Sheriff Tom Brown

Aug 23, 2012

Scorecard Memory: First Hawaiian Shirt Night in the Bleachers

Sheriff Tom goes back to August 17, 2001 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for a Yankees-Mariners game and the debut of Hawaiian Shirt Night in the bleachers.

This is a recurring series of recollections, where I will be marching though my old scorecards from my halcyon days in good old Section 39 of the Yankee Stadium bleachers. You’re invited to join me. Please bring beer.

Friday, August 17, 2001: Yankees host the Seattle Mariners.

Ah, Hawaiian Shirt Night. August means a lot of things in the Yankee Stadium bleachers including complaints about how it’s too hot, proposed pitching rotations for the inevitable playoff action and a night when a couple of dozen bleacher fans saunter to their seats in loud tropical wear. Here is today’s history lesson.

It had been weeks in the planning, as we were always looking for new and dumb things to do out there, but the fruits of our labor finally came to fruition as the first Hawaiian Shirt night commenced in Section 39, a full 11 years ago, on August 17th, 2001. My treasured scorecard from this evening is currently missing in action, which actually alarms me to no end, but I safeguarded a number of notes from this landmark event on an old bleacher message board and can put together this puzzle and recall this night, as I sip a tropical drink at my computer at 2:30 in the afternoon to keep with the theme.

A lot of the initial partakes actually showed up that night with tropical garb and a sense of trepidation, thinking it was all an elaborate gag on them, and they would be the only ones while the rest of us laughed. Feelings of joy, relief and good cheer were sure to spark in them when they noticed as they strolled up to the gates of Yancey Park across from the Stadium for some hot pregame action a dozen guys, beers in bags, bedecked in the ugliest collection of shirts since the 1970s Houston Astros. Palm trees, tropical drinks, boats, sand dunes. For some reason our buddy, 41, wore a shirt that had cars on it, but knowing him it could’ve been worse. It could have been the band KISS on the shirt. Walkman John, missing the point a bit, had an Oriental theme going on, though the colors were acceptable. Bald Ray was wearing a mesh Hawaiian shirt, something I had never even heard of. “Fat Rak” Scott topped all on this inaugural effort with a tropical shirt blasting with color, complete with nubile women playing golf on it. In one of the trivial oddities of the time “Mr. Make It Happen” Phil and Israeli Joe had the exact same shirt on. This was unusual because everyone who went to buy a shirt that summer and every summer could pick from literally hundreds of choices on every rack, and these two had a personal beef simmering at the time, so this was big news in our little world.

Strolling in that night we saw one of the legendary security grumps, “Old Man 200” ensconced by the rail. He got this monicker from wearing a navy blue cap with a big “200” on it for whatever reason (not the most stylish of headwear). Well, he actually didn’t wear “200” often since the number seemed to change without reason, but his dislike for our antics never did. On this night he was sporting No. 175. “Way to slide 25 spots!” we hollered in friendly greeting. He got me back an inning later, accusing me of “misdirecting people” who could not find their seats, only to spark a feisty exchange with Queen Bee Tina, who was in fine form and fighting with everyone like she did in my early days out there. Another well-known Creature of lore, Crazy Dave, was roaming around passing out photos he had taken of the group throughout the season, and was promptly dubbed “Johnny Photoseed.”

Just about 30 Creatures went with the theme that night, which oddly has remained one of the higher turnouts! This night is one of those that is derided by the grumpy (aside from me), those who don’t like all the bells and whistles and those who think that attire simply looks dumb. Ignorant Evan added to the fanfaronade by handing out lei’s, while MetsSuckBalls waved around the same Tiki statue that screwed with the Brady Bunch on those classic television episodes. Bald Vinny proudly proclaimed he had his “hula girl boxers” on and showed them proudly to people as early as his 4 train ride up to the Stadium.

Basically, according to my notes, these names will go on in posterity as participating on this landmark night (read through for a romp through memory lane and see who you can pick out of a lineup): Uptown Mike, “Mr. Make it Happen” Phil, Walkman John, Midget Mike, Big Tone Capone, Bald Vinny, Bald Ray, Milton the Cowbell King, 41, “POS” Diggity Dan, Navy Tommy, two guys I really didn’t know, me, Justin, MetsSuckBalls, Cuban Monica, Felix, Fat Rak and his friend Paul, Ignorant Evan, Water Girl Debbie, X-Pac Kenny, Kwik, Israeli Joe, Frankie Vybe, Laura, Rachel and Stacey. Of all people, Junior missed the boat on this one, although he seemed to wear a tropical shirt every other night he showed up. Big D also didn’t wear one, but I was too afraid to ask him why. And, of course, in one of the more amusing bon mots in bleacher lore, Mike “Donahuge” was not there even though this whole thing was pretty much his idea along with mine. Ironically enough, he was on the beach in Florida (possibly posing for pics from whale watchers back there in his now fondly remembered heavier days), but the show must go on, and without him it did.

The shirts themselves went over as expected from just about everyone else in the bleachers as they were met with disgust. I went over to Section 37 to rap with chicks and the consensus over there was that Midget Mike had the worst one going, a red-based anagram of putridity. My shirt was a pale orange hue, but had met my initial goal going in. Along with the requisite water and boats, my shirt featured some native folk climbing trees hanging with coconuts. Some were featured on the shirt holding this prized booty aloft with enthusiasm not even shown by champions holding aloft the Stanley Cup. One native was sitting behind a mound of coconuts, which looked more like a drum set. “Check out the guy rocking the kit!” someone shouted with glee as they pointed at my ugly shirt.

Late in the game the girls in 37 pointed out that one of the natives on my shirt, standing in a flimsy looking boat, had a strange protrusion extending from his shadowed self, and upon closer examination I must admit I managed to get a Hawaiian shirt for this event featuring a guy on a sailboat sporting a rampant boner.

