In 2017 the Hall ceased operation and a new museum was to take its place. Inspired by the summer Comic Con Convention, its mission was to educate and entertain the public with comic and popular art forms. It vision, summarized on the website:

• Thrive as a world-class attraction and gateway to popular art, culture, and life-long learning for San Diego residents and visiting tourists.
• Serve as a pop culture focal point, enhancing the ways San Diego celebrates its unique place in the popular culture landscape.
• Enhance the economic strength of the community.
• Become a sustainable model for equitable and environmentally-sound community service through our practices and offerings.

The hard opening of the museum on July 1st featured the Marvel Universe, Spiderman and all his glories and Ernest Hemingway in comics. I strolled up to the entrance and asked a spokesperson about the details of the Superman exhibit. “Oh we don’t have a Superman exhibit yet,” she said. “But we are in negotiations with DC Comics.” “How could this be?“, I mused as the 12 year old inside of me tried to cope with this disappointment. My formative years were shaped by Action and Superman Comics. I learned about inflation (10 cents/copy in 1960, 12 cents a few years later), toxicology (green, gold and red kryptonite), journalism (The Daily Planet and its staff) and infatuation (I had a crush on Linda Lee Danvers, Supergirl’s alias). 

I had pressing 21st century questions for the Superman franchise: How had climate change affected the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic? Did the Daily Planet survive and gain a digital footprint? Superman is faster than a locomotive but is he faster than a Saturn Rocket?

I respect all of the Gen Xers, Millennials and pre-baby boomers who revere Marvel and will flock to San Diego in the coming days to attend Comic Con and its new museum. But I implore all  baby boomers and supporters to take action. The “Man of Steel” who stands for “Truth, Justice and the American Way” is needed now more than ever.

I was perched in the upper deck of venerable Yankee Stadium as the dulcet tones of “O Canada” serenaded the patrons. As the Yankees took the field for a day game against the Toronto Bluejays, my thoughts turned toward food and beverage. A hot dog and a beer, I mused, was the classic choice. I felt the kinship of brews from the past, imagining my Uncles’ Bill and Herman and Cousin Jack quaffing Ballentine, Rheingold and Knickerbocker Beer under the facade as the IRT Subway rumbled by and DiMaggio rounded the bases.

I was well aware of the importance of beer in life and in baseball. It established prehistoric man’s enthusiasm for agriculture, paid the wages of those who built the pyramids and motivated  thousands of undergraduates to learn beer pong. In the mid 19th century, immigrants from Europe migrated across the Atlantic, to the land of opportunity.  One in particular, the Bavarian Franz Ruppert, established a brewery in  New York to slake the thirst of 19th century New Yorkers. Franz’s grandson, Jacob Ruppert, Jr. inherited the brewery from his father and purchased the struggling New York Highlanders in 1915. With his “beer wealth” he rebranded the club the Yankees, bought Babe Ruth from the Red Sox, established the farm team system, put numbers on the player’s uniforms and moved the Yankees out of the Polo Grounds and into a new Yankee Stadium in the South Bronx.

 Ninety-nine years after the opening of the original Yankee Stadium and 27 championships later, the “beer magnate’s” acumen has proven successful.

The memories of Three Ring Ballentine and Knickerbocker Beer have faded but the smell of outfield turf, and the aroma of malt and hops in the upper deck and bleachers in the Bronx in springtime lives on. And as the 20th century philosopher and late Yankee announcer Mel Allen opined, “How about that!”

Emotion and memory are forever linked in our national psyche and football has a tight grip on both. The exact street where I stood 1/2 century ago when I learned the Giants drafted the running back, Tucker Frederickson and later traded for QB Fran Tarkenton are branded into my senescent consciousness. Later, in college, watching on a black & white TV and manipulating the rabbit ears to get a clearer picture, I saw Roger Staubach come into view. My roommate, entered the living room after an all night Bridge tournament, told me to spread the rabbit ears wider, declared his intent to abandon professional card playing for a try at a veterinarian school at precisely the same moment that Staubach defeated the Miami Dolphins 24-3 in Super Bowl VI. 

Living in San Diego in the late 70’s and early ’80’s, I was caught up in Charger frenzy. Orchestrated by Coach Don “Air” Coryell, QB Dan Fouts, and receivers Charley Joiner and Kellen Winslow needed a minimum of 40+ points a game to have a chance to win. The Miami-Charger overtime gem in 1981, viewed in a bar in Pacific Beach with a gaggle of inebriated surfers, was an all time football high. I was hugging total strangers exhaling Miller High Life fumes and loving it. One week later the Chargers succumbed to Cincinnati in the infamous Ice Bowl and I fell into a deep fan abyss.

