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Tag: Derek Jeter

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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!

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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 10th 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!

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Aug 14, 2012

I Forgive Derek Lowe

Now that Derek Lowe is a Yankee it’s time to forgive him for his time with the Red Sox and Oct. 20, 2004.

In October 2004, I hated Johnny Damon more than any other athlete. If I had made an All-Animosity Team back then, Johnny Damon would have been the team captain the way Josh Beckett has been for the last three years.

Damon was the founding father of the “Idiot” culture of the 2004 Red Sox and he stood for everything that wasn’t the New York Yankees. Aside from Red Sox ownership he played the biggest role as a player in turning Fenway Park into a social scene, attracting pink hats and a crowd whose primary concern seems to be making sure they use the bathroom before “Sweet Caroline” so they can be at their seat to sing along and sway back and forth. Damon became the face of the Red Sox, personifying the change the franchise underwent by transforming the losing mentality the team and its fans exemplified. I hated Johnny Damon.

By stealing Johnny Damon away from the atmosphere and environment he helped create, in the winter of 2005, the Yankees did more than just acquire their rival’s leadoff hitter and center fielder. They acquired the heart and soul of their rival and at that time – outside of winning another championship – it was the next best thing to making the pain 2004 hurt a little less.

I didn’t think I could ever forgive Johnny Damon for Game 7, but I did. And I’m prepared to forgive Derek Lowe too after already doing the same for Doug Mientkiewicz, Mark Bellhorn, Alan Embree and Mike Myers on much smaller scales.

For someone I have hated for the last 15 years of my life and hated a great deal for nearly the last eight, I feel weird rooting for Lowe, who was the bad guy. It’s almost like I’m rooting for Coach Dan Devine to not put Rudy in for the final seconds of the Georgia Tech game or for the puck to roll on end for Charlie Conway and for him to lose control of it during his triple deke on the penalty shot against the Hawks.

Some Yankees fans don’t like Derek Lowe on the team or anyone from that 2004 Red Sox team, and they will like him less if he gets lit up while with the Yankees. But if he pitches the way he pitched on Monday night and he turns into the guy he was from April 8 to June 1 (7-3, 3.06) and not the guy he was from June 7 to July 31 (1-7, 8.77), those fans will like him too. Then again, if the Rangers had rocked Lowe at the Stadium on Monday night, maybe I wouldn’t be forgiving him. Actually I know I wouldn’t be forgiving him.

There’s nothing that will ever erase those four consecutive October nights from my memory even though I have tried. I have never re-watched any of the games from that series, and aside from each game’s starters throughout the series, I have tried to black out what happened from the ninth inning of Game 4 until the final out of Game 7. When I think back to that series now it certainly doesn’t feel like it could have all unfolded over four consecutive nights. Those four nights felt like 40 while they were happening and the months leading up to Opening Day in 2005 (really Opening Night for the Yankees and Red Sox) felt like an eternity.

I watched Games 1, 2, 3 and 4 from my dorm room in downtown Boston, and I remember the hysteria and chaos following the Red Sox’ Game 4 win that felt like a minor speed bump on the way to the World Series. I actually took the Game 4 loss surprisingly well and shrugged it off because no one blows a 3-0 series lead.

For Game 5, I went to the then-Fleet Bank ATM across from the Park Street T stop on the Boston Commons, and withdrew nearly all of the money I had worked for over the summer to use for spending money that semester. I folded it up and put it in the left chest pocket of my fleece and rode a packed T to Kenmore with my hand over the pocket and the money. I had called my friend, Jim, just a couple hours earlier and told him about some guy I found online who was selling tickets to Game 5. Jim was training for hockey at the time and didn’t think he would be able to get to Boston in time, but I sold him on the idea of watching the Yankees win the pennant at Fenway Park. He got off the ice early, skipped taking a shower (there is nothing in the world that can compare to the stench of a post-hockey skipped shower), loaded up on the deodorant and Axe spray in his glove compartment and turned I-95 North into the Brickyard.

With Jim en route to Fenway, I went from the five-stop T ride to meeting a stranger in his Ford Explorer down a side street near Fenway Park. I was 18 years old and knew Boston as well as I know what Eddie Vedder is saying in “Yellow Ledbetter.” It was 2-to-1 that I would have the money in my left chest pocket taken without receiving tickets and 5-to-1 that the Channel 7 news in Boston was going to lead their broadcast that night with a story about a college freshman wearing a Yankees hat who was last seen trying to buy tickets from a scalper in a Ford Explorer down a Fenway side street rather than the result of Game 5. Actually what am I thinking? A college freshman wearing a Yankees hat in Boston pre-2004 World Series? The Boston Police would have helped cover it up. I probably would have been held captive by a Boston Police Captain like Amanda in Gone Baby Gone.

