Frank Deford has been broadcasting sports commentaries on Wednesday mornings on NPR's Morning Edition since 1980 and I've been listening to him since 1982. Apparently he winters in Key West frequently and this week he gave a talk at the Tropic Cinema as part of the Friends of the Library winter speakers series.
When my wife and I lived in Santa Cruz, California we expected our friends would be NPR listeners, which letters in the Reaganite 1980's were often taken to mean Nicaragua Public Radio. Public funding has shrunk since then, and corporate sponsorship has kept a more middle-of-the-road NPR flourishing, which has in turn rendered it less appealing to a listener like me who wantsNPR to be a different voice in a media broadcasting world of blandness and sameness and ownership by the powerful. Oh well!Frank Deford has kept on saying his sporting piece each week, ignored by long time Key West inmates who, over the decades had no idea who Deford or NPR were, as there was no non commercial radio in Key West. Only recently has WLRN in Miami arrived in Key West at 100.5 FM with all NPR news by day and jazz by night and reggae in the early morning. At my house 25 miles out of Key West I listen at 89.1 FM, Marathon is at 93.3 and Long Key is at 92.1 all part of a long string of translators down the islands.
I used to work at an NPR affiliate and I submitted a number of reports to the network during the 1980's and once the thrill of hearing my name go national wore off I was left feeling bored by the formula, by the editing, by the sense that what was of value was only understood by the newsroom in Washington, not where I lived in Fruitcake, California. I stopped trying to please my masters in the network and retreated to making a nuisance of myself in local news and then, tired of the trivialization of news, I quit what my buddy, NPR newscaster Frank Stasio used to call "show biz." I am a happier man for it. Frank Deford has been heard on NPR every week since 1980 and he's still going strong. He has the longevity that confers greatness. As Woody Allen says 80 percent of success is showing up. 
Deford's talk was centered around his new sports novel called "The Entitled," exploring the role and meaning of the "sports superstar" in our world. Jay Alcazar is a young Cuban-American baseball player overseen by a tired second rate player called Howie who now manages the Chicago White Sox. The book apparently opens with a possible date rape by Alcazar, possibly witnessed by Howie and the plot thickens from there, which was as much as Deford told us, inbetween reading excerpts from the book. He did say much of the action takes place in Cuba a country he has visited twice and is apparently where his plot ends up.Deford also narrated some much appreciated Key West related anecdotes concerning the man after whom Boog Powell sports field is named. This it turned out was man renowned for playing baseball well while he was in Baltimore, a place where he endeared himself to the locals by drinking beer on his porch where he strolled home after a major league game. Somewhat at odds with the modern image of the baseball player as an inviolable demi-god.
Deford also told of a day when sports players and writers were invited to the Clinton White House for a reception. Deford told his wife he was sure Clinton would recognize him, as the President was a sports fan and Deford had just written a glowing piece about an Arkansas player. As luck would have it the president remained blank when the Marine Officer announced Mr and Mrs Frank Deford, much to his chagrin, but he added with a twinkle, Mrs Clinton interrupted his introduction to gush how his voice woke her every Wednesday morning. "So how are you voting?" asked a voice in the bowels of the Tropic auditorium. "Oh," said Deford, "I always vote for my listeners," to howls of laughter. "But," he allowed,"the other guy is okay too."
Deford had some comments about free agency and how football television royalties are evenly split between teams, stuff I could barely grasp. He allowed as the Paris Open in June was among his favorite events, but he doesn't like soccer except the World Cup when seen live in a European city. he answered my question about NPR with his famous line that his most devoted fans aren't into sports at all, which brought another round of applause from the packed theater. he made a point about baseball that struck home with me. He said baseball is a great sport because unlike all other games baseball allows time for reflection, for commentary, for discussion between pitches. And I have surprised my wife a few times by seeking out the night time AM frequencies on a car trip to listen to some distant baseball game as I drive. 
In closing Deford suggested sports are important to use because they bind the country together in a way that other activities fail signally to do, he also said to loud laughter that sports allow men to argue which is important for them to do. And he made another of those interesting points that keep me listening to him on Wednesday mornings; he said sports unlike any other art form are thje place where the popular and the quality are allowed to rise to the top. He compared good teams to great movies, so rarely recognized at say, the Oscars, or where the best music isn't necessarily heard on radio playlists. In sports he said you have an art form where the best is always the most popular. Deford is a sports commentator alone in a crowded profession. How many writers do you hear use the term sui generis when speaking of a player? Deford is sui generis among sports comentators.
