Red Sox vs. Rangers July 1st

We had just gotten our last beer of the game, standing on top of the hand rails of a distant corner along the third baseline of Fenway Park. Sweet Caroline had just been played and I, like some high school kid at a concert, had held my phone up for my brother to share in the enjoyment. Gagne, his carer in limbo yet still Gagne, was finishing up an inning of middle relief for the Rangers. I wiped the smile off my face long enough to look over at my F.S. Player Kyle and mutter, "This is by far the best place of all." He looked back with an Irish twinkle of having full knowledge of what he was about to say, and responded, "Wicked Awesome, eh?"

But first, the beginning of the story.

Groggy from a house party in suburban Boston and still reeling from the fact that the 10 New England kids I was partying with busted out a drunken sing a long to Toby Keith and Brad Paisley ("I love this bahh"), I checked on tickets for Sunday's game. I had been worried that I was going to go seriously into debt for this one, since my hectic schedule and multitudes of distractions had only recently lent me time to figure out that Sox sell out far in advance. But there they were. Two standing room only seats for only 40 bucks each (matching my previous ticket high of the Dodgers--which included all you can eat ballpark food with the ticket).

Before the game, however, Kyle and I made the poor decision of letting ourselves shamelessly flirt with the waitress at breakfast for way too long. In our best decision to date, we stopped and picked up a bottle of bourbon (on a Sunday--take that The South) and proceeded to make the day into what I can only compare as a college Gameday. The weather on that July 1st day was crisp and cool (take that The South), and as we sipped our cocktails on the bus to the Train station, I got the phone call. The Red Sox had kicked off, and Stubhub closes at game time. Our laughing bus driver gave us a timetable of at least 45 minutes. Phone calls started flying as fast as my fibs to StubHub about our estimated time of arrival ("Just a little longer, I promise"). Cabs quickly proved not to be an option. My drink started to disappear at a rate inverse to my anxiousness, yet without the same endless supply--thankfully in hindsight. The Busdriver jumped onto team Ballparkquest, mumbling incomprehensible remarks about skipping bus stops in order to get us to the train station faster to the confused passengers fateful enough to be part of our mad dash. We attempted to buy more time, as our second deadline had passed, by making wild offers of bribes and money to the remaining Stubhub workers waiting on us. They, to their credit, hid their dissatisfaction with us well.

Hurrying and waiting. Hurrying and waiting. Hurrying onto the bus. Waiting at the train station. Hurrying onto the train. Waiting on the train. Hurrying out more lies on the phone. Waiting to see if they bought them. Hurrying off the train to the Stubhub office, and by the all that is good and right in the world of professionally scalped tickets, walking out of the into the streets of Boston, one hour past opening pitch, tickets in hand.

Kyle, aggravatingly calm during this entire storm, smiled and ushered me into Fenway. The bourbon, long since finished but just now starting, coupled with the waves of relief and victory of my tickets in hand, distracted me just long enough as I entered to make my first sight of Fenway overwhelming. 36,000 Bostonians, each one as passionate as an Alabama football fan, crammed into the stadium and onto the teams. I've snuck down to some incredible seats during my trip, but the view from the home plate aisle, still rows away from the front, was more intimate and intense than any other atmosphere in the majors. The sea of red is only broken by the Green Monster, the gigantic wall in left field. The true result of the Monstah isn't the wall, but the fact that that wall pushes the field of play into that much smaller an area. Manny Ramirez, the left fielder, was as close to me watching on the third base side as most dugout seats are to the dugout.

It was, as the kiddies say, on like Donkey Kong. Kyle proved to be a great F.S. player/drinking buddy/wing man, as the woman selling us beer(s) tried to set us up with her daughter again and again and again. Things quickly devolved to the lowest and oftentimes best degree of baseball enjoyment. Completely unaware of the specifics and intimacies of the game, cheering loudly and obnoxiously when alerted to by the crowd, starting conversations with people during their 5 seconds passing us by, watching the game with one eye and the other on the woman under dressed next to us, swaying on the handrails, without an opportunity or desire to sit for the entire game. It did turn out that there were, after all, seats available.

(An actual view from an obstructed view seat)

Even with missing the first hour of the game Fenway Park was the greatest park of them all. The greatest environment of all. Worth the money, the trip, the anxiety, the entire journey. Let your wife have the Champs-Élysées and Rodeo Drive. God gave us Fenway. May it never change.

Yankees vs As June 29th

I finally made it to the Yankee Stadium, as the game was beginning after underestimating my knowledge of the Subway system, again. As I walked up person after person was leaving the Stadium talking of it being sold out. Luckily for me, the power of going to the game solo got me in, somehow. Little did I know that I wouldn't simply be watching the game, I would be immersed in the home of the Yankee Bleacher Creatures.
Bleacher creatures are the northern equivalent of Southern College football fans who never graduated high school. They are the most passionate fans because the team is not only representative of them, but the label which they define themselves as. The accents are different, the dress is different, and the chants are different, but it is all the same. The drunken high of chanting ridiculously inane cheers as part of a collective team of fans. Yankee Fans may be cheering for the winners, but I have a feeling that they'll never jump off the bandwagon.
While I was there I got to go near deaf from the nasal twine of Brooklyn accents comment on things that I couldn't decipher. This was during the free fall of the Yankees season, before the Yankees became the Yankees again. This was also during A-Rod's massive home run stretch, and I missed having him hit me a home run by 3 feet. What I didn't miss was the cheers serenading the Stadium from the Bleacher Creatures surrounding me. The Roll Call is a great tradition that should be spread to every ballpark in America. The other cheers are at best a little bawdy or, as I experienced, not exactly Politically Correct.

