The list, the release notes, includes 83 Little League grants in 2005 alone. (And you know what those Little Leaguers do with the money!)

More to come when I'm off deadline and have a chance really to read the list.

Alana
Marian Jones

May 17, 2005

11 a.m.

7 pounds

Beth Israel
Medical Center

Sippy
cups be damned! Little Alana Jones was named after the pattern of the elegant
Waterford crystal in her family's two-bedroom in Peter Cooper Village. “I
thought it was a pretty name,” said mom Kerry Jones, 40, a teacher at the
Epiphany School near Stuyvesant Town. Luckily, the tyke is nowhere near as
fragile as her namesake. “She enjoys getting in her swing, and riding in her
carriage, and looking at the fan,” Ms. Jones said. Alas, these are all solitary
pursuits: Older brother Michael Jones Jr., 6, is having some trouble sharing
the spotlight with the new addition. “He doesn't love her yet,” Ms. Jones said.
“He's used to being the center of everyone's attention.” Luckily, Michael Jones
Sr., 41, a lawyer at the New York State Attorney General's office, isn't too
busy to take his son to his morning Little League practice.

When these smelly practices were reported in 1998, Mr. McCall seemed contrite. But now, within the heat of a tough gubernatorial primary, we're learning that Mr. McCall hasn't learned his lesson.

The Times reported in early August that Mr. McCall hired three law firms that happen to be major contributors to his campaign to handle lawsuits on behalf of the shareholders he represents. According to a report in The New York Times , two of those firms were awarded "staggering" fees in exchange for working on a lawsuit against the Cendant Corporation.

The two firms in the Cendant case, Bernstein, Litowitz, Berger & Grossmann and Barrack, Rodos & Bacine, have donated nearly $200,000 to Mr. McCall's campaign. Until a court intervened, those two firms stood to make as much as $262 million for their "work" in the Cendant case. A federal appeals court rightly called that sum "staggering" and ordered it to be reduced. Another firm, Milberg, Weiss, Bershad, Hynes & Lerach, donated about $220,000 to Mr. McCall; Milberg, Weiss is representing New York in a lawsuit against Global Crossing.

The lawsuits were filed on behalf of the state pension fund, which Mr. McCall oversees. One of the State Comptroller's main tasks is to watch over the state's Common Retirement Fund, which has $112 billion in assets. The fund makes Mr. McCall the nation's largest investor.

In that position, Mr. McCall is suing corporate wrongdoers for their squalid accounting practices. That's why he needs lawyers. Wouldn't you know-the lawyers he chose happen to be major donors. A coincidence? Hardly.

What's interesting is that another lawyer for other shareholders objected to Mr. McCall's choices, because the firms were so closely connected to the Comptroller's campaign. Those objections, however, were overruled.

Mr. McCall's track record on these issues is abysmal. It suggests poor judgment and a blind eye to public perception. The State Comptroller, even when running for higher office, should be seen as an impartial protector of the state's finances, not as a political hack who hands out jobs-lucrative jobs-in exchange for campaign contributions.

Mr. McCall could have stepped in and blocked the fee that his friendly law firms were due to receive until a court intervened. He didn't.

And now he wants to be Governor? Based, precisely, on what?

The Harlem Little Leaguers

As major-league millionaires prepare to walk picket lines because of imagined grievances, a group of young men from Harlem has reminded us why baseball once was our national pastime.

The Harlem Little League All-Stars, playing through a grueling tournament in brutally hot conditions, have shown us that even major-league greed, commercialism and hype have not banished joy in the world of sports. Playing for no reason other than love of the game, these young men have captured New York hearts with their talent, commitment and style. They have left us with images we will treasure if this year's major-league season ends on Aug. 30 with a players' walkout.

At press time on the evening of Aug. 20, the Harlem team was playing the team from Aptos, Calif., in the annual Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pa. Because Harlem already has one loss in the tournament, another defeat would mean elimination. Nobody would be surprised, however, if the team regroups and moves on to a date with destiny. But even if a world championship isn't in the cards, the Harlem Little Leaguers deserve our thanks and praise.

If only we could say the same about the so-called major leaguers.

Caught Napping? That's a Good Thing!

The next time you visit your golf instructor for yet another lesson in the art of the full shoulder turn, do yourself a favor: Complete the drill, then rush home and take a nap.

It turns out that sleep is more than just a chance to dream. It allows your brain to store information needed for motor skills.

A test conducted by scientists at the University of Lübeck showed that well-rested students outscored their restless peers after receiving instructions in a finger-tapping exercise. Students who slept after the instruction were 35 percent faster and made 30 percent fewer errors than those who were kept awake.

It's not a question of exhaustion, the researchers decided, because the results were about the same after both groups were allowed to sleep and were then re-tested. Apparently, sleep allows the brain to process motor-skills memory more efficiently. The findings are similar to those of another test conducted by the Harvard Medical School. Researchers there found that people who were taught sequences on a keyboard at night, and then went to sleep, outperformed those who were taught earlier in the day and tested 12 hours later, after no sleep.

So if you're having trouble with your golf game, or if those guitar lessons aren't living up to your expectations, do yourself a favor and go to sleep.

But, please, not just yet. You still have some reading to do.