Jim made it to Boston in record time, but we didn’t get into Fenway until we heard the crowd roaring as Pedro Martinez retired Hideki Matsui to end the top of the first. The Red Sox scored twice off Mike Mussina in the first, but Bernie Williams answered with a solo shot in the second. It remained 2-1 Boston until Derek Jeter hit a two-out, bases-clearing double in the sixth. We were sitting right next to the Pesky Pole in right field (where the Yankees should have won, but Fenway’s short fenced caused a ground-rule double later in the game) and we watched the ball roll into the corner as the Yankees took a 4-2 lead and Jeter ended up on third on the throw. We all know what happened over the next eight innings.

I spent five hours and 49 minutes and 14 innings at Fenway Park that afternoon into night. I spent nearly all of my spending money (who am I kidding with “spending?” … it was for beer and Domino’s, which I still know the number to by heart) on the chance to see the Yankees win the pennant at Fenway Park and for the chance to see the monumental look of devastation on the face of Red Sox fans in their home. I think we can chalk that one up as a bad investment and maybe my worst investment unless we’re counting when I bought the Chumbawamba album “Tubthumper” in sixth grade just for the song “Tubthumping.” We’ll call it a tie.

The next night the Yankees let Curt Schilling shut them down on one ankle and failed to make him move off the mound with bunt attempts. I remember one time in the game when Schilling had to become part of a play at first and he ran like Chien-Ming Wang running home in Houston on the day that changed his career. For all of the great decisions Joe Torre made in his 12 years with the Yankees, not having the team drop downs bunts in Game 6 was one of the Top 5 worst decisions of his Yankees tenure. The other four would be starting Kevin Brown in Game 7 of that series, brining the infield in in the ninth inning of Game 7 of the 2001 World Series, bringing Jeff Weaver in in Game 4 of the 2003 World Series with Mariano Rivera sitting in the bullpen and not removing the team from the field while the midges attacked Joba Chamberlain in Game 2 of the 2007 ALDS.

The night after that, Kevin Brown took the Yankees out of the game before Tim McCarver could say anything nonsensical (yup, it happened that quickly). Torre called on Javier Vazquez to put out the fire and instead he brought gasoline and matches with him by ending the game on his first pitch. Derek Lowe shut down the Yankees and won the game on three days rest, and I have hated him since. Well, until Monday night.

To me, Derek Lowe on the Yankees puts a little dent into what happened on those four nights. No, it doesn’t erase it because nothing ever will, but it helps to cope with what happened. Johnny Damon shaving his head and pointing during Roll Call and becoming a Red Sox killer and stealing third base against the Phillies and getting doused in champagne in the Yankees clubhouse put a massive dent in it.

The only key pieces left of that Red Sox team still in the league are Lowe and David Ortiz, and I don’t think Ortiz will ever put on pinstripes and take a sledgehammer to the 2004 legacy, but I wouldn’t want him to anyway (though it would be a nice way to get some closure). And with those two being the only remaining active key members of that team, I can say my body is filled with joy knowing that Red Sox fans have to watch the guy who clinched all three 2004 postseason series for them pitch for the postseason-bound Yankees while they watch a losing Boston team playing out the string like the Royals, Twins and Mets.

Derek Lowe is 39 years old and might be at the cul-de-sac of his career, but he wants another chance to win. He proved on Monday night for four innings against the best offense in baseball that he still knows how to.

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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.

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 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 7th 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!

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Jul 19, 2012

Scorecard Memory: Grown Men Slapping Each Other, the ‘Gang Bang’ and Rusty Greer

Sheriff Tom goes back to April 12, 1996 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for a Yankees-Rangers game.

This is the first of 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. Let’s pick this up in 1996. You’re invited to join me. Please bring beer.

April 12, 1996: Yankees host the Texas Rangers. (My first game in ’96 and on a Friday night to boot!)

This year was huge. Obviously closing with a World Series win, but along the way we saw a no-hitter, the debut of some of your favorite Bleacher Creatures of lore, the passing of our beloved friend Ali the Cowbell King, vicious fights in the stands and all kinds of hubbub. To top it all off, in regards to scorecard fodder, my love affair with the beer bottle was seemingly at its zenith this year. Leafing through some of the cards without peeking too deeply at the jokes, I see a lot of scraggly, drunken scrawl and a lot of cards look beyond repair. But let’s get past that and kick this mother off!