During the 6th inning, while the grounds crew is sweeping the dirt, Y.M.C.A. is played, with the grounds crews going through the motions with all the enthusiasm of a disgruntled Johnny Rocket's employee. The Bleacher Creatures, however, having been lying in wait for this moment, isolating and marking the presence of the opposing team's fans in the bleachers. When the moment comes, they pounce. Hands pumping in unified derisiveness, they point out the traitors in their midst. The old, young and weak are the first to crack. Some have been to these unfriendly confines before and are prepared. None are spared. The words of "Why are you Gay" spew forth from schoolmarms and Mafiosos alike, for here there are no vestiges of civility, nothing but Creatures. The younger ones mumble through the verses trying to remember them. The older ones lead the charge, pointing fervently, selecting their prey. With the outlawing of alcohol in the Bleachers, these Creatures' minds are sharp, and their words sharper. An alpha male emerges, his pointing more feverish than the rest, his words singing forth as if sung from the bowels of greatest opera singer of any generation. "Why are you Gay?" he implores, but not out of concern. Out of spite. The Oakland fans in attendance bow their heads in defeat. The alpha male turns back to his horde, the last lines of the song drowned out by the passing traffic. His smile does not linger, for before him stands the one enemy that no Bleacher Creature evades. His brethren give a mighty cheer as his destiny is fulfilled, to go out not as some shuffling fan dependent on the outcome of the game for his fulfillment, but as a fallen victor led from the Stadium by a cop.

Orioles vs. Yankees June 27th

The Day I Almost Didn't Make It Through

(or No More in Baltimore)

The day began as so many others before it--waking up in a strange place with no familiar faces, much less anything else. It was the same old stuff, a new shower, new toilet, new city, new public transportation, new sites to mark off the list, and new timetable to fail to keep to. I managed to swallow down a trip to see the Liberty Bell, which looked remarkably like a bell, yet the visit was redeemed by my inexcusable pleasure of having some poor security girl sift through my backpack full of clothes still damp with day old sweat (Those Canadians jaded me). The measures that we go to to protect our national icons and those viewing them aren't the engaging, flashy and popular media outlets like the Petraeus Report or a State of the Union, but rather they are embodied in the salaried citizens wearing rubber gloves checking my dirty undies to make sure that I haven't any spray paint or nuclear weapons in my bag. A silly endeavor, since everyone knows that the briefs I'm wearing are where I store my Weapon of Mass Destruction.

Philadelphia eventually gave way to the sprawling humid metropolis of Baltimore. An insolent city insistent on claiming from me as much sweat as possible, Baltimore proved to be almost too much. Bent over from a brief tour of the city's harbor, I found my way into the nearest microbrewery, intent on enjoying some A/C and a fine meal before the game. Fate, instead, served me a delicious happy hour special of some of the best beers this side of Kansas City. Aside from the Hefeweisen, the Capital City Brewing Company concocted a dark, coffee brewed beer full of flavor and caffeine, accented with a hint of America. Three micro brews and a platter of Chicken Fingers later, I was off to see Roger Clemens pitch against the Orioles.

Fast forward to the second inning. Having enjoyed Camden Yards twist on the National Anthem (the O in "oh say does that star spangled..." is emphatically enunciated) and already heard the answer to too many questions be Cal Ripken, Jr., I settled into my bleacher seats just as the summation of 7 collective hours on a decrepit bus, a night in a windy hostel, two days of living out of a backpack, a humidity nearing 100% while walking in the evening heat, and three pints of dark, heavy beers and lightly breaded chicken tenders settled into my body. Things turned bad quickly.

I clammed up like Victor Conte. I started sweating like a me in church. Oddly enough, resignation set in first instead of defiance. "I'm not going to make it through all the games," I grudgingly thought to myself.

Luckily for you, me, and everything holy in baseball, the very factors relegating me to defeat kept me from achieving it. Kept me from doing much of anything, actually, except lying across bleacher seats trying to find any water in my body to sweat out. My strength returned slowly, at first only enough to lift my cell phone. I began calling people to find out if the Chinatown Bus From Hell I had scheduled for that night had a Sister Bus From Hell leaving earlier. Dead end after dead end doomed me to my bleacher seat, saving me at the same time. When logic finally pushed me to call my Cousin Joe, exiled to sitting in front of a computer studying for his Bar Exam and all too willing to have a study break, he informed me I had missed my chance to flee.

I bemoaned my fate. I cried to myself like Dick Vermiel at a press conference. I pitied myself like legless Lt. Dan. I knew it was for the best, but avoided the truth like Tony Snow. Eventually my saving grace talked me through this tough time. My friend Ryan showed the tough love that only someone with who has earned the right to display the bumper sticker "New Orleans-Proud to Swim Home" can give. He refused my excuses, called me the names I needed to be called and cannot repeat here, and reminded me of the fact that had started to wane as I suffered through this, the 24th game of the summer.