Let’s salvage some funny notes from this one, shall we. I knew this was going to be “one of those nights” when the first thing I noticed when I walked up was someone eating corn on the cob. While discussing our shirts and how we procured these fine duds, someone mentioned a magical bodega-ish sort of place where you could get “a Hawaiian shirt, a dish of beans and rice, and an umbrella all in the same place!” Quite the fantasyland! Early on a pack of nerdy guys walked up and Midget Mike snarled, “Finish your math problems later and find your seat!” Soon after, Big Nose Larry sauntered over, extended his hand to little Mike and said, “Whats up, can I squash you like a grape?” Junior hopped up and yelled at Jeter as he came to the plate, “Come on, pretty boy, get a hit!” and the ever-surly Mike loudly added, “Hey, sorry you can’t order champagne out there!”

Some dopey fan had a plastic horn and was bleating along and annoying any and all. Head security honcho Sean (a dead ringer for Honeymooner’s era Jackie Gleason) stomped up to take the offending instrument away. As he walked the offending and now crumpled horn out with him people shouted, “Play us a tune, Sean!” to no avail.

Meanwhile, Grover was as usual the life of the party, pawing through his oddball collection of Bazooka Joe comics with all the jokes in Israeli. For some reason a “USA! USA! USA!” chant kicked off to which Grover hollered, “Booooo! We should have lost the Cold War!”

Some oddball stuff was going on over on the scoreboard, as Fox News’ Bill O’Reilly was asking Bad News Bears trivia on there. A Mickey Mantle tribute video played,with the background music of Toni Basil’s “Hey Mickie!” which was sorta sketchy. I loved Mantle, but I would rather have seen Basil in the cheerleader costume she sported in her music video that night up there. To top it off, San Antonio native and bullpen stalwart Randy Choate had to actually answer a dumb question about the Alamo some doofy fan sent in on the scoreboard. I’m not sure what Choate said in response, but I’d imagine it was something like, “Hey, I didn’t shoot anyone.”

Junior was feeling very vibrant, hopping up in the air every time a Yankee hurler got to two strikes, which was seemingly every hitter. It got so annoying he was promptly dubbed a “Jack-off in the Box.” And to top it all off, I noted an overzealous fan came over, asked me to take a pic with him and said, “You’re the best! I’m a huge fan of the Tom drum! Whats your name again?” Um, alrighty then!

I remember for years recalling the game that night “nondescript,” but that’s not totally fair. The Yankees shut out the Mariners 4-0, behind seven strong by Mike Mussina. After Mike Stanton ducked in and out, Ramiro Mendoza locked it down with his fifth save on the season. One Paul Abbott took the L for Seattle, which amazingly brought his record down to 12-3 (WTF?) The Tankees did all their damage in his four innings of work and this included taters from Alfonso Soriano, Derek Jeter and Shane Spencer. In another fun note, current Yankee Icihro Suzuki was nailed attempting to steal, which I’m sure was met with joy.

54, 616 were on hand that night, with approximately 54,586 not in Hawaiian shirts. The game clocked in at 2:51, which is actually short for the usually notoriously long Friday night games we are all accustomed to. Your umpires on the evening were Matt Hollowell (HP), Jeff Nelson (1B), the life-saver and perfect game shatterer Jim Joyce (2B) and Tim Timmons (3B).

So yes, this is a tradition that has lived on for over a decade now. And yes, it’s a tradition that will never die. Next Friday, August 31, look for that cluster of tropical color in the bleachers in and around section 203, as the mantle for organizing this thing and fighting the establishment has gone to our good friend Rocky as it lives on. I will indeed be in there, making merry, but probably not until the fourth inning. Beer is cheaper outside than it is inside!

Aloha!

Blogs

Aug 16, 2012

Scorecard Memory: Drinking Cough Syrup, Eating a Calendar and Piling On

Sheriff Tom goes back to April 14, 1996 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for a Yankees-Rangers game.

This is the a recurring series of recollections, where I will be marching though my old scorecards from my halcyon days in good old Section 39 of the Yankee Stadium bleachers. You’re invited to join me. Please bring beer.

April 14, 1996: Yankees host the Texas Rangers. (The Sunday rubber game following a loss on Saturday and a win on Friday.)

Well, this was one for the books. Leave it to us to take an otherwise lazy Sunday afternoon and make a mess of it. So much stands out from this one game, it’s practically a defining slab of the era and it has become a legend in my litany. Starting with sipping cough syrup on the top deck of the parking garage simply because we ran out of beer to eating pieces of the giveaway calendar inside the bleachers just to say we did it to debuting a new tradition that thankfully was short-lived: the infamous Home Run Pile-On … this one will never be forgotten. Oh, and kids, don’t try this at home! Any of it!

The day began at one of the very first “Blue Lou Barbecues” – up on the parking garage roof across from the Stadium perpendicular to the jail – and it was a wild one, even by Bleacher Creature standards. Early on while the setting was still scant, people were taking Lou’s fancy golf clubs and balls out of his trunk and sending screaming moonshots in the direction of buildings along the way. Over the years many things were hurled out of those buildings in our direction, so consider this returning fire. Of course no one had the talent or sobriety to hit anything. At least I sure hope we didn’t.

We either drank too hard or bought too little as we all ran out of beer, and at a bad time too since it was too close to first pitch to make another run. (This was still the era when the drunkards would try to get in for all the action, as beer was still sold in the section and we could get our fix inside.) One vagrant guy that always seemed to be out there collecting our cans came over and started talking about things like cough syrup in times of need and oddly enough someone had some in their trunk. I know, don’t ask. Our shifty buddy took the first swig in front of our skeptical selves, passed the bottle on to Lou who glugged a bit and it went on to me and beyond. I think we all did two rounds of that and all was right in our world. Years later, I now see chugging cough syrup is practically a pandemic and it’s decried in the newspapers, and here was a cabal of Bleacher Creatures in 1996 setting quite the low bar in that regard. Anyhow, it was time to move this one inside.

