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Tag: Gang Bang Steve

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Sep 27, 2012

Scorecard Memory: Cowbell Fight and Mystery Outs All Over

Sheriff Tom goes back to April 25, 1996 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for a Yankees-Indians game.

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.

April 25, 1996: Yankees host the Cleveland Indians

Ah, a Thursday night at the Stadium, and I was right back at it. Weekday or not, I was drinking again, as judged by the squiggles and slashes that make up this scorecard. Fun fact: the Yankees and Baltimore were fighting it out for the division and Boston was languishing in the rear with a disgusting 6-16 record. They should have been ashamed. The more things change…

Not much here, and I promise not to simply try to get blood out of a stone. This should be a rather rapid effort and you should be in and out of here quickly!

I see we mentioned “Jerkin’ Joe Girardi-o” on this card. This was probably not simply tossed to the field from our perch, it may even be a nod to our good friend Bad Mouth Larry, who in the past had asked me to look for random Girardi mentions on the card, as that is what we were calling Larry in early days. If you have or had been around to see this guy morph from “Joe Girardi” to BAD MOUTH LARRY you have had a hell of a ride.  Seeing that Joe Girardi was not in the Yankees lineup that night, I can probably safely say “Hi, Larry!”

At 7:23 p.m. they had still not read the lineups for the 7:35 start, which caused someone to crack that they were probably trying to find one of the ticket guys to do the job (the ticket guys were notorious for opening the windows for daily game sales a few minutes late for no particular reason). Talk turned to fare from around the league, particularly on how the Twins had battered Tiger pitching for 35 runs in the last two days. Stuff like that was always a cause for chuckle. I was happy to rat out our bleacher friend Crazy Dave, who had been spotted on the A train in a Pittsburgh Pirates cap, which has yet to be explained, these 16 years later. Queen Bee Tina used this to call out our friend Jeff, who she swore she saw once in Central Park in a Mets jacket! “He saw me coming and he ran away!” she snarled, adding that she tried in vain to chase him down.

Brian Setzer, best known for fronting the Stray Cats, sang the National Anthem or a reasonable facsimile of such. Not everyone saw it that way as someone howled, “Arrest that man for murder! He just killed the crowd!” Yet another fan cracked, “He’s a stray cat … he licks his own balls!” After Setzer slinked off the field to polite applause and a smattering of boos an “Italian skier” came out to throw the first pitch. To commemorate this fact I wrote on the card, “Some Italian skier throws out the first pitch, then eats pasta.” And yes, I happen to be half-Italian and I’ve had my share.

Ah, a cowbell battle raged on this night. A random fan bought his own cowbell, and it got him into fisticuff action. As Gang Bang Steve described it on the scorecard, “First he got the point … then he got the fist.” We’ve all been there. Someone had accosted him for encroaching on the legendary cowbell man Ali Ramirez’s turf, an argument ensued, and a finger was pointed, followed by the punch. Both combatants were tossed for their troubles and for our entertainment. For the record Ali rang his first cowbell serenade at 7:35 p.m. and sadly, less than a month later, he would no longer be with us.

I see here I dropped a beer, which was known as the “Five Dollar Fumble” back then. That always sucked, but hey, it sucks more in 2012 with prices of beer being what they are.

After a spirited “Mets suck!” chant someone snidely asked, “What do they suck?” and Tina snapped, “They suck everything!” Ah, she has never changed. One funny line I see on here was directed at someone running (lets assume it was a player on the field as there was not much running room out there in Section 39).  “Run, you lanky ass!” someone howled. LOL at “lanky.”

Mystery outs all over this thing. For the unencumbered we would scroll “MO” for any play that whoever was scoring at the time failed to witness. Alarmingly, this happened way to often. I’m quite embarrassed at my behavior seeing them all over this card. One MO in the first, one in the second, two in the third (along with a mystery “HIT”), two more in the fourth, another mystery HIT in the fifth, two more MOs in the sixth, another two in the seventh and the entire ninth was a mystery. I guess we gave up by then. It wasn’t just me, Gang Bang takes some of the blame for this as we were passing the card back and forth like a peace pipe.

I see I was missing outs here and there, but still had time to scroll down the classic line we’d howl after a particularly impressive pop-up in the infield: ”Hey, if you were at the carnival you would have won a stuffed animal with that!” Another fun “pop-up” joke was, “That would have been a home run in a silo!”

I guess the Knicks had a big game or something on that night as “Knicks by 19” is written on here in a messy scrawl. The only other things of note on here are a “Hit him in the head!” command written next to Hall of Famer Eddie Murray’s name and a “You f-cking punk!” written next to that of Manny Ramirez. It’s also been noted for history that some guy named Dave (who may or may not have been my brother) purchased cotton candy.