I was living the dream--and I needed to start living it. There are lots of things to bitch about, and watching Roger Clemens pitch in Camden Yards is not one of them. He was right, and righted my ship in time for me to enjoy the rest of another great ballgame.

As for the things that are more acceptable to bitch about, the bus ride through the stoops of Baltimore at midnight wasn't one of them, although it could have been. The waiting for the bus on a grassy hill in the middle nowhere isn't one of them, but it could be. The 6 hour Chinatown bus ride, 4 a.m. walk through the streets of New York City, 45 minute subway delay, and the "company" I ran into along the way, however, might have been bitchable material.

How many Rats can you spot?

(Click on the picture for my best guess of the number of rats)

((Sorry about the Weapon of Mass Destruction joke, I couldn't pass it up))

(((But it is true)))

Phillies vs. Reds June 28th

Sometimes things work out in a funny way. Routinely I tried to research the various ballparks which I was due to visit, scoping out the best route to get there, the unique features and if there were any particularly signature foods that I should look to try. Philadelphia's Citizens Bank Park time and time again came out as the most kid friendly ballpark out of all the parks in the Major League. "How fortunate!" I thought to myself, "I'm a big kid who'll love all the fun kid's attractions."

It was true, too. The park had all the amenities of modern Ballpark, with great concourses, specialty eateries, and shiny neon lights. Off in the back, however, was the Chuck-E-Cheese of the baseball world. There was almost an entire theme park for everyone from ragamuffins to rapscallions to run amok in. Sure there was a baseball game going on, and I watched a good portion of it, but for this park, for this moment in time, we're going to review the things that really mattered.

There was the Run the Bases Attraction: A simple game designed by some ingenious engineer wanting to tire out his kids, Run the Bases consists of three kids on running pads quick-stepping as fast as possible to push their respective Philly Phanatic character towards home plate. Anyone who has ever been blessed with the family fortune, or friend with a family fortune, back in the heyday of their youth, however, learned from the Nintendo Power Pad that you could always get faster times by punching the pads with your hands instead of your feet. Kids these days with their Wii wands and Wireless Guitar Heroes don't know crap.

The other kid toy I found myself enamored with was the Gigantic Batter Up game. Taking another cue from the distant past of my childhood, this dead on ringer for the Play Ball! pinball arcade game evoked memories of my precious allowance being soundly invested into swinging a mechanical bat at a pinball all for the glorious prize of a 2 cent baseball card. Incredibly, I don't think that this one distributed baseball cards, and probably cost 5 bucks a pop.

As I sat staring at the memories of these arcade replacements of actual athleticism, I noticed that I was receiving stares by passer byes. As I told you earlier, things work out in a funny way. At first I thought that I was simply looking particularly good that particular evening, despite the Chinatown Bus ride and Colonial touring about that had occurred earlier. I thought it could be a recognition of the shared spirit of my own inner child with those children gleefully playing away in their youthful innocence. I thought that it could have been a number of things, but these thoughts all turned out to be wrong when I realized the true root of the people's stares. Congratulations to those of you who picked it up from the first photograph. For those of you who didn't, the answer to the stares lies here.

Mets vs. A's June 23rd

My experience with the New York Mets got off to a great start, as the most thorough inspection into a baseball game got me the most action I've had in a long, long time. Too bad it was from a large, old, overweight security guard. I entered the Sunday Interleague Day game with full intention of silently spiting the Mets throughout the contest, with their Faux Jeff Francoeur David Wright, and their Paper Mache Big Apple,and their tacky blue and orange colors. But like so many games for the Mets this year, Jose Reyes came to save the day with the greatest chant in all of Baseball. Greater than Trevor Hoffman's Hells Bells, greater than the Barry Bonds booes, than Gary Sheffield being called the Iron Sheff and even greater than the Tomahawk Chop. Leading off the game with an inside the park homerun, Jose Reyes' fans responded with the Spanish Futbol chant changed to his name of "Jose, jose jose jose, Jooooose, Joseeeeee!" I was smitten. I am also a Patriot, and it is hard to not have a bit of love for the Scoreboard with a ribbon still covering the Twin Towers. As for the fan of the game, I was hoping to get a great picture of one of the outrageous Italians in attendance, as it was Italian-American Day at Shea, but the decision was kind of made for me when Pinman made an appearance, adorned in a shimmering cloak of the very same pins I was collecting myself.

Enough of the accolades for the most evil team in the National League. Time to tell you the real dirt. While the hot dogs are actually cheaper here than most parks--if you're competing with the vendors that most of the fans see on a daily commute, you can't hike up the price too much--the most hysterical thing is occured when I purchased my bottled Coke. Like the plastic bottled beers that are sold in stadiums now, they open the drink for you when you buy it. In the civil confines of New York, however, they keep the bottle caps so that you can't throw them at people both in the stands and on the fields. Not surprisingly, all the souviniers that you can purchase at the game come with batteries sold seperately, and not on site. Fortunately for ballplayers, the increasingly popular Litium batteries don't leave the same mark as a good old fashioned D cell brick.