People were getting thrown out all over the place. Ali, the legendary cowbell man, was trying to keep the peace, ringing his bell, raising his arms to invite dancing and song, and pleading to security to get a handle on things. Even though he was doing us all a favor by trying to save us from ourselves we chided him for it. It got so bad with people being thrown out that at one point another fan walked up to me and said, “What are you still doing here? I thought you got thrown out!” It was news to me, but anything was possible. I actually went down to security on the rail to check if this was true and was met with a, “Nah, you’re good for now.”

We had all been handed 1996 Yankees giveaway calendars at the gate and somehow decided it would be a good idea if each of us ripped off some pieces of the players housed inside and ate them. In retrospect, I blame the cough syrup for this. Yes, this was a perfect example of mob mentality spun out of control. Some of us folded the pieces into square bites while some ripped, crumpled and chewed, and others just made a big ball in one shot, but the players were (sigh) ate in their entirety. Here’s a roster of who partook and which player (or players in Big Lou’s case) they ate, fresh off the pages of this scorecard from 16 years ago.

Sheriff Tom – Tony Fernandez
Gang Bang Steve – Bob Wickman
Tom J (I don’t know who this is) – Tino Martinez
Blue Lou – Dwight Gooden and Joe Girardi. What a slob.

So even after all of this I had a fight with a pack of mustard and lost. I’m wondering now if I was using mustard to add spice to the paper I was eating. Otherwise why I was opening mustard on my own is beyond me. I was notorious for never eating anything out there one would put mustard on in fear of losing my omnipotent beer buzz. This one packet blasted back at me and I was marked. I looked like a Keith Haring poster. For the rest of the day people – most of them strangers – were literally lining up to hand me mustard packs to watch me open them, in the hopes I would get pasted with yet another yellow hue. Being drunk and increasingly belligerent, I was all about proving them wrong and showing them that, yes, I could indeed open a mustard pack. Even that was a disaster in itself, as once they were opened something needed to be done with them, and I decided simply dropping them on the ground would suffice. Of course your next step was someone actually taking a next step, right on top of them, shooting mustard about like shrapnel and getting it all over everyone.

“Sit down, you alcoholic!” someone yelled at me at some point while I was standing up, either eating mustard packets or eating a piece of the giveaway calendar. Oh, my Mom would have been so proud if she could have seen me then.

There was an old man sitting with us who was not our own Old Man Jimmy, spinning yarns about the old Yankee Stadium. Because he was very old and particularly wistful we decided he was full of crap. “Old man telling lies” was promptly scrawled on the scorecard.

In one of the more comedic faux celebrity sightings we have had out there over the years, a dead ringer for Burt Reynolds walked up the stairs to a serenade of hoots and hollers. Someone frankly asked him if he “took a Cannonball Run to the bathroom.” He gave a sheepish wave in response, made his way to his seat and plopped right down next to his date – a dead ringer for Loni Anderson.

Yet even more maniacal fun took hold after a seemingly innocuous Mariano Duncan home run in the Yankees’ half of the sixth, which made the score 8-2 in favor of the good guys. Two of the guys dancing a celebratory jig on the seats took a tumble and rather than help them up, someone decided to pile on instead. Then another daredevil shot through the air, crashing on the cluster, and then it was on! It’s noted here that our friend Gang Bang Steve ended up on the very bottom with an otherwise unidentified “John.” I ended up losing my Cousin Brewski pin in the ensuing melee. (More on legendary beer-slinger and bleacher crooner Cousin Brewski and his highly prized pins in time.)

After this wreck was complete everyone hopped up all grin, gusto and guffaw, which turned to winces and groans when no one was looking. Apparently some of us thought this was so much fun we reenacted the whole scene when Gerald Williams hit a totally meaningless home run in the Yankee eighth to make it 12-2. I friggin’ hated this tradition and I’m grateful that security tired of it almost immediately and put a kibosh on it. I mean, think about this: a bunch of drunken goofs taking running starts, flying through the air and crashing on a pile of others on and in between bleacher benches in uncontrollable daredevil fashion. Back then we averaged around 160 pounds and not today’s 260 (or is it 360?), but this still hurt like hell. I don’t miss it, no way and no how!

To cap the scorecard this time around I see there was an early nod to old friend Gail By The Rail (the infamous candy-thrower) along with random comments such as “Marge Schott should be Schott,” the ever popular “show your ti-s” and a note that a girl in a fur wrap was gleefully dubbed “animal killer.”

The Yankees pasted the Rangers on this day to the tune of 12-3. Andy Pettitte was the beneficiary of the Yankee attack with Kevin Gross getting smacked around on the hill for Texas. By the time he left in the second, to laughter, it was 5-1 New York. For the Yankees, Bernie, Tino and O’Neill all had a pair of hits, while Mariano Duncan cracked out three, including the jack that precipitated the original pile-on, and he drove in three on this day (bless the man). Gerald Williams also homered, drove in three and scored three times. Your Yankees lineup was interesting, and looked like this:

1. Bernie Williams, CF
2. Tino Martinez, 1B
3. Paul O’Neill, RF
4. Ruben Sierra, DH
5. Jim Leyritz, C
6. Mariano Duncan, 2B
7. Andy Fox, 3B
8. Gerald Williams, LF
9. Derek Jeter, SS

As for Texas, they managed 10 hits of their own, with fun foe Rusty Greer having three, including a homer. Their lineup shaped up like this:

1. Lou Frazier, CF
2. Ivan Rodriguez, C
3. Will Clark, 1B
4. Mickey Tettleton, DH
5. Craig Worthington, 3B
6. Rusty Greer, LF
7. Mark McLemore, 2B
8. Damon Buford, RF
9. Kevin Elster, SS (LOL)

Let’s wrap with a profile, and Damon (son of Don) Buford it is.

