That Jake Rose. High Fidelity. Farewell to CC. Sturgill Simpson.

For the last two years, there has been a ghost following me in this town. For the longest time I had only heard of this apparition, a man that few had actually seen with their own eyes, but many seemed to believe existed. A man that I had no proof was real. He was a living myth, a ghost who walks — like Billy Zane in “The Phantom” — just without the purple spandex and terrible plot line. The only thing that I knew about this shadow figure was his name — Jake Rose.

No, this isn’t some metaphorical Edward Norton-is-Brad Pitt-is-Tyler Durden sort of mind game. I swear that Jake Rose is a real person and that he is not me. And yeah, I know that’s then entire plot to “Fight Club,” but I promise that I’m not Ed Norton-ing you right now.

[Aside: When you think about what Fight Club really was — a bunch of well-off white dudes that are a little socially awkward, who like to beat on one another at odd hours of the night in their creepy basement, and they’ve all taken an oath to never talk about it — you realize it’s just a fraternity at an SEC school.]

I first heard of that Jake a couple years back at “Losers,” the bar in Midtown Nashville and the same setting as last issue’s Gary Allan blurb. I'd pay my tab and the bartender reading the name on the card would say something to the effect of “Oh, we have a Jake Rose that works here too!” 

“Cool.” 

I didn’t think much of it, until it happened two or three more times. I had never met another Jake Rose before, so I was curious. I’d started asking if he was around, but he was mysteriously never working on a Friday or Saturday night. 

[Side story: My little brother, Colin, shares a name with a guy that was a 4-star high school basketball recruit that just so happened to be the same age and living in the same city as my brother. The other Colin went to my brother’s rival high school and my bother got all the other Colin’s recruiting letters in the mail. The other Colin went on to play Big Ten basketball, and my brother got suspended from high school for a few days for appearing in a Tosh.0 skit. I think both Colins work in real estate now so we’ll call it a wash.] 

A few months later, my roommate at the time swore to me that there was a dude playing at a songwriters’s night that resembled a “shorter, more grizzled looking Tim Tebow with long hair.” (How is that for a visual?) My roommate was pretty positive the singer had said his name was Jake Rose, but couldn’t be for certain because, you know, beer. 

Not long after, a songwriter friend of mine sent me a screenshot of what looked like an album cover that featured a long haired, and what some might say was a grizzled Tim Tebow lookin’ fella with long hair. That Jake Rose was real and had a debut single called “Sleeves.”

“Dude! You gotta listen! Such a good song! And he has your name!”

The other Jake Rose was no longer a phantom, but a real, living, breathing, individual and apparently he had written a little tune about the meaning behind all of those tattoos on his arms— his, ahem — sleeves. It’s the classic, this-is-who-I-am, formulaic, pop-country debut thing that us uppity music snobs turn up our noses at. Now, I can at least admit that the damn thing is catchy. Not good, but catchy.

Listen for yourself:

As life would have it, the other Jake Rose and I’s path would cross again. This time I’d get to see the friendly impostor with my own two eyes. That Jake was opening up for Cassadee Pope at The Basement East and my friends that were in town for the show got me a ticket as a thank you for letting them stay at my place. The concert was fine but the songs were predictable and cookie cutter: beers, babes, backroads, drinking Boone’s Farm at 17. I do recall one youthful party-anthem coined, “Cold Beer, Pretty Girls” — but I’m really drawing a blank on what the song was actually about. 

I honestly forgot every other song that was sung that night because I forced myself into a self-induced half-coma for a solid two hours. But what I’ll never forget about that mostly forgettable show were the people cheering for that Jake Rose. 

This dude’s whole family, and what seemed like every person he had ever shook hands with, was at their Jake’s show — and man, were they loud and damn were they proud. That was their Jake up there singing those corny-ass songs and having the time of his life doing what he loved most. These folks were celebrating like it was the Super Bowl halftime show. They sang along to every word to every song and erupted when each one was over. All the love being shown for that Jake made me want to show the guy a little TLC, too…so I bought one of his shirts…with my name on it.

