rainout and deep relief danced in my head. I checked in, forking over my driver’s license and signing a hold-harmless waiver and was given a blue racing jump suit. The temp went from 70 to 90 with that thing on and zipped.

About two dozen of us were in the group, at $300 per, to defy death or serious injury for eight minutes. By sight it was pretty obvious I was the only one in the room missing temple yesterday. Like fantasy camp, some were back for their fifth or sixth experience. An hour’s classroom session included a ‘do and don’t’ video. I sidled up next to the instructor who was sitting in the rear and told him I’ve never driven a stick. He said, “No worry, we’ll give you a tutorial at the car but just remember you are going from first to second to third and will wind up in fourth gear for most of the ride.” Huh?

He also said to make sure I used the clutch. The What? The only thing I know about clutch is it’s something A-Rod isn’t.

The instructor told us the mantra was, “The faster you go, the more comfortable it is.” Now my knees were knocking. The last time I was this nervous was in 2010 when I faced a major league pitcher at Pirates camp for the first time. Zane Smith, formerly a Pirate, Brave and Red Sox, threw me a fastball that was probably 10-15 mph slower than in his prime and I still couldn’t see it.

Our group finished in the classroom, walked to the pit area and unfortunately the clouds were gone, the sun was shining and the temperature inside the racing suit now felt like Hades in August. Everyone was given a pager and when it buzzed it was your time. When mine went off I hoped it meant my table at Outback was ready, but instead it was time to be fitted for a helmet and get into the race queue.

Four cars on the track at a time, staggered start times. A fifth one circled driven by one of the track pros offering ‘ride alongs’ to those who didn’t want to drive but still wanted the thrill. Not to take that option, not a particularly good decision for this soon-to-be driver.

When your car comes back into the pit, it’s time. I was hoping for one sponsored by Manischewitz or Hebrew National but no such luck. Even Valvoline would have made me feel manly. Instead, I got a rather drab white one, that said “NASCAR Racing Experience” on it.

The thing that struck me right away is these cars have no doors! Who knew? You gotta climb through the window. What? At sixty-four years old, six foot three and two hundred pounds, with all the flexibility of a piece of plywood, there are things in life I shouldn’t be doing: pure barre, advanced hot yoga and climbing through a window into a race car.

But there I was— right leg first, left leg next and then the crew pushing my head down like a perp being loaded into the back of a squad car. They strap you in; by the time you’re secured it feels like you are hoping for that last minute reprieve from the governor’s office. Once secured in the cockpit I realized why there are no Jewish NASCAR drivers—there is room for only one and no Jewish man is allowed to drive a car without the Jewish wife sitting next to him nagging how he’s doing everything wrong and what an idiot he is.

Then the quickie lesson on the stick. It’s an ‘H’ - you have to go from first, to second to third and ultimately wind up in fourth gear. It had a lot of baseball similarities to me. The inside of the car had all the charm of a 1976 Chevy Vega which if you remember the Vega had none. Saying it was stark would be like saying a glass of straight gin was colorful. The pit crew also shows you where the fire extinguisher is. There’s as much chance of me using that as knowing how to open the exit door on an airplane. You hear it, nod accordingly, but don’t really listen.

You then find the ‘talk’ button and hear your spotter somewhere high above the racing oval. All four cars on the track get their own spotter. I hope this guy has a sense of humor. You’re in his hands for the whole eight minutes. He sees what’s in front and behind you and the man on the other end of the headset, not the brake, becomes your best friend.

There’s no speedometer in the car but there’s a tachometer, whatever that is. No Sirius-XM either. Not even faux-wood finishing. Or an ash tray as I just considered taking up smoking again. The Vega was nicer. Your speed is guided by something called RPMs on that tachometer thing. Listen, I know what ERA, RBI and OBPs are but RPMs? Never heard of it, but we were told in no uncertain terms for your first time out, 5,000 of them is tops. No worries here.

Then the fun starts. You are sent out, clutch, second gear, clutch, third and one more time to get into fourth gear when you hit the main track, the longest in the sport at over two and a half miles. Literally, pedal to the hot metal and get those RPMs, whatever that may be, up. In your ear, your spotter has your back (and your front.). Stay in the middle of the track if you can, the track apron is too low and the outside lanes are for passing. It was incredible; it was exhilarating; it was also scary as shit when you see that wall to your right and realize it doesn’t move. And you get cottonmouth as you go through the turns banked at a very severe 33 degrees, the steepest of any track on the circuit. A combination of gravity, inertia and momentum seems to drive the car by itself as you are squeezing the non-power steering wheel with all you’ve got on the verge of strangulation. I wished I’d put on a yarmulke under the racing helmet for that added sense of security that a higher authority was watching out for me.

Six trips around in front of 80,000 empty seats and the eight minutes are over. You get instruction in the headset to pit. I looked for my left-hand turn signal but couldn’t find one. You coast in, still in fourth gear, but the sign says to put it in neutral and roll back to your starting lane.

If I thought getting into a car without a door was tough, the real kick was trying to get out. The pit boys told me it had to be headfirst. I laughed. They didn’t. I’m sure it was a sight to behold. I ain’t trying that one again. Even the shitty, primitive Vega had doors.

You catch your breath, take your helmet off and beads of sweat roll down your flushed face. I was afraid to look down at my pants. They told me my top speed was 158 mph. That’s pretty impressive until I realized it’s about the same pace of the slow lane on I-95 between Miami and Fort Lauderdale.

But the high of the experience didn’t end there. You’re still riding it when you get back to your personal vehicle. And on the way home. Right up until the state trooper nails you for, what else, but speeding.

I knew I shoulda gone to synagogue.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning from New York. A trip to Cooperstown with son Jason late last week for my inaugural visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame. More on that in SMC’s ahead. Then an Amtrak ride down the Hudson to NYC for a quick visit. First Yankee Stadium on an 85 degree afternoon. Like the old days you still can buy caps, tee shirts, bobbleheads, beer and water pre-game outside the stadium. However, in today’s new modern era of the world and baseball with the advent of replay and ball/strike challenges, you can also find vendors hawking pre-rolled joints before you walk into the ballpark. Who knew, but that would have been a wise acquisition watching the Yankees bumble their way to a 11-4 loss. Then dinner in Brooklyn at legendary Peter Luger’s with Jason and nephews Brian and Alex, a couple of fine lads. Followed by a 5 am car to JFK the next morning and back home to Vegas. I’m tired, but never too tired to Scramble:

From the ‘You can’t make this up’ department: Wednesday, April 15, was the 114th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. Chicago’s Volo Museum hosted a Titanic exhibit comprised of artifacts from the ship including art, fashion pieces and personal items from some of the ship’s 2,200 passengers. Chicago has had unseasonably heavy rains this spring, almost ten inches which is double the norm. On Wednesday the city got another downpour of two and a half inches stressing the roof at the Volo Museum. Heavy leaks ensued. The entire Titanic exhibit was flooded. Poetic.

Even SNL couldn’t script this one. We’ve always been told to ‘pick on someone our own size.’ Donald Trump stands 6’3”, 225 pounds on a non-Big Mac Day; maybe 235 with large fries. Pope Leo’s weigh-in stats are not part of his bio but estimates have him 5’9”, maybe 170 tops after a long shower. An unfair match-up in the ring. Nonetheless, this side of Ali-Frazier has there ever been a bigger heavyweight war of words than the president and the pope? If it wasn’t so disturbing these two world leaders, at the top of the top echelon, were verbally sparring it would actually be funny. Like Ali, the pope’s words are calculated — jab, jab, hook. Like Frazier, the president puts his head down and comes right at you — left, right, left, right. He absorbs blow after blow but keeps swinging. Come on boys, knock it off. Go to your corners—Trump in the red corner, Leo in the blue and take a timeout. We really don’t need this.

Before we leave the White House and another embattled occupant, let’s do some house cleaning first. If Melania is telling the truth, and there’s no reason to suspect otherwise, then I agree with her. The First Lady said last week that rumors linking her with Jeffrey Epstein are “individuals lying about me (and) are devoid of ethical standards, humility and respect.” What a novel approach civility might become. Especially if it starts at home. Just sayin.’

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago, I’ve been going to hockey games since JFK’s administration but never had seen a college game. That changed last weekend when I saw two as part of a hockey doubleheader. The Frozen Four, shinny’s version of the Final Four, was here in Vegas and what an entertaining and different experience. The atmosphere at sold out T-Mobile Arena was great; the four schools, Denver, North Dakota, Wisconsin and Michigan well represented; the building was alive with excitement; each school had their own pep band and jersey, or in hockey parlance, sweater colors galore. The skill level of course wasn’t NHL standard even though each team had multiple NHL draft choices on their rosters. Passing, shooting and stick handling lacked compared to NHLers. Interestingly, all four starting goalies were freshman, but it was the smallest of the bunch who stood the tallest. Michigan and North Dakota were the tournament favorites and got eliminated right away; Denver and Wisconsin played the championship game with the University of Denver scoring two late goals for a 2-1 win and the championship in front of over 18,000. It was their third in the last five years. Denver’s goalie, Johnny Hicks, was the player of the tournament and without him the Pioneers had no chance. Hicks is small, 5’10”, 157 pounds with catlike reflexes. The 20-year-old hasn’t lost a game since becoming a starter in January. Being undersized has hurt him with NHL teams but a goals against average of 1.12 and a save percentage of .958 this championship season will have Hicks on the draft board in June.

And if you are a hockey fan there is nothing better than the two months that lie ahead. The Stanley Cup Playoffs begin this weekend and without a doubt of all our major team sports the Cup playoffs are the most physical and difficult team playoffs to win. These guys are super athletes, the best in the business. The intensity of the regular season is charged even higher during the playoffs. Play is tight, one mistake can be fatal. Every goal matters. And there is no excitement that can match sudden death playoff overtime. Incredibly, the two-time defending Cup champion Florida Panthers didn’t qualify for the playoffs this season and are already on the golf course. Looking for a bet with some meat on the bone, I think a team from the West wins the Cup and I like Dallas at 14-1 while not sleeping on a resurgent Vegas team at 12-1.

Before we leave the rink, the PWHL, Professional Women’s Hockey League, is in its third season and struggling to gain traction on a busy winter sports menu. The New York Sirens played their home games in Bridgeport, CT, before moving to Newark this season. They made a pit stop at Madison Square Garden two weeks ago and by the time the first puck dropped there were no tickets to be had. A sold-out crowd of 18,006 cheered the Sirens to an overtime win against Seattle. It was the largest gathering to ever see a women’s hockey game in our country.

In case you were wondering, and I’m reasonably sure you weren’t, but a poll of Los Angeles County residents by Loyola Marymount University about their favorite sports teams was a runaway. The two-time defending World Series champion Dodgers getting 43% of the vote to 28% for the Lakers. The Rams were third at 7%, the hockey Kings at 5% and the Angels creeped into the chart at 4%. It appears nobody in LS gives a damn about the Clippers.

I just love this. The Wall Street Journal tells us that parents tired of hearing their kids campaigning for a phone are now buying internet-enabled landlines for their little ones. A Seattle start-up named Tin Can is producing a line of telephones by the same name and marketing the retro-1990s handset to parents for their kids. Of course, when the kids are told they are getting a phone and given a Tin Can instead of an iPhone they are not only disappointed but have no idea what to make of this strange looking contraption. They’ve never seen anything like it before. Some youngsters are warming up to it after the initial shock of getting something they never wanted. In fact, one mom says her daughter loves when the phone rings and the anticipation of not knowing who is calling. Then there’s nine-year-old Luna James-Martinez in Asheville, North Carolina, who complained that every time she picked up the phone it had a glitch. Mom had to explain what a dial tone was.

When Tevye sang ‘If I Were a Rich Man’ in Fiddler on The Roof he probably wasn’t envisioning living in Mississippi one day. But a recent study by SmartAsset, a finance reference database, tells us that a household income of at least $225,000 in the bayou classifies you as rich, the lowest of all 50 states. Conversely, the top of the ladder is Massachusetts where $420,000 a year makes you a mogul.

Take a look at your upcoming calendar. If you have a couple of days free and no rush to get back home try what David Olvera of San Luis Potosí, Mexico, did last week. With some downtime Mr. Olvera took a trip from Cozumel to Cancun. He couldn’t be bothered looking for good airfare; instead, the 31-year-old decided to throw on a bathing suit and swim. He went non-stop, all 53 miles, in just shy of 17 hours. Not sure how he got back.

Greece is taking a huge step to help mom and dad not be the bad guys. Starting next year, any kid under the age of 15 will be banned from social media. A bold step that no doubt will produce considerable pushback, it remains to be seen how enforceable it really becomes.

Speaking of those days, remember when our parents used to lecture us that our essay or term paper due tomorrow wasn’t ‘going to write itself?’ Well, that’s one expression now AI extinct.

It’s doubtful if anyone has any idea how much a first-class stamp costs and you’re wasting your time with a phone-a-friend for help. They won’t know either. The answer is 78 cents, but not for long. The U.S. Postal Service, void of significant tax dollars and fiscally dependent on the sale of their own products, is raising the cost to 82 cents on July 12. And those three-cent postcards we used to send as kids will increase to 65 cents. However, quit whining, the Postal Service says our rates are the best in the world and still a heck of a deal considering the cost of mailing a letter in the U.K. converted to USD is $2.42. Yeah, whatever you say.

And finally, as Rory McElroy put on the green jacket for the second straight year, it served as a stinging reminder to all of us Gang Green football fans that Rory has now won back-to-back Masters since the Jets have last had an interception.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning and Happy Easter to all those celebrating. May your day be filled with love, peace and family. And continued Chag Sameach, Happy Passover, with only three days left before bagels, pizza and pretzels once again become staples and we put the gefilte fish and matzah back into the cupboard for a year. So, let’s Scramble:

Moving and buying a house in Louisville? Well, you may want to rethink unpacking. According to a new study by real estate site Redfin, those moving to the Kentucky Derby city and purchasing a home have the shortest hold rate of any in the country. Louisville homeowners tend to stay in their houses for about 8.3 years before selling. Contrary, homeowners in Los Angeles top the tenure chart with an average stay of 19.4 years before listing. Also on the short side is Vegas at 8.8 years followed by Charlotte, Orlando and Raleigh. San Jose is second to LA with plenty of time to do renovations at 18.7 years with San Fran at 16.5. Obviously, the cost of housing is so high in California once someone gets in, they are hesitant to leave and start the process, and mortgage cycle, all over again.

Not everyone has swung a tennis racket, hit a baseball or blocked a shot on the basketball court. But at one time or another, everyone has gone bowling. Now HBO brings us Born to Bowl, a five-part series produced by Ben Stiller that takes us behind the scenes of the pro bowling tour. Part tongue-in-cheek, it’s narrated by Hard Knocks Liev Schreiber so you know it means business. It’s been a long time since the 1960s when ABC Sports greeted us every Saturday afternoon in the winter, as a prelude to Wide World of Sports, watching Don Carter, Nelson Burton Jr., Dick Weber and Carmen Salvino cover splits. The 1960s show, sponsored by Firestone Tires, was hosted by the incomparable Chris Schenkel with Billy Welu by his side. Born To Bowl introduces us to today’s Don Carter— E.J. Tackett—along with other non-household names like Kyle Troup, Anthony Simonsen, Cameron Crowe and Jason Belmonte. There are some cameos of the fiery Pete Weber, the bad boy of bowling, who on any given week goes from hero to villain. There’s no real money in the sport; competitors hoping to make a splash travel around the country week after week with a handful living in their cars unless they are lucky enough to cash a check and move into the plush accommodations of a Holiday Inn Express. Sadly, there are no beer frames on tour.