The guy drifted onto the scene in 1993 and wore many hats, making stops with the Orioles, Mutts, Rangers, Red Sox and Cubs. He usually played around 60-100 games a year, though the Cubs saw to it to give him 150 of the 699 career games he played over eight years in one campaign (2000). He rewarded them with a .251 average and a piddling 15 home runs for that blind faith. For his career, he batted a sickly .242 in 1,853 at-bats, with 54 home runs and 218 RBIs. He had some speed, swiping 56 bags, but was also nailed 35 times. He struck out 430 times – way too high a percentage – and took 173 free passes. He played all the outfield positions and when it was wrapping up for him he made cameos at both second and third. 1996 was actually his “high-water mark” as he batted .282 in 90 games (though he only had 145 at-bats) and we got to see him go 1-for-3 on this nice April day. Born in 1970, he was a 10^th round draft pick in the 1990 draft by way of USC. This second-generation star’s Baseball-Reference page has exactly 13,000 views as I’m banging this out, which seems low to me. By no means was he was an All-Star, but I’m thrilled to say I got to see this somewhat fleet-of-foot, world-class athlete ply his trade for my enjoyment.

There were only 20,181 on hand (and a good portion of those were drunk and ended up being tossed out of the bleachers as the day went on) and the game was played in an even three hours time. Your umpires on this day were the late and lamented Durwood Merrill (HP), Gary Cederstrom (1B), Dale Scott (2B) and Rocky Roe (3B).

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed this installment, and kids, only drink cough medicine if you have a cough!

Blogs

Aug 9, 2012

A Bleacher Creature in Toronto

Sheriff Tom shares stories from north of the border as he remembers some of the Bleacher Creatures’ road trips to Toronto.

After years of terrorizing our own shores, around 2000 a rowdy bunch of Bleacher Creatures decided to steer – en masse – to Toronto to bring a taste of the Stadium bleachers to our friends to the north. I made three of these annual trips, possibly four, and remember about 1.2 of them combined. Thanks to my scorecards and notes, stories told over the years in campfire fashion amongst the Creatures, around sandboxes in the park or over bleacher benches, and road trip accounts printed over the years by bleacher luminaries like Grover and MetsSuckBalls Marc (aka Balls), the tales live on. There are so many stories, so we’ll revisit Toronto and for now I will simply cover “The Lunchbox Incident, “The Wacky Wall of Death” and “The Beer Line Tragedy.”

The first time I saw the SkyDome I was agog. After years of being confined to the Yankee Stadium bleachers like a pea in a pod, even the humongous walkway behind the outfield seats was something I wanted to buy a drink and attempt to make love to. I was enamored. I’m in no way saying I wanted the Yankees to play their home games in this flying saucer instead of the legendary “House That Ruth Built,” I was simply glad I was able to get up and walk around. (Oddly enough, now this wraparound walkaway has made its way behind the bleachers in the new Yankee Stadium and I’ve about had my fill of it, but that’s a blog for another day.) I’m sure the fact that there weren’t many people at these games in Toronto as there are at your average Yankee Stadium tilt has something to do with it. (I’m not too much a fan of people.) But wow, what Toronto did with it! There were beer vendors everywhere and spacious bathrooms and guys playing bagpipes for our entertainment! I was even fascinated by the simple things surrounding the place, though some try to pass them off as “engineering marvels” such as watching the roof closing overnight from our room overlooking the playing field.

The fans were nice, at times amused by our antics, at other times somewhat befuddled. They were possibly scared, although we were full of joy, and not menace. We were pretty much a traveling road show. From Roll Call to raucous choruses of “The Saints Go Marching In” just for the hell of it, it was always a nice time in Toronto. And picture this: anywhere from 20 to nearly 60 Bleacher Creatures, tucked into the right-field seats, and then running rampant through the streets. Anything you can imagine that would happen when you transplant this sort of group to another country pretty much did. (I’m still clearing it with people what can and can’t be told, and signing contracts to that effect.)

Around this time I remember the Yankees giving away such trinkets as a cap that had a sponsor logo from Waldbaum’s on the back that was bigger than the “NY” in the front and a “care package” which contained things like tissues and hand soap. And here were the Toronto Blue Jays giving away old-school metal lunchboxes! Complete with flask! Eh, I mean thermos! Insane!

The lunchboxes were plastered with action shots of Blue Jays in losing form, but these things would have totally been all the talk in an elementary school lunchroom. And here they were, being passed around like manna from heaven, and not just to the little scamps at the game, as we rowdy Bleacher Creatures ambled our way in, we were also handed metal lunchboxes.

I know what you’re thinking: weapon! While this did indeed cross our minds, it was more in a slapstick Three Stooges sort of way than a “Let’s whomp a Jays fan” sort of way. (Though whomping the Jays mascot was certainly kicked around. Why wouldn’t it be?) But no, we found a better way to use these lunchboxes. As we all merrily held our lunchboxes aloft in triumph as we stomped to our seats, a wary security guard thought of yet another way for them to be used to seek tumult … as simple noisemakers. Thinking that was the worst that could happen he remarked, “I don’t care how you use them as long as they don’t end up on the field.” Well, they didn’t. We had other ideas.

Put these things together:

1. Seats out in the outfield expanse, facing the hitter and home plate ump.

2. Metal lunchboxes.

3. Our good friend, the smiling sun.

Well, even as some of us were still settling in, arguing about our placement in the Bleacher Creatures seating chart prepared for this venture, others were already hard at work, attempting to blind the Toronto hitters using the lunchbox. I have to give Balls the credit for conjuring up this one, although over the years, Big Baloo has tried to hone in and get some credit for it. At the end of the day, it was sweet science, really. Here’s a pack of Bleacher Creatures working the lunchboxes as marionettes to catch the sun in the best way possible in order to shoot zooming flashes of light toward the plate. But it didn’t last long.