He was of course mobbed by the old biddy snowbirds on his way out but he kindly stopped for my flash and I caught his bemusement at his popularity in this little resort town. Key West I think cherishes its brushes with interesting people because, for such a distant little town it gets the attention of people worth listening to, but they don't stay so you have to catch them while you can. And we do.
Even today there are boats wandering around their anchors in the ebb and flow of the tides in Cow Key Channel and these aren't boats that actually move. They become, over time, elaborate Ali Baba palaces on the water. I look out from the solidity of land, astride my Bonneville and I don't envy them.
As commutes go this bearded water rat doubtless prefers his cormorant neighbors to busy land dwellers among whom he navigates his bicycle locked to a palm tree on South Roosevelt awaiting his return shoreside. I've spent too many nights bouncing around at anchor, too many nights standing at the dinghy dock in the rain listening to the dismal pop-pop-pop of my idling outboard ready to take me to my watery home, to want to do it again.
My home is only 770 square feet in size, larger by far than my 20-foot boat, my 30-foot boat and twice as large as my final floating home which I sold a few years ago. 
Out here on my darkened street I see the stars overhead as crisp and as clear as I did anchored out. I pause my Bonneville on a bridge to take in the watery views, as beautiful as ever they were from the thwart of my dinghy. Beyond the simple convenience of life ashore, which I pay for in the form of a mortgage I like being anchored for a change, in one place with one view, unchanging whichever way the wind blows. Its a sensation new enough it creeps up on me still every single day. I don't regret letting my commercial Coastguard Master's License lapse. I live and work ashore now, a new phase in my evolving life.
I spared a thought for the tourists flying past Fort Zachary under their silk canopy as I got in gear and I headed south to Rest Beach to finish up my lunch break at my favorite bench. And even there I found another active water player buzzing back and forth, like a bluebottle stuck behind a pane of glass.
The winds were stronger and the waters were frothy piling into the corner formed by White Street Pier. Key West gets so active in winter I am surprised frequently by how many people take to the water at the coldest time of year. I miss my skiff but I'm not going swimming for a few months more. Less than 80 degree water temperature and I leave the salt water to the hardy types from Up North. On the other hand Raul outpolled Fidel last week in the Cuban elections. I wonder how much longer the embargo will last? 
I ought to go back and see if they are still there, waiting, in a state of suspended animation.
I left the store wondering what is it exactly that parents are teaching their children? And who is going to be trained to be my cardiologist when I am approaching my death bed? Apparently of gynecologists there will at least be no shortage, and I suppose it would be better were I to be less startled and more accepting of this state of affairs.
Back then, the fort was actually much more like its bigger counterpart called Fort Jefferson, some 70 miles west of Key West, because Fort Zachary was also built out on the water yet connected to the main island by a very long wooden causeway. Nowadays we are used to the fact that Fort Zachary is surrounded by dirt, even if it is only fill, lumpy rocky dredged materials from the harbor bottom mostly, that have been built up and around the fort itself. That expanse of weedy lawn is all rubble, added long after the Fort sprouted here.
Fort Zachary became home to a company of Union artillery at the outbreak of the Civil War and when Tallahassee seceded, the officer in charge, a Captain James Brannan surreptitiously marched his 44 artillerymen across from the town barracks to the Fort and they locked themselves inside the building and kept the flag flying for the Union. That was it for Key West and the city, despite some Bubba grumblings (notably the still extant Bethel family), they stayed with the Union for the rest of the conflict, helping support the blockade of the Confederacy. 
