From the Mixed-Up Files of...

Lately my mother’s been cleaning out her file cabinets, mostly looking for old paperwork to throw out. But occasionally she comes across something she thinks might be meaningful to someone, and she delivers that something to that someone.

I was therefore the recent recipient of a thick file containing papers and artifacts from my decade attending the Foote School in New Haven, from kindergarten through ninth grade.

The file included some obvious items, like all of my report cards and evaluations from teachers during those years. It also contained some items that I’m surprised lasted this long, like a fairy tale I wrote for French class about a New York Rangers radio commentator and the Tooth Fairy.

But one item in particular really struck me in the heart. It’s a packet called “I Like Danny” which includes full-page drawings by every kid in my kindergarten class, accompanied by sentences — hand written by our teacher, Mrs. de Forest — that explained why each classmate liked me.

As I leafed through the packet, I discovered that most of the images were sweet pictures of me playing with another kid. Here I am in the block corner with Graham, then I’m playing outside with Fumitsugu, now I’m on sleds with Arna.

But on the last page I found something different. This was a drawing done by a girl named Shelby.

Shelby was the shortest girl in Mrs. de Forest’s class and I was the shortest boy, which meant that we were matched up all the time: in our May Day dance, when lining up for recess, before walking to other buildings, and probably a million other instances that I’ve forgotten. Our tiny five-year-old bodies inextricably linked us that entire year.

So Shelby didn’t draw a picture of us playing “duck, duck, goose” (Katie) or us playing house (Kaitlin) or us playing Star Wars (Amy). No, Shelby tapped into something deeper.

In her drawing, she depicts us standing next to each other. Our narrow bodies are yellow, as is my hair (I used to be a blond). Her hair is brown. We both have broad red smiles below our blue-green eyes. And, crucially, we’re holding hands.

Above this scene, Mrs. de Forest has transcribed Shelby’s intent: I like Danny because he is partners with me.

I can’t explain exactly why, but even typing this sentiment into my laptop now makes me a little emotional.

Shelby and I were schoolmates for 10 years. We were never super tight, but we were always friends. I don’t think I’ve seen or heard anything about her since we graduated from Foote in June 1994. Yet a drawing of us she made almost four decades ago brought tears to my eyes this week.

I’m glad my mom kept it all these years.

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The Best…

…Sports Documentary I Watched This Week

Bye Bye Barry (2023) — Directed by Paul Monusky, Micaela Powers, and Angela Torma
Streaming on Amazon Prime Video

Anyone who watched the NFL in the 1990s remembers Detroit Lions running back Barry Sanders.

In an era when running backs were still revered icons, Sanders especially stood out. At a mere 5-foot-8, his speed and video game-style moves, propelled by footwork that even Baryshnikov might envy, electrified a franchise mostly known for its annual mediocrity.

As a viewer, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. On any given play, a pack of defenders might seem to have caught him behind the line of scrimmage. But then he’d feint to his left, spin to his right, bounce off a tackler, juke once, twice, three times, and suddenly explode downfield for an 80-yard touchdown.

He was also memorable for what he wasn’t — namely, a showboat. Whenever he scored a touchdown, he simply handed the ball to an official. No dancing, no spiking, no nonsense.

In short, Barry Sanders was like no one else.

The problem was that even with him, the Lions still weren’t that great. Their management was lousy, their coaching was suspect, and above all, they never had much talent at quarterback to take some of the pressure off their one-of-a-kind running back.

So after 10 years in Detroit, at age 31, Sanders shocked the sports world by faxing a statement to his hometown newspaper, The Wichita Eagle, announcing his retirement from football. (That’s right, he sent a fax.)

The new documentary Bye Bye Barry seeks to answer the question of why Sanders, still in his prime and clearly on his way to soon becoming the all-time leading rusher in NFL history, would decide to just… disappear.

The reasons, admittedly, are not terribly surprising. But the film is still a fun watch to get to know Sanders better, to see his remarkable highlights, and, for those so inclined, to get the nostalgia-induced thrill of spotting NFL That Guys from the era (my favorite: “Touchdown” Tommy Vardell).