If you are a coffee drinker, savor each cup. The price of java has increased more than any other household grocery item and that’s saying something. Back in the prehistoric days, 2020, a pound of roast coffee cost on average about $4.17. Today it’s well over double— up to $9.46 a pound. A perfect storm of droughts in coffee production in caffeine powerhouse countries like Brazil and Vietnam in 2024 has led to crop shortages. Not to mention a 40% tariff slapped on Brazil, by far the largest US coffee exporter, has meant escalated costs passed on to consumers. Sip, don’t chug.

I’m an off again/on again book reader. No, not ones that someone reads to me but I still like to hold them and turn pages. My genre of choice isn’t self-help/personal development despite some of you thinking it should. The newly-released Let Them, by motivationalist Mel Robbins, was highly recommended to me and I needed something for a cruise a couple of months ago. I wish this had been on the market 20 years ago when I was still in the workforce. Let Them is common sense dished up practically focusing on finding your own peace and choices rather than the frustration of trying to change others’ habits and actions. Now I incorporate some of the logic and philosophy from Ms. Robbins’ writing in my thought process almost every day. What she professes makes too much sense. If you are still in career mode it will make you a better professional, guaranteed. If you are out of the workplace grind it will take a bunch of stress out of your daily life. And I plan to publish my own sequel entitled Let Andi.

Well, you can go ahead and cancel that behind-the-scenes tour of Graceland. LeBron James on my nephew Robby’s Bob Does Sports YouTube show Thursday said no thank you about playing for the Milwaukee Bucks or Memphis Grizzlies, but he was particularly candid about Memphis saying, “If they (the Grizzlies) would have won the lottery and picked me first in 2003, I might not have shown up.” The 41-year-old all-time leading NBA scorer lamented any trip he has taken to Memphis, saying other players around the league shared his sentiment. “Being in Memphis on a random-ass Thursday, come on. I’m not the first guy in the league to talk about this. We’re all like, ‘You guys have to move.’” LeBron did send some love to the state of Tennessee on the podcast adding the league should relocate the Grizzlies franchise to Nashville where according to LeBron, “They’ve got everything, the Titans and Vanderbilt. They even have a hockey team, don’t they?” Get that guy a Predators jersey and a couple of passes to the Grand Ole Opry.

Love is…wishing Ali MacGraw a happy 87th birthday. The 1970 Love Story star is well and living outside of Santa Fe, New Mexico.

And then there were none. The decline and consolidation of the newspaper industry over the past 40 years has forced many metro dailies to either fold or team up with a same market competitor in a joint operating agreement where one survivor absorbed their smaller brethren but maintained separate editorial departments. Once upon a time there were some 30 such operating agreements where you might find the Detroit Free Press a part of the Detroit News; the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette printing the Pittsburgh Press or the Denver Post incorporating the Rocky Mountain News into its fold as a few of the examples. By 2019 that number shrunk from 30 to five such entities. As of this past Thursday there are now none. Some 20 years ago the Las Vegas Review-Journal and the Las Vegas Sun combined with the Sun a separate section daily inside the RJ. The relationship was combative almost from the get-go. Editorially it gave Vegas some balance down in the bullpen with the RJ throwing from the right side and the Sun from the left. The Sun had been the valley’s afternoon paper since 1950 under the legendary Greenspun family; the RJ in the morning since 1909 and now owned by the family of the late Sheldon Adelson. When what’s left of the few hard copy newspaper readers awoke on Thursday and went out to their driveway the headline told us the Sun was no more, the result of almost seven years of litigation between the hostile parties. Put another nail in the once great industry’s coffin.

This is probably not on his iTunes playlist. Mr. Trump doesn’t seem particularly enamored with Bruce Springsteen’s new anti-establishment ballad Streets of Minneapolis. On his Truth Social site, the president reviewed the song this way—“Bad, and very boring singer, Bruce Springsteen, who looks like a dried-up prune who has suffered greatly from the work of a really bad plastic surgeon and has a long and incurable case of Trump Derangement Syndrome. MAGA should boycott his overpriced concerts, which suck.” Otherwise, it appears the president liked the song.

Hypocrisy has always reigned supreme at the NCAA. Later this week, and over the next two years, the collegiate sports governing body with absolutely no teeth nor guts will become the ultimate hypocrites. Forever, the NCAA has frowned upon holding major events and championships in Nevada because of its past open sports betting policies. Now, sports betting is virtually nationwide and not only drives interest in all sports, but sportsbooks and casinos are welcomed and encouraged to spend their advertising and marketing dollars with the NCAA and its member schools. So for the first time ever, a major NCAA championship will be contested this week in Las Vegas when the Frozen Four, the Division I hockey championship, comes to T-Mobile Arena on Thursday. The final four includes North Dakota, Wisconsin, Michigan and Denver facing off for the right to play for the national championship on Saturday. It already has set a secondary ticket market record for the most expensive ducat in Frozen Four history. I’ve been a hockey fan all my life. Saw my first game in 1962 when I was 10 and hundreds more since then. The one thing I’ve never seen is a college hockey game. I will break that streak on Thursday. And the Frozen Four is far from the only NCAA championship headed here. In what used to be college sports Siberia, our phony friends at NCAA headquarters in Indianapolis will also bring the College Football Playoff championship game here in January and the basketball men’s Final Four in 2028. And the NCAA brass will have absolutely no problem banking all the money it can get from playing in a city without rival to host championship events.

Conversely to the longtime NCAA boycott of Vegas, the NFL couldn’t wait to get back here. Owners voted on Monday to return the Super Bowl to the Strip in 2029 after an over-the-top successful maiden voyage in 2024. Next February’s big game will be in LA and 2028 in Atlanta.

And finally, when you speak of legends in sports, nobody has ever made the mistake of adding quarterback Geno Smith to the list. But according to New York Jets head coach Aaron Glenn that is about to change. Glenn, arguably the worst coach in the NFL and odds-on to be the first one fired this upcoming season, said last week that he believes the broken-down Smith can take the Jets to the “promised land.” Which for a Jets fan is a four-win season. Which would make Geno a legend after all.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning. Plenty of Scramble items today but before we get started, and while waiting for Iran to tap-out, the question du jour: How can a certain someone who is so good driving a golf ball be so bad driving vehicles?

A great response to the SMC of two weeks ago—Too Busy To Be Scared (royberger.com)—about Jill Metlin and her group of 14 Israel tourists getting out of danger and back to the United States in the face of Middle East uncertainty and chaos. The best among many comments was from Howard Weiss of Tucson, Arizona, who humorously wrote: Three thousand years after Moses spent forty years trying to get us OUT of Egypt, Jill’s group did it in reverse — in one night, with an envelope of cash and a guy who knew a guy. No burning bush required, just a sealed envelope and unpaved roads in the dark.

Big news on the family front. Granddaughter Harley and her mom and dad are moving back to the States. After two years in London, Scott, Cayla and Harley return today to Los Angeles where Scott has accepted the position as general manager of the Waldorf Astoria in Beverly Hills. Good for them and great news for us. It’ll be nice to have them so close after being so far.

And speaking of five-star luxury hotels, the one I stayed at in Birmingham, Alabama, a couple of weeks ago was anything but. No Frette’s bedding; no cushy robes and as far from fluffy bath towels as can be. In fact, I’m certain the hotel towels are used by the maintenance crew during the day as sandpaper and returned to the guest room towel rack by night. I took an evening shower before going out to dinner. I took a look at my sandpaper towel, now turning red, and then in the mirror. It took about ten minutes for the bleeding to stop. The next morning, in advance of a breakfast engagement, I showered and totally forgot about the towel. By the time the bleeding finally stopped again, I only missed the first cup of coffee.

Maybe it’s best if United States hockey hero Jack Hughes, who scored the winning overtime goal against Team Canada in the Olympic gold medal game, keeps his gap- toothed mouth closed. The game winning puck as well as the one scored by Megan Keller, also against Canada in the women’s gold medal final, now reside in the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto donated by the International Ice Hockey Federation. Hughes wants the puck telling ESPN, “In my opinion that’s bullshit that the Hockey Hall of Fame has it.” No Jack, it’s not. It was never yours and it’s where it belongs. Plus, what could be better than displaying the US gold medal winning pucks in Canada?

If you are a podcast listener you’re not alone. The Wall Street Journal reports that nearly 60% of Americans ages 12 and over listen to at least one podcast a month. And the programming menu has exploded with almost three million pods available on Apple Podcasts, triple from six years ago. However, not all is gravy— nearly half of all advertising revenue goes to just 500 podcasts, leading to a fairly rapid consolation of the industry.

Can anyone say voter fraud? In last Tuesday’s special election for State of Florida legislative seats Palm Beach County resident Donald J. Trump, an outspoken critic of mail-in ballots, nevertheless voted by mail. In what looks like a clear case of election fraud Democrat Emily Gregory, a first-time candidate, beat Republican Jon Maples in the House district that includes Mar-a-Lago.

Very quietly and under the radar in all of the March Madness noise was the NYU women’s basketball team ending their incredible 91-game winning streak. The lady Violets, who play in Division III, hadn’t lost a game in three years since losing to Transylvania (KY) University on March 11, 2023. NYU brought a 29-0 record to this year’s Final Four where they bumped into the University of Scranton who was 30-0. Scranton stopped the NYU streak with a 60-52 win. However, NYU’s impressive winning streak is not the longest in NCAA women’s basketball history. That belongs to UConn with 111 straight between 2014-17.

He’s been dead for over 30 years but the sports memorabilia market is still mesmerized by Mickey Mantle. According to the New York Post, the Mick ranks first in all baseball memorabilia sold over the last 50 years with more than $162 million in sales. His 1952 Topps baseball card fetched $12.6 million alone. Second? Well, that’s the Babe with over $131 million sold.

No, you are not losing your mind. Back in the 1960s and for two, three decades afterwards male psychologists dominated females in the biz. Over 80% were males as patients’ main concerns were aggression, conflict and trauma. In the 1990s the prevailing areas of need flipped to love, meaning, friendship and cooperation. That according to the Wall Street Journal produced a sea change in the industry driven by clients’ needs. Today the number of therapists has done a total flip with females now making up about that same 80% of the profession. And don’t discount the impact that tough-guy Tony Soprano seeing Dr. Jennifer Melfi had on the female side of the profession.

How’s this for a bottomless tub of popcorn: longtime Today Show film critic Gene Shalit celebrated his 100th birthday last Wednesday. Shalit was an NBC television mainstay from 1973-2010 featuring his bushy handlebar mustache, Jewfro and oversized glasses.

The music industry lost a good one on Thursday as Darrell Crofts passed at age 87. Crofts, known as Dash, was part of the great Seals & Crofts soft rock duo of the 1970s with time-tested music for the ages: hits like Summer Breeze, Diamond Girl, Get Closer and We May Never Pass This Way Again. They broke up in 1981 but reunited again in 1989 for a couple of years and then one final bow in 2004. The native Texans were boyhood friends. Jim Seals died at 79 in 2022; Dash Crofts, from complications of heart surgery last week in Austin.

And speaking of Seals & Crofts music it was always a mainstay back in the day over a game of backgammon accompanied by too much vodka and some of that funny stuff we inhaled. Our games of backgammon however were seemingly much more mellow than the ones Middle East envoy and presidential son-in-law Jared Kushner plays. Addressing a conference in Miami on Thursday Kushner compared Iran to a struggling backgammon player. “When you are losing at backgammon, the strategy is basically to create as much chaos as possible, hoping you’ll find an opening,” he said. That’s fine but let’s just keep the doubling cube away from them.

The winter sports wagering season was good to me hitting totals on both the NBA Spurs and the NHL Ducks. Now we’ll go to dinner on baseball — by far the best sport for season totals as there’s action almost every day for six months. So, for our appetizer we bet the projected worst team in the game — the Rockies — to win over 54 games, or in Rockies jargon, only lose 107. The main course is a serving of the Twins to go under the projected win total of 74. Side dishes with the Twins entree are both the Mets and Yankees to win their divisions and for dessert, the trendy selection the last couple of weeks is action on the Pirates over 79 wins, so we took a small scoop of that. Interestingly, the lowly Pirates over the last decade have for the first time ever a payroll in excess of $100m. In tandem they are surprisingly only a notch over 2-1 odds to make the playoffs. I think that might be a stretch but, first things first, let’s get to 79 wins.

Fun to see the Buffalo Sabers included in this year’s upcoming NHL playoffs. The Sabers will break the second longest playoff drought in American team sports. The last time Buffalo was in the postseason goes back 14 years to 2011. Who still has the longest non-playoff streak in sports doesn’t really matter.

And speaking of the New York Jets, 56 years after our only championship and 15 years after a playoff appearance, laughter has become the antidote for the pain inflicted upon us year after year. The latest head shaking belly laugh was a couple of weeks ago on March 11 when the Jets traded for quarterback Geno Smith allowing them to dump previously heralded but inept Justin Fields to the Chiefs. Geno was a Jets’ second round draft pick in 2013 out of West Virginia and started as a rookie. He was a less than impressive 11-18 in two seasons before getting punched in the jaw during the 2015 training camp by a teammate over an alleged unpaid debt. That ended his Jets career or so we thought. He was shipped across town to the Giants as a back-up, then to the Chargers for a season before going to Seattle for five where he showed signs of quarterback life. When his Seattle head coach Pete Carroll came to the Raiders last season he brought Geno with him. To say the 2025 season in Vegas was a train wreck would be unfair to the railroad industry. The Raiders finished worst in the league at 3-14. Geno was a disaster, leading the league in times sacked, 55, and interceptions with 17. On the verge of being cut by the Raiders the Jets, as the Jets do, decided he would be worth a sixth-round draft pick and brought him back to New York to continue the debacle. However, there is some good news. The Jets were the only team in the league last year without an interception. Zero. They should get plenty of experience this season picking off passes during practice.

If you didn’t see the movie Nuremberg in the theaters it’s now on Netflix. Of course, it’s the story of the post-Holocaust 1945 Nazi war crime trials and is especially good. It stars Remi Malek and Russell Crowe but the real sleeper in the cast is Michael Shannon as the lead prosecutor. Since I first saw him in Boardwalk Empire, anything Shannon does becomes better. Definitely worth the watch.