Football frenzy was destined to envelop my children. My older son was born on a day the Giants won. We exulted in the Giants two Super Bowl wins in the 21st Century and held on tight through Chargers wins and losses. My sons were there for the Charger playoff win over Indianapolis Colts, LaDanian Tomlinson’s record breaking rushing yardage game and the excruciating loss against the Jets in the 2010 first round playoff. 

As I tune into Super Bowl LVI this weekend, I will remember the rabbit ears, my father’s recall of QB Norm Van Brocklin and Elroy “Crazy Legs” Hirsch of 1950’s Ram fame, the players of my youth and hope that the current and future players held in esteem by my children and children’s children will bring them the joy of the NFL fan.

A few weeks ago I was in Palm Springs participating in the lugubrious task of looking for an assisted living facility for a relative when I received a phone call from my son. “Kobe Bryant just died in a helicopter crash,” he uttered in disbelief. After a short period of “it can’t be,” a wave of sadness and tears enveloped me. Crying does not come easily to this sexagenarian, especially for the demise of such a public figure. 

Why was I so profoundly affected? Of course, the tragedy of losing his young daughter and the others who were in the prime of life was obvious. But, after a few days of reflection, I realized that basketball had been a refuge of joy for my children and I, and that the sanctity of entertainment that it had provided was breached by this terrible event. 

Those of us born in New York City were introduced to the game at an early age. There were hoops in every indoor and outdoor gym. Living a few doors down from us was the City College of New York center who had won the NCAA and NIT tournament in one year, a feat never since duplicated. Phil Jackson, then a reserve player for the New York Knicks, lived in Queens and played pick-up at my elementary school. Everyone  in public school had to play and I did. And I stunk, though fleeting accomplishments are burnished into my memory: my 6th grade teacher, Mr. Axelrod, giving me a thumbs up after sinking two foul shots for my only points of the year; sinking the winning layup in overtime to lift the intramural Bayside High School Newspaper team over the Chess Club (OK so they were not physically gifted but they did think two passes ahead). And through family lore: my 70 year old 4 foot 8 inch aunt recounting her brush with basketball greatness: “Lawrence,  I got out of the car and was looking at his belt-buckle. I looked up and saw him and almost fell over.” She was describing meeting Wilt Chamberlain, then a bellhop at Kutscher’s Hotel in the Catskills, NY where he played summer ball in between semesters at University of Kansas. But it was fandom for the NBA that refined my love of the game. It was the rise of the NY Knicks in the late 60’s after decades of futility that energized me and the city. My high school buddies going to Madison Square Garden on December, 31, 1968 and watching the likes of Willis Reed and Walt Frazier dismantle the Baltimore Bullets; listening to the Knicks win their first championship on radio in 1970 (not televised in the NYC area back then). Going out west and living in Los Angeles and later San Diego, I came under the Laker spell. A lifelong friend had gone to Michigan State grad school and first informed me of a freshman sensation, Earvin Johnson. As a junior gastroenterologist in a large multispecialty group in LA County, I found a coterie of docs who worshipped the Lakers. One, who had season tickets since the team came from Minneapolis, was especially passionate. “Anytime you need a partner, I’m ready to go,” I pleaded with him as I informed him of his patient’s polyp burden. After a year, I got the call and accompanied him to Showtime in the Forum in Inglewood. We were center court, one row behind Karem Abdul Jabbar’s dad. And then there were 48 minutes of watching Magic Johnson’s craft with no look passes, Jabbar skyhooks and basketball magic that pushed Newtonian physics to its extreme. The day I interviewed for hospital privileges at Whittier Presbyterian hospital was the day the Lakers signed Shaquille O’Neal. I don’t remember any of the interview questions I was asked that day, but I do remember the excitement of an all-star center coming to LA. What followed was joyful hours of watching the Kobe-Shaq and later the Kobe-Gasol Lakers on TV and at Staples Center. Kobe picked up the mantle  of Laker greatness and pushed the athletic limits of great basketball. We were treated to over two decades of multiple winning seasons.

 Kobe’s greatness extended beyond the court. My son was the recipient of a Kobe “high five” after seeing him leave U.C. Irvine Basketball Practice Facility one summer day 10 years ago. And following in the erudite tradition of great former NBA players, Kobe thought outside the box and was able to deconstruct greatness for the average fan, allowing us mortals a glimpse of a higher level of performance. And so, with a bit of satisfaction, I watched my younger son embrace the Washington Wizards when he went to Georgetown and my older son participate in the well being and fandom of the Miami Heat. Basketball is a team game and mirrors the collective nature of human kind but also rewards individual great talents. We can only imagine what insights were lost with the passing of Kobe Bryant. What my family and I  have is the joy and memories of watching the Mamba play the game in such a way that it sketched us a blueprint for life.