CarolNYC
10-18-2006, 04:01 AM
Tony sent me an email-he was friends with Yankee player Corey Lidle-one of Tony's friends wrote an article and I thought I'd share it with you-here it is:
If Cory Lidle wasn't at Yankee Stadium or in his 45th Street pad overlooking Times Square, it was a virtual lock that he'd be at Amsterdam Billiards on West 76th Street playing games of 9-ball.
He'd be there, when the Yankees were home, at least three times a week and sometimes four — before games, after, on every off day, and even on the days he pitched, strolling through the twin doors of the place like most everybody else — wearing jeans, T-shirt and a baseball cap.
But never a navy-blue one, never a Yankees cap.
When Lidle was in the poolroom, he never wanted to be Cory Lidle, Yankees pitcher.
Never wanted special treatment, or to be fussed over.
He was just Cory there. The way Eddie was Eddie and Tony was Tony and I was Mike.
Just one of the guys.
An admitted former pool bum, an admitted pool addict.
Shooting pool for hours on end, often until the 3 o'clock closing time, and shooting the breeze over coffee, Diet Cokes, and beers.
"It's a great escape from baseball," he once told me while hanging out there.
Amsterdam's, for the record, is not one of those snake-pit poolrooms with unscrubbed clientele but an upscale brick-interior walk-up with a bar, cushy lounge and a fireplace. It's a room where Seinfeld has played, as has Roger Clemens and Paul Sorvino, among many other celeb types. And for the two months Lidle played in pinstripes it was something of his social club — though, if he could help it, he rarely talked about baseball or the Yankees.
"And when he did, it was always matter-of-factly," said one of Lidle's Amsterdam buddies, Jesse Rice, a 32-year-old real estate broker who added quickly that "Cory was still always very accessible, got along with everyone."
Indeed, in the short time Lidle was here, the guys in the poolroom developed an affection toward him as much as he developed one toward them.
"He wasn't full of himself," said another Amsterdam regular, Edward Igel, a financial adviser. "He came across as nothing but a plain, quiet, sensitive man. You wished all professional athletes could be like him."
"He was so unassuming, so unpretentious," said Amsterdam's owner Greg Hunt, "that you quickly forgot he was a major-league baseball player."
Lidle's steady playing partner was Brooklyn-born-and-raised Tony Robles, one of the best pool players in the world — someone who can run nearly 300 balls without missing — and one of my closest friends. In fact, I'm the one who connected the two back in August, and Lidle began taking lessons with Robles almost immediately.
One time in the Yankee clubhouse, I remember, Lidle waved me frantically over to his locker. I thought he was going to tell me something juicy about the Yankees.
Instead, he pulled out his little portable computer, flipped open the screen and showed me these various pool table charts. "How cool is this, Mike?" he said. "Tony sent all these to me. It's all about how to play position and systems on how to bank balls."
"He had such a passion for pool, like few people I'd ever met," Robles told me on Saturday in Amsterdam's. "And he had a lot of natural ability."
Robles recalled playing Lidle one night just before the playoffs, beating up on him for hours. "I was on fire that night," Robles said. "I lost only two games the whole time." Still, Lidle called him the next day, eager to play again, saying, "I want to show you what I'm made of." Robles giggled at the memory of that line. "But do you know what he did that day?" he said. "He beat me four out of the first six games. And I wasn't holding back. That's what a great competitor he was."
He also remembered the time when they were practicing together and someone recognized Lidle and went over to say hello and tell him that he was a big Yankees fan and that it was a pleasure to meet him.
"Cory had just pocketed a ball and was ready to shoot again," Robles said, "but he put down his stick on the table, went over to shake the guy's hand and had a two-minute conversation with the guy before he went back to shoot again. That's how genuine he was."
On Monday night, two days before he died, Lidle came into Amsterdam's around 6 o'clock to pick up his two-piece, bird's eye maple stick with the diamond inlays that he stored in the back office within a black-and-gray leather cue case.
He told everyone he was heading back home to California and that he couldn't wait to finally spend time with his wife, Melanie, and 6-year-old son, Christopher. He also said that he had a great time in New York and thanked all the guys in the room for being a big part of that and that before he flew out, he wanted to have one last get-together with everybody over lunch.
For some reason — maybe because Lidle was too busy with having Melanie and Christopher in town, or was simply too busy packing — the lunch never came off.
And that Wednesday, when the guys in the room found out it was Lidle in the plane that crashed into the high-rise on East 72nd, they couldn't stop themselves from crowding around the bar, staring open-mouthed at the big-screen TV that flashed the horrible, fiery footage.
Nobody could say a word. Almost all had tears in their eyes.
Robles grabbed his cell phone and dialed Lidle's number. Got Lidle's voicemail, left a message: "Hey, buddy, it's Tony. I'm calling to see that you're all right. I heard it was your plane that crashed. Just call me as soon as possible to let me know that you're OK."
But not long afterwards, it was confirmed that Lidle was in the plane, that he and his pilot instructor had perished.
"I couldn't believe it, I still can't believe it," Robles said in a voice that was ready to crack, with eyes ready to well up again for the umpteenth time. "I knew him for only two months, but I felt like I'd known him for 10 years. That's how much he opened up to you. That's the kind of guy he was. I felt like I was right on the verge of having a great friendship with him."
As did so many of us up in that poolroom that was Lidle's escape from it all, where he was always just one of the guys, where he was nothing but plain old Cory.