However its Rodman smooth bore canon never were fired in anger and today they lie around looking good and adding to the ambiance. As do their balls, as it were:
Fort Zachary forms part of the State Parks system and there is a fee charged at the entrance, which is why I have an annual pass, I like coming down that much. Sunsets are beautiful here illuminating all the components of the Fort no matter how obscure their purpose, like this fixed pulley with no ropes attached:
And the buildings themselves glow, as with pride while the dying sun slips them into darkness:
Visitors get the run of the place, nominally till 5pm but if its just a matter of climbing the steep stairs to view the sun plunge into the straits of Florida that's what these walls are ideal for:
Visitors can wander the parade ground and imagine themselves in here in the Spring enjoying a concert under the stars, perhaps. Most likely not as freezing cold as it was for the wife and I, last time we tried that about a year ago. It was great fun despite the bone numbing cold of the north wind whistling across the infernal parade ground! We huddled under inadequate blankets and listened to Arturo Sandoval blow his heart, and his cheeks, out right here:
In the distance one can spot the sterility of Sunset Key isolated across the harbor, another new arrival, much newer than Fort Zach, in the town of Key West. These days the Fort provides a breath of fresh air for city dwellers who can wander the grounds at will in perfect safety and enjoy the paths that loop mysteriously giving the place the air of being larger than it is, a necessary attribute for a park on a small island-within-an-island:
And in between the trees and the shrubbery the park service with an impish sense of humor allowed some pirates to take root, rejoicing over their booty, just outside the walls and the moat of the old Fort. Clearly someone got the Black Spot!
The Fort's walls are impressively thick and no doubt in the era before rifled cannon would have done a fine job. The moat too, but as it is the defenses now make the place look gorgeous in the dying light of the sub-tropical day:
Outside the fort's domain the 21st century intrudes with sunset cruises, ferries and private pleasure boats rushing back and forth across the entrance to the harbor, under the watchful eye of an iron statue on the ramparts, as well as a couple of tourists.
And eventually a ranger comes by in his golf cart as the sun starts to truly disappear, to remind us that in "ten minutes" the park will be closing, and reluctantly we pile into the car (we have friends visiting and the motorcycle is on hiatus for the weekend: dreary but necessary), and we leave behind a place silent and dark and cold enough to house the Prisoner of Zenda, or a man or two in an Iron Mask:
This is your friendly neighborhood Fort, a place to meander and meditate, to bring a picnic, or a bottle of wine as Key Westers would in defiance of all and any rules, to sit and to think, or not to think at all and just to enjoy. What a great place to be a kid again, Fort Zachary Taylor, far and away the best, most imaginative place to spend an evening's sunset in Key West.
I was determined to make the ride to Pure Triumph 170 miles north, a fun trip, a relaxing excursion instead of a road pounding punishment. Which meant a stop at Denny's Latin Cafe next to Starbucks on Key Largo.
Chorizo and eggs and loud Latin music while I read my daily Citizen. I confess I lingered over the con leche and only eventually got out to bask in the sun's warmth which basking led me to remove the liner from my mesh armored jacket. The roads are straight but South Florida in January is hard to beat. 
This backroad, photographed in October shortly after I got the Bonneville, winds through tall greenery with sweeping bends, the surface is smooth and police presence is rare so 70 or 75 in a 55 is entirely doable. A refreshing interlude before the hum drum 50 miles of turnpike to Fort Lauderdale, which I took mostly at 80 or 90 miles an hour with one notable burst just clipping 100 on the optimistic speedo. At those speeds the Triumph was perfect, smooth stable and still very responsive. It may be designed as a head-turning tourer but this retro rides the freeway very comfortably.
I actually had a good time at Pure Triumph- they took the Bonneville I sat around for a couple of very relaxing hours sprawled on a leather couch reading English motorcycle magazines (Bike isn't too impressed by the Bonneville in hard riding twisties, but they are hooligans anyway) until it was time to fork over $317 and get going again. 
All bad things eventually come to an end and the four lanes of Highway 27 soon opened up to me, straight of course, across the edge of the Everglades where development hasn't yet quite reached and sugar cane remains to the north. Highway 27 eventually branches onto Krome Avenue:
And the theme of lonely marshy highway continues south:
Then we had the second chaotic moment of the day, inbetween the nurseries and market farms and isolated homesteads and gas stations, a wreck. 
I was stuck at a light thinking about how people around here grow palm trees for sale and what do they do with them when they get this big, and this many, when I realised we were being diverted around a problem up ahead. 