And finally, Passover starts this week with Seder dinner on Wednesday night. It’s a major Jewish holiday that the Book of Exodus celebrates when the ancient Israelites escaped from slavery in Egypt. The holiday runs for seven days and it’s a grueling seven days for modern Jews. Lore has it back in the day the Jews fled oppression in such a hurry that their bread didn’t have time to rise so they were forced to eat unleavened items during the exodus. It was an exit so fast that we pay for it today. Therefore for the next week observant Jews don’t eat anything leavened. That’s no bread; instead matzah for the masses. And that’s not all—no products from wheat, barley, rye, or oats—which means no bread or pasta or cookies. Or cakes, crackers or tortillas for Mexican night. Or pizza. Or pretzels. Or my Sunday salt bagel. Or liquor or beer derived from those grains. Popcorn? Fuhgetaboutit. It’s matzah, matzah and more matzah which just ties up your digestive kishka’s into knots. So if you are celebrating, I’d wish you a happy Passover but with the dietary restrictions, that’s not really possible. Instead, let’s make it a peaceful one. Something we all can easily digest.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

When the air raid warning sirens started blaring two weekends ago in Jerusalem, Jill Metlin was too busy to be scared.

“I can’t say I was scared, in fact I wasn’t,” Ms. Metlin said. “If nothing else I felt resolve that we had a plan and it was my job to make sure we followed the plan.”

Professionally, Jill is the Israel and Overseas Manager for the Jewish Federation & Foundation of Northeast Florida encompassing four counties around Jacksonville, FL, her home. Personally, she is married to Paul Metlin, whom I met 15 years ago at a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball camp and even though his 40 mph curve ball twists me into a pretzel at the plate, he has become a close friend.

In her role with the Federation, Jill planed the latest mission trip, called AsOne CommUNITY which provided the opportunity for her community to visit Israel and Jewish diaspora countries to better understand the peoplehood; to see firsthand the work of the Federation and to travel and learn together. The voyage was an interfaith mission, 25 in total with seven being non-Jews.

Saturday morning February 28 was scheduled to be a leisurely morning for the group in Jerusalem: a late breakfast and then an afternoon of touring. They spent the previous three days in Hadera-Enron, an Israeli region that is a sister city to the Jacksonville Jewish community. Following the Hadera-Enron visit, two stops remained on the eight-day journey— Jerusalem and finally Tel Aviv.

Jerusalem’s David Citadel Hotel was quiet two weeks ago yesterday. Even though it’s located amidst the hustle and bustle of the Mamilla Mall near city center, it was Shabbat in Israel when businesses and activities take a peaceful rest from the daily swarm of activity. Except this day turned out to be anything but a normal Shabbat.

“About eight o’clock in the morning our phones started buzzing with the news and a warning that Iran was just attacked,” Jill remembered, thankful that their Israeli tour operator, Giant Leaps, had all the participants download an app called Homefront Command when they first arrived in the country. The primary function of the alert service is to warn its users if missiles or other disruptions are heading toward their location.

Minutes after the news of the attack, the first air raid siren was sounded which is a warning that the area may be under attack. When the second one blared a couple of minutes later, there was no ‘maybe’ anymore. Everyone needed to get to their designed ‘safe area,’ which is part of the hotel arrival orientation process in the unlikely event of a disturbance much like the obligatory muster station orientation on a cruise ship.

“When the second siren sounded, we had 90 seconds to put on some clothes and shoes, grab our room key, phone and some water and get to our safe area which was in a stairwell,” Jill said. “Our group was scattered throughout the hotel so not everyone was in the same safe room. I was with six from our group and about 20 other people whom I didn’t know which included families, kids and even a dog. We were in there for about a half hour until we got the all-clear signal on our phones.”

It was Ms. Metlin’s 10th visit to Israel but the first time she encountered sirens and a scramble for safety and cover.

Following the all-clear, the entire Jacksonville contingent met in the lobby and were briefed by the Giant Leaps personnel. It was deemed safe to continue their previously scheduled activity, which was a Jerusalem walking tour.

Most major Israeli tour companies provide plain clothes security personnel to accompany the foreign tourists. Almost all are ex-military, IDF. It’s an added layer of protection for ‘if and when.’

“At about four o’clock in the afternoon, while we were out, the alarms sounded again,” she said. “Security and the guides took us to a safe room in a local apartment building they were aware of. We were there less than half an hour. Ironically, with us in that safe room was former Israeli president Reuven Rivlin (2014-21) which turned out to be an incredible 20 minutes listening and learning from him.”

Saturday night the group canceled their scheduled activities and opted to stay in the comfortable and presumably safe surroundings of the hotel. As they prepared to sleep, learning from the morning experience, most slept with safe room clothes on and necessities bedside. Instead of sleeping with the proverbial one eye open, they had one ear open which turned out to be fortuitous. Alarms sounded at midnight and again at 4 am scattering the group back into the stairwells.

Sunday the group was in a “holding pattern” as Jill described it. The Tel Aviv airspace was shut down on Saturday so they made the best of things including some ventures outside for walks and a scheduled afternoon lecture by noted Israeli historian Gil Troy.

Sunday evening the conversation turned to leaving Israel. Even though planes were grounded they were advised there was an escape route through Egypt. No alarms were sounded that night. Jill made the decision to stay away from her cell phone with social media rumors and speculation. “I needed to stay focused, do my job and be responsible for the group” she said and added “I depended on our tour guides to give us the latest verified information and advice.”

Monday originally was to be the last day in Jerusalem before ending the trip in Tel Aviv. However, both Jerusalem and Tel Aviv businesses were shut down and all flights canceled, so the conversation focused in earnest about getting back to the United States.

Of the 25 in the Jacksonville group, 15 decided to leave while 10 stayed behind wanting to continue the mission with no guarantee or surety about what was to come.

“We were never told we had to leave but that option was there if that’s what we wanted to do,” Jill said. She was with the 15 who opted to return home while the trip co-coordinator stayed with the remainder.

Giant Leaps put a plan into motion to help the evacuation. First, a bus would take them from Jerusalem to Eilat, Israel’s southernmost city on the Red Sea bordering Jordan and Egypt. The four-hour bus ride wasn’t without incident as a warning siren sounded during the journey and the bus had to get off the road and wait about 15 minutes for the all-clear signal before continuing. Once they arrived in Eilat, the tour guide, van driver and the two security guards left. As Israeli citizens they couldn’t cross the border and went as far as they were authorized.

“We got off the bus and had to carry our luggage across the Egyptian border,” Ms. Metlin said. “We were met by a woman that had our Egyptian visas and she also handed me an envelope. It was sealed, but full of cash. I imagine that was used to guarantee our border crossing but I didn’t want to know. On the envelope was the name of a gentlemen who was to meet us and get us into Egypt and to a hotel that was pre-arranged for us,” Jill said and continued, “It was very chaotic everywhere with people yelling and screaming at each other in Arabic but the gentleman got us through without incident.”

The hotel wasn’t a place where you’d take the family for a week’s vacation, far from it. But for a short night of rest as part of an evacuation, it served its purpose. “We had a 4 am wake-up call and our escort was back at 4:45 am with two vans,” Jill said. “It was pitch dark, the roads weren’t paved, there were five roadblocks on the way and at each roadblock we had to give our passports to the inspectors to enable us to keep going.”

The destination was an airport near Taba, Egypt, a beach resort community in the Sinai Peninsula. If a photo op is on your travel itinerary, then Taba might be your place. From there you can see Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Saudi Arabia.

“The airport in Taba was mobbed, there was no coordination on anything, lines upon lines and nothing in English. For us it was a total cluster,” Jill said. “We got there about 6:30 am, they put us in a room with metal chairs and some water. Finally at 9 am they said it was time to go.

“All we knew was the plane was chartered by the Israeli government and was headed to Athens, Greece, four hours away. When we landed in Athens we all definitely felt relief,” she said.

There actually turned out to be one more sightseeing day after all. Giant Leaps arranged hotel rooms in Athens. The group relished leaving the chaos behind and were actually able to enjoy the day. “We had each other, a sense of community, which was much more comforting than going alone,” she said.

The next morning, Wednesday March 4, was the best 22-hour travel day any of the attendees could want. They flew from Athens to London to Charlotte, NC and ultimately landing in Jacksonville late that evening when you factor in the six-hour time difference.

Interestingly a day later, Israeli officials advised the remaining 10 on the mission that it was best to return to the States. Eight took the same route home. Two opted to stay in Israel.

Once home, Jill had a chance to finally catch her breath and get caught up on some sleep. The relief of getting out of Israel and home safely aside, she said her one professional regret was half of the members of the trip were in Israel for the first time and never really had the opportunity to see the totality of the beauty of the Jewish homeland.

Did the interruption of the mission at all temper Jill Metlin’s resolve and feelings about Israel and future visits? Not a shekel’s chance.

So, ask Jill when she is going back to Israel and there is no hesitancy in her reply.

“As soon as possible.”

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning and welcome back to daylight savings time. Just a little hint in case you forgot, don’t live in Arizona or Hawaii, and got an hour’s more sleep today than you were due.

Today’s SMC comes from St. Louis, MO. In my 45 years of extensive business travel, sprinkled with a fair share of leisure, I’ve been everywhere man, except the city of St. Louis. Back in the old TWA days I changed planes in STL more often than TWA filed for bankruptcy, but never left the airport. Until this weekend. The Missouri Valley Conference (MVC) basketball tournament, tabbed as Arch Madness, brought me to downtown STL for the first time. Okay, I hear the collective ‘Why’? Fair question. Sixteen years ago, while living in Birmingham, AL, Rob Ehsan became an assistant basketball coach at University of Alabama at Birmingham (UAB). I was a corporate as well as personal booster of the program. Rob and I became friends and despite a pretty good age gap, the friendship has enhanced through the years over business, family, life and of course, basketball.. In 2016, Ehsan then 34, was elevated to head coach at UAB. He left Birmingham in 2020 after four successful years and a won-loss record of 76-57. Then to Stanford as an assistant for three seasons under his good friend and mentor Jerod Haase before taking a head coaching job of his own again at UIC-University of Illinois Chicago last season. UIC plays in the Missouri Valley Conference. Ehsan and UIC Athletic Director Andrea Williams, a newly found friend, encouraged me to meet them in St. Louie for the tournament. I did. And once in STL I had to take the ten-minute walk from the hotel to the Gateway Arch because everyone told me I should. I learned more about the Arch than I ever gave any thought about. It was built as a tribute to Thomas Jefferson signifying the nation’s westward expansion. At 630 feet high it’s the tallest monument in the United States. Monument being the key word. It’s the second highest in the world only taking a backseat to the Eiffel Tower. The Arch is also 630 feet wide, producing a perfect geometric curve. And if you think there’s red tape and construction delays these days consider the Arch was approved by Congress in 1935; construction of the stainless-steel exterior didn’t actually begin until 1963 and finally opened to the public a relatively short 60 years ago in 1967. I also spent the $19 for the tram ride to the top. If you are visiting St. Louis and run out of time to take the tram, put that in your personal win column. Oh yeah, back to the basketball. Well, so far so good for UIC, winning their first two tournament games by a combined 34 points. The victories advanced them to this morning’s championship game against Northern Iowa on CBS. It’s the first conference tournament final ever for UIC. Win it and they get a spot in the Big Dance. Let this improbable run continue. Go Flames.

And speaking of college basketball conference tournaments, next weekend is the big one for most conferences on the eve of Selection Sunday a week from today. This season there’s only one Division I team that’s undefeated and still may have to sweat being included in the Madness. Miami University of Oxford, Ohio, not to be confused with The U of Coral Gables, finished the season with a perfect record —31-0. The War Hawks play in the MAC, the Mid-American Conference. That tournament begins later this week in Cleveland. If Miami wins the MAC tourney, they are in. But the rub is if they lose a game, especially in the first round, they become the ultimate ‘bubble’ team. Even though they answered every challenge, Miami may not be all that good after all. Undefeated, but they are only ranked 19th in the polls. However, even worse, those who make a living rating college basketball teams based on a myriad of competitive factors have Miami the 78th best team in the country, while theoretically the best 68 advance to the dance. Even more precarious, Miami’s strength of schedule is 292nd and in non-conference play, against a bunch of cupcakes, they rank 364 out of 365 DI schools. Their resume is precarious at best. For Miami it’s pretty simple: win and you’re in. Lose a game in the MAC tournament and get ready for a sweaty-palms Sunday, two weeks before Palm Sunday.

Kudos to NBC for their great Olympic coverage despite challenging time zone differences. And a great round of applause to all our athletes, medal winners or not, who with class represented the USA. And of course, a standing O for both the men’s and women’s hockey teams for their gold, both teams with 2-1 wins over Canada in overtime. I’m not ready to lay claim that we are the hockey capital of the world, Canada still is, but we represented ourselves so well and should be so proud.

A couple of Olympic wrap-up thoughts: the gold medal game in hockey, if tied after regulation, should revert to the standard five-on-five overtime format as in the NHL playoffs. Three-on-three, while fastidious, shouldn’t cut it with the gold on the line. I was proud to see the men’s hockey team take a bow at the State of the Union. The women should have been honored as well. I couldn’t disagree more with the president singling out Connor Hellebuyck, the outstanding US men’s goalie, for the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Hockey is a team game. Yes, he was the MVP and without him we don’t win, but the reward was a gold medal for the team because we won as a team. It should remain that way. With Russia banned from competition in Olympic team sports it was disappointing not to see the greatest goal scorer in NHL history, Alex Ovechkin, take one final bow in the tournament. How great was 20-year-old Alysa Liu and her championship figure skating performance? Finally, for anyone who says a cricket match takes forever to end, have you ever watched Olympic curling? Is it still going?

A change at the top. In case you missed it, for the past two decades Walmart has been the country’s largest corporation by revenue. Things changed in 2025 as Amazon.com, in a photo finish, tallied $717 billion in sales compared to Walmart’s paltry $713 billion to take over the top spot. Most of Amazon’s sales were delivered to our house.

Happy birthday to Dominic Chianese, Tony Soprano’s Uncle Junior, who just celebrated his 95th.

Paul Anka has been a mainstay virtually all of our lives as a performer, recording artist and incredible song writer. His HBO documentary, Paul Anka: His Way, premiered late last year on HBO Max and is well worth the 100-minute watch. Also, if you are a fan of Harlan Coben British police thrillers you’ll like his Run Away on Netflix. It gets better by the episode. And over on Showtime, Coldwater will keep you on the edge.

The late civil rights activist Jesse Jackson, who died on February 17 at 84, was a heck of an athlete back in his day. He was a three-sport star at Sterling High School in Greenville, SC, earning letters in basketball, baseball and football. Upon graduation in 1959 he turned down a contract to play minor-league baseball for the White Sox and instead opted for a football scholarship to the University of Illinois as a quarterback. Things didn’t work out the way he hoped so after his freshman year he transferred to North Carolina A&T University in Greensboro where he was the student body president and quarterback. In 1963 with Jackson under center, NCA&T won the Central Collegiate Athletic Association, comprised of historically Black colleges and universities, football championship.

Well, this was easy. Last Tuesday night I cashed my NBA season win bet when San Antonio won their 44th game to go over the pre-season total of 43 wins. They sent me to the cashier window with 21 games still remaining on the schedule. My son Jason is my NBA tout and for the second straight year he was right on. Looking to keep riding that winter sports wave, my sleeper hockey play is the Anaheim Ducks to record 83 or more points this season. The surprising Ducks have 73, which leaves me needing six wins with 20 games remaining. I like my position.

