By Bob Gaydos

Artemis II heads to the moon.

   It’s fascinating how quickly things that once seemed so remarkable become commonplace, occurring virtually unnoticed in our daily lives. Part of the furniture. Like the fact that I’m writing this on my phone, which I also use to tell time, take photos, buy shoes and watch movies. Just part of the daily routine.

    Or like waking up to an Easter morning profanity-laden diatribe by the American president, probably sent on his phone, threatening the annihilation of a foreign nation because he doesn’t want people to see the proof that he raped young girls. Routine. Headline-grabbing. Yes, insane, but remarkably commonplace.

     Yet while that president was threatening war crimes, four astronauts (three Americans, one Canadian) were doing something that hasn’t been done in 58 years — flying around the moon. Remarkable. Still. But not quite headline-grabbing today.

     It’s that way with a lot of inspirational or heart-warming events these days. Sometimes it’s hard to find the good news buried under all the depressingly bad news emanating daily from the White House, shouting to be heard and too often dutifully reported without question by a news media co-opted by owners more interested in wealth than the First Amendment.

     I started to write a column a few weeks ago about what I considered to be two uplifting, yes, heartwarming events that made life just a little softer, more livable for a while.

    I wrote: “Thank God for Queer Eye and the Buddhists.

    “No, that’s not a new spinoff show on Netflix, although the thought is intriguing. What it is is a huge thank you to two recent events that reminded me, in the midst of the daily dose of anger, lies and cruelty emanating from the White House, that there is still love, caring and humanity in the world. That decency still exists. That people can also shed tears of joy.    

    “Remember?”

     That’s as far as I got before the Trumpian insanity overwhelmed the news again. I’ll finish it now.

    Queer Eye, which began on TV as Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, morphed into straight Queer Eye on Netflix, where its tenth and too-short final season dropped recently. Sad to see it go.

    It’s hard to find shows on TV these days which offer real people expressing genuine feelings of gratitude and love and hope and shedding real tears of joy. Queer Eye does all that unfailingly, whether the recipient of the Fab Five’s attention is queer, straight or Jonathan. And it’s often funny in the process.

    At about the same time, 25 Buddhist monks were on their 109-day, 2,300 mile walk from Fort Worth, Texas to the Peace Monument and then the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.. A spiritual walk for peace that gained momentum and support and, eventually, even media attention, as it was followed by more than 5 million people on social media. Heart-warming, encouraging, connecting and simply amazing all at once.

     Which brings me back to the moon. As I write this, the four astronauts are preparing to swing around to the dark side of the moon where they will see and record previously unseen features, with a solar eclipse thrown in as a bonus.

    I witnessed the moon landing – Neil Armstrong’s “One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.“ – with a large crowd on a TV at the Little Venice Restaurant in Binghamton, N.Y. 600 million watched worldwide. It was July 20, 1969. I was city editor of The Sun-Bulletin at the time, a daily paper whose offices were conveniently located just down the block from  the restaurant. Yes, the moon landing was the front page story the following morning. And yes, everyone seemed to be happy that President Kennedy‘s goal of putting a man on the moon before the end of the decade was realized.

    This morning, as the astronauts aboard Artemis II traveled farther from Earth than any other humans ever have, the American president was threatening to bomb another country back to the Stone Age. And no one was surprised.

    Might be time to watch reruns of “Queer Eye.”

By Bob Gaydos

Usain Bolt … enjoying himself

I started reading newspapers from back to front pretty much when I started reading newspapers regularly. Eleven. Twelve. Little League age. I should back up a bit here and explain that in our house having a half dozen or so daily papers stacked on a chair at the end of the kitchen table was routine. My mother was an avid reader of newspapers, a fact which baffles me to this day because she virtually never discussed current events. She had to be the best-informed, least-opinionated person I’ve ever known. Kind of the opposite of what we have today.

At any rate, among those daily papers were two New York City tabloids, The New York Daily News and The New York Daily Mirror. For a boy whose life revolved around sports, they were required reading and sports, of course, was the back of the paper, starting with the back page. The papers had great reporters, columnists, photos, everything necessary to keep a blossoming Yankee fan from noticing that other Yankees — American GIs — were fighting in a war in Korea. An uncle among them.