Since that night last September, I haven’t thought much about that Jake. I haven’t seen him around town, his songs don’t pop up on any of my playlists, not even a mention from the bartenders anymore when I close my tab. And then, one Friday last month, of all the cigar bars in all the world, he walked into mine*. 

(*Not mine, per se. I don’t “own” it. But I was there.) 

After finishing my old fashioned and cigar — because I’m a distinguished gentleman and whatnot — I broke the one Nashville rule that all locals must follow. I approached that Jake Rose and introduced myself as… Jake Rose (the me version, though) and asked for a picture with my namesake.

Our interaction was brief but great. We both talked about being from farming families in the Midwest (that Jake is from Minnesota) and the Cassadee Pope show from last year. He remembers it well as it was probably the biggest gig he’s had since moving here. 

He could not have been nicer or more happy that someone recognized him in public, even if that someone was just another Jake Rose confronting his counterpoint for the sake of comedy. He even said that he had heard that there was a “sports guy Jake Rose” in Nashville, which was a solid ego boost for this Jake, even though that Jake was just being the nice Midwestern guy that he is. Still, much appreciated. 

Fast forward to this past Saturday night — I’m at the Red Door Saloon with my roommate after leaving another stellar Jason Isbell show at the Ryman. We’re hanging out with my buddy Victoria and some of her friends on the patio when I notice a rather familiar fellow sitting in the corner and drinking a beer with his friend. 

Me: “Hey man, hate to interrupt. But you’re Ryan Beaver, right?"

Ryan Beaver: “Yeah, dude! Hi! What’s your name?”

Me: “I’m Jake Rose. Good to meet you. Didn’t wanna bug. Just wanted to say hi and tell you that I’m a big fan of your stuff. “Dark” is a great song and I thought RX was a really solid debut album.”

RB: “Ah, cool! Thanks, man! I really appreciate you saying that that. You said you’re …Jake Rose?”

Me: “Yeah, Jake. Just got back from the Isbell show at the Ryman and hanging out with some friends I haven’t seen in a while.”  

RB: “Wait…I heard your song on The Highway about having tattoo sleeves but you…don’t …have … tattoos?”

Me: “Oh. Not that Jake Rose.”

Mr. Beaver and I shared a laugh and a beer, then I complimented him on lovely his denim jacket and went about my business hanging out with former first round pick and NBA champion, Festus Ezeli*, and my other friends.

(*Casual, subtle name drop.)

Anyway… after all this time, it was good to finally put a name to a face, that Jake Rose.

Fare thee well, CC Sabathia

Last Thursday night the Yankees’ big, veteran lefty threw the final pitch of his 19-year Major League career — and it was hard to watch. With two outs and the bases loaded in the 8th inning of Game 4 of the ALCS, Sabathia partially dislocated his left shoulder mid-pitch while facing the Astros’ George Springer. At first look the throw seemed awkward and not immediately hurtful as Sabathia tried to shrug it off, but he was immediately tended to by a concerned Yankees’ training staff and manager Aaron Boone. 

You’ll see the heartbreaking and discouraging look on Sabathia’s face quickly begin to tell the story as he talks with the trainer. With the backing from the Yankee faithful, CC tried to pull himself together to throw a warm up pitch and test the arm, but to no avail. It was all over. He tearfully exited the Yankee Stadium grass for the last time to a round of applause that should have been reserved for a much happier occasion. 

Sabathia had announced last fall that this season would be his last. He shunned the hero’s farewell tour like his old teammates Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera had in their final seasons. He just wanted to be healthy enough to pitch and contribute to another Yankees World Series run, not to be the fading star at the center of attention on a team with so much potential.