Before another half was in the books the same security guard ambled up, a sheepish look on his face. His head was shaking slowly in bemusement as he let us in on a little something: the home plate umpire had had about enough of us. At first flash, the man in blue figured someone was simply holding up a lunchbox and telling a friend three rows back, “Hey, look at this effing lunchbox!” After the second flash, he started to get annoyed that people simply wouldn’t put the things down, as wondrous as they admittedly were, and watch the game. After flashes No. 3 through 782 he figured out what was going on and decided to put the kibosh on it. According to our new security friend, the ump waved over some security honchos, made his agitated complaint and voices crackled back and forth on walkie-talkies. This led to the lackey security guard posted in our usually staid and somber section marching back up to inform us that we were to cease and desist from flashing the lunchboxes at the batter’s box. A hearty heave-ho was threatened and possible seizure of our offending lunchboxes. So much for his permission to do anything with them, but toss them on the field. Still, at this we all had a hearty chuckle, congratulated one another on a job well done, and moved on to the next thing.

I still have this lunchbox, and it occupies prime shelf space next to my signed “You suck, too!” Bobby Higginson baseball, and a crushed Budweiser beer can that pro wrestler The Sandman crumpled on his own bloody forehead and then promptly threw to the crowd, which I went home with. Bedecked with Roy Halladay and Eric Hinske (the only two guys to make both sides of the lunchbox, Kelvim Escobar, Vernon Wells and inexplicably Joe Lawrence and Felipe Lopez. I actually took the lunchbox to work with me this week and housed my lunch in it! My bag of Dipsy Doodles never had it so good! The thermos, however, is long gone, and there is quite the blackberry brandy story behind that one. I received a healthy dose of mirth this morning as I rode the elevator up to my floor with a somber individual, who could not take his eyes off his fellow workday wonder, standing there looking all grumpy as always, while holding a metal Toronto Blue Jays lunchbox circa 2002.

***

I will never forget my first look at what was soon dubbed “The Wacky Wall of Death.” We were marching along a street around the SkyDome, looking for our next madcap adventure. Across the street I saw people standing about, looking at some sort of display and pointing and laughing. If I didn’t see people pointing and laughing, I never would have led the group over to investigate. People were having a great time, and leaning in and taking pictures by what appeared to be a series of plaques. I had to get in on this.

We march on over, and I was suddenly transplanted to that fine line between appalled and amused. On the surface, there was nothing funny about this thing. It was a monument dedicated to those who have fallen “in the workplace.” It’s entitled “101 Workers” and it’s considered a work of art. (I welcome you to Google it, and read more.) I respect fallen workers, their families, their legacies, and the work and tears that went into this monument and what it conveys. I just wish some of them had not died like this.

The plaques had a name, a date of their workplace demise and how this was attained. We weren’t expecting these sorts of follies, in such detail.

“FELL OFF BREWERY TRUCK.” Bleacher favorite Grover cracked, “Brewery truck, huh? We all know how that happened.”

“SLED FELL THROUGH ICE, DROWNED.”

“ENTANGLED IN TRENCHING MACHINE.”

“JUMPED FROM TRAIN THAT WAS ABOUT TO COLLIDE WITH ANOTHER TRAIN.”

“FELL OFF TRUCK WHEN HIT BY POLE OF TRUCK GOING OPPOSITE WAY”

And the absolute belle of the ball, in which a poor sod was … “CRUSHED BY BEING PINNED BY THREE DIFFERENT THINGS.”

How the hell does one manage that? I have only ever been pinned by two. Well, actually, a gang of five girls jumped me on the F train once, so make that five.

So yes, this monument was bringing on the wrong sort of attention to these fallen workers. Trust me, it was not just a raucous bunch of bleacher people, there were tourists in Bermuda Shorts and Niagara Falls T-shirts and kids holding balloons and blowing bubbles while finding the “funniest plaques.” I even saw one guy make a phone call right there to let one of his friends in on a plaque he found amusing. Entire families were passing their cameras to locals walking by so they could pose together in front of the monument, bedecked with smiles, throwing devils horns, giving thumbs ups and winking like they were “in on it.” Every damn time we went back to Toronto, the same scene unfolded. It got to where I even wanted to write a letter suggesting they station a guard at this thing to shoo people away if they find anything funny. While to this day I feel a little sketchy laughing about all this, as Balls succinctly pointed out when I cast these reservations this week while recounting this stuff, it screams slapstick, and on trips like this, personal and real-life tragedies are put aside.

Consider this line that has survived the ages that came from one of these Toronto trips. At one point during one of the games out there, I was cracking wise about a sad story in the papers at the time. Gang Bang Steve said with a hangdog look, “But Tom, that is a tragedy.” I then looked at him, took what was left of my beer, dumped it on the floor beneath me and deadpanned, “No, Steve … that is a tragedy.”

***

Most beer line stories are sad, downright Shakespearean Tragedies when you really think about it, with beer prices being what they are. Well, I fell in love there at the SkyDome and her name was beer. Her friends called her Labatt Blue. Guys like me ended up calling her often. I was so enamored I ended up logging quite a lot of time in the beer line up there in Canada. To this day, when I’m stuck in a line, I simply pretend I’m waiting for a Labatt in Toronto, and I calm down. Though one trip went very, very wrong, but since the good guy always wins in the end, it had a happy ending.

The wonder of it all was that they sold these frothy wonders in 22-ounce cups, which was unheard of to this crew used to drinking warm cups of slop in the Yankee Stadium bleachers in our youth, only to see even those banned by this time in our section. (Much more to come on that.) In Yankee Stadium the beers were generally sold in these plastic wax cups, which would leave slivers of wax floating in your beer that looked like rice if you were generous with your descriptions, and maggots if you were not. Beer plus wax cups plus sun equals warm swill, akin to holding a cup of butter used to baste your seafood lunch. Here in Toronto we had good Canadian beer, served in a solid cup complete with structure and foundation, and it was cold at that. Yay!

So one fine afternoon there I stood in the beer line, regaling my new Toronto fans with the sort of stories you read above. At some point I catch the eye of the beer vendor, a true MVP in my book to this point. He surely sees me since I have always been hard to miss. This is key to the story. This line creeps along, which is why one must always go back to the beer line when they still have about half a beer left so you have something to drink while you wait.