As I grew older, my interests broadened, as did my appreciation of good writing. The pile of papers at the end of the table grew taller proportionally. What once consisted of The Bayonne Times, The Jersey Journal, The Newark Star-Ledger, The News and The MIrror, gradually expanded to at varying times include The Herald Tribune (my favorite), the Journal-American, The New York Post and occasionally even the World Telegram & Sun. If there was a sports section, I found it. If it wasn’t the back page, it was still the back of the paper. Fun and games. Batting averages and touchdown passes.

No war. No politics. No crime. No scandal. Plenty of time to read about that other stuff later in the day. It helped me ease into my day even as I began to realize there were other supposedly more important topics to read about. Sports was always an escape valve from the petty annoyances and major disappointments of the rest of life.

Maybe that’s why sports reporters always seemed to be so content, regardless of what was happening in the world. They got to go to a sporting event free, write a story about and do it over again the next day. And get paid for it. Sweet. I had a brief taste of this in my journalism career as a sports editor in upstate New York for a year or so. The heaviest weight the world put on my shoulders was how to play Mark Spitz’s record haul of seven gold medals at the 1972 Olympics. As fate would have it, I worked for a tabloid, so I splashed a big picture of Spitz, his medals and the headline, “The Magnificent Seven.” I thought it was as good as any of the New York City tabs could do.

Later, as editorial page editor at a different upstate paper for 23 years, I wound up writing about all the other stuff. Stuff I still write about today when I feel the inspiration, which of late has been difficult to come by. All of which is a long way of saying that, while I still turn to the sports page to start my day today, it’s not nearly the same. First of all, on the Internet there is no back page. More to the point, the sports pages are no longer a sanctuary from the social problems of the day.

One of the biggest sports stories recently was the “retirement” of Alex Rodriguez from the New York Yankees. A-Rod got $27 million to go away. You don’t have to honor your contract for next year, Alex; take the money with our blessings. Rodriguez, of course, was a central figure in baseball’s steroids scandal. He was suspended for a year for cheating. Why he felt the need to cheat is beyond me since he was regarded as one of the best players in baseball without enhancing his performance with drugs. Instead of marveling at his skills, which is, after all, what sports is all about, fans are left to wonder how much his statistics were inflated by steroids.

I watched a movie recently, “The Program,” which details the lengths to which Lance Armstrong (If ever there was a name for a sports hero, that was it) went to win the Tour de France — seven times. Armstrong, who survived testicular cancer, apparently knew he was good, but not good enough, to win the legendary cycling race, so he signed on for a regimented doping program from the outset, recruiting teammates for the lying and cheating that brought him fame and fortune and ultimate disgrace. He made the front page.

It’s not just drugs. Last week, a kicker for the New York Giants was suspended for one game because of an old domestic violence complaint by his ex-wife. One game. The National Football League has been plagued with domestic violence complaints for several years and has yet to figure out a consistent policy on dealing with them. Then again, the NFL also had trouble figuring out how to penalize teams that deflate the footballs.

Of course, the biggest sporting event of the year has been the Olympics in beautiful Brazil, with its polluted waters, corrupt government, and economic problems. The event began with the Russian track team being banned because of a government-sponsored doping program. It featured a medal-winning American swimmer, Ryan Lochte, claiming he and some teammates were robbed at gunpoint in Rio, when they actually had gotten drunk and trashed a service station bathroom.

This was all back page stuff, but hardly a diversion from the travails of the day. Hardly uplifting of the human spirit, as the Olympics likes to present itself.

But then … there was also Michael Phelps, still swimming despite two DUI arrests, and his record haul of medals. Also: the other USA swimmers, male and female; the women gymnasts; the basketball team; Yusra Mardini, the Syrian refugee who swam as part of an Olympic Refugee team; the female runners who collided, fell down, helped each other up and finished the race. Literally uplifting.

Finally, there is the face of this Olympics, at least for me: Jamaican sprinter Usain Bolt blurring to victory for the third time in the 100-meter dash, permanently retiring the title of “Fastest Human Alive.” Bolt actually took the time in a qualifying race for the 100-meters to glance back to see if anyone was gaining on him. No one was. He smiled. Wow! Now that’s a back page.

Bolt won three golds. Of course, the Twitterverse could not avoid the question of the day: What drugs do you think he’s on?

And so it went.

Dedicated to: Jimmy Breslin, Jimmy Cannon and Jim Murray.

rjgaydos@gmail.com