Here’s a rock ‘n roll question not asked very often, if ever? What happened to Helen Shapiro? In 1963 the 16-year-old Ms. Shapiro headlined a UK pop tour that had the Beatles on the same bill. Or the ‘Dynamic’ Beatles, as the concert posters promoted. Early in the tour, the then unknown lads from Liverpool were the opening act of the eight groups. In fact, trying to broaden their exposure, John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote Misery for the popular Ms. Shapiro hoping she would record it and with her fame it would enhance the Beatles’ songwriting credentials. But she was on tour and didn’t have the time. So the Beatles did and it ended up on their first album, Please Please Me in late 1963. Beatlemania exploded while Helen Shapiro’s pop career imploded. Later in life she became active in Jewish and gospel-style recordings. Ms. Shapiro is 79 and living in London.

And if you knew that, then here’s one about British pop music I guarantee you didn’t. In 1967 a real anomaly happened on the music charts. The long-ago forgotten group of—get this—Dave Dee Dozy Beaky Mick & Titch (no kidding) released Zabadak, with an incredibly unusual mix of psychedelic rock with tribal-style chanting and heavy percussion and brass. The song hit number one on the Canadian charts; number three in the UK and no further than 52 on the US Billboard top 100. Put it in your browser and tell me what’s wrong with the Canadians taste in music?

Lou Holtz died this past Wednesday at 89. Holtz spent his career in college football first as an undersized linebacker at Kent State then into coaching and finally broadcasting. His coaching style was part philosopher and part motivator. It worked with an overall head coaching record of 249-132-7 in 33 seasons. In 1988 Lou won a natty at Notre Dame and was 100-30-2 in 11 seasons in South Bend. But there is one dark part of Coach Holtz’s resume that stays under the radar. In 1976 he strayed to the NFL and became the head coach of the Jets. Not sure what he was thinking. The Jets went 3-10 that season before Lou quit with one game remaining. He said afterwards, “God did not put Lou Holtz on this earth to coach pro football.” What he really meant to say was, ‘God didn’t put Lou Holtz, nor anyone else, on this earth to coach the New York Jets.’

And finally, it won’t take much of an argument to agree that the Raiders’ Geno Smith was the worst quarterback in the NFL last season. His league leading 17 interceptions, poor decision making and immobility help sink Las Vegas to the worst record in the league. The Raiders released Geno on Friday. Nobody was surprised. After he was cut, Smith posted on X/Twitter “THANK YOU LORD.” To which all Raiders fans say a hearty ‘Amen.’

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

When Bill Mazeroski, with one swing of a baseball bat, hit the home run to beat the New York Yankees in 1960 and deliver a World Series championship to Pittsburgh, I jumped up and down and then ran around my block, arms over my head the same way Maz did a few minutes earlier in his Pirates uniform.

When Jack Hughes, with one swing of a hockey stick, scored the overtime goal last Sunday to deliver the Olympic gold medal for USA men’s hockey, I wanted to jump the same way but aerodynamically I can’t defy gravity anymore and didn’t try at the risk of an Achilles tear. When I learned that Jack Hughes is a fellow Jew, a member of the tribe, I wanted to run around but that would be a bad sight for my neighbors. So, I just raised my arms in celebration. Hughes, who plays for New Jersey in the NHL, now has an Olympic gold medal on his mantel to go with the bar mitzvah kiddish cup his rabbi gave him 11 years ago.

But I digress. Today is about Bill Mazeroski and his lifelong impact on me. Maz died a week ago Friday at age 89. He leaves behind a legacy and a video clip for the ages. Mazeroski was the first and still the only major league baseball player to hit a walk-off winning home run in a Game 7 of the World Series.

October 13, 1960, was a Thursday and I begrudgingly went to school at Meadowbrook Elementary in East Meadow, NY. It was the final game of the World Series played in the afternoon because there was no such thing as night World Series games back then. It meant way more to me than another day in the third grade but my mom didn’t see it that way. Boo. So, I neatly tucked my transistor radio and cool-for-the-day dual earpieces under the bologna sandwich, three slices of bologna between a couple of slices of Wonder Bread, and a thermos in my very trendy Zorro lunch box. Come one o’clock in the afternoon I suddenly had to use the restroom. Often. If I knew what a prostate was, or even could pronounce it, I would have played the ‘prostate acting up’ card with Miss Reich, our pretty teacher who may have been 22 years old, give or take. Instead, I just raised my hand and said I had to go. I think Miss R caught on pretty quickly. Other boys, dreaded Yankee fans no doubt, also had the same issue that afternoon. It was a urologist’s dream.

School ended at three. A short bus trip got me home by 3:20. I sprinted down to our den, turned on the black and white Admiral television set and after a prolonged and agonizing warm-up, the picture finally came on just as the Yankees scored two runs off Bob Friend to tie the slugfest at 9-9 going to the bottom of the ninth inning. Minutes later, at 3:36 pm, after the Yankees Ralph Terry threw light-hitting Maz a high fastball, the next pitch was over left fielder Yogi Berra’s head, 406 feet into a Forbes Field parking lot and a championship for my Pirates who were huge underdogs in the Series. I leaped in the air and took that run around the neighborhood wearing my cherished Pirates plastic batting helmet. After the game Yogi said, as only Yogi could say, “We made too many wrong mistakes to win.” That one swing of the bat by the 24-year-old Mazeroski, the youngest regular in the Pirates line-up, left Mickey Mantle crying at his locker and Casey Stengel, who managed the Yankees for 12 years and seven World Series championships, out of a job.

After my dash around the neighborhood, I got home winded and waited for what seemed like hours for Dad to arrive. I was a huge Pittsburgh Pirates fan because my dad was. That was the way it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? As a kid, the apple should never fall very far from the tree. Dad was at work in New York City, a belt salesman back in those days, and was later than normal getting home. He missed his regular train to stand in front of E.J. Korvette’s appliance store and watch the game on a television they had in the showcase window. When Maz hit the homer, hundreds of Yankee fans just sulked away. Dad clapped, yelled “Finally,” and caught the late train. When his black 1956 Hudson Hornet finally came around the corner I met him on the driveway and gave him a great big hug like the Pirates did to Maz. “We did it Dad, we won!”

Bill Mazeroski not only became a hero for the ages to the city of Pittsburgh but he became mine as well. My Pirates interest only accelerated through the 1960s and even though Roberto Clemente became my favorite baseball player, the hero status I had for Maz was one of worship, never waning.

The years passed, life was in front of me and my daily fanaticism with baseball moved a notch toward the back burner. Sure I was excited when the Pirates won the World Series in 1971 and again in 1979 but it was nothing like the 1960 experience and my impressionable youth which still resonates today. And truth be told somewhere in the 80s I went through a conversion to a Yankees fan but the Pirates will always have a soft spot for me.

Jump ahead a half century from 1960 to 2010 and one of those bucket list items. I had heard about Major League Baseball fantasy camps. These were designed for middle aged to older guys, frustrated because they always wanted to play the game at an elevated level but never had the skill set. Say hello to me. About half the MLB teams sponsored camps featuring old time ball players as guest celebrities. They coached us and laughed at us on the field. However, baseball was only one part of the camp experience. Socialization with other campers and the ex-pros rounded out the days off the field. I had met some guys who had previously attended fantasy camps, the Dodgers and Royals, and couldn’t stop raving about it. Even though I hadn’t picked up a baseball since 1968, I wanted to go to one. My wife encouraged me. The Pirates Fantasy Camp in 2010 was going to be the 50th celebration of the 1960 team. If I ever was going to do it, this was the time.

When I found out eight members of that ‘60 World Championship team were going to be at that camp as coaches that cinched the deal. It was a week in Bradenton, Florida, at the Pirates spring training headquarters. Of course the marquee attraction of the ‘60 team was Bill Mazeroski and he was top billed on the camp brochure. I sent my check, a little over three grand, and went to a local batting cage.

On that January ‘10 opening night of fantasy camp I was star-struck. Former 1960 Pirates like Vernon Law, Bob Friend, Bill Virdon, Joe Gibbon and Bob Skinner were there, mingling and talking with fellow campers. And of course, Maz. I couldn’t fathom then, 50 years later, I would be in the same room as these guys. Less hair, a few more pounds, but who cared—that described me too. Instantly, I was that eight-year-old kid again.

However, I was really 57. By then professionally accomplished. Throughout my career I have spoken at trade shows and conferences to groups of over a thousand attendees. I testified before congressional sub-committees and state legislatures and even did a half-dozen very bad stand-up comedy gigs in front of 400 strangers. But nothing intimated me more than seeing Bill Mazeroski, then 74, right in front of me that first night of camp.

I should have gone over, introduced myself and told him what he meant to me as a kid. Instead, I was gutless. Finally on the second day, my team coached by former Pirates and Yankees manager Bill Virdon, played Maz’s team at McKechnie Field where the Pirates play their spring games. We were the home team and took the field first. I was warming up our infielders at first base, took a look over my right shoulder and here comes Maz to coach first base for the other team. Holy shit! He had a camp roster in his hand and before I could say anything to him, chomping on his trademark cigar, he said, “Hey, Alabama, what are you doing here?” Seemingly Pirates camp doesn’t have much of a following in Birmingham, Alabama, my home at the time. I guess that made me stand out. Short of bowing, I went over and shook his hand. And that started a relationship that I never would have guessed could happen. We chatted between pitches, me asking more questions than I could even think of. His ever-lit cigar blew smoke right at me. The whole situation was surreal. We blew a 6-0 lead but hung on for an 8-6 win. I also walked away with a mild case of emphysema but who cared, it was Bill Mazeroski! The win was the second most exciting thing of the day for me. I ran back to my room in the Pirates dorm to call my dad and tell him about Maz. I was eight years old again.

That night dinner was in the camp dining room. Toward the end of the evening I saw Maz walk outside. Feeling pretty full of myself after that wonderful afternoon on the ball field, I followed him and pulled a real camp rookie boner. Feeling my oats just a bit, I stopped Maz and told him about the adolescent sibling rivalry my brother Mike, three years my junior, and I used to have in the mid-1960s. I’m reasonably sure it was nothing he cared about. Mike was a Yankees fan; me of course a staunch Pirate backer. But our rivalry wasn’t necessarily about the teams; instead it was about the second basemen— Maz and the Yankees’ Bobby Richardson— two of the best in the game but who was really better?

Maz could have easily shooed me away but he didn’t. Much to my surprise he seemed amused. He said, “Get your brother on the phone for me.” I did. Fortunately, Mike answered. “I have someone who wants to talk with you,” and I handed the phone to the greatest second baseman ever.

Maz started by saying to Mike, “So you think Bobby Richardson was better than me?” I’m not sure what happened after that as I could only hear one side of the conversation. My brother was a heck of salesman during his career but I had him as a big underdog in this conversation. The call lasted maybe two minutes. Maz handed the phone back and said, “I just got him straightened out.” Mike then told me, “Well, there is no doubt in his mind now that Bobby Richardson was better.”

Ironically, though Mazeroski was the 1960 World Series hero, Richardson was voted the MVP of the Series by the sportswriters, still the only time a member of the losing World Series team has won the award. If the voting was done after the game, and not when the Yankees had a three-run lead in the eighth inning, I have no doubt that the MVP would have shifted to Maz for his heroics. While Maz was only a career .260 hitter, his defense and his walk-off notoriety propelled him to induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 2001. He played all 17 years of his career, 1956-72, with Pittsburgh, every game with a big hunk of chew tucked into his left cheek. He won two World Championships in ‘60 and ‘71. Maz was a 10-time All-Star and won a Gold Glove every year from 1963-70. He still holds the MLB record for most double plays turned by a second baseman with 1,706. Bobby Richardson doesn’t. Renowned baseball statistician Bill James said, “Bill Mazeroski’s defensive numbers are probably the most impressive of any player at any position in the game’s history.” As I still remind my brother—‘Bill Mazeroski is in the Hall of Fame; Bobby Richardson has to buy a ticket to get in.’ Case closed.

I was at Pirates camp for three years while Maz was still the main attraction. He was as humble as they came. He never thought the song was about him nor did he particularly relish the attention, but heads turned when he walked into a room. It was a visit from the pope. The Pirates pope. He was larger than life. Maz loved to spend evenings during camp chatting and regaling campers with baseball stories. He was uncomfortable talking about the home run but would oblige because people wanted to. In return all we had to do was always make sure his glass of Chivas Regal was never empty. Those evenings for us were what baseball dreams were made of.

In 2014 as I was writing a book about my camp experiences, I told Maz about the project and asked him if he would consider authoring the foreword and have his name on the cover. The book would ultimately become entitled The Most Wonderful Week of the Year, which perfectly described fantasy camp.

Maz told me he wasn’t much of a writer but he would be glad to share some thoughts that I might be able to use. I said wonderful. Maybe I spoke too soon.

In part Maz wrote, “I’ve played with, against, and watched some great first basemen in all my years in baseball and I can honestly tell you Roy Berger isn’t one of them.” Double ouch!

Bill Mazeroski died peacefully nine days ago on February 20. A part of my childhood died with him.

At eight years old in 1960 never did I think that one swing of a baseball bat would still resonate with me for the next sixty-six years.

Thanks, Maz.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

To say she pulled no punches would be a wee bit of an understatement.

“If they don’t like it, let them go ahead and fly another airline.” Whoa! I didn’t expect that when I asked a flight attendant last Monday on my Southwest Airlines trip from Las Vegas to Birmingham, Alabama, how the public response has been to Southwest’s new boarding and assigned seating changes.

The former fun little carrier that was started by Herb Keller and Rollin King in 1967 with three airplanes which flew exclusively intrastate Texas hopping between Dallas, Houston and San Antonio. They built that into a giant specializing in convenience and customer service for almost 60 years. Currently Southwest commands about 20% of the domestic passenger market, but is now entering a very treacherous stage despite becoming a domestic behemoth. Can anyone say New Coke?

Over the past five years what was once the most customer friendly domestic airline has been chipping away at its clientele and its reputation.

Bags fly free? Gone. Cattle-car but efficient boarding? Gone, replaced by a surcharge allowing fliers to improve their boarding positions. Cheaper fares? Mostly gone, too. And then three weeks ago, on January 27, came the end of Southwest as we once knew it—the introduction of assigned seating overturned the entire apple cart that once was so full of goodwill and customer service.

Jogging your 1985 memory, Coca-Cola, then the big dog in the soft drink industry, decided it was time for something new and spent massive amounts of money in developing and marketing what they labeled ‘New Coke.’ It was a colossal failure right from the get-go; the company received over 8,000 daily complaint calls and 77 days later the experiment went to the graveyard. More recently, Southwest, despite its record 2025 revenues said that wasn’t enough and launched 2026 changing the entire formula that made it the success its become. Kinda like Coke rolling out New Coke for no reason. Now, the airline whose New York Stock Exchange symbol since 1971 has been LUV is no longer feeling that luv from its faithful.

Early returns of the new format from many SWA loyalists has not been good. Everything that made Southwest different is gone, replaced by the same formula used by Delta, United and American, carries that Southwest once mocked mercilessly.

I’ve been a Southwest customer since 1999, the year I moved to Birmingham. As President and CEO of travel assistance provider Medjet (Medjet.com) most of my travel was domestic. We had sales offices in multiple cities and customers around the country. Delta dominated the Birmingham market, but Southwest was a friendly and cost-effective alternative. It also allowed me to avoid changing planes in ATL, every road warriors’ nightmare.