Of course, you could always just resort to throwing your pizza at another fan for no good reason.

(you really only need to watch the first 35 seconds of this)

Blue Jays vs. Dodgers June 19th

The Rodgers Center, for all the technological achievements of being one the first retractable roof stadiums as well as a respectable arena despite the fact that it houses a Canadian Football League Team (Go Argos!) as well, has one major glaring flaw. It doesn’t take plastic. I’m pretty sure even the friendly women on the street corners in most cities nowadays will take credit cards—and keep a detailed phone list if they are in D.C. This lack of accepting fake money is doubly troublesome when you learn that they also only take Canadian Dollars, or Dollars Jr. as I call them. Thank the good American Lord that I had already gotten a hotdog beforehand and wasn’t particularly thirsty, or else the wrath of the Southern Gods would have been unleashed upon them a righteous vengeance unseen on Canadian Soil since the French and Indian wars left the still lingering scars of fully armed mechanized combat upon the countryside.

While soaking up the games I’ve enjoyed in the past, one of the lights shined onto my life is the realization that when I grow older and have a son or daughter, that I will legitimately claim (no bastards getting a cent from me), I am genuinely looking forward to taking them to baseball games. It is funny that the “slowest” game is the best to take kids to, since the spurts of action last as long as their gnat-esque attention spans. Toronto, however, provided an eerie example of what can occur when a large group of urchins concentrate their high pitched powers on continuous cheering during a game that invokes raucous cheers as often as a spirited badminton match. Sprinkling random futbol cheers (Olè, olè olè olé! Oooolè, oooolÈ!) alongside their dueling “Nomar” chants, fifteen kids sitting in the upper grandstand out shouted the entirety of the Rodgers Center Toronto BlueJays home fan base, and nearly deafened yours truly sitting in front of them. Lucky for them that Ontario had already flexed its policing muscles with me at the border, otherwise I might have taken to beating the little wonkers back into the womb. Or asking them politely to be quiet. As it was I just left and went to one of the fifty thousand other seats unoccupied at the game, watched Toronto parade out the entire bullpen to try and stop the beating occurring, admired the extremely large scoreboard, and then went merrily back to the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave (America). Little did I know that I had a stop with heaven along the way...

Indians vs. Braves June 16th

Warning: By the end of this Post, there is a chance you may think I am a terrible person, petty, and judgemental. Nice to meet you.

It appears if there is a way for me to not enjoy a pleasantly sunny Saturday watching John Smoltz pitch a winning game for the Braves, in which Edgar Renteria goes 5-5, and the Ballpark gives away sample hotdog wieners all during Batting Practice. Simply hold the game in Cleveland.

While I am trying to reduce the amount of qualifiers I use while speaking and in writing, I must say that this is not about the city and honestly don't see it as a "Mistake by the Lake." Unless that mistake is exemplified by a few individuals I was privy to experience at the ball game.

The first I have no photo of, and will therefore briefly state that there is nothing more pathetic than a middle aged single drunk man unable to accept that other people may cheer for teams other than his own. I'd delve further into this, but the bottom line is that the man had the confrontational abilities of a middle school child.

Secondly, if my veiled opinions on the majority of tattoos haven't surfaced yet, then I will go ahead and tell you. If I had dated my body during my life with images represantative of myself, I would have to pretend to not mind the Inspector Gadget, Natty Light Label and Irish Shamrock on a non Irish man simply because I would have no other choice in order to save face. The only tattoos I agree on are Armed Services tattoos after you are done with war, or a rendition of my face should I meet an untimely death. There may be other exceptions of course, but when a woman sits down in front of me with a tattoo of this on her shoulder

Lets just say that I don't plan on approaching her in a bar anytime soon. She doesn't exactly seem like the marrying type.

Speaking of marrying, Congratulations to Dave and his new bride! Nothing says romance like a proposal by a baseball mascot on the big screen.

Do you think, with all of the superstitions that involve marriages and weddings, that the fact that their team lost on the day he proposed is a bad omen?

At least he's not this guy.

So there it is. My petty, soapbox post about my experience in Cleveland. I'd have a seperate post about the city as a whole, but after the game I got the Hell out of of there.

Pirates vs. White Sox, June 15th

First of, Yes, that is me in a Goatee.

Pittsburgh began a frantic stretch through the iron belt in which I attended games from teams I didn't care for, and in cities that I thought would terrify me. I say thought because Pittshburgh turned out, from my few hours lost and driving around the city, to be a very cool place. The my only problem with the city-that I got to experience-was that it seemed every good looking woman was in a hurry to beat the other good looking women to the tattoo parlor to ink inconsequential doodles on their bodies. We're talking about poeple across the spectrum here, from every walk of life. I saw a nun with a barb wire tattoo around her bicep.

When I first looked into doing this trip, most professional write ups about the best ballparks held PNC Park as one of the highest. If that were the case, then it must have been heralded so highly because of the view looking out of the park, because the skyline of Pittsburgh towering above the field is only comparable to St. Louis's park.