I slowly make my way to the front and I’m a few stories in by this point. And then my card is pulled. Though it’s my turn and I have the “Kid at Christmas” look, I’m told I’m to be served no more. The vendor freely admitted I didn’t seem intoxicated, and added that he personally found me very entertaining. However, they keep a count of sorts, and I had reached the limit on 22-ounce beers at this venue. At this point I’m quite irked, mainly due to the fact that this guy saw me in line a full 10 minutes before and could have waved me up and informed me of this news, so I didn’t waste half an inning telling stories that my new friends will never forget only to not get a drink. But no, he waited until I got up to the front and made me a martyr. I blame my Yankee cap and Yankee shirt and obnoxious Sheriff badge. (Basically all the stuff that got me kicked out of Fenway Park before I ever got in.) At this point I decided to make a speech. (I was always good at that when I didn’t get my way.) And then two angels came to my rescue in the form of “G.I. Jane” and “Big Woman” who were two locals and are still friends to the family to this day. (Life lesson: Help someone out in the beer line and meet friends for life.)

Poked in the back, G.I. Jane and Big Woman tell me to head left and they will handle this Labatt Blue issue for me and it will cost me nothing, but time. At the promise of free beer, I pulled to the side like a giant cane was yanking me off a stage, and the ladies obtained me a precious beer. Heroes! Friends to the North! Canada rules! Put Rush in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! Actually this idiot vendor telling me I could no longer procure my wares at his booth turned out to be the best of things, as I duly reported upon my return that I was “cut off” and rounded up some volunteers to get me beer for the rest of the day, so my work was done.

I haven’t been to Toronto in over a decade and I really can’t see myself making it back there anytime soon. As stunning as this sounds, I ‘m having a hard enough time convincing my nine-year-old daughter to come with us to Yankee Stadium so a baseball game 12 hours away by car will not be looked upon with the same appeal as a Big Time Rush concert put on by Nickelodeon. The Bleacher Creature road trips have since spun off across the map, in smaller clusters, but I will never forget storming these SkyDome shores with this lusty army dozens strong. But to this day whenever the Yankees go up there or I watch a game from that ballpark on the baseball package, I remember that stadium and our times in and around it. There are more tales to tell, more names to bring in and more laughs to be had, including Eight car caravans from New York City to Toronto, border crossings, bars, the Hockey Hall of Fame, hotel room wrestling matches and pranks. I even have a handful of scorecards from Toronto that have survived the trip across the border, so those will be making the rounds as well.

It’s the Yankees turn to visit Toronto this weekend. Maybe I should grab some Labatt Blues from the distributor. G.I. Jane and Big Woman … you’re buying! Cheers!

Blogs

Aug 2, 2012

Scorecard Memory: Section 39 Becomes ‘Trouble Pocket No. 1′

Sheriff Tom goes back to April 13, 1996 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for a Yankees-Rangers game.

April 13, 1996: Yankees host the Texas Rangers. (A Saturday day game following a night game.)

Ah, a Saturday afternoon game following another notorious Friday night game. Considering how much drinking was going on before Friday’s game, during Friday’s game, after Friday’s game, before Saturday’s game and during Saturdays game, it’s a wonder anything survives from this weekend’s scorecards at all. Considering how much drinking was going on after this Saturday game, it’s a wonder that the scorecard actually made it home with me.

This game was sloppy both on and off the field. Dwight Gooden got the call for the Yankees against the esteemed Roger Pavlik, and they were both whomped around. The game was long, and there was a veritable conga line around the bases for both clubs.

The key thing coming out of this game is the first mention of the term “Trouble Pocket No. 1.” By this point one of the scions of security out there admitted to me that there was an entire bank of cameras upstairs focused out on the bleachers, most of them aiming directly at us in Section 39. Why? Apparently certain areas of the Stadium were a more worthy watch than others for those sitting upstairs at camera banks seeking out any trouble percolating and we topped the list. Therefore, we were apparently known upstairs as “Trouble Pocket No. 1.” When you really think about it, that kicks ass.

Around this time, as if all the other silly gimmickry surrounding us was not enough, I was carrying around a dirty little teddy bear at the games. Akin to the ones you would win at a carnival for knocking down only one of three pins, this thing was bedecked in a Yankees jersey, but wearing no pants. Today, I have no idea where the hell it actually came from, and I don’t know what eventually happened to it, though I recall on more than one occasion fellow Bleacher Creatures did things like toss him out of a moving car. So let’s go with that … he’s on the side of a lonely parkway somewhere. What name did I bestow upon our furry friend? “Bear Ass.” Yes, “Bear Ass,” so even then I was quite the wordsmith. Gang Bang Steve explained this name away easily enough at the time by cracking, “Yeah, Bear Ass. As in I would be ‘em-BEAR-ASSed” to carry around that thing.”

Things like Bear Ass would reside in my vinyl duffel bag with all the holes burned through it from our dropped cigar ashes until I felt like throwing around some curse words to add emphasis to a heckle. For some reason no living being was allowed to curse aloud out there, but if I did it holding Bear Ass or a hand puppet aloft, security would let it go with a wink. Bear Ass was also famous for helping to calm the frightened children out there and many of them babysat Bear Ass while my wacky friends and I would be making beer runs. As I said, Bear Ass’ stint was soon to end in mysterious fashion, but on this day I noted on the scorecard the Yankees were rocking a 15-3 mark with him in attendance since his debut sometime in 1995. On this night, an old friend named Sandy put her young daughter on babysitting duty although I was deep enough into my cups that it was I who needed a babysitter. Sandy’s daughter also found time to steal the scorecard to draw circles and scribbles here and there. (Side note: Sandy once put me on the phone with Roy White who I guess was a friend of hers. I was drunk, but do recall thanking Mr. White for affording me joy over the years.)

Gang Bang Steve was also deep into his cups that day according to an eyewitness who was kind enough to note that on my scorecard. He was also in a bad mood, griping about Tina, the Queen of the Bleachers, who “did not pay $21.” This was emphasized in print a couple of times on the card. What Tina “did not pay for,” what even cost “$21 dollars” and why it had Steve so incensed is long lost to time. I can’t imagine why any money would be changing hands between Tina and Gang Bang Steve at any time, but he was going on about it enough to where it was duly noted.