I was with Southwest in the days of the color-coded numbered boarding cards. I would get to the airport a couple of hours pre-flight and get on a line that didn’t exist until I got there trying to grab number one. That assured me of my exit row seat aka Southwest Airlines first class. Then the game changed— the numbers were gone and A/B/C group colored boarding passes were given out in tandem to checking in at the gate. Then it was 24-hour advance check-in on your phone. Or you could buy a 36-hour check-in assuring you of that A boarding group, a choice seat and overhead space.

In more than a half-century of airline travel my best airline perk is my Southwest Companion Pass. I’ve qualified every year since 2015. Over the years my Companion Pass has become my best friend. Simply, I designate a companion. They fly free wherever I go as long as we are on the same itinerary. And the bonus is I can change my companion three times a year, which means if Andi starts to give me fits, I can designate her for reassignment on the taxi squad and switch my free traveling companion. And then she can rehab on the sidelines and work her way back up as my final annual companion switch. This benefit literally saves me thousands of dollars a year and is truly appreciated. And unless I miss my guess, and I hope I do, it probably won’t be around much longer as SWA will try and monetize it like they’ve done with everything else.

The airline has two tiers of status flyers: A-List and A-List Preferred. Back in the open seating days of old Coke, oops I mean Southwest, that was good for a choice boarding position in the first boarding group. That has gone away and now the traveler becomes a prisoner of some kind of algorithm assigning eight numbered boarding groups.

However, I’ve remained fortunate to be an A-List Preferred the past couple of years even though I am not flying as much. I now earn my status through a Southwest branded credit card. That is the epitome of good news/bad news. What that entitles me to with the new system is important. In addition to assigned seating, Southwest has also gone to priority seating offering more leg room in the first six rows and exit rows of the aircraft. It’s available for purchase depending upon the fare basis and ticket cost but can run up to $100 for a segment. As an A-List Preferred I can go right to the seating map at booking and grab my exit aisle with no up-charge. I may not like the system, but I like the benefit.

The only thing better than an exit row aisle seat is an empty middle seat to complement it. I was pretty good at protecting that unoccupied seat and keeping it that way during open seating. Or if the flight was full then drafting my middle seat companion. Offensive lineman and linebackers need not apply. The New Coke format doesn’t let me do that anymore. The airline controls the seats now.

My experience overall so far has been okay. I’ve flown five legs since the change was made and because of my A-List Preferred status it’s been fine save for the boarding process taking at least five minutes longer that it used to. What we are hearing and reading from the public tells a little different tale than maybe the airline wants to admit. People are confused. And frustrated. Sure, the regulars get it but the very casual traveler who used to get on-board a LUV flight and grab the seat they wanted now have to hunt and peck. Overheads fill up quickly in the front from early boarders. Those in the same area who board later find overhead space rare. One recent traveler was sitting in row five and the closest overhead space was in row 20. That is incredibly uphill when trying to deplane. Of course Southwest has an answer for that too in what they call ‘priority boarding.’ No matter what boarding group number you are assigned to, $30 gets you on the plane before anyone else. More cha-ching.

I’ve flown five legs since the change was made and because of my A-List Preferred status it’s been okay save for taking at least five minutes longer during the boarding process. For others not so much. In fact, comparisons have publicly been made to the Coca-Cola flop with New Coke and hoping that ‘New’ Southwest gets scrapped and return to the old, successful model like Coke did.

Along with complaints about available overhead bins, the airline has other issues to ferret out. If you pay the basic published fare you don’t get to pick a seat until 24 hours before flight or at check-in. That has created havoc for budget minded families who can’t get seats together. One airport checked-in family had a two and a five-year old assigned to seats, not together, and away from Mom and Dad. Now even further delays in asking people to change seats so the family can be together. This happens over and over again every day. It was never an issue in open seating. Others are confused by the process and struggle to find their assigned seats. And then there is the plain stupidity on the airlines part—a flyer who paid for an elite seat had a middle seat passenger next to him. There were 100 available seats on the flight. He moved a row back which was totally empty. A flight attendant saw this and approached asking him where his seat was. He pointed to the row in front. She told him, “We can’t leave until you are in your own seat.”

Unlike New Coke, Southwest will survive this drastic model revision but the days of the old, friendly, customer service driven airline are gone. Further changes are still to come based upon experience and customer feedback. However, SWA will cease to become the airline of choice for many diehards and casual travelers. They now have equal options elsewhere in the terminal.

In other words, as my flight attendant told me on Monday, “If they don’t like it, let them fly another airline.”

Many will.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning. I hope everyone had a great Valentine’s Day and gentlemen you treated your s/o with all the trimmings. You will need all that equity next year when Valentine’s Day is also Super Bowl Sunday.

The Chinook in the Pike Place Fish Market are joyfully jumping. What a sports fall/winter it’s been for the city of Seattle. The Mariners came within a run of making the World Series losing the American League Championship Series to Toronto four games to three; the Seahawks just hoisted the Super Bowl trophy for all the 12’s; the hockey Kraken are knocking on the Stanley Cup Playoffs’ door while the SuperSonics have not lost a basketball game in over 18 years while their successor, the OKC Thunder, are the defending NBA champs and odds-on to win again in June. Not too shabby.

Okay, I’ll turn myself in. Sitting with a nice wager on Seattle last Sunday, come midway through the first quarter I had little reason to worry. However, I am guilty of actually enjoying the halftime festivities. So much so that I went and watched it again on Monday to make sure I really did like it. The production, set and pageantry were incredible for a stage wheeled out to the middle of a football field for a 13-minute performance. I’m not sure I would have enjoyed it as much in English but the upbeat Spanish feel to me wasn’t political, just fun for a few minutes. Sixty years ago, for Super Bowl I, we got the University of Arizona Symphonic Marching Band and the Grambling University Marching Band. In 1967 Puerto Rico’s Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio was still 27 years away from being born.

This is interesting: average viewership for the Super Bowl was 125 million; for halftime it jumped to 128 million.

Speaking of Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio, when he was six years old, he was forced to wear a bunny costume to school for Easter. He was angry about it. The expression on his face was not a happy one. Thereafter, he was dubbed by schoolmates as a bad bunny. When he started his music career about a decade ago, he wanted a stage name that people would remember. It worked.

Over $133 million was wagered in Nevada sportsbooks on the Super Bowl. Almost $10 million of that was lost by the public for a 7.4% hold for the bookmakers. And if you can’t wait to get rid of your money for next year’s VDay game BetMGM, prior to free agency and the draft, has already opened with Seattle at 8-1; the Rams at 9-1 and Buffalo and Baltimore at 12-1 to win the Super Bowl. Don’t sleep on the Jets next season—they are only 25,000-1.

Las Vegas visitation fell by 7.5% in 2025 largely impacted by exorbitant hotel and resort fees and the Canadian tourism market turning dry. One of the busiest times of the year for Vegas has always been Super Bowl weekend. Last weekend, almost like the bigwigs are starting to understand, you could find rooms on the Strip for less than $100 a night. That’s a good start for a comeback.

Who needs Fodor’s or Frommer’s for a travel guide when you have a granddaughter like Harley? When Mom and Dad take her to Belgium in a couple of weeks, it will be the seventh country she’s visited in only six months on the planet. Harley lives in England and has already been to Scotland, France, Czech Republic, United States and Mexico. She liked the US so much, the family is moving back to the States this spring.

A casualty of the cell phone era has been the elimination of those pesky cruise ship photographers.

Speaking of which, before booking your next cruise make sure your child support payments are up to date. Potential passport revocations for those in arrears of $2,500 or more for support payments have been on the federal books since 1996 but rarely enforced. Under the present administration the State Department soon plans to begin revoking passports at its own initiative for deadbeats.

Chew on this for a minute: in 1992 Bill Clinton was elected president of the United States. He was born in 1946. Thirty-two years later in 2024, Donald Trump was elected president for the second time. He too was born in 1946.

Happy birthday to the only one left from the island. Tina Louise, the luscious Ginger Grant from Gilligan’s Island, celebrated her 92nd last Wednesday. Ms. Louise played Ginger from 1964 till 1967. In January 1958 she was featured in a Playboy photo spread.

Dave Barry, formerly of the Miami Herald, was my favorite humor columnist back in the day. He has resurfaced right here on Substack and is just as funny as he ever was.

As Olympic hockey moves into the medal round this week, if you have an hour and a half free take a peek at Miracle: The Boys of ‘80 on Netflix. Some remarkable story lines and footage of how the 1980 US men’s team overcame the Russians and their own head coach Herb Brooks to rock the world in Lake Placid, NY, and win gold. It’s a feel-good story, not just for sports fans but for the entire country back when we lived through the Iran Hostage Crisis, a gasoline shortage, the Cold War resuming and something economists called ‘Stagflation’ when both inflation and unemployment were at all-time highs. At the end of the Boys of ‘80 documentary team captain Mike Eruzione said about the distraction from world events the Olympic hockey team gave us 46 years ago, “We can use a 1980 now.” He scores with that one.

The Beach Boys spanned 24 years between their first and last number one Billboard hits: I Get Around in 1964 to Kokomo in 1988. As impressive as that longevity might be, it isn’t an all-time mark. That belongs to Cher whose first solo single Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves hit number one in 1971; 28 years later in 1999 she topped the list again with Believe. Throw in her I Got You Babe duo with Sonny in 1965 and the number jumps to 35 years between first and last.

We lost a good one when Chuck Negron died on February 2 at 83. The founding member and lead singer of Three Dog Night gave us so much fun music that still resonates and always will. The group, originally called Redwood, had 21 top 40 hits and three number ones: Mama Told Me (1970); Joy to the World (1971) and a year later Black and White. Original members joining Negron were Danny Hutton and the late Cory Wells. The interesting footnote is none of their music was original. Three Dog Night recorded songs written by the likes of Harry Nilsson, Randy Newman, Hoyt Axton, Laura Nyro and a host of others. Or they just covered songs that became hits. Written by Axton, we still don’t know why Jeremiah was a bullfrog.

With the passing last week of former Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Roy Face there are now only six living players from the classic 1960 World Series between the Pirates and Yankees. Face died Thursday at age 97, eight days shy of his 98th birthday. For those of you too young, Mr. Face was the bullpen ace for Pittsburgh back in the late 50s and 60s. Two things about Face mesmerized me as a young eight-year-old kid who couldn’t get enough baseball: he pitched for my team, the Pirates, and his name was Roy. The only other Roy in my life then was Rogers, so this made Roy Face very special. His given name was Elroy, fortunately mine wasn’t, but later in his career and on his baseball cards he was just Roy. Other than being a Pirate and a fellow Roy, he was also a damn good pitcher. Face was a relief pitcher extraordinaire for the Pirates over 15 seasons. He stood a diminutive 5’7” and weighed 150 pounds. Clearly, he didn’t get batters out by physical intimidation. Instead, he perfected a forkball, the old-time equivalent of today’s split-finger fastball. In 1959 Face posted an 18-1 record, all out of the bullpen. Yep, 18 wins which meant he either entered tie games or the Pirates rallied for come from behind wins or he gave up leads and the team bailed him out. No matter it was 18 wins which is still an all-time record for a reliever and probably always will be. In those days saves weren’t an official stat for a pitcher. In 1969 baseball statisticians went back and credited that stat to those who pitched prior. Thus in 1960, the Pirates World Championship year, Face had 24 regular season saves to go with his ten wins. In the World Series he pitched 10 innings and had three crucial three saves in games one, four and five that ultimately got Pittsburgh to Game 7 and the win. I met Face about a dozen years ago at one of my Pirates camps. I shook his hand, took a picture and told him how much he meant to me as a kid, not the least of which also being a Roy. It was a thrill for me. I’m not so sure he shared my enthusiasm. With the death of Mr. Face, the surviving Pirates of 1960 are World Series hero Bill Mazeroski, 89, who hit the walk-off home run in Game 7, still the only one in baseball history; Cy Young Award winner Vernon Law, 95, and lanky left fielder Bob Skinner, 94. Remaining from the Yankees are second baseman Bobby Richardson and his double play partner shortstop Tony Kubek, both 90. Senior of the six is pitcher Bobby Shantz still going strong at the ripe age of 100.

I’ve been a devoted Southwest Airlines domestic travel customer since we moved to Birmingham, Alabama, in 1999. With Southwest dominating the market in Las Vegas that habit has continued. I said goodbye to the A, B, C boarding group numbers on its final day, January 26th. More bitter than sweet. I also got to experience the newly assigned seat scheme ten days ago. However, immediately noticeable was how much slower the new boarding process is. There’s confusion on the assigned seating and overhead bins tend to fill quicker, making people walk past their seats and squeeze back through again, depending where your seat might be and what new boarding group you are in. Southwest officials told CBS News there will be tweaking of the new system to try and expedite boarding. I’m traveling this week so I get to try it again. The jury is still out and probably will be for a while.

And finally, back to music—this suprised me. Neil Diamond’s Sweet Caroline, which debuted in June 1969 and has undergone an incredible renaissance through the decades as a worldwide stadium and arena ballad, never ranked number one. The highest it ever reached was number four on August 16, 1969. At least it was in English.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

This is a story about perfection. This is a story about the New York Jets.

You can read that again, but it still says what you thought it said.

Later today, with a hundred million people and two hundred million eyeballs watching some football game from a hard-to-get-to-nook in California called Santa Clara, I will do what I’ve done every big game Sunday for the past 56 years and give a damn less.

Since early evening on January 12, 1969, when the New York Jets achieved perfection, this day and the game hasn’t really mattered. It won’t today either unless the Patriots (boo) lose. That would be a pleasant thing for Jets fans.

When you’re a Jets fan you are imprisoned for life. In 1961 over on the West Side, Riff sang, “When you’re a Jet you’re a Jet all the way from your first cigarette to your last dying day.” For those of us who remember 1/12/69, and are now closer to our last dying day, we will leave this planet knowing our team, once in our lifetime no matter how long ago, achieved perfection.

So what if we finished this season at 3-13, tied for the worst record in the league. That earned us the second pick of April’s NFL draft and our likely quarterback selection, Dante Moore of Oregon, chose to stay in school another year rather than become a Jet. So what if our non-playoff streak now dates back to 2010, the longest of any team in major American professional sports. Big deal. We are still perfect. 1-0. Only three other NFL teams can brag about that kind of perfection.

So today I will do what I do every year on this day. I will forget about our just completed disastrous season and remember the 1968 season morphing into January of ‘69 when I was 16. I’ll go out to the garage and show Andi what needs to be straightened up. I’ll begin to assemble income tax forms, far more pleasing than watching the Patriots. We hate them because they’re good and we’re not. They dominate our division and we don’t. We are their doormat. Or maybe it’s because on January 3, 2000, Bill Belichick (boo) accepted the Jets head coaching job and exactly one day later, January 4, questioned what he just did and submitted his hand-written resignation on a paper napkin. Three weeks later Belichick was hired by the Patriots and stayed long enough to win six Super Bowls. He also lost three which makes us perfect and he’s not. I will then go to YouTube and watch in its entirety that January 12, 1969, NFL-AFL Championship game between the Jets and the then Baltimore Colts, 15 years before they moved to Indy. Curt Gowdy, Al DeRogatis and Kyle Rote with the classic call. It was the third championship game between the bitter rival AFL and NFL and the first game of that magnitude to be called the Super Bowl. Then I will watch The Ed Sullivan Show, the one that aired when Joe Namath left Miami waving his right index finger telling the world what we already knew—the Jets are number one. Sullivan’s guests that celebratory night were The Chamber Brothers; Gina Lollobrigida (oh my); Don Rickles; Jerry Vale and the easily forgotten comedy act The Nitwits. It was one of the rare occasions when the Sullivan show wasn’t broadcast from New York; instead, at three-month old Circus Circus in Vegas. Great show, better earlier football game. I’ll probably also tune into iTunes and play Marvin Gaye’s, I Heard It Through the Grapevine, the number one song in the country on that historic early ‘69 day. And then at some point today I will run over to the neighborhood Red Rock casino and play a five-number keno card—1/12/69 and 16/7. The date and score of the perfect Jets.