I had big plans for ’96. On the top margin of this evening’s scorecard I confidently wrote “my first of 50+” however, as I type this, I’m not sure of my exact number of scorecards when it was all said and done, but I know I sailed through 50-plus games, and that was sans playoffs. On the other hand, I was far from midseason form coming in. I lost my voice early on during this evening game, actually before 8 p.m.! It was a frosty April night causing at least half-a-dozen people to walk up the stairs and crack the same joke, “Is it spring yet?” Heck of a time to recall this too, in the midst of a spate of heat waves here in New York, but in marking down the crisp nature of the evening air, I can understand the cynicism as to the missing spring.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Before the game there was a madcap slap-fight outside on the bleacher line when some drunkard decided to take a tinkle right there on the sidewalk and peed on another guy’s leg. The guy getting sprayed slapped him in the face like they were wearing pigtails in a playground and the peeing guy stopped what he was doing long enough to slap him back. They exchanged a flurry of slaps, much to the amusement of everyone on hand that managed to stay dry through the whole encounter. “Throw a punch, for Christ’s sake!” someone hollered. I turned to a crony as things were broken up and said, “That’s going down on the scorecard.”

Let me address the idea of the “bleacher line” as it may confuse some used to the bleachers of today. Back then we had a “GA” situation going on. (General admission seats! You could sit wherever you want!) The gates opened at a certain time and until then you snaked along the sidewalk, patiently. Well, except the guy who was too impatient to hold in his pee. Most of us did not yet have a ticket, so we queued up to grab one once the grumpy guys opened the windows. It was long a favorite tact of bleacher legend Gang Bang Steve (that’s him pregaming to the left of me in the picture above) to get to the window and ask fervently, “Can I have a seat right behind Bernie?  It’s my first time in town and I’m a longtime fan!” The ticket guy would snarl, “It’s general admission, sit wherever you want,” and Steve would throw his arms up in the air in mock exasperation, blustering, “You don’t understand! He’s my favorite player ever! I just want a seat right behind him. It would mean a lot.” It was like a Laurel and Hardy routine. This would play out all the time, and Steve used to walk the line here and there asking others to pitch in and ask the guy for a seat “behind Bernie.” (No wonder the ticket guys were so grumpy.)

It was a surreal scene outside on this night, which was par for the course. There was even a licensed pretzel vendor proudly wearing a Red Sox cap. I remember a few brazen Yankee fans not only cursing at him, but also taunting him that they were going to get him fired. All the while these same guys were buying pretzels from him.

Ah, I see we touched upon current events, a consistent scorecard theme over the years. Anyone remember the seven-year-old girl that crashed the plane? At the time she had been attempting to be the youngest person to pilot a plan across the United States, and I was one of many who had been howling about how ridiculously dumb this idea was. I was soliciting jokes for the scorecard, pretty much asking, “Anyone have any jokes about the seven-year old that crashed the plane?” Thankfully, there were none.

Random crack written down on here from Tina (the revered “Queen of the Bleachers” to this very day and beyond) that simply says, “Sit down already! We know you’re Puerto Rican!” to some mope that kept standing up at any and all times, and I would assume holding a flag aloft to claim this lineage. Someone else promptly dubbed the offending stander-upper “El Sucko.” This “standing up for no reason” was inherited by a Panamanian long-timer, who still haunts the seats to this day, named Junior. He would stand up if someone pointed out a pretty cloud. Junior is also known to go on beer runs for the crew and return with the one beer we told him not to get, or crashing on the floor of my old Long Island City apartment back in the day, only to wake me up at 7 a.m. the following morning because he would be watching Matlock with the volume up too high.

In regards to special guests for this game that made the scorecard, there was a George Foreman look-alike, and a gigantic gawky woman we promptly dubbed Big Bird. There was a Jim Leyritz look-alike, too.

The legendary cowbell mix master Ali Ramirez showed up late enough to where it became a topic of discussion. Ali was the kind of guy whose absence could not go unnoticed, and sadly we lost him a month later. On this night he rang up the first cowbell at 7:25 for the 7:30 game, and even “shook his ass” for the crowd while he did it. For a while (until the number of jokes scrawled on the card became beyond too voluminous for mundane minutia) I used to keep such archaic notations as actual times of cowbell serenades, vaunted entrances of the notoriously late and random bursts of the litany of songs that added to the festive atmosphere back then. So if you wanted to know how many times Ali clacked his bell, and more importantly at exactly what time on a certain date, I inexplicably had this information.