The diversion led us to the edge of the known world and after we were back on Krome Avenue I stopped to wipe some of the dust off my freshly cleaned Bonneville. 
The Rescue guy was telling Univision two pick ups hit head on at 1:30pm probably driving too fast. 
Yeah, no kidding, from my amateurish standpoint I'd say speed was a factor in this vehicle compression. The whole interview scene made me glad my days as a reporter are long over. Talk about trivialization. I mean this is the day Raul Castro outpolled his brother in Santiago de Cuba, and I'm guessing this story came first in Miami's local news. Another reason I don't have TV at home.
There is for me something fascinating about the agriculture along Krome Avenue. The state is threatening to widen the highway and if people insist on disassembling their cars like this I suppose the state will have no choice but to do it. I like Krome as it is, a straight shot through the lives of the Mexican and Central American fieldworkers, a place of abundance- of vegetables if not wages, all on display, impossible to avoid unless you stick to the freeways and turnpikes.
Also one might miss a hand written sign offering Central American lunches, and this stop was just what I needed to push back the thought of wrecks, fieldwork and a hot sticky helmet.
A pupusa or two, a Salvadoran lunch of a thick tortilla filled with cheese or meat grilled till molten and eaten with a mayonnaise-free coleslaw.
Salvadorans eat them by stuffing the slaw inside the pupusa, but me, I'm a "gormet" and I like my flavors separate on the fork...a plate for $5 and all the shade I could use. Enough to make a tired motorcyclist feel like a capitalist exploiter of the toiling masses.
Onward ever onward and a couple more irritating traffic lights and I'm on the main drag through Homestead, a pretty little town with churches, doctor's offices and restaurants, looking like a palm filled Midwestern burg. I shall have to come up and spend a day here with my camera. Meanwhile its back to Card Sound Road and the Florida Keys. Back where I started, sunup to sundown.
I survived, I thrived, on another trip to the crazy mainland.
My wife and I frequently bring guests to this area to check out the Key deer which lurk around here in relatively large numbers. They like to cross the main road, weirdly enough, at the "Deer Crossing" sign on the street. When we brought Bruce and Celia to this area the deer stayed away so we took a walk instead down this path I had never previously visited. 
It was most pleasant strolling in the sun, mosquito-free and ambling while talking and peering into the undergrowth checking desultorily for elusive deer. After a while my wife cried uncle, her arm in its brace was giving her fits and that left Bruce and I to trudge on like the intrepid explorers we would like to be. As it was Bruce yielded next, anxious to return to the women resting in the car, so we turned back before the trail was done.
There were signs of life- human life at least, as marked in the mud. When the four of us were walking we saw some tread marks in the muddy spots, which appeared to be bicycle treads but I was pretty sure there some fresh marks and they looked like those left by an all terrain vehicle, and they hadn't been there when we had walked en masse.
I might have expected to hear the sound of a motor, or voices or smelled exhaust but the day was unsullied and untrammeled by human intervention- except mine! I walked and I walked, turning corners and forgetting to check how long I'd been gone, but I guesstimated a mile and half walk to the end which came upon me suddenly in the form of a wide open space bathed in sunlight:
There was remarkably little trash along the trail anywhere, which one would like to think indicated a high level of consciousness among hikers on No Name Key, but rather I think, speaks to the low volume of traffic around here.
On my way out of this entanglement of mud, dead twigs and copious cobwebs I found the elusive Key deer. Actually she found me, and started back into the bushes with a most un-deer like thundering crack of breaking tree limbs. Then she paused to take in some refreshment and I nailed her:
Returning to the theme of human intervention this area was where Alpha 66 trained for the Bay of Pigs and I wondered if they might have been doing their military shenanigans right here. It had always struck me as preposterous to think that the counter revolutionaries could train in these flat lands for an invasion of a mountainous island like Cuba, but funnily enough I was reminded of a spot on the north coast of that island where my wife and I were blown in my sailboat by a storm on a trip from Mexico to Key West. The dogs didn't much enjoy it but I took them for "walks" through the mangroves in areas that looked just like this:
Those prickly nematodes sticking up out of the mud were just like those of the black mangroves in the offshore islands of Cuba. Well, its a tenuous connection but it seemed significant while I was there, in the middle of nowhere in No Name Key. 