And all of you Packers, Chiefs, Eagles, 49ers, Steelers, Cowboys, Patriots (boo) and even the neighboring Giants supporters who are full of yourselves with those 40 combined Super Bowl trophies, please remember you also lost 21 games between y’all and that is far, far from Jets perfection. Your combined winning percentage is only .655. Ours 1.000%. So, stuff that inside of your Lombardi Trophies. Then there is the league riff-raff from Cleveland, Detroit, Houston and Jacksonville who have never put on the Super Bowl pads and experienced Jets perfection. I’m sure that hurts, but too bad. Let’s not forget Buffalo, the poor 0-4 Super Bowl loser Bills. A Jets division rival. You’ve never sipped Veuve Clicquot like we have. Come to think of it, the Vikings are also zip for four. Slugs.

Otherwise, winless Super Bowl teams are Cincy three times; Atlanta and Carolina twice while Arizona, the Chargers and Titans have been there once but unlike the Jets couldn’t get the job done.

With full disclosure, four teams have played in a Super Bowl and never lost. Tampa Bay and Baltimore (Ravens not Colts) twice; New Orleans and the Jets, once.

Actually, the Jets’ 1968 season success started three years earlier in April 1965 when they selected Joe Namath from Alabama as the first pick of the AFL draft. Then the front office turned over the salary apple cart convincing Namath to sign with the upstart league instead of the St. Louis Cardinals who took him as the 12th selection in the more prestigious NFL draft. (Dick Butkus went to the Bears first). A pro football record contract of $427,000 over three seasons cinched the Namath/Jets deal. The mink coat came later.

That ‘65 season, Namath’s rookie year, started in typical Jets fashion when they lost their first six games as Namath split time under center with third year pro Mike Taliaferro. Joe then got the job full-time. The Jets won five of the last eight.

Building around their quarterback and adding key pieces like Emerson Boozer, Matt Snell, Don Maynard, George Sauer, Pete Lammons, Dave Herman and Winston Hill on offense; then with Al Atkinson, Vernon Biggs, John Elliott, Gerry Philbin, Randy Beverly and Johnny Sample on defense, the good guys improved to 6-6-2 in 1966 and 8-5-1 in ‘67.

It all came together in 1968 with 61-year-old head coach and general manager Weeb Ewbank guiding the team to an 11-3 record and a win over the Oakland Raiders 27-23 in the AFL championship game. In those days there was one playoff game, East winner vs. West champ. Beating the Raiders earned the green and white the right to be slaughtered by the NFL’s Baltimore Colts in what was called, for the first time, the ‘Super Bowl.’

Baltimore, coached by a 33-year-old kid named Don Shula, finished the season 13-1 and were 18-point favorites in the game at the Orange Bowl. Nobody thought the Jets had any chance. The first two championship games between the rival leagues were dominated by Green Bay who had no trouble beating Kansas City and Oakland. Namath, a few days before the game, told those gathered at the Miami Touchdown Club meeting that he guaranteed the Jets would win mainly to conjure up interest in the game that was predicted to be non-competitive. Whether he believed it or not, the tabloids had a field day and went wild with the guarantee. Namath was taken to task the next day at Jets practice by the diminutive but stern Ewbank. Namath in turn retorted, “Well, Coach, we are going to win, aren’t we? I’m just telling them what you told us.” Ewbank shook his head and walked away.

Namath believed that Baltimore quarterback Earl Morrall, subbing for an injured Johnny Unitas, wasn’t of the caliber that the Jets AFL league rivals Oakland’s Daryle Lamonica and KC’s Len Dawson were. The Jets top receiver Don Maynard was hobbled with a pulled hamstring, unbeknownst to the Colts who double-teamed him the entire game thus allowing the Jets to take advantage of single coverage on wide-out George Sauer who caught eight passes for 133 yards. Maynard, the decoy, had none. There’s no getting away with that deceit today when the media watches everything. I remember watching, sitting on the trendy-for-the-era plush green shag carpet in our Long Island den. Maybe an omen that green would be the color of the day? Right after Lloyd Geisel from the Washington National Symphony Orchestra tooted the National Anthem and Apollo 8 astronauts Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and William Anders recited the Pledge of Allegiance, the Jets behind a four-yard touchdown run by hard charging Matt Snell took a 7-0 lead to the halftime locker room. The Florida A&M University marching band provided the halftime entertainment. The second half was all Jets and all Jim Turner who kicked three field goals before Baltimore added a meaningless fourth quarter touchdown. The Colts did some kicking too but instead of through the goalposts it was to their own assess turning the ball over five times in a game that was still remarkably close in net yards—the Jets gained 337, the Colts 324, but Baltimore never could sustain a drive before losing the ball. In fact, Namath was right about Morrall who was intercepted three times before the desperate Colts turned to a hobbled Unitas, Namath’s boyhood idol. Unitas played the fourth quarter; he was 11-24, passing for 110 yards but also had one picked. It was too little, too late for the prohibitive favorites.

That’s it. Over. 16-7. Eighteen point ‘dogs cash. Namath who was 17-28 for 206 yards was the MVP and Broadway Joe officially became an American hero and brand. More importantly, no matter how bad things were to come for the Jets up until today, the Jets are 1-0, a winning percentage of 1.000 in Super Bowls. Perfection

So this evening when Seattle (1-2 in Super Bowls) and New England (6-5 in the big game) play it’s laughingly not even close to Jets perfection. And any Jets fan who watches today’s game has particular interest in Seattle’s roster of ex-Jets. Jason Myers, a Jet in 2018 will be the Seahawks kicker; Leonard Williams, the stellar defensive tackle who wore a Jets’ uniform from 2015-19 joins quarterback Sam Darnold as Seahawks. Darnold was the Jets’ third overall pick in the 2018 draft out of USC; Williams their sixth overall in 2015 also from USC. And as everyone since Joe Namath has, Darnold flamed out in New York after three seasons and has now, of course, become a Super Bowl quarterback wearing a different shade of green. Some Jets fans will root against Darnold, Williams and Myers. Most however will pull for them to beat New England. If that happens those ex-Jets will become our Super Bowl heroes du jour.

As for me, after The Ed Sullivan Show re-run, I will take a nap. And I will dream. I will dream that once more in my lifetime the Jets will play in a Super Bowl. And not to get too greedy, but why not stay perfect and win it?

Sometimes even the most improbable dreams come true. Don’t they?

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

They sat there and just let me hang. It was a slow death. I had a noose around my neck and a firing squad of 12 sitting in front of me armed and ready. Please make it quick. It was taking too long. One, in the back of the room, turned out to be a silent assassin. He, in particular, could have put me out of my misery much sooner. Instead, he just watched my self-inflicted pain.

I was wobbly. Clearly in trouble. Out of my league. Struggling like my eight stand-up comedy gigs in 2006, getting heckled and still hearing one drunk (he probably wasn’t but I’ll feel better believing he was) yelling, “When do the real comedians come on?”Or like my two-year reign of terror as a Las Vegas synagogue president, clearly unprepared and well beyond what little skill level I had. Or as a college freshman entering the U intramural boxing tournament in 1970, fighting (and I use that term very loosely) a football linebacker who thankfully knocked me out 57 seconds into the contest. You see, this past Friday night the silent assassin could have done the same, thrown in the towel for me, but he didn’t. Instead he let me get skewered.

We are cruising this week and our ship, the Silversea Silver Ray, was docked in San Juan for the day on Friday. Four or five months ago, when our excursion options arrived, we opted for a tour of the Puerto Rican rainforest. It sounded like a good idea then. Not so much on Friday. But we went, a 1 pm departure, plenty of time to get back for the six o’clock Shabbat evening service onboard. Had no idea this outing would take over five hours and be about as exciting as watching a Jimmy Carter comedy special on Netflix. It rained as I guess it should in a rainforest. We got wet as I guess we should in a rainforest. The highlight of the trip for me was driving past the town of Carolina, Puerto Rico, home of my baseball idol Roberto Clemente. At that point if we turned around and came back it would have been a heck of a day. We didn’t. Instead, we got back to the ship with about 30 minutes and no time-outs remaining until the Shabbat service started. We had to hustle.

On Friday evenings, at sundown, Jews around the world welcome the Sabbath. By no means are Andi and I temple-goers every Friday night. During my synagogue reign it was maybe three times a month, now down to perhaps one. It’s not acceptable but that’s what it is. However, indulging in food and especially drink for the previous four days of sailing, I had planned to attend on Friday hoping maybe for some forgiveness, but more importantly hoping for more indulgence capacity with a week left in our journey.

We did the same thing a couple of years ago on a journey across the Atlantic from London to New York. About 20 showed up that Friday night; the cruise industry calls the service ‘unhosted’, which means a passenger will lead the service. We all got lucky on that London trip as a Jewish Studies major from Tulane was onboard and did a fantastic job.

Not so much this past Friday night. The Silver Ray is a small ship, about 700 passengers and I told Andi my over/under would be 5.5 Shabbat attendees. I imagined no way would it go over. The ship had set up a room for us in the library with about 25 seats, yarmulkes, prayer books, challah and three bottles of kosher wines for the weekly blessing. Fortunately there were no spare ribs. The only thing missing was someone to lead the service.

We arrived just on the six o’clock button and true to form, I lost my over/under. Actually, there were 12 attendees sitting on their hands waiting to start. Clearly nothing imminent was about to happen. We had a dinner rez 45 minutes later with our travel mates Carla and Bob Reich. I wanted to get the show on the road as my mom used to say, so I stood up and asked who wanted to lead? Either they pretended not to hear me or more likely the assembled group couldn’t. They acted like Bernie on his weekend getaway. Nothing. Not a peep. Not even a bodily movement. In fact, most were older than Bernie. I said, “My only credential is being the past president of a temple in Las Vegas, with past president being the key words. I am no rabbi, not by any means; the closest I’ve ever come was staying one night in a Holiday Inn Express.” No volunteers, not one. Then a lady in the second row, at 64 the youngest and most attractive in the room, said,” Well, why don’t you do it?” I haven’t spoken to my wife since.

Oy, was I in trouble. There were two different sets of prayer books available and also a small, stapled pack of papers that looked to me like a Cliff Notes version of the prayer book. That was good enough. First I said a little silent prayer to my past rabbis —Dr. Kenneth Emert, Jonathan Miller and Ilana Baden, my rabbi now, to please give me strength and let me channel what education you’ve given me and not embarrass myself. It didn’t work.

I figured the best way to get this done and get to dinner quickly was to just go around the room and let the 11 others do responsive reading paragraph by paragraph. What I didn’t plan on was the print on the paper being so dark and smudged it was just about unreadable, the result of a very bad copy machine. Oh well.

Less than 11 minutes later that’s all I had. All that was left was the Mi Sheberach, a prayer for the ill; the Mourner’s Kaddish, a remembrance of deceased loved ones, and a prayer for the state of Israel. Just prior a gentleman in the back row raised his hand and asked when the service is over, can we all introduce ourselves and where we were from. That was a time-killing-godsend. Literally. Doing a sermon about that week’s Torah portion and its meaning wasn’t part of my plan. I had no idea what it was. Nor about peace in the Middle East. That will never happen. Instead, playing to my bailiwick I could have chosen to preach about why the Yankees have done nothing in free-agency or how Bill Belichick could be excluded from the football Hall of Fame. I had my Jewish connections set for both—the Yankees president is Randy Levine; the Patriots owner is Robert Kraft. Instead, I opted to forego for the great idea from the gentleman in the back to introduce ourselves. A wonderful suggestion.

So, we went around the room. A gentleman in the front row was from Toronto, on board for a Canadian film festival with 80 others and their guest lecturer was Judd Hirsch, a Jew, who at 90 still wouldn’t have been the oldest in the room. Mr. Hirsch opted not to attend. Judd Hirsch was always a very smart man.

We continued row by row and finally got to the last couple. She said, “I’m Sherri Alper and my husband, a retired rabbi and I live in Vermont.” Stunned silence. Shook, I said very deliberately, “Ma’am, can you repeat that one more time and say it a bit slower?” She did. He, sitting next to her with a smile, was what she said he was. A retired rabbi. To me he was nothing but a silent assassin.

I said, “Excuse me Rabbi but how can you just sit there and let me tread water in the ocean without offering a life raft?” He laughed and responded, “You did a great job” just like you would tell a third grader who forgot every line in the school play that he was the star of the show.

Well, Rabbi Bob Alper is indeed a retired, happy rabbi. A shipboard youngster at 80, he was a practicing rabbi for 14 years, 12 at a congregation in Philadelphia. With a doctorate in theology from Princeton, he was smart enough to have kept his mouth shut when we were looking for a volunteer to lead our prayer service.

But then it gets better. Mr. Alper, since leaving the ministry, is now a stand-up comedian. He’s only been doing this for the past 38 years. His background as an ordained rabbi literally sets the comedic stage. He’s been on Netflix, CNN, Good Morning America, The Today Show, a regular on Sirius XM, The Comedy Store, comedy festivals around the world and appeared alongside names like Lewis Black, Freddie Roman and Susie Essman. Other than that, he really has no resume at all.

I stood and just stared at him. Shook my head. “Rabbi, you are kidding me, right?” Nope. How can you do that to a fellow Jew, a member of the tribe, and not get me out of this mess? With the final steps of the makeshift service remaining— the official welcoming of Shabbat— the kiddush, the blessing of the wine; the motzi, the blessing of the challah and closing song still ahead it was time for me to cede my very awkward and extremely uncomfortable first and last pulpit.

Rabbi Alper, with a strong resemblance to a present-day Steve Martin, didn’t want to do it but frankly he had no choice. That was about the only thing I was firm about during what was now my excruciating 20 minutes. As Rabbi approached, he told me he just performed in Las Vegas. He was serious. I asked, “Oh where, at Caesars, MGM Grand, Planet Hollywood or Jimmy Kimmel’s Comedy Club?” He said, “No, at a senior citizen center in Henderson.” He wasn’t kidding. I guess almost four decades later a gig is still a gig.

Rabbi led us in the final blessings. Compared to his predecessor he was Sandy Koufax and I a two-bit scrub on the JV. However, before the closing song, he wanted to know if he could do a little monologue for us. He did. The group laughed. I was ecstatic with joy that my tenure in the rabbinate had ended. So was everyone else in the room. Rabbi Alper made sure to give us his website— bobalper.com for the next slow day at sea.

The silent assassin in the back of the room was unmasked.