As for the game itself, my tried and tested method of gaining the best seats in the house backfired when my incredible seat directly behind homeplate happened to be in front of the woman who was the perfect antonym of class and tact. Worse than her being the loud fan of the other team in the nice seats populated by old season ticket holders who go to the games to see and speak with the other old season tickets holders (and we're talking old old people here) was that she had an incredbly loud whistle. This would have been a complete wash of my time spent in these seats if it wasn't for the innocence of the three year old in front of me loudly caalling out the woman, asking why she had to whistle so loud. Needless to say the Witch of the West did not stop fulfilling her duty to whistle deafeningly loud in order to motivate her professional athletes of choice.


The highlight of the game was the Mascot of the Pirates. Whoever the creative mind is hidden in that sweltering costume of feathers and fluff deserves a round of applause for bringing an entire ballpark into a moment of roaring laughter.

Reds vs. Angels June 13th

Cincinnati was destined for fun. Any city with sin it in twice, as my farm system friend Charlie pointed out to me, can't be bad. I say that any city that shares a border with Kentucky is predestined for glory. "Why?" oh silly naive readers may ask. Keeping my judgment of such a stupid question to myself, I will tell you. If you share a border with Kentucky, you share a city with Kentuckians—people who think that Basketball is the best sport around. Who grow more pot than the rest of the continental U.S. People who frequent the Kentucky Hooters on the banks of the Ohio River. For one magical evening, we walked amongst these giants.

The inane redundancy of paying for parking to pay for transportation when, for once, we had an unapologetic Designated Driver as Charlie is the friend (yes, singular) that doesn’t drink, was swept aside at the sight of a glorious ferry boat pulling up to the river front to whisk us across to Cincinnati's Great American Ballpark. Greeted with an Adam Harang Bobble Head doll, the four of us in our group somehow managed to sneak down to the best seats I've gotten this side of Oakland--and at a much better ballpark. We were close enough to smell to aristocracy around us. Close enough to hear the crack of the bat at the same time that it makes contact instead of seconds afterwards as it is in the outer outfield seats. Close enough that, were I smart enough to have brought Ken Griffey Jr. Major League Baseball to the game, I could have gotten Jr. Himself to sign it. Or just put "ditto" afterwards, since his name is already on the game. Close enough for Adam "Donkey" Dunn to hear us inform him of his nickname as often and as loudly as possible. Donkey. We sat very close.

Little did I know that we were also in close proximity to the worst Ballpark Hot Dog ever cursed upon God's Green Earth. Even worse, this hot dog, like Hebrew National (we're Kosher!) or Nathans' hot dogs in other parks, it is not purely confined to the friendly fences of the Reds Ballpark. Quite the opposite. Philly has Cheese steaks, Kansas City has Arthur Bryants, and Cincinnati has Skyline. A Skyline "Coney" is a mildly heated flaccid wiener on an oversized bun, covered with a resemblance of cheese that would make Movie Nachos blanch, sandwiched around a concoction called chili that isn't dignified by the worst of Taco Bell's burritos. In restaurants out of the park, there is a straight Skyline Chili served, in which the aforementioned concoction is served over spaghetti, adding more non flavor to the steaming hot serving of preservatives and additives. The incredulously awful appetizers served by this restaurant would not be so bad were they not so abundant. They literally are the signature restaurant of Cincinnati, and for this I am sad. Such disappointment should not come from the city that gave us all Graeters Ice cream.

It appears that I have gone off on a tangent.

While I while summoning the courage to eat my Skyline, Charlie was thinking outside of the box. He wears lots of different hats, and is a real go getter. So when he decided that he wanted a bit of popcorn with his hot dog, he made things happen. The look on the sweet little girls faces as they tried to make the first, and hopefully last Popdog was priceless. Did I mention that Charlie has the mentality of a 12 yr old? I know when I was 12, I’d put cheetos in my sandwiches and think it was the coolest thing in the world. Such is the essence of Charlie, but more on him in a different post.

On our return from the game, the ferry was packed, rocking left and right despite the Reds losing the game to Vlad Guerrero. People were waiting on the shore when he emerged from the crowd like some mystic lake creature. A quick scientific take on him might have thought to have made him kin to the Milwaukee Fan of the Game, adorned with jorts and high top sneakers as he was. Yet this was not the case. This FotG had existed in the wild for quite some time, cursing random other men, growing out facial hair, refusing to wear proper amounts of clothing. I first I was hesitant to approach him. I feared how he would react to a slightly more hygienic body entering into his alpha area. As I inched forward, I realized the error of my ways. This was no Fan of the Game, content to stand alone for all the world to see. He was a man of the masses, proudly proclaiming how it took him nine years to earn the handle bar moustache so ornately framing his impressive mandible. Hat in hand, I asked for a photograph with him, adding that I had hoped one day to embody the beard he wore so well. With a quick “Hell, I don’t give a shit. Lets do it.” A fist pump. The camera clicks. A hero captured on film forever.

I shaved my beard the next day, knowing that I would never reach the pinnacle I had witnessed the night before.