Sabathia’s exit isn’t the Hollywood ending that in reality so few ballplayers get. Most pitchers don’t get to ceremoniously hand the ball to their skipper and hug their teammates on the mound one final time, or hear one last curtain call from the home crowd like Rivera did. Sabathia’s is the same sad end that so many forgotten players, and even some of the very best to ever lace ‘em up get — when their bodies tell them they can’t do it anymore. That’s just it. It ends. Sandy Koufax is arguably the greatest pitcher of all time and his body forced him to retire at 31 because he couldn’t lift his left arm above his shoulder. Sabathia, 39, faced similar pain over the last several years as the once fierce fireballer transitioned into a finesse pitcher. His most recent ailment was a barking knee that will require a full replacement in the upcoming offseason. Imagine that, being 39 years old and getting a full knee replacement because you threw a baseball really hard for your entire life. Wild.

At his final press conference Sabathia simply said, “I threw until I couldn’t anymore.” The good thing for CC is, he threw well enough in his career to earn a Cy Young Award, a World Series championship, and soon enough, a plaque in Cooperstown. When it comes to ballplayers, we rarely remember them for how they leave the game, but for how great they were when they played and CC Sabathia will absolutely be remembered as one of the greatest of his generation. 

WHAT I’M WATCHING: HIGH FIDELITY

I’ve been on a rom-com kick the last couple of weeks and it all started with the John Cusack classic, High Fidelity. I’ve watched it two and a half times in the last week alone… which probably says a ton about my mental state at the moment. But, hey, I’m not chain smoking yet. 

The constant breaking of the fourth wall and the honest, gritty, and self-loathing narration by a recently heartbroken and introspective Cusack gives Fidelity the rock-n’roll edge that makes it my favorite rom-com ever. Cusack and his miscreant record store employees sharing and comparing their “Top 5 All-Time” lists for every single scenario is comedy gold, especially with a spry Jack Black stealing several scenes. Cusack and the elitist musical misfits rank everything from their top-five breakups of all-time (Laura might not even make the Top 10!), to things Cusack misses about his most recent ex (the aforementioned Laura) and his past girlfriends’ favorite recording artists, to the group’s favorite records to play on a Monday morning, favorite Side 1— Track 1s, and of course, their Top 5 songs about death.

Perhaps most importantly, High Fidelity features arguably the best cameo in cinematic history.

“Thanks, Boss.”

And since we’re all in the mood, here’s my list of Top 5 All-Time Favorite Romantic Comedies:

1. High Fidelity

2. About Time

3. Definitely, Maybe

4. When Harry Met Sally

5. 500 Days of Summer

   WHAT I’M LISTENING TO: Sound & Fury by Sturgill Simpson 

Simpson’s fourth studio album is unlike anything he has done before, and yet, it’s still just so Sturgill. Each of his previous releases are essentially concept albums — country gold, psychedelic country, blues-country with a Memphis horn section — but with Sound & Fury, Simpson drops the twang all together and heads toward the Far East in a rocket ship with a funky, rock heavy set of tracks that let his guitar chops soar, all while keeping the brilliant country-esque lyrics he’s so renown for. It’s a different kind of effort from Simpson, for sure, but the cool rock and funkadelic edge it brings is pretty rad. 

Favorite track: “Best Clockmaker on Mars”

BEST THINGS I READ THIS WEEK

The Unbreakable Bond, by ESPN’s Mina Kimes: http://www.espn.com/espn/feature/story/_/id/27793196/the-incredible-survival-story-deandre-hopkins-mom

Et Tu, LeBron by The Atlantic’s Jemele Hill:

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2019/10/lebron-james-cant-fix-nbas-china-problem/600127/

Apologies for the delay on getting this second issue out. Somewhere between a getting a colonoscopy, not having a car, hanging out with my sister, covering the NFL, and not sleeping for weeks on end, I lost time. I’m sure all of you were waiting with bated breath for my opinions of early 2000’s rom-coms, anyway. I actually had a post about sports and politics all lined up and ready to drop on Friday, but after lots of thought, decided against it. I still might release that as a stand alone post later in the week. We’ll see how much sleep this week brings. Insomnia is fun.

Anyways, here‘s a super goofy pic of me and my favorite person in the wide world, the little sis. And another with a dude who I thought looked like a jacked Sam Elliot. I forget his name, but he was a very nice guy from Indiana (despite the outlaw shirt), and one helluva good dancer.

Until next time…

Jake