A few months later, Ken told me his son, a 12-year-old right-fielder named Dominique, made the Harlem All-Stars. I followed the team's progress each day through Ken. The team won many close games and then made a dream come true by capturing the city championship. Not long ago, making his delivery, Ken told me Harlem was headed to the World Series. He said that although some of the players' residency status was being investigated and there was a chance they'd be disqualified, he wasn't complaining. In the papers a few days later, I read that the team had been exonerated by a panel of Little League execs.

It was a courageous decision. The Little League leaders went to bat, swung away and hit a home run for Harlem, inner-city kids everywhere and the future of the league itself. It was truly a World Series moment-they had chosen to take the road less traveled.

During one of our conversations, Ken asked me if I had ever played baseball as a kid. I had, and I went on to tell him about a big Little League moment in my own life when, like the Little League officials, I, too, had to face the hard decision to bunt or swing away.

As background to my baseball career, it's important to know that I stunk at the sport. Similar to Harlem's 9-year-old Josh Raiford, who in 1988 "struck a deal" with his mother to take piano lessons in exchange for her starting a league, I also promised my mom I'd take violin lessons if she'd let me play ball. Just like him, I quit my lessons in due time. But unlike Mr. Raiford, who went on to become the founding son of a world-class league, I went on to work at a bank.

I played for Arthur Treacher's Fish & Chips in blue-collar Worcester, Mass. They called us "The Fried Fish." We played in a field right next to the Great Brook Valley projects that, similar to Harlem's original fields, was often covered with broken glass, tire ruts and discarded drug paraphernalia.

My dad's an old-school natural who grew up poor but never quit. All I ever really wanted to do was succeed at baseball for him. Unfortunately, I couldn't hit the ball. The more I tried, the more I missed.

The one thing I could do, though, was bunt. No matter what the situation was in the game, Coach Higgins would have me bunt. Some players tried to fake out the infielders by pointing their bats where they planned on smashing the ball (à la Babe Ruth and Harlem's Fernando Frias), and then at the last second they'd spin around to bunt. Coach said because I was a "natural-born bunter," I didn't have to fool around with such trickery: "So what if everyone and their mother knows you're bunting? Just walk right up to the plate in the bunt position!"

This had two effects. One, it gave me the appearance of a discombobulated kid trying to auction off a bat used by Mickey Mantle. And two, everyone and their mother knew I was bunting. All the infielders camped out about 10 feet away, waiting for my dribbler to come off the bat so they could immediately throw me out.

If I did get thrown out, the people in the stands would let me have it. These were the pre-politically-correct 1970's. A dad or mom might scream, "Get the lead out of your can, bunter! You weird little bunter!"

My dad worked 70 hours a week but still came to every game and most of the practices. Though he seemed supportive of my role as the "bunt specialist," I knew deep down inside he was disappointed that I wasn't more of a slugger.

One Sunday game, we were down one run, with two outs and two men on in the bottom of the ninth. It was my turn up. The fans were going crazy. I had been hit by Nelson, the pitcher for Sprague Electric Supplies, twice before and it wasn't fun. He was a 6-foot-2, 200-pound Dominican Republic all-star who threw the ball 90 miles an hour with no control. His forged birth certificate said he was 12, but his mustache, goatee and the fact that he drove a black Impala to the games said otherwise. He was our Danny Almonte, but everyone was afraid to tell him. Each time I was hit, it stung for hours.

As I stood on the deck recalling these beanings, I was half-aware that Coach Higgins was sending me the usual discreet signals to bunt-he was yelling, "Bunt! Lay it down! Just lay it down, buddy! Bunt! Bunt!" while miming the verb "to bunt" with his entire body.

I crab-walked up to the plate holding my bat out for all to see, when all of a sudden my father started screaming, "Swing away, A.J.! Forget about the bunt-just hit away, buddy, hit away!" What was he thinking?! I immediately pretended I didn't hear him. It was my only defense. Coach yelled "Bunt!" again, even louder. It seemed he, too, was pretending not to hear my father. Even though he was only 12 feet away and screaming, "Son, listen to me, it's your father-do not bunt!" I chose Plan A: ignore him.

As Nelson wound up, I saw all the infielders crowded in around me, looking smug. A couple even seemed to be making baby gestures, as if to say, "C'mon, little bunter, bunt it here … c'mon." The image of my dad throwing me practice pitches until the sun went down flashed in my mental backyard.

The pitch came screeching in. I stepped back, pulled my bat around and swung as hard as I could. Crack! My hands were buzzing in pain as I smashed a line drive to center field-a clean, solid hit!

I stood on second enjoying my first-ever hit, a game-winning double. Everyone poured out of the dugout and ran towards me. My dad was beaming and pumping his fist.

It was my World Series moment. It changed everything. After that, I saw life and myself a little differently. Like with the Little League leaders' decision, it made all the difference in the world.

A few days ago, the office doorbell rang. It was Ken. He came in and handed me the clipboard. "How's it going?" he asked. "Can't complain," I said. After I signed, I congratulated him on the ruling. "Yeah," he said, "we told the kids it was just another one of those things, like the crazy media coverage-not to pay it any mind. The real thing is their love of the game." "Most definitely," I said, "The only thing left is for them to just go out there and swing away."