Don't Touch That Dial

The New York Mets' phenom Matt Harvey pitched an amazing game on Tuesday night. Let me rephrase that. The New York Mets' phenom Matt Harvey from Groton, CT, just over the Big Bad Bridge from New London, who was a stand-out at Fitch High School a few years ago, pitched an amazing game Tuesday night, and Mistah and I were riveted by every pitch.

We listened to the game on the radio.

At one point during the game, Mistah's friend Mike emailed him: "Bet you wish you had a TV."

I got all riled up in outraged defiance. As I do. Mike later qualified his comment to say he bet we wished we had a TV to watch the replay of the only base hit Harvey gave up: an infield hit by Alex Rios with two outs in the seventh. But it was too late: my back -- along with my Irish -- was already up.

Because I did not wish I had a TV to watch the game -- or to watch slo-mo replays. Listening to baseball on the radio is one of the all-time great sports experiences, and I love it with all my heart and all my soul and all my strength. Plus the Mets have -- and always have had -- awesome radio broadcasters: currently Howie Rose and Josh Lewin. Previously the Late Great Bob Murphy. (Mistah's Red Sox have Joe Castiglione who is awful, really, but apparently he's a legend. And I have to grudgingly admit he's grown on me. A little.)

I have nothing against TV; in fact I like TV and I sometimes miss it, like during the Oscars and the Grammys and UConn hoops and March Madness and the Olympics.

And we had a TV, in our former life, before we Hit The Road.

But Hit The Road we did, and our sensibilities changed.

For Example. We spent a lot of time at a campground in northcentral Florida, not far from Gainesville, where my man Joakim Noah and the University of Florida Gators tore through the competition in the NCAA tournament on their way to win the National Chomp-ionship in 2006. Night after night we listened to the dulcet tones of the one and only The Mick, who calls an incredible game, with our friend Ranger Steve, sitting around the campfire. By the semifinals Steve said to us, "My house is right down the road; don't you want to come over and watch the game?"

We didn't.

It looked a little something like this.

The next year, when we were back in northcentral Florida, back around the campfire, back listening to the radio during March Madness, well, we didn't go to Steve's house to watch Noah and the Gators defend their title in 2007 either.

When we re-entered the so-called Real World five years ago, and moved back into a house, our newly-calibrated sensibilities remained, and we just didn't see the need for TV. (The internet? A different story entirely. But when The Guy came to hook us up he kept asking, "Where are your TVs?")

My Dad thought we were nuts. My Mom still does. And MB and The Dowd know all the local bars with good TVs when they visit during Important Sporting Events Weekends.

But Mistah and I have all we need in the best radio in all the land:

We depend on our trusty Sangean to bring us the news of the world on NPR, the most eclectic and impressive programming on New London's own WCNI, classical music on Sunday mornings, and most importantly, baseball. Gorgeous, bucolic, masterful, strategic, spectacular summertime baseball.

On the radio.