Tigers vs. Brewers June 12th

It was bound to happen what with the sheer amount of games being ingested over one summer. I thought it was meeting Milton Bradley at the Negro League Museum. Then I thought it was getting a foul ball. Or seeing the Future Home Run King hit one out of the park. Or seeing the bears of Sequoia. I thought it could have been any of these things, and those thoughts could very well have come to fruition were they not dwarfed by the incredible sports moment I was priviledged to witness.

June 12th, 2007, as I sat in the far right bleachers of Comerica Park in Detroit, I witnessed Justin Verlander throw a no hitter.

12 strikeouts.

Great plays in the field.


Incredible.

Only two times in my life have I ever felt like a part of something incredible in the sports world (aside from Georgia Football). Once was in the plaza of the Hotel De ville as France came back from 1-0 in extra time after blocking a David Beckham penalty kick in the opening round of the 2004 Euro Cup. The other time was this.

For some people a no hitter is the epitome of why baseball is not fun. The execution of the game to perfection resulting in nothing happening. These are the same people who despise soccer and claim to enjoy high scoring sports such as basketball. These are the same people who have adult ADD, watch movies like Crank, think that commercials on T.V. have gotten too plot centered, and have no concept of foreplay. For them the action is all about scoring instead of the culmination of events leading up to the score. I pity these people for missing the heightened sense that every single pitch could be the one that ends perfection. 120 opportunities for another professional to succeed in his specific battle of bat vs. ball. The ninth inning, when the entire ballpark finally acknowledges what is happening--the girls stop talking, the guys stop drinking, the dads quit trying to explain things to their kids and just tell them that they need to watch. The crowd goes wild as Verlander steps off the mound with one man left to settle himself down.

I have no allegiance to Detroit, and no qualms with Detroit either. I couldn't have cared less about two midwestern teams in an Interleague game slipped in between couch stays of two very good friends. But for the last inning of what will almost surely be the last no hitter I will ever see, time stood still for every pitch, and I existed in a state of anxious anticipation of not wanting to see perfection crumble. And when it was all said and done, I slapped hands with strangers, exchanged knowing glances with old men, smiled to myself, and watched millionaire adult men from all over the globe gather in the center of a diamond and celebrate like children.

Chicago

Minnesota

Minnesota, despite my affinity for twins, came during a brief stretch where I was a little under the weather. I think that this may have resulted from the decrepit living conditions which I had spent the past week and 24 hours specifically. After the Brewers day game previously, I fell asleep in the car waiting for traffic to die down, and pretty much stayed in the same exact position for the following 19 hours between that night and driving up to Minnesota the following morning. This made my experience in the city as simple as coffee, NBA finals, getting tossed from a Holiday Inn parking lot by the police, and the Baseball game.
The game was fairly blah as well. The two dogs, nachos and Coke didn’t help my poor feeling, and the fact that the Nationals are The Nationals made the game sparsely attended. What I will give the Twins is that The Baggie, as the Metrodome is called, is really really loud. I can’t imagine what it must be like for a football game. I wish I had a fan of the game, but for the life of me there simply wasn’t anything happening. On top of that my cheap seat was sequestered in the upper deck with no way to peruse the concourses, so I was locked down my the man.
I leave you with this bit of advice for those of you traveling to Minnesota. Never ever ever talk bad about Kirby Puckett. The man is nearly sainted in the twin cities. St. Paul is changing its name to St. Puckett. I asked if Kirby was dead a little too bluntly and was nearly castrated on the spot, but managed to kick her cane out from under her. The same could be said for twins catcher Joe Mauer, whose return from the DL at that night’s game invoked hordes of prepubescent girls shrieking at decibel levels so high that only dogs and Superman could hear them. I don’t know what about Joe Mauer made every act this way, but I think if you were to make a list of Minnesota couple’s “cheat celebrity” that the wives get a pass to sleep with given the opportunity, he would be at the top of most lists. There’s a strong chance Kirby puckett would be at the top of a lot of the husbands list.

Brewers vs. Cubs June 6th

Here for all you fans of the videos. And for all you fans of the Fans of the Game.

Mariners vs. Rangers May 31st

My first two innings of this game were put off track by the fact that, in my attempt to get a seat closer to the action, I sat in the middle of over twenty ROTC instructors who were all on their leave for the summer. They were talking to everyone, it seemed, and when my Texas and SEC background came out, all hell broke loose. Due to this I missed Ichiro extending his hitting streak to 23, a home run I think, and God knows what else. I didn't help that the stadium was near a large amount of really fun bars with a large variety of microbrews. It also didn't help that the large local brewery made a baseball themed beer. Cave in to the peer pressure and expectations of drinking it? You bet your ass I did. As for the rest of the game, it wasn't the most eventful spectacle, but I enjoyed myself. If only I could have found Addison before she had left for her Private Practice in L.A.

I love you. There. I said it.

The volume is a little low, and I spelled SegWay Segue (thanks James) but enjoy.

As vs. Rangers May 28th

Warms the soul, doesn't it? Even the sponsors push you away.