Michael P. Geffner's column appears regularly in the Times Herald-Record.
If Cory Lidle wasn't at Yankee Stadium or in his 45th Street pad overlooking Times Square, it was a virtual lock that he'd be at Amsterdam Billiards on West 76th Street playing games of 9-ball.
He'd be there, when the Yankees were home, at least three times a week and sometimes four — before games, after, on every off day, and even on the days he pitched, strolling through the twin doors of the place like most everybody else — wearing jeans, T-shirt and a baseball cap.
But never a navy-blue one, never a Yankees cap.
When Lidle was in the poolroom, he never wanted to be Cory Lidle, Yankees pitcher.
Never wanted special treatment, or to be fussed over.
He was just Cory there. The way Eddie was Eddie and Tony was Tony and I was Mike.
Just one of the guys.
An admitted former pool bum, an admitted pool addict.
Shooting pool for hours on end, often until the 3 o'clock closing time, and shooting the breeze over coffee, Diet Cokes, and beers.
"It's a great escape from baseball," he once told me while hanging out there.
Amsterdam's, for the record, is not one of those snake-pit poolrooms with unscrubbed clientele but an upscale brick-interior walk-up with a bar, cushy lounge and a fireplace. It's a room where Seinfeld has played, as has Roger Clemens and Paul Sorvino, among many other celeb types. And for the two months Lidle played in pinstripes it was something of his social club — though, if he could help it, he rarely talked about baseball or the Yankees.
"And when he did, it was always matter-of-factly," said one of Lidle's Amsterdam buddies, Jesse Rice, a 32-year-old real estate broker who added quickly that "Cory was still always very accessible, got along with everyone."
Indeed, in the short time Lidle was here, the guys in the poolroom developed an affection toward him as much as he developed one toward them.
"He wasn't full of himself," said another Amsterdam regular, Edward Igel, a financial adviser. "He came across as nothing but a plain, quiet, sensitive man. You wished all professional athletes could be like him."
"He was so unassuming, so unpretentious," said Amsterdam's owner Greg Hunt, "that you quickly forgot he was a major-league baseball player."
Lidle's steady playing partner was Brooklyn-born-and-raised Tony Robles, one of the best pool players in the world — someone who can run nearly 300 balls without missing — and one of my closest friends. In fact, I'm the one who connected the two back in August, and Lidle began taking lessons with Robles almost immediately.
One time in the Yankee clubhouse, I remember, Lidle waved me frantically over to his locker. I thought he was going to tell me something juicy about the Yankees.
Instead, he pulled out his little portable computer, flipped open the screen and showed me these various pool table charts. "How cool is this, Mike?" he said. "Tony sent all these to me. It's all about how to play position and systems on how to bank balls."
"He had such a passion for pool, like few people I'd ever met," Robles told me on Saturday in Amsterdam's. "And he had a lot of natural ability."
Robles recalled playing Lidle one night just before the playoffs, beating up on him for hours. "I was on fire that night," Robles said. "I lost only two games the whole time." Still, Lidle called him the next day, eager to play again, saying, "I want to show you what I'm made of." Robles giggled at the memory of that line. "But do you know what he did that day?" he said. "He beat me four out of the first six games. And I wasn't holding back. That's what a great competitor he was."
He also remembered the time when they were practicing together and someone recognized Lidle and went over to say hello and tell him that he was a big Yankees fan and that it was a pleasure to meet him.
"Cory had just pocketed a ball and was ready to shoot again," Robles said, "but he put down his stick on the table, went over to shake the guy's hand and had a two-minute conversation with the guy before he went back to shoot again. That's how genuine he was."
On Monday night, two days before he died, Lidle came into Amsterdam's around 6 o'clock to pick up his two-piece, bird's eye maple stick with the diamond inlays that he stored in the back office within a black-and-gray leather cue case.
He told everyone he was heading back home to California and that he couldn't wait to finally spend time with his wife, Melanie, and 6-year-old son, Christopher. He also said that he had a great time in New York and thanked all the guys in the room for being a big part of that and that before he flew out, he wanted to have one last get-together with everybody over lunch.
For some reason — maybe because Lidle was too busy with having Melanie and Christopher in town, or was simply too busy packing — the lunch never came off.
And that Wednesday, when the guys in the room found out it was Lidle in the plane that crashed into the high-rise on East 72nd, they couldn't stop themselves from crowding around the bar, staring open-mouthed at the big-screen TV that flashed the horrible, fiery footage.
Nobody could say a word. Almost all had tears in their eyes.
Robles grabbed his cell phone and dialed Lidle's number. Got Lidle's voicemail, left a message: "Hey, buddy, it's Tony. I'm calling to see that you're all right. I heard it was your plane that crashed. Just call me as soon as possible to let me know that you're OK."
But not long afterwards, it was confirmed that Lidle was in the plane, that he and his pilot instructor had perished.
"I couldn't believe it, I still can't believe it," Robles said in a voice that was ready to crack, with eyes ready to well up again for the umpteenth time. "I knew him for only two months, but I felt like I'd known him for 10 years. That's how much he opened up to you. That's the kind of guy he was. I felt like I was right on the verge of having a great friendship with him."
As did so many of us up in that poolroom that was Lidle's escape from it all, where he was always just one of the guys, where he was nothing but plain old Cory.
Michael P. Geffner's column appears regularly in the Times Herald-Record.