“Tom’s a maniac!” was mentioned in the same handwriting that alerted us to the $21 dollar thing, so my act seemed to be playing well.

A couple of jokes on here were sparked from baseball caps. A guy was on hand wearing a Cincinnati Reds cap of all things, which started, “Cincy sucks! Bunch of umpire killers!” (A little background there: Cincy was the place where poor John McSherry had a heart attack on Opening Day and passed on the field, which we noted ended up pissing off 56,000 fans who just wanted to see baseball on that day.) “Hey, how about knocking off some American League umps?” we asked the Reds fan, who was stunned at the attention he was getting. A bit later, a creaky old man came up the stairs to hoots to “Get him, he stole Babe Ruth’s cap!” which he then removed and waved aloft.

For some stupid reason (probably because we were both too drunk to do it) Steve and I passed the scorecard off to Angel (she of the “I never knew Cal Ripken was black” fame) and she completely effed it up. She even copped to it by scrawling, “Angel’s fault (I don’t know how to keep score)” on there, which makes you wonder why she bothered to take the scorecard in the first place. If it wasn’t for the wonders of online box scores years later I wouldn’t even be able to tell you who won this game after looking at this thing, let alone how.

This night happened to be Dwight Gooden’s first Yankee Stadium start in pinstripes, and there seems to be a message on the card alluding to this, but it’s vague so I’m not really sure what it’s actually trying to say. In one of our many scorecard boners over the years we mentioned how it was the first Yankee Stadium start for Andy Fox, and I can confirm after all this time we were off by a couple of days. He actually debuted two days earlier on home turf, and I was nowhere to be found for that historic event, although I’m sure I have lied about that to impress girls somewhere along the line. While I’m at it I can also confirm Andy Fox’s middle name is Junipero. (You’re welcome.) He ended up going 1-for-3, scoring a run and stealing two bases, so he was out there spreading all kinds of false hope around.

As always the opposing outfielders were under attack, and people were finding all sorts of ways to rhyme things with “Greer” to get under his skin. Folks were also enjoying calling Juan Gonzalez his popular nickname of “EEEE-gor” in mocking fashion, and by this time the sniping was going both ways, and he was trading barbs and insults with us on a regular basis. He deserves recognition as one of our all-time favorite foes for always mixing it up with the fans.

Ah, I see my old buddy Ian’s beeper number on here. I’m going to assume 16 years later that it’s no longer up and running, but if anyone wants to give it a go it’s 917-329-2263.

A couple of notes from Steve’s drunken scrawl, which I learned to read over the years the way a druggist somehow reads a doctor’s handwriting. “Oriole fan busts his ass in the tunnel” which is fun and to the point, sort of reminiscent of the old “an old man fell down the stairs” that got this whole thing started back on a 1993 scorecard. There was also a direct, “see you in September, di*k-head!” Why this was said and to who is up for debate, but maybe it was about Tina snapping back at Steve regarding the $21 he was whining about. To cap off the loony notations on here, when Texas notched three runs in the seventh to take their first lead of the game, Steve earmarked this event with “Weak-ass 7^th inning.”

In your random factoids of the day, it’s noted that at this early stage of the season the two teams with the worst records in baseball were the Red Sox and Mets, which is always nice to see. In other baseball news, Alejandro Pena was appearing in his final major league game that day, so there was some history going on after all, even with us wrong on the Andy Fox milestone!

The Yankees lost this ugly one 10-6, getting outhit 14-11. Wade Boggs, Paul O’Neill, Ruben Sierra and Joe Girardi all had two hits for the good guys, and Jim Leyritz contributed a first-inning home run. Your Yankees lineup:

1. Wade Boggs, 3B
2. Jim Leyrtiz, LF
3. Paul O’Neill, RF
4. Ruben Sierra, DH
5. Tino Martinez, 1B
6. Bernie Williams, CF
7. Joe Girardi, C
8. Andy Fox, 2B
9. Derek Jeter, SS

As for the hill, after Gooden was smacked around, Mariano Rivera came in for an inning-plus worth of relief, followed by Steve Howe and Bob Wickman.

(Funny side note related to some of the evening’s participants: Not long before this during a pregame, a bunch of us gazed over the fence as the Yankees wrapped up BP and watched Jeter and Mariano standing a few dozen feet from each other there in the outfield having a lazy catch. “That there is the future of the Yankees” someone not identified said with fervor, and it made the card. I’m sorry I can’t give that person the credit now, but yes, that was spot on.)

The Rangers countered with:

1. Darryl Hamilton, CF
2. Mark McLemore, 2B
3. Will Clark, 1B
4. Juan Gonzalez, RF
5. Mickey Tettleton, DH
6. Dean Palmer, 3B
7. Rusty Greer, LF
8. Dave Valle, C
9. Kevin Elster, SS (LOL)

Gonzalez (that pain in the ass) went 3-for-4 with three RBIs and Hamilton added three hits of his own. After Pavlik was chased after five pedestrian innings, Gil Heredia and Ed Vosberg wrapped things up. On a comic note, Pavlik also made two errors on the day, which was surely good for a laugh. Then again, at the end of the day and with a win under his belt, he was 3-0, so I guess the last laugh was on us.

Let’s roll with a quickie profile, and how about Dave Valle, who started on this night over the venerable Pudge Rodriguez.

Valle was yet another catcher that stuck around a long time because he was a wall behind the plate and a defensive dynamo. A Bayside, N.Y. native who remains the only major leaguer to come out of the hotbed that was Holy Cross High School in Flushing. He plied his trade from 1984-97, moving from Seattle (where most would recall his exploits) to Boston to Milwaukee to Texas. 1996 was pretty much the end of the road for him, so we were happy to get our last looks.