I can't say enough about the Oakland Experience. I was fortunate to find a train from San Fran to the ballpark. That was about the extent of the goodness. Sadly, I was genuinely looking forward to the game, as I am a big fan of Moneyball and wanted to see the team in action. What I experienced was dissapointment at every turn. I pity heavily the diehard A's fans who stick wth their team while they endure being put up in the miserable situation they've got. The foul areas are large enough for an entirely seperate ballgame to be played there. The seats are, for lack of a better word, caddywompous (I think that is how the word is spelled). They face the field at all sort of different angles. The scoreboard was small and awkward. The fish and chips I ordered seemed to be fried into one gigantic uniform ball. The concourses are reminscent of a prison or my high school's hallways, and the entire environment was as bland as the concrete exterior greeting incoming fans (excluding the numerous panhandlers also greeting the fans). Isn't it bad enough that the team is in the AL? The final straw of the night was when the As faced a golden save opportunity, and I remarked to a Georgia grad* I happened to sit next to when I'd snuck in behind home plate that at least I was going to get to see Houston Street pitch. Which I would have were he not on the DL. You may be thinking that there were no highlights, no beams of light, redeeming qualities about this experience, and you'd be close to correct. The runner up FotG wins simply for his resemblance to Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber.

The winner? ME, for catching a fly ball after sneaking down to home plate seats. Ok, I didn't have to sneak because there were barely enough people in the game to merit opening the gates, and I didn't exactly catch the ball, moreso had it smack my hands, ricochet off the stairs behind me and by the grace of God roll back to me. At least it didn't hit me in the face. Go me.

*Fan claims to have graduated in 1978, but said he was in school when Hershel was there, won the Heisman, and the National Championship. I didn't have the heart to debate him into the ground in front of his friends. Or expose him for the fraud that he oh so definitely is.

Giants vs. Rockies, June 2nd

San Francisco is, in many ways, Bizarro World. Nothing there is like it seems. Men love men, and Vice Versa. The city is built with the air of Europe about it. Their baseball team has a ballpark on the shoreline of the ocean, yet the game in the last weekend in May was absolutely freezing. Lastly, for some reason, the people there absolutely adore Barry Bonds. I don't understand it, but I'll be damned if I wasn't there cheering him on with the rest of them as he knocked home run 746 out of the park. Although many people may agree with the first statement to follow than the second, Barry Bonds would have to be an idiot to leave the oh so literal friendly confines of AT&T Park. I will say that Bonds is the only player aside from Warren Sapp to so flagrantly flout his front lip dip. Although I don't think anyone can beat the entire can Sapp still sticks in his gigantic lips.
As for the rest of the park, aside from some cheesy Disneyness in the outfield kids area, it was one of the better places I've been. It would have been a lot better if I weren't curled up into the fetal position praying that the game would end so I could find a warm spot to regain feeling in my toes (it went to extra innings). This doesn't come close to the crazy men in kayaks in McCovey's Cove waiting for a home run ball, no doubt losing their own in the process.
Lastly, the Fan of The Game. The Angels have the Rally Monkey. There is the inside out upside down baseball hat. For the Giants, there is the Rally Pumpkin--a true man among men, unafraid to induce the crowd into a frenzy with his pom pom shakers and wild gyrations. Unashamed of the shape of his body, nay, embracing it for what he is, and the super creature he has become. Spawn of the Great Pumpkin, embodiment of a Great Fan, I present, the Rally Pumpkin.


Every year the Rally Pumpkin rises out of the most sincere Ballpark, and gives homeruns to all the boys and girls.

Dodgers vs. Cubs May 25th

This post is for all of you who just can't seem to find time to read through the entire post. Enjoy.

Padres vs. Cubs May 23rd

PetCo Park is without a doubt my favorite park so far on this trip. Located in the GasLamp District of downtown San Diego, it already meets my first requirement of not being a commuter park. The surrounding area is full of restaurants, bars, and old warehouses. These old warehouses lend the Park its most prominent and unique feature. The Western Metal Supply Co. Building is not only an imposing figure in left field, it serves a dual purpose as both the foul pole and team shop. Further out in centerfield is a park where you can picnic on grass and let the little heathens run amok, or even let them play baseball on their own diamond.

One last thing that I really liked about the park was the fact that the bullpens were located alongside the foul lines. Having the ridiculous job of pitching minimal innings on random days for exorbitant amounts of money, I love that they make these guys sit in folding chairs in the field of play directly in the line of fire. Insignificant detail? Yes, but one of the little things that makes this trip and baseball so fun.

As for the rest of the game, the incredibly slow service at the concession stand made me miss the scoreboard race. Considering my current losing streak at this it was probably best. I would have hated to make a scene in front of the quiet, polite Cubs fans who were timidly taking in the match up.

The nail in the coffin for cementing this park as number one was the Fan of the Game. Dylann, my Farm System player, had warned me about him, but I could never have guessed at the stupendousness which he rained down upon the ballpark like some Pac-Man Petco Park Groundskeeper. Be warned, this video gives no justice to the greatest entertainer in MLB today.

(Photobucket is hassling me putting the video in this post, so if it doesn't work for you, here is the link)

Diamondbacks vs. Rockies May 21st

Monday began by eating at a random Asian eatery in Phoenix called Fate (best spring rolls I've ever eaten(only spring rolls I've ever eaten)) next door to the HoodRide World Headquarters. To be completely honest with all of you, I was planning on making multiple jokes at the expense of the Hoodride World Headquarters, a run down house with a painted plywood sign in a tree surrounded by chopper bicycles, until I looked them up online. I'll be damned if those hood riding bastards really aren't worldwide.