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…Pizza-Related Article I Read This Week

“The Lasting Pleasures of New Haven Pizza,” by Hannah Goldfield, The New Yorker, November 20, 2023

Courtesy: Cole Wilson / The New Yorker

Pizza (or as we call it in New Haven, apizza, pronounced “ah-BEETZ”) is never far from our minds here, because we have the greatest pizza in the world — a fact that, I was surprised to discover as a young man, is not universally known outside the state of Connecticut.

Back when Barry Sanders was playing football like a video game character come to life, my family’s regular New Haven pizza joint was Ernie’s on Whalley Avenue. While the “Big Three” of Sally’s, Pepe’s, and Modern gets most of the headlines, Ernie’s makes a pretty darn good pie and was closer to our house than the classic places farther downtown.

You could even say that Ernie’s — which is in the Amity section of New Haven, about four miles west of the classic places — is part of an apizza diaspora that now stretches across the entire country.

As last week’s issue of The New Yorker tells us, dozens of New Haven-style apizza places have opened outside the Elm City in recent years, spreading far and wide the gospel of Frank Pepe and Salvatore Consiglio.

Articles about New Haven pizza are often riddled with errors or highlight the wrong places. This one, thankfully, was written by an Elm City native (Hannah Goldfield), so she brings credibility to the subject. And for additional context, she had the good sense to consult our local apizza historian, Colin Caplan (my friend since fourth grade).

As a result, staples like the original tomato pie and Foxon Park sodas are mentioned, as is the vital importance of “char.”

But I do have one quibble with the story.

I understand why Ms. Goldfield would want to sample “New Haven-style” pies from around the country since that’s part of the point of the story. And in the conclusion of the piece, she writes about trying one from a place in Chicago. But she doesn’t go to Chicago. Instead, she orders it to her home in Brooklyn, where it arrives, frozen, via Goldbelly, the online marketplace that sells and ships specialty foods from all over the country.

Here’s the thing, though — you can order pies from the actual Sally’s Apizza in New Haven on Goldbelly! (Or if you’re budget-conscious, you can order from Zuppardi’s Apizza in West Haven.) So as I finished reading Ms. Goldfield’s story, I couldn’t help but wonder: if you’re buying frozen New Haven apizza, why get it from Chicago? Why not just get the real thing?

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…Archival Commercial I Watched This Week

McDonald’s McD.L.T. (1985)

I’ve been seeing a confusing commercial starring Jason Alexander a lot lately. I think it’s for a mobile phone company. It invokes the Seinfeld catchphrase “yada yada,” though I can’t totally follow what’s going on in it.

Although the spot hasn’t made me want to buy whatever product it’s selling, it did inspire me to go into the Jason Alexander commercial archive, where I reacquainted myself with a much more enjoyable piece of work: a McDonald’s McD.L.T. ad from 1985.

The concept behind the McD.L.T. was that it came in a container that separated the burger and top part of the bun (the “hot” side) from the cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickles, mustard, ketchup, mayo, and bottom part of the bun (the “cool” side). The consumer was then able to delay combining the two opposing sides until the moment they were finally ready to chow down.

The McD.L.T., therefore, was really a packaging gimmick — now with more styrofoam! — that was marketed as an exciting new McDonald’s menu item. It was kind of ridiculous then and feels doubly absurd today in these more environmentally-conscious times.

All of that being said, I love the commercial. I get such a kick out of it, I watch it several times a year. Why? For a few reasons.

One, it’s a great relic of the 1980s, from the cheery (and informative) song to the aerobically-inclined choreography to the pastel-colored wardrobe pieces.

Two, it features Jason Alexander, sporting curly brown hair, years before he portrayed all-time great (and famously balding) nebbish George Costanza on Seinfeld.

Three, despite its splashy marketing campaign, the McD.L.T., ironically, did not catch on.

I can only hope that in the dustbin of fast food history, the “hot” side and the “cool” side remain as such, separated for all eternity.