Valle played 970 games in 13 seasons, with a lifetime average clocking in at a piddly .237. He did loft 77 home runs, and drove in 350. From 1991-93 he played in 132, 124 and 135 games for Seattle, so he was high-profile, but he usually hung around 90 or so games in a given year. In ‘93 he was hit with a whopping 17 pitches to lead the league, so I’m guessing he was pissing people off and paying for it. He stole five bases in his vaunted career, but was caught seven times. (Way to go, there!) He had a 258-413 walk to strikeout ratio, that’s OK. He even made $2.3 million in 1993! Originally a second-round pick in the 1978 draft, he was born in 1960 and can currently be seen making appearances on MLB TV after a stint of well over a decade in the Mariners’ booth, where he still does “spot starts” to this very day. His page on Baseball-Reference 15,829 views as of Aug. 2 seems sadly scant. I was glad to see him play!

As for this weekend affair, there was a pathetic showing of 19,603 on hand, which I blamed on a “big wind.” The game slogged along for three hours and 32 minutes and your umpires on hand were Rocky Roe handling the plate, the late and lamented Durwood Merrill (1B), Gary Cederstrom (2B) and Dale Scott (3B).

Thanks for accompanying me on a trip to an otherwise nondescript Saturday afternoon in the Bronx in April of 1996. There are crazy things afoot for the next one, so be there!

Blogs

Jul 24, 2012

Former Bleacher Creature Foe Ichiro Now a Friend

Sheriff Tom welcomes Ichiro to the Yankees by looking back at the hard times the Bleacher Creatures have given other legendary players.

In this age of social media slamming, it was interesting for me to watch the reactions across the board from Yankees fans when Ichiro was traded. It actually sailed by the head of one of my buddies, who was out mini-golfing of all things. He came home after chopping up that course, had a hearty repast and settled in for the Yankees game. Imagine his surprise when he saw Ichiro settling under a line drive in Yankees duds.

Immediately after hearing of the deal I scrambled to my binders of scorecards to seeing if I happened to be in attendance for the fanfaronade of Ichiro’s 2001 debut, or any other big games the man partook in. Well, I got hit with the slapdash of reality that my last scored game was from 2000, even though I have surely been out there a fair deal since then. My days of “scoring” stopped once I started getting into the games in the fourth after prolonging my drinking time outside, so I have nothing documented on this man, but I do have the memories.

I remember Hiro, a longtime creature who was also from Japan, eagerly giving us lessons in the language out in the seats, so we could shout an insult Ichiro would actually recognize. And I remember our good friend MetsSuckBalls coming in with printouts from his computer with all kinds of naughty Japanese words. (Hey, its how we worked out there!) The printouts weren’t just for Ichiro. They were for all the Asian baseball fans he brought in with him. Bless them.

Did people respect Ichiro? Surely. Did we boo him? Oh, very loudly. When a legend comes to town you take a moment to appreciate them, and then move on and fight for your home turf. I think back to when Tony Gwynn, that roly-poly hitting machine, came to town for some hot World Series action. The first time he came shambling out to the outfield, we welcomed him with a warm hand. We were standing, waving, welcoming him to New York and wishing him well. He grinned and waved back. Everyone was happy. Then the game started and the first pitch was thrown. “Hey, Gwynn!” someone hollered. “You suck!” At this, hundreds of people jumped back to their feet and a “Gwynn sucks! Gwynn sucks! Gwynn sucks!” chant boomed through the night. Gwynn was taken aback. The affair was over. Respect was shown, but now it was time for rancor.

Ichiro understood this. Sure, we would talk out there about how annoying he was, how stupid it was that he was swinging at pitches over his head or buzzing the ground and pinging them for hits, and throwing beams from the outfield and busting rallies. He looked wispy and even frail at times. He ran fast, but it was sort of funny looking from where we sat. He was always playing hard and while you love that in a player you don’t like to see it against your team, so you boo it.

While I’m sure the Bleacher Creatures are no way in Ichiro’s head, I’m confident that if asked about that group and other rowdy Yankees fans he has encountered from the opposite sides of the fence, he would have a chuckle. But now it’s the foe becoming the friend, and it’s time to move on.

It only took about six minutes after the first tweets earmarking the deal had hit before the “He’d better not touch No. 51!” started flying about. While Bernie Williams’ number hasn’t been retired, Yankees fans continue to scare everyone else away from it. I’m not adverse to someone claiming the digits sometime in the future if the number isn’t retired (and Ichiro with his Hall of Fame resume surely would be deserving of the accolade), but this may simply be a two-month rental, and it’s not the time. It was interesting to watch the salvos going back and forth, and a longtime bleacher denizen and buddy of mine, Justin, tweeted “Future HOFer Ichiro Suzuki can’t have non-HOFer Bernie Williams’ number, so he gets HOFer Dave Winfield’s number instead. Got it.”

Another interesting crop of fans are the ones that dislike the deal. There are few who are ruminating on the loss of D.J. Mitchell or Danny Farquhar, but I’ve seen a lot of grumbling over the loss of DeWayne Wise. Look, I liked Wise in his own way, but I prefer taking a flyer on a player like Ichiro. Sometimes Yankee fans (myself included) like to complain just to complain. I was actually a D.J. Mitchell fan, griping that he was passed up for spot starts last year and was always behind Adam Warren in the pecking order.

For now, Ichiro is our friend. He will be greeted with cheers that immediately turn to jeers once the first pitch is thrown. He will get to come up with a way to acknowledge Roll Call, and get a groaner of a home run call concocted by Jolly John Sterling. And after the season is over, he will probably move on, and we can boo him again.

Author: Sheriff Tom Brown

Scorecard Memory: First Hawaiian Shirt Night in the Bleachers

Scorecard Memory: Drinking Cough Syrup, Eating a Calendar and Piling On

A Bleacher Creature in Toronto

Scorecard Memory: Section 39 Becomes ‘Trouble Pocket No. 1′

Former Bleacher Creature Foe Ichiro Now a Friend