Apparently there were a lot of “Chinese guys” out there as well causing me to muse how cool it would be if we could get a Chinese guy to sing the “Gang Bang” sometime. For the uninitiated, the “Gang Bang” was an early staple that had a run of quite a few years, surprisingly so given the general surliness of the security staff through the years. Here’s a video of Dr. Dirty John Valby for you to get the picture. Now take that picture and imagine that song being belted out nightly by dozens of rowdies in the bleacher seats. Better yet, here’s vintage footage of this very grandiose presentation with our own Gang Bang Steve leading a very raucous crowd through the bouncing ditty in Section 39 in 1996. (You can even spot yours truly, expertly multitasking as I can be seen scribbling away on my scorecard while lustily partaking in verse.)

In oddball bleacher trivia, this is how Gang Bang Steve came upon his moniker, as he was a noted ringleader for this caustic tune, although the air of mystery as to how he got his name always added to the frivolity when he would be introduced to people over the years. Eyebrows would raise when anyone was offered a handshake to someone introduced as “Gang Bang Steve” and many times I’d hear, “He sure doesn’t look like a swinger.” (The reaction upon introduction was a hit at my wedding.) Speaking of the “Gang Bang” song and the aforementioned Steve, I commented proudly on the card that Gang Bang Steve was back at my side, helping keep score and providing some of these very jokes. So blame him if you’re not entertained! One of the first things he did upon settling in for the night was draw the “Joey Cora infield” on the scorecard, including a first base line that takes a hard right and loop back towards first, in a nod to Cora’s getting away with running out of the baseline during that sickly playoff the year before.

Time for a story. For years Steve was entered into my cell phone simply as “Gang Bang.” This passed by without incident to a time where I was training at what was then my new job, sitting pretty much shoulder-to-shoulder with my new boss, who was teaching me some things on the computer. Well, my phone, just to right of the computer on the desk, started blinking that a call was coming in. It was on mute, so I was just going to let it go until I saw the words “Gang Bang” flashing on and off the screen. My boss never asked and I never told, but I know she saw it as it was directly in front of her, and human nature would surely make one wonder why someone’s phone would flash such a tawdry remark. She must have thought it was an appointment reminder. Add to this that only days before I had shown up for my first day at this new job with a black eye and my boss must have really been wondering what the hell was going on with me, and how I passed the background check.

Ah, back to the night’s affairs. One guy came up bedecked in a stunning array of bling, and I remarked that he “Looks like a real G.” This guy Chris promptly responded, “No, he looks like a real A.” He then added, “As in a–hole” though that was superfluous.

DING, DING! Looks like Gang Bang Steve got the first home-run ball of the year that was tagged out to the bleachers, and it came off the bat of none other than Ruben Sierra. I don’t know if it was on the fly or a series of bounces off empty seats as I was too busy marking times that Ali clanked on his bell to recount this admittedly more interesting factoid, but Steve got it and it’s mentioned multiple times on the card. I need to ask Steve if he still has that ball, though I’m sure he amassed quite a collection over the years from our drunken forays into the Stadium for BP. Ironically enough, just before Ruben’s jack, someone said (and I quote), “I want to see Ruben go yard!” and we laughed at the phrase “go yard.”

Not much more on here, which I suppose I shall attribute to the cold temps making writing not fun. We busted on a fellow fan ID’d as “Lee” for his “Little Rascals haircut.” We ripped into some Coneheads, the wacky crew with dunce caps on their head, who were back for more with David Cone on the mound. “School’s over, put the dunce cap away!” A “Dickheads! Dickheads!” chant sparked up as the Coneheads sat there with sad expressions at this vitriol. They wore out their welcome fast. I remember them being met with mostly apathy and tolerance in 1995, but by ‘96 their fellow fans had had enough of them, and Tina especially was on the warpath when it came to them. I guess our sort of exclusive pack were the only ones out there allowed to have nice stuff. The same thing befell the folks who would show up in “Moose” antlers when Mike Mussina would take the mound. They were not exactly “fan favorites.” To cap off the card I also mentioned we actually got to hear some Loverboy (one of my favorite old-school bands, bless them) over the Stadium PA. I suspect I was doing some air guitar, too, and hopefully others joined in.