My rabbinic reviews came back. A social media influencer in Washington DC on X called it a “disaster.” And then went on to say “nobody has ever seen a disaster this big. This guy Berger was a complete fraud, a phony. He’s a loser. It was a fake Shabbat service. Very fake.”

That gets no argument from me.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Good morning. Heading to South Florida tomorrow for a 10-day Southern Caribbean ‘Sea Cruise’ as Frankie Ford called it on his 1959 rock hit with the same name. Traveling with some long-time friends from Birmingham on a highly recommended line, Silversea, which we haven’t tried till now. But before getting around to pulling out the suitcase and watching Sunday football, it’s time to empty the Scramble folder:

First things first. As a Miami alum/fan, if you would have asked any of us before the college football season started if the playoffs came down to the ‘Canes having possession of the football for the last drive of the game to win, we would have jumped at the thought. Then after bad midseason losses to Louisville and SMU, if you would have asked us the same question, we would have told you to pour us a tall one of whatever you were drinking. Bottom line is it did happen but the ‘Canes didn’t get the job done. That by no means mitigates what turned out to be a surprisingly great and exciting season. As I’ve written previously, in lieu of a national championship, would we be satisfied with a season that produced wins over Florida, Florida State, Notre Dame, Texas A&M, Ole Miss and Ohio State? The answer would be obvious. Thanks ‘Canes for a great run. Now for Indiana. Just incredible. Miami outplayed them in the second half, but the Hoosiers did everything they needed to do to win. Bravo. The last time such an overwhelming underdog won a championship was 10 years ago when Leicester City, a perennial also-ran, won the English Premier League soccer title. Back then a pundit could have said, ‘“The next wacky thing that’ll happen is Indiana will win the college football championship one day.” Congrats to all Indiana supporters. The last four wins were over Ohio State, Alabama, Oregon and Miami. You left no doubt.

And a final note to the college football season is most experts talked about the decline of the SEC and the rise of the Big Ten on the playing field. Actually, according to the Wall Street Journal, television ratings showed just the opposite. The SEC’s average television audience increased by 49% this season compared to 2024 while the Big Ten dropped 11%. The SEC with one team, Ole Miss in the final four, averaged 4.9 million viewers per game in the regular season while the Big Ten, with two semifinalists Indiana and Oregon, fell to an average of 2.8 million watchers a game.

Is that seat open? Tuesday is a big day in American aviation history. It’s when Southwest Airlines, who since 1971 has been the industry leader in discount fares, peanuts and cattle-car boarding, officially ceases its signature and goes to reserved seating. True, over the last few years Southwest hasn’t really been discount at all since bags no longer fly free, its fares aren’t a value relative to other carriers and its liberal ticket changing policy has gone away. With reserved seating and now also having to pay for premium seats if you don’t have status, Southwest has just become another legacy carrier ala American, Delta and United. Strategy is to induce business travelers who didn’t like the open seating policy. It’ll be interesting to watch how this plays out— if SWA does increase the coveted business share but in the process can retain the bundle of leisure travelers that became its staple.

This would have been tough to get on a Vegas Strip hotel marquee back in the day: Now appearing — Maria Rosario Pilar Martinez Molina Baeza. Instead, they just shortened it to Charo.

I’m not sure I understand this but a couple of weeks ago an inmate in the Clark County (Nevada) Detention Center was accused of murdering his cellmate and taken into custody. Wasn’t he already there?

People I’ve never met: a Sacramento Kings basketball fan; a Columbus Blue Jackets hockey fan.

Back in the mid-1960s into the 70s, Muhammad Ali mesmerized the sports world not only with his boxing skills but his uncanny ability to predict what round he would stop his opponents. He also once joked “I should be a postage stamp because that’s the only way I’ll ever get licked.” Well, just short of a decade after his death another Ali predication came true when the US Postal Service on January 15th unveiled the new Forever stamp of the champ.

I’m no New England Patriots lover by any means but so much for all the gambling naysayers who cited that the Pats played the easiest NFL regular season schedule in the last 46 years and would be an easy playoff out. Their road to the Super Bowl today goes through Denver where New England is a road favorite with the Broncos playing with their back-up quarterback.

Putting some mustard on that ‘dog: in 1916 Nathan Handwerker and his wife Ida borrowed money, $300 in total from friends including Eddie Cantor and Jimmy Durante, to open a hot dog stand on Coney Island. They promoted high-quality beef and freshness of their product. Their hot dog wasn’t kosher, not rabbinically blessed, but promoted it with a new, innovative marketing scheme called ‘kosher style.’ They undercut the competition by selling their ‘dogs for a nickel, instead of ten cents that other nearby boardwalk vendors were asking. It worked. Some 110 years later, last Wednesday, Nathan’s was sold to Smithfield Foods for $450 million.

I feel so much better now. The Wall Street Journal recently ran a correction on page two that the Fairmont Hotel in Monte Carlo does not have 602 rooms as it published. Instead, there are only 596. Thank you for that.

Sixty-two years ago this week, in 1964, Bobby Vinton’s There! I Said It Again hit number one on the rock ‘n roll countdown. It was the last number one hit before the British Invasion dominated the weekly charts with The Beatles I Want To Hold Your Hand securing the top spot.

Speaking of AI, as we did in SMC last week, I had a tax professional tell me that with the IRS being understaffed and underfunded, expect in years to come AI playing a big role in examining tax returns to make sure everything is on the up and up.

The last episode of the second season of Landman on Paramount dropped last weekend. It was as good as advertised. And something I didn’t see coming was watching the first episode of Absentia on Netflix and being captured for all of its three seasons. It’s a psychological thriller starring an unknown to me, Stana Katic, which left me wanting more.

That wine aisle at Costco which looks like it keeps expanding is no mirage. With wine consumption down, and in some areas sharply, blamed on changing tastes, competition from legalized cannabis along with side effects for those taking Ozempic, wineries are now doing something they never envisioned— putting their products on Costco’s and other mass discounters’ shelves to enhance visibility.

Hold on to your hats. A hat trick in hockey is when a player scores three goals in one game. Actually, the term is from cricket when one bowler takes three wickets with three consecutive balls, earning a celebratory hat. The only thing we Americans understand about that is the player gets a hat for doing something we have no idea what it might be. Back to hockey— two weeks ago, Pavel Dorofeyev of the Vegas Golden Knights scored two goals against Toronto and then got the hat trick shortly into the third period. As usual for a home game, hundreds of hats were tossed onto the ice by jubilant fans. Not so fast, however. Because of the delay in clearing the hats off the ice, the Maple Leafs had plenty of time to review the goal before officially challenging it for being offsides. The officials concurred and ruled it ‘no goal.’ Oops. Now dozens of kids in Zambia are walking around with Golden Knights caps. So much for tossing your hat into the ring.

Sorry, we’re full. A week ago Tuesday, Knights rookie Braeden Bowman got a hole-in-one at Southern Highlands golf course. That in itself is probably not SMC worthy of mention. However, when Vegas coach Bruce Cassidy was asked at a press conference the next day if he played with the group he quipped, “No. I asked them but they told me, ‘That’s okay Coach, we already have three.’”

One more hockey note. Longtime shinny fans will remember former goalie Glenn Hall who died on January 7 at age 94. Hall played in the NHL for 20 years, from 1951 until 1971, for three teams—Detroit, Chicago and St. Louis. Ten of those years were with the Blackhawks and winning a Stanley Cup in 1961 and the Vezina Trophy three times as the best goaltender in the NHL. He set a record for goalies that will never be broken—he played in 502 consecutive games from 1955-62, never missing one. Today a goalie is stretched to play three in a row. It rarely happens. Hall also played almost his entire career without a mask. He became the original Scarface. But that’s not this story. He also scared the shit out of me back on November 26, 1966, when the Blackhawks came to New York to play the Rangers. Hall hated the pre-season and was late to training camp or failed to report just about every year. Prior to the ‘66 season he stayed home at his farm up in Stony Point, Alberta. He told team brass he was staying home because he had to “paint his barn.” Well, of course he did show up in time for the regular season and when the Blackhawks came to New York that November Saturday afternoon, I was 14 and at the game with my running buddy of the day Phil Mark. Back then the former Madison Square Garden had little security and the visiting team’s locker room was down a corridor that was easily accessible to fans while the team marched to and from the ice. I figured I would be a wise guy. After the first period we hustled down to the Blackhawks locker room entrance and when Hall got there I yelled, “Hey Hall, why don’t you go paint your barn.” I can still see it like it happened fifteen minutes ago. He didn’t miss a beat. He was maskless. He looked me right in the eye and said, “Hey kid, why don’t you go fuck yourself.” Whoa! That shook the acne right off my face. There was some solace as the Rangers won 4-1 but afterwards I got back on the train heading home with a life lesson in tow courtesy of the late Glenn Hall.

And finally, before reporting to our cruise muster station, we’ve all misplaced our cell phone, haven’t we? Well, a 27-year-old Chinese climber had to be rescued from the top of Mount Fuji by a Japanese search and rescue team. Not learning his lesson and leaving well enough alone, the idiot, I mean climber, went back up top four days later looking for his cellphone. He had to be rescued again. I sure hope he had his car keys.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

It was February 1982 and I had never heard of Ray Price. A city boy all of my 29 years I had no reason to know who he was or what songs were playing on country music radio stations. In fact, living in Miami at the time, I’m quite sure my dial was always set on WAXY-106 which played the hits from the 60s; I never really graduated from WABC or WMCA from my teen days on Long Island. I think the closest country signal to us was down I-95 across the South Carolina border.

A day or two earlier my boss and mentor from my racetrack management days in South Florida, former Miami mayor Perrine Palmer, told me we would be having dinner with Mr. Price. Okay, who is he? In those prehistoric days we had nothing readily at hand that could provide us with us that type of info. Maybe the new World Book encyclopedia yearbook had a mention? I could call a radio station or newspaper like we’d do for ballgame results that were unobtainable until the next day. It was too early for the revolutionary 1-800-TELL-ME. I could have asked someone, but my country music portfolio of friends was about as empty as the Jets’ Super Bowl trophy case.

Back then we were still 14 years away from getting all our answers from Ask Jeeves, which debuted in 1996. That fine English butler’s website would have told me Ray Price had eleven number one hits. Everything from Crazy Arms in 1956 to She’s Got to Be a Saint in 1973 with City Lights, Heartaches by the Number, For the Good Times, Walkin’ the Floor Over You and half a dozen others sprinkled in-between. His most famous song, Night Life, never reached number one. Decades later I now hear an enjoyable array of Price hits on SiriusXM’s Willie’s Roadhouse on my morning drive to the gym. I switch to Siriusly Sinatra on the way home. I know Willie and Ray would understand.

What I can remember from 44 years ago is that dinner was enjoyable. Mr. Price, a member of the Country Music Hall of Fame who died in 2013 at age 87, was a nice enough gentleman who wanted to learn more about the greyhound racing business as he had an interest in becoming a greyhound owner. However, when the evening was finished and the last drop of Pouilly-Fuisse poured, I still didn’t know much about him.

Strangely, I think about this example often. How did we get by day-to-day with no cell phones, no internet and other than a daily newspaper and nightly TV news, no worldly knowledge? How did we ever get where we were going without GPS? We were in an information vacuum and didn’t know it because everything was fine. That’s the way daily life was. In school we had to pay attention and learn. We had no shortcut crutches other than Cliff Notes or sitting behind the smartest kid in the class and hoping our eyesight was good enough.

Then computers and cell phones happened with Google becoming our search engine of choice in 1998, two years after Jeeves. Wikipedia — our soon to be online Brittanica and World Book, first entered our world in a rather primitive format in 2001. And you know the rest of the story. Forms of Artificial Intelligence actually first appeared back in the 1950s but was used in colleges and universities for research projects on antiquated computers the size of a trendy Chevy Bel Air. In 1997 an IBM computer beat world champion Garry Kasparov in chess. I bet on Kasparov which should be no surprise to anyone. AI hit mainstream about 2010 embedded in search engines and then in 2022 the public release of OpenAI’s ChatGPT= Generative Pre-trained Transformer, was society’s game changer just like Bosco was in the 1920s.

Today things are too easy. Anything we need or want to know we can find with the touch of a finger. Anything we forgot we can find with no cognitive initiative whatsoever. Kids can access just about any information without opening a textbook. Same all through the education process. Is this a good thing? It can be but there is no more heavy lifting and thinking like we had to do back in our day. And history tells us this is just the start of whatever might be coming next.

I ignored ChatGPT until last year. Heard about it but paid it no attention. I use search engines frequently in my writing so I finally gave it a look. Next thing I knew I signed up for the premier plan. Again, everything became too easy and now there are things I want to recall on a daily basis but will stop the immediate leap to research and actually ponder about it. By far that reward is worth the additional time spent thinking. Except for Ray Price songs. I never had a shot at that without AI.

Since AI is so smart I asked it to write today’s Sunday Morning Coffee for me. First here’s what it told me about me. I kinda knew most of this already:

Sunday Morning Coffee is a semi-regular personal newsletter/blog written by Roy Berger, a retired communications professional and longtime writer who shares reflections on life, sports, family, travel, culture, politics, and personal memories. It’s published on his personal site (often via a Substack-style setup) and typically appears on Sunday mornings — hence the name. Berger is a University of Miami graduate, a former journalist and communications professional who after a long career in the pari-mutuel racing industry and running Medjet, returned to writing in retirement. He started Sunday Morning Coffee as a way to share personal experiences and reflections, and it has grown into a regular read for subscribers. Written in an accessible, conversational style that mixes nostalgia (e.g., memories of growing up), commentary on current events, sports history, travel stories, and reflections on everyday life. In short, Sunday Morning Coffee is a personal, reflective newsletter that Roy Berger shares with readers to accompany their Sunday coffee — a slice of life from his perspective.

Okay AI, now that we established me, go ahead and write today’s SMC:

___________________________________

Sunday Morning Coffee

by Roy Berger (in spirit)

Sunday morning arrives quietly. No alarms. No schedules. Just the low hum of the coffee maker doing its dependable work, the same way it has for years. I take the first sip and, as always, wonder how something so simple can feel like such a luxury.

Sunday mornings used to be different. They began earlier, louder, with kids needing rides, newspapers slapped onto driveways, and the sound of a game already playing somewhere in the background. Now the paper is digital, the kids are grown, and the games can wait until later. Time has a way of rearranging priorities without asking permission.

I caught myself this week thinking about how we once waited for things. News came once a day, maybe twice if you watched the evening broadcast. Sports scores were learned from the radio or the next morning’s box score. If you missed a show, you missed it. No rewinding. No streaming. And somehow, we survived just fine.

Patience, it turns out, was not a flaw — it was a skill.

I drove past my old neighborhood recently. Different families, different cars, but the same streets. The corner store is gone, replaced by something modern and forgettable. I tried to remember the owner’s name — the man who knew what you wanted before you said it — but memory doesn’t always cooperate. Funny how we remember the feeling long after the details fade.

Sports still have a way of pulling me back. Not the analytics or the endless debate shows, but the moments: the crack of a bat, the stretch run of a season, the understanding that tomorrow’s game matters because yesterday’s already happened. Athletes change. The games don’t.