The Yankees dropped this one to the Tribe 4-3 with Andy Pettitte taking his first loss on the young season, getting spanked for 11 hits in seven-plus innings of work before Bob Wickman and Steve Howe came in to shut it down. Howe got his ERA down to 7.36 with his sterling work. Old friend JERK (Jack) McDowell started for the Indians. He kept his finger to himself and though the Indians won thankfully he didn’t get the win. That accolade went to Jim Poole. We also saw Julian Tavarez and that dope Jose Mesa toe the slab for Cleveland. Martinez had the sole Yankees homer, and he and Jim Leyritz each had a pair of the Yankees hits. Here is your full Yankee lineup on that eve.

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

For the Indians, Julio Franco notched three hits, and Eddie Murray, Sandy Alomar and Omar Vizquel each had a pair. Albert “Joey” Belle homered, as he always did against the Yankees. It seems he also made an error, which I’m sure went over great with the crowd. Your Indians lineup shaped up like this:

1. Kenny Lofton, CF
2.  Julio Franco, DH
3. Carlos Baerga, 2B
4. Albert Belle, LF
5. Eddie Murray, 1B
6. Manny Ramirez, RF
7. Sandy Alomar, C
8. Scott Leius, 3B
9. Omar Vizquel, SS

For a profile lets go with Yonkers, N.Y. native Scott Leius, who went 0-for-4 in this game with a whiff.

Leius haunted the league from 1990-99, wearing the colors of the Twins, Indians (only 27 games, all in ‘96) and Royals. A nifty .244 lifetime batting average, with a mere 28 home runs and 172 RBIs in 557 games of action. He stole one more base than he was caught stealing, at a 16-15 mark. Sketchy. He walked 161 times and struck out 236, nothing askew there. He played all over the place, but mostly was ensconced at short and third. He did log some outfield action (which made it easier to yell at him from bleacher seats) and a few stops at first base. He was born in 1965 and was a 13th-round pick the very month I graduated from high school (I will let you guys look that up) by the Twins out of Concordia College, which actually sports four MLB alumni. His Baseball-Reference page has a low 8,839 views as of today, which to me seems limited to friends, family and me. That said, I’m quite happy I got to see this man ply his trade!

As for the game, it was played in front of the scant crowd of 18,580 (which should show some of us Yankee fans that are laughing at Baltimore fans coming out of the woodwork that this was nothing new around baseball) and went off in three hours and seven minutes. Your umpires on the night were Mike Reilly (HP), Terry Craft (1B), Rich Garcia (2B) and Gary Cederstrom (3B). They were booed.

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Sep 11, 2012

The First Game Back at Yankee Stadium After 9/11

Sheriff Tom goes back to September 25, 2001 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for the first game at the Stadium after September 11.

Of all the countless things I wrote, and all the nonsense I have spewed, I am most proud of the following piece. I wrote this in September 2001, in a much different place than I am now, and certainly in a different mindset. What a sad, bleak time it appeared. The Bleacher family was relied on heavily to get through the pain of that month, and it’s when the family really came together. I pull this out every 9/11. I hope you read and remember what ended up being a very special night at a very sad time.

September 25, 2001.

Well, I suppose it’s time to return to some degree of normalcy. These last few weeks I have sat perched at my computer between rampant attempts at sketchy levity and consistent checks of porno, trying to find something funny to write, and I couldn’t. Some would argue I never could.

Our world changed on the 11th, even the little part of it that we call being a “Bleacher Creature.” Although my zest for caustic commentary has died a bit, my love for so many of you have grown. And when I remember back to that stupid, horrible day decades from now I will remember so many of you and how this little family of ours pulled together. From the postings on the message board, looking frantically for our own, to crying silently together in a sea of beer cans, to going out for drinks with those we used to only drink to avoid, many things have changed amongst ourselves.

People who have not spoken anything but angry words to one another all season took the time to say, “I love you.” Subsequently the things I will take away from this are not simply the horror of seeing people limp down Broadway, screaming and bawling and covered in dust, but rather standing in Union Square in front of a sea of candles with 41 and Gang Bang Steve, paying silent tribute while holding back tears. Or how, thanks to the benevolence of Lucy and her family, being able to hug the likes of Kwik, Debbie, Phil, “Fat Rak” Scott, Nicole and Jess, Bald Ray, Brooklyn Joe and Midget Mike at the Memorial held inside of Yankee Stadium a couple of sad Sundays back.