After a long coffee and Coke stop at Mac Alpines, an intimate, Austiny, 1950's styled place, I made it to Chase Field for the game. Parking was surprisingly easy, as not even 20,000 showed up to see the game. I was also early, which allowed for me to experience the spectacle of the Opening of the Roof. I say spectacle because somewhere along the way the Arizona management decided to liken the roof opening to a Sunday morning rock revival service. Complete with rocking riffs and a choir chorus that would put the Monks of St. Benedictine's Chant CD to shame, the roof's retraction brought back memories of my previous week in Denver.

As for the game, the two NL teams managed to put up four home runs, which is always exciting, and the stadium was cool and fun to be in. The food was by far the cheapest yet, allowing me to sample the Nachos. What I received was typical nacho party foul number one. Too many chips for not enough "cheese", and no "cheese" poured onto the chips allowing them to soak up the saturated goodness. On the other hand, neon orange "cheese" over fried tortillas and jalapenos equals yummy goodness in my book, so who am I to complain.

As for complaining, here's to the first Ass of the Game. An early nominee for Fan of the game, the woman on the right in this picture had brought three kids with her to the game, was as excited as them to be there, and had even done arts and crafts time with them to create their banner. "Way to go apparent single mom taking three boys to the game," I thought to myself as I took this picture. Seconds later the Big screen camera found them, and seconds later 500 screaming Arizona urchins were swarming the area, trying to be on screen. AotG, irate at her glory being stolen, proceeded to berate the swarming adolescent masses in a way to make Hitler blush. The kind of ridiculous over reaction to where every mature adult in the area is ashamed to have let her into the ranks. So Congrats, Ass of the Game, for brow beating an entire cadre of 8 year olds for stealing your big chance to make in on a sparsely attended minor market baseball team's jumbo tron. What a ridiculous thing to aspire to (bullet #4).

So we've established what you can't get away with as an Adult at a Diamondbacks game, lets look at what kids can get away with. Here's to the Fan of the Game, and his childhood innocence to blackface and its social repurcussions! For his sake I'm glad he's not in college with this picture on Facebook, or in a city with more than 14 black people. Or maybe, just maybe, he was sporting his teams colors..... Nah, too easy. Some last notes of mention. The Scoreboard Race employed the exact same graphics as the Royal's stadium, with three hot dogs racing about the diamond. Just as it was in the Royals game, I lost the race. My frustrations with Ketchup is mounting. (I'm sorry Ketchup, I didn't mean that. You know you're my favorite condiment) Lastly, the aforementioned Fan of the Game was captured on film attempting, unsuccessfully, to start a wave. This has led to me delve into the vitals necessary for the Game's most annoying side attraction, which should hopefully be posted sometime soon. As for now, good night, enjoy your beds, and think of me in my car again as you sleep in comfort.

Angels vs. Dodgers May 18th

I managed to finally get out to Angel Stadium in Anaheim on Friday, which was an ordeal unto itself. I suppose that enduring L.A. traffic is simply part of the allure that people come here for, but for some reason it didn't seem to sit well with me. To my dismay, the stadium was situated more like the Rangers and Royals Ballparks than the others, which is to say far far away from anywhere or anything interesting. Also, the stadium's big attractions, well, they seem to be a little too fitting for a stadium in the city of Disneyland.

The first attraction is the set of Angel's Baseball Helmets thay are situated at the entrance of the stadium. Aside from dwarfing every other aspect of the park, they lend to an atmosphere of being at Legoland instead of a major league ballgame. The second aspect of the park was a waterfall in left centerfield that was extremely out place and looked as if a gigantic plastic log carrying shrieking ten year olds, or perhaps a blood soaked Fabio, would come tumbling down at any minute. This all could have been avoided if they had planted grass beside the nature scene instead of green painted plywood.

As for the game itself, the Angels were opening up the Interleague Highway Series against the Dodgers, an unfortunate marketing ploy by the Major Leagues, but still a fun way to make what usually is a one sided crowd more give and take as if it were some heated college rivalry. Dodger Blue did far more than simply dot the stands, it was nearly split as to which team had more fans show up. As for the teams, only the Angels apparently showed, putting up 9 on the Dodgers and doing so without any AL styled home runs.

The crowd also proved that, like in most big cities, if you live there you probably aren't from there, the game was littered with boos, catcalls, and an all around New England attititude. For that reason, my fan of the game was stripped from the 8 beach balls I saw making their way around the stadium, and bestowed upon Bill from Newport Beach. Aside from being really friendly, Bill had two great characteristics. One is that I am almost positive he was the basis for Mike Myer's Linda Richman character in SNL, or at the very least perfect for her brother. The second reason is this. I'll give you the topic. Bill is one of the first people to admit to me that he wishes his giant tattoo (Bill, on his forearm) wasn't there. Discuss.

Hey Oh! I'll give you a topic! If I live in California, why do I have a northeastern Accent? Ba-da-bingo!