Some interesting names from the past on here include our elderly and mysterious friend “Godfather” (who used to skulk around in the old days putting the “voodoo” on Yankee foes) and on this night he muttered, “He’s doing bad, take him out,” as John Wetteland was imploding in the ninth. We let Angel, the ex-girlfriend of the previously mentioned George (Big Nose/Little Drummer Boy), keep score for an inning somewhere on here. She was well known for once gazing at Cal Ripken Jr. out at short with a long-sleeved black sweatshirt on under his jersey and saying in a confused manner, “I didn’t realize Cal Ripken Jr. was black?” Tina, who was considered more of a strict boss back then than the honored elder she is these days (much more on her to come), had one of her patented temper tantrums at 9:25, but sadly the reason for this particular outburst is lost to history.

For the record, the first “MO” of the season (Mystery Out, of course) was hung on Joe Girardi, during his at-bat in the sixth. (I can and will do a separate column on the wonders, and the astounding frequency, of the infamous “Mystery Out.”) The “Mystery Out” was another longtime friend in the bleachers that never left and one we would visit time and time again. I’m happy that Phil Rizzuto shared this same propensity on his own scorecards, although he earmarked his missed plays as “WW” for “Wasn’t Watching.”

Always like to see this: I noted that Yankees history was made on this same day, as the team signed Juan Rivera to a contract as a non-drafted free agent.

As for the game action, the Yankees took this one 4-3 behind a strong performance by David Cone (one run, unearned, in seven innings) and solid setup work by new Yankee and former foe Jeff Nelson, who recently enjoyed a visit to the bleachers, where he sat for nearly eight innings with the modern crop of Creatures. I like to think he would have had more fun back in ‘96 when we were allowed to carry on without the shackles of security, but cheers to him for the gesture and nod to the merry. Wetteland almost coughed it up in the ninth – a recurring prospect – getting tagged for a deuce, but escaped with his first save of the season, albeit amidst some grumbling from the crowd. That relic Ken Hill took the loss for the Rangers, and we got to see none other than the likes of Dennis Cook and Matt Whiteside also toe the rubber for Texas.

The Yankees only mustered six hits on the night with two off the bat of Sierra, who homered and plated two runs. Your Yankees lineup was:

1. Wade Boggs, 3B
2. Mariano Duncan, SS
3. Paul O’Neill, RF
4. Ruben Sierra, DH
5. Tino Martinez, 1B (Welcome!)
6. Bernie Williams, CF
7. Dion James, LF (He was still here?)
8. Joe Girardi, C
9. Derek Jeter, SS

The Rangers countered with:

1. Darryl Hamilton, CF
2. Pudge Rodriguez, C
3. Will Clark, 1B (Just this week he was being touted for the freakin’ Hall of Fame by some delusional fan online)
4. Juan Gonzalez, RF
5. Mickey Tettleton, DH (We deemed him a racist for putting up a “KKK” line on the scorecard with three whiffs)
6. Dean Palmer, 3B
7. Rusty Greer, LF
8. Mark McLemore, 2B
9. Kevin Elster, SS (LOL)

The Rangers only managed five hits with Palmer nabbing two of them, including a mighty clack off of Wetteland to scare us in the ninth.

How about a quick profile? I always enjoyed doing these to add to the shine of those old days. (Fear not, I’ll keep it brief.) Rusty Greer it is!

Greer was quite the gamer, and he’s looked upon fondly. He stuck around Texas from 1994-2002, getting out of there with a .305 lifetime batting average. In 1,027 games (3,829 at-bats) he knocked 119 taters and drove in 614. His aggressive play could never be credited for art of speed, as he managed only 31 stolen bases in his nine years, while being nailed 15 times. He walked almost as many times as he struck out (555 strikeouts, 519 walks), which is an admirable feat in itself, but he was a better player than I gave him credit for. Well, come to think of it, his estimated salary data has him pulling in nearly $40 million over his career, so he made his bones. In ‘96 and ‘97 he batted .332 and .321 respectively, so we saw him here in a flourish. Born in 1969, he was originally a 10th-round pick in the 1990 draft and the only player ever drafted out of the University of Montevallo in Alabama in his native state. As of July 17, 2012, his monumental page on Baseball-Reference has been viewed 30,582 times, which sounds shamefully low to me. His passion for the game and his firebrand style of play is sorely missed!

Only 20,238 were on hand for my first Friday night game of the year in the cold, and the game took 2:51 to play, so at least we got out of there in reasonable fashion, (most likely to drink the night away). Thank you, Red Sox, for not being in town, and getting us out of there before 11:30. Your umpires on hand were none other than Dale Scott, Rocky Roe, the late and lamented Durwood Merrill and Gary Cederstrom.

Welcome to 1996. Please enjoy your stay.

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