That said, I will try and be funny I guess, and take it back to our return two weeks later against Tampa Bay, who I may add is a team that really, really sucks.

Usually, the top of each night’s scorecard is reserved for campy lines such as “Knoblauch was eating a salad in the park” or “Tom is so drunk he asked Tina to sleep with him,” but on that night, after much fiddling, we went with a simple “We pray for the lost, and love those who are still here.”

Before making it inside we saw that our park, the place where we drank and peed, copped feels and passed smokes on the rocks, was now a veritable police precinct with a police van taking up the very space where I used to make sandcastles with neighborhood kids and duck rocks we would throw straight up in the air and try to avoid in a stupid game of chance.

We hankered over to the bodega, where the only drinking going on so far was by Gang Bang Steve, who was waving around a bottle without a bag, loudly pontificating on the month’s events. Bald Vinny and Uptown Mike were crouched on the sidewalk, gleefully mixing birthday drinks for the Bald Baron. One year ago on that very same day I was running around the section in a gorilla costume at Donahuge’s behest, making stupid muscle poses and nabbing hugs from any woman I could find. Bald Vinny ended up hopping on the benches that night, doing a rousing “Rick Rude” routine, peeling off his shirt to a rousing choir of hoots and howls from a playful crowd. How times had changed, even in our silly little section.

Getting in was “evolution slow.” Security was checking to make sure cell phones were really phones, sniffing bottled water, and waving a little magician wand that didn’t seem to really do anything because it didn’t beep at the silly Sheriff’s badge now hidden in my pocket, which I knew set off the same thing the time I went to court to answer that horrid peeing in public charge.

The night obviously began with ceremonies, the same things we had seen as Yankee fans so many times. It was touching, but the crowd was already itching to make the sadness go away, even for a little while. Big Tone Capone was loud and boisterous, as somehow earlier he had managed to kill at least a six-pack under the smothering phalanx of cops around outside. During the opening songs he was busy telling this guy to take off his cap or that girl to stop chewing gum. Finally a few of the testy ones in the crowd told him to shut it, and here we were again, fighting amongst ourselves. It was actually nice to see.

We found out there will be an addition to Monument Park, a memorial to “those who perished in the WTC tragedy.” I had always held a secret hope the next monument would hold my Sheriff’s badge, Ali’s plaque, Milton’s cowbell, Walkman John’s scorebook or a few beers. (Funny how some bleacher fantasies never work out.)

I knew things had come full circle and really changed around the time Old Man Jimmy went down by the rail to take a picture of our flag-adorned and glory-bedecked crew. Our nemesis, Old Man 176 (a cranky guy with No. 176 on his hat, which made him look even less imposing than he actually was) who was the Riddler to our Batman and the Gargamel to our Smurf came over almost angrily. We started to rise in protest, ready to howl, as he angrily stalked towards this genial old man and his camera on the rail. But alas! He arrived, demanded Old Man Jimmy give him the camera, so he could take the picture so Jimmy could rejoin the crew, his bleacher family and be in the picture, as he should.

The finale to the pregame was our old friend, the Eagle, who swoops down on Opening Day to land on the mound in a fervent blaze of glory. Unfortunately, a sad announcement was made that although the Eagle was in attendance he was not signing autographs until after the game. No, that was not the announcement. Actually, they were “grounding him” on the mound, as a tribute to those who fell at WTC. He would do no flying. Too bad none of us heard the announcement because Capone was talking so loud, so at the end of the Anthem everyone was craning their necks towards the Stadium roof waiting for it to fly in, while the Eagle was already doing a little hop around on the mound the whole time.  But the ceremonies were now at an end and as Gang Bang Steve wrote on the scorecard, “No explanation for pre-game events. If you weren’t here, you missed history.” But here I am trying to recount it anyway.

There were further delays as all the uniformed firemen and cops left the field, which caused a few of us who wanted that sense of normalcy to tell Cowbell King Milton to start clanking his tool of tin. Milton hemmed and hawed, but finally acquiesced, and started banging his cowbell and at that very moment the Yankees took the field, and that seemed fitting enough to us. Usually when Milton bangs the bell out of nowhere, a booming “Tom Tom” drum goes off, stealing his thunder, but this time the Yankees took the field to a raucous “Ho!”

When it came time to do the vaunted Roll Call, we hastily added the FDNY, NYPD and Mayor Rudy to it, and it seemed to go over well, including the mayor giving a quick wave from the radio booth. Our own Rudy, the security maven that was a dead ringer for the mayor now up in the booth was greeted with “Great job with the city!” and “Four more years!” every time he walked up to the section to tell people to