This week reminded me how fast the calendar turns. A birthday passed. An anniversary followed. Numbers climb while the mind insists it’s still the same age it was decades ago. Inside, not much has changed. Outside, the mirror argues otherwise.

I’ve learned that growing older isn’t about losing things — it’s about editing. Fewer distractions. Fewer unnecessary conversations. Less noise. More meaning. More appreciation for mornings like this one, when nothing is required except another cup of coffee.

Soon enough, Sunday will become Monday. The world will rush back in, as it always does. But for now, the coffee is still warm, the house is still quiet, and the moment is still mine.

That’s enough for this Sunday morning.

________________________________________________

It’s a bit bland like dry toast; not really my voice, way too pleasant to be written by me and it took about 20 seconds to produce. All in all I’ll give it a barely acceptable grade but a very good effort. Next, as an alternative, I asked AI to write a preview about tomorrow night’s college football national championship between Indiana and the good guys from Miami.

________________________________________

Sunday Morning Coffee

Championship Week

Sunday morning has a certain calm to it, the kind that feels borrowed when you know Monday night is waiting. The coffee is poured, the paper — digital or otherwise — is skimmed, and somewhere in the back of your mind the countdown has already started. Championship games have a way of doing that. They sit quietly in the distance, letting anticipation do most of the work.

Tomorrow night, Miami and Indiana will meet for the College Football Playoff championship. If you’d said that out loud a decade ago, it would have sounded like a trivia question or a scheduling mistake. And yet here we are, proof once again that college football still has room for surprise, even in an era that tries its best to predict everything.

Championship week used to feel simpler. One game, one poll, endless arguments. You didn’t need a bracket or a committee explanation. You needed a strong opinion and a willingness to defend it over coffee on Sunday morning. Now we have playoffs, analytics, and experts explaining why your eyes might be lying to you.

But the truth is, by the time the ball is kicked off Monday night, none of that matters.

Miami arrives with history in tow. Championships remembered by numbers, coaches, and eras that never quite leave the conversation. When a program like that plays for a title, expectations aren’t just present — they’re inherited. Indiana arrives differently. Less baggage. More belief. A season built on proving, week after week, that they belong on this stage.

That contrast is what makes the game compelling. One team carrying the weight of what it’s supposed to be. The other chasing what it has never been.

I find myself thinking about the players more than the predictions. For them, this isn’t legacy or narrative — it’s a few hours under the lights that will define how they remember college football for the rest of their lives. Years from now, long after the score fades, they’ll remember the noise, the nerves, and the moment the realization hits that this is it. No next week. No do-over.

Monday night will give us its usual share of over-analysis. Who wants it more? Who handles pressure better? Which coach makes the mistake that gets talked about all offseason? But championships rarely follow scripts. They turn on one or two moments no one sees coming until it’s too late.

This Sunday morning is for waiting. For remembering why anticipation can be as enjoyable as the event itself. Tomorrow night will come soon enough, bringing celebration for one side and silence for the other.

For now, the coffee is still warm, the opinions are still forming, and the best part of the game — the promise of it — is still ahead.

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The next request I made was where ChatGPT stumbled and stumbled miserably. I asked it to predict the winner of Monday night’s championship and here’s the rubbish it produced: Oddsmakers give Indiana the edge with roughly a 68% chance to win according to ESPN’s analytics. Projecting a final score of Indiana 23, Miami 17.

What? Fake news. Fake predictions. It’s totally fake. Nobody believes it. ChatGPT is a total scam. A fraud. A failing enterprise. It’s a total disaster. Run by very incompetent people. Everyone knows it. I promptly cancelled my premium ChatGPT subscription.

So late Monday night will Ray Price be crooning to Miami fans Heartaches by the Number or For the Good Times?

Smarten up GPT and Go Canes.

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger

Happy belated New Year. So, it’s been three weeks. Did you miss us? I probably don’t want the answer. This is our first post of 2026 which means we’ve now been Sunday Morning Coffee’ing for almost nine years. What began as a Facebook whim has turned into something much larger with about 1,800 followers, most from word of mouth as we don’t extend much promotional effort to get subscribers. Which doesn’t mean that referrals are not encouraged. In fact, it’s flattering that so many people pretend to enjoy this, or say they do, this side of Andi and my kids. SMC has been on the expanding Substack platform for about a year joining some 75,000 other authors. Substack monetizes by encouraging its writers to charge an annual subscription of which the host site takes a piece. About 36% of the contributors do charge a fee which results in over five million readers subscribing to one publication or multiple ones. One thing you can count on is that we won’t do that, primarily because who in their right mind would pay for this? Nevertheless, we very much appreciate you taking the journey with us.

Of course, taking us at our word we would never go to paid subscription format, we modeled our guarantee after former UNLV quarterback Anthony Colandrea. Two days before UNLV’s bowl game on December 23 he told the assembled media he would be returning to Vegas next fall for his senior season because “Money is never going to be part of my decision. Money comes; money goes. Just stay to who you are. Stay to your principles. My future is here (at UNLV).” All Rebels fans breathed a sigh of relief. Four days later Colandrea entered the transfer portal. Earlier this week he committed to Nebraska to make more money.

And we’d be remiss if we didn’t thank Medjet for their continued sponsorship support of SMC over the years. Dozens of readers have told us they’ve become Medjet members (medjet.com) for that travel peace of mind the protection program offers.

There’s an old University of Miami victory cheer, dating back to the 1940s, saluting the school’s athletic prowess and ends with ‘Skit skat, how bout that?’ Well, ‘how bout that?’ is what all ‘Canes fans and alum are chanting through the first three weeks of the College Football Playoffs. Miami’s post-season surge is so unexpected despite such a promising start then October losses to Louisville and SMU plummeting our hopes like the Hurricanes did in the polls. The Canes reached as high as number two in the rankings and then after the two losses fell to 18. But then the magic happened again in early November and the winning resumed and hasn’t stopped. Miami was awarded the last spot in the 12-team playoff field over Notre Dame because of the ‘Canes early season win over the Irish. That was justified. Then surprising playoff wins over Texas A&M and Ohio State as underdogs led to a spot in the Fiesta Bowl semifinals on Thursday night against Ole Miss. When the playoffs began, neither side figured to be there. Phoenix’s State Farm Stadium is only a four hour and change ride from our Las Vegas front door so on a whim last Monday, three days before the game, I asked Andi, “Do you want to go?” “Sure,” she said. So, wheels in motion I found two nice seats, a hotel 20 minutes away and most importantly a premier parking spot. My dad taught me never discount a good parking spot. We bought tickets to the Miami Alumni Tailgate Party with thousands of other alums, when did they get so young looking, and their guests. As much fun as the pre-game was the game was even better with a last second ‘Canes 31-27 win and trip back to South Florida on January 19 to play for the national championship against undefeated Indiana. Whether Miami beats the Hoosiers or not, this season with wins over Notre Dame, Florida, Florida State, Texas A&M and the bullies from Ohio State hasn’t been a good season, but a great one. Skit skat, how bout that?

I don’t care how much money she makes but kudos to Taylor Swift for her benevolence. In appreciation of her father’s successful quintuple bypass surgery last year, Ms. Swift donated $1 million to the American Heart Association. Every one of us who is a member of the zipper club owes her and every other AHA contributor a debt of gratitude.

The music got quiet last night with the passing of legendary Bob Weir. Weir was a founding member, vocalist and rhythm guitarist of the Grateful Dead since they formed in 1965. The group disbanded in 1995 but Weir played on and for the last ten years was forefront in Dead & Company, a reclamation band of sorts, performing Grateful Dead covers and still touring. Bob Weir was 78.

There’s not much royalty left from the glory days of baseball. Probably only one. Happy 90th birthday to Sandy Koufax who pitched his whole career, 1955-66, for the Dodgers in both Brooklyn and LA. For those of us old enough to have watched the left-handed pitcher, he was magical. Consider that he threw 137 complete games in 314 starts. Incredible. Koufax retired early, at age 30, with three Cy Young Awards and four World Championship rings, two of which he was the Series MVP. At age 36, in 1972, he was the youngest player ever inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Over the years he has become a recluse of sorts, with few public appearances. However, his persona is such, much like a grade school principal, when he walks into a room all conversation ceases out of respect. Mr. Koufax is probably the last of the royal class of the game whom we never really got to know because media then, compared to today’s free-for-all, was minimal. Watching Sandy Koufax on the mound was something else.

What a miserable NFL season. For me, anyway. The two sides I pull for— a lifetime New York Jets fan and now the hometown Las Vegas Raiders— cashed a daily double that’s rather hard to do. The two worst teams in the league: they will have the first and second selections in April’s college draft. The Raiders are on the clock which in past years has produced very little.

Bears 23, Jets 0. Chicago led the NFL in interceptions this season with 23. The nothing part is pretty self-explanatory. The Jets didn’t have one pick, not a single one, the lowest mark since 1933 when the stat was first recorded. That’s bad.

Closer to home maybe this is the answer: with a self-acclaimed W in the win column after last weekend’s Venezuelan invasion maybe the Trump administration can also plan a late-night attack and overthrow the Jets’ front office in East Rutherford, New Jersey.

Guess who’s paying for this? When the 2026 NFL season kicks off in September, the Raiders will have five head coaches on the payroll. The yet to be chosen new guy will join former field bosses Pete Carroll, Josh McDaniels, Antonio Pierce and Jon Gruden, collectively owed $44 million, in getting a check from owner Mark Davis. Season ticket holders can expect to see an increase next renewal to pay the freight for another totally inept organization.

Not much meat left on the bone. The restaurant business has always been rough to make a go with but with rising prices and labor costs it’s gotten that much tougher. Consider downtown Chicago’s upscale steakhouse Kindling. The Wall Street Journal tells us that for a party of four, dinner check of about $500, after the house expenses of $190 for food and alcohol; $175 of labor and $110 for rent, insurance and other fixed costs, the establishment takes the remaining $25 to the cookie jar.

Speaking of which, back in November 16th’s Scramble we mentioned that, to my surprise anyway, the top grossing restaurant in Las Vegas is the Top of the World Steakhouse at the Strat. Never would have guessed that one. Neither did Stefanie Tuzman, the very accomplished President/CEO of the non-profit Jewish advocacy and community organization Jewish Nevada. She sent me a text and said, “I can’t believe that place is still open….let’s go!” So along with husband Jon, an exec at MGM Resorts, and Andi, we did last Saturday night. First when making the reservation you have the option of paying upfront $27 each, $108 for our party, to guarantee a window seat. That is non-refundable whether you cancel or not. The Strat is a combat zone; park and wander around the property at your own risk but go 107 floors above and it’s a game changer. Top of the Strat is a very classy, impressive venue. The seating cover charge gave us window seats 800 feet high, or 200 feet higher than the Seattle Space Needle. A great panoramic view of the entire Las Vegas Valley. The dining tier rotates, every 80 minutes it brings you back to your original view, which for us was the Sphere and Fontainebleau Hotel. Then every 15 or so minutes there is a dessert cart also on a mechanical track, that comes by with suggestions for afterwards. We actually made about a revolution and a half in a couple of hours of dining. It was fun, a lot of laughs with the ever-changing landscape view, the food was good, and the prices by Vegas standards were not unreasonable. We passed on the dessert cart; we’d seen too much of it already. I didn’t expect much going in but now, surprisingly, I’d do it again.

The night before we spun around at dinner Andi and I went to see John Fogerty at Planet Hollywood. We saw him previously in late 2019, before the world shut down, and then, by far, he was one of our favorite shows. Fogerty’s song catalogue, from both his days as the Creedence Clearwater Revival lead and then a solo career, takes a back seat to almost none save for the Beatles. From Fortunate Son to Proud Mary to Down on the Corner to Green River to Lookin’ Out My Back Door to Who’ll Stop the Rain to Rock and Roll Girls to Centerfield to, well you get the idea. Fogerty is 80, his sons Shane and Tyler on guitars now front with him and the memories are long and wonderful. However, his voice has become shrill since we saw him last and some of the tunes either were shortened or became a jam session to help his energy through the ninety-minute show. After all, how many 80+ year old artists can still do it the way they used to and their name isn’t McCartney?

Make up your mind: back in July the Big Ten Conference, with no traditional midwestern territorial boundaries anymore, held their annual football media days in Las Vegas. For some reason Nebraska head coach Matt Rhule wasn’t particularly enamored and made the mistake of telling the assembled media at Mandalay Bay “I’ll be honest, I don’t think college sports should be in Las Vegas.” Actually Coach, there is no venue like Vegas for a major event. Then guess what happened? Nebraska, with a 7-5 season, was selected to play in the December 31 Las Vegas Bowl. Oops. Rhule changed his tune in a hurry. He had dinner at Park MGM’s Bavette’s and called it one of the best meals of his life. UNLV head coach Dan Mullen took him to see Kenny Chesney at the Sphere and he couldn’t stop raving about it. Rhule’s wife got him tickets to see the Backstreet Boys also at his new favorite venue- the Sphere- and boy was that over the top. The Las Vegas Bowl committee treated Rhule and his team like royalty during bowl week. The coach reveled in all of it. He told the Las Vegas Review Journal, “Las Vegas is hospitality and tourism done right. It’s sports done right. We have kids from all over the country and to be able to bring them here and have this experience is just unbelievable. It’s really, really cool.” Except for one thing. Utah smacked Nebraska 44-22 in the bowl game. No word from Coach Rhule on whether he’s still waving his Vegas pompoms but he did go home with a souvenir—signing former UNLV quarterback Colandrea. And next year’s CFP championship game is right here at Allegiant Stadium. We rather doubt Rhule would be disappointed to come back for that one.

Who needs Realtor.com? This from Sports Illustrated—Back in October when Pittsburgh played Green Bay, Steelers quarterback Aaron Rogers, a long time former Packer, while scrambling to avoid newly acquired Packers defensive end Micah Parsons, asked his pursuer if he’d be interested in buying the house he still owned in Green Bay.

Speaking of Pittsburgh, another one bites the dust. After serving the Steel City for 240 years, even older than Aaron Rogers, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette announced it will cease publication this spring. The inaugural edition rolled off the press on July 29, 1786, making it the first newspaper published west of the Allegheny Mountains. The final edition will hit the newsstand on May 3. The sad decline of the industry marches on.

And finally, many of you have probably seen this already. Even if you have, but especially if you haven’t, invest three minutes in the link below (after clicking skip on the promo~) and watch 104-year-old, WWII veteran Dominick Critelli with his ode to America prior to the New York Islanders hockey game on December 27. Then I dare you to tell me your knees didn’t get a bit wobbly:

I’m proud that Medjet is sponsoring Sunday Morning Coffee. I spent 20 wonderful years with Medjet in Birmingham, Alabama, and can tell you unequivocally they are the standard-bearer for medical assistance membership programs. A talented staff, who cares about its members, is at the forefront of the company’s success. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, domestic or international, a Medjet membership should be an important part of your travel portfolio before you leave home. Check out the Medjet website at medjet.com or just tap on the Medjet logo and you’ll be able to get a look at Medjet’s services, rules and regulations, pricing, and an overview of the organization. And remember, any opinions expressed in Sunday Morning Coffee content or comments belong to the author and not the sponsor. Safe travels with your Medjet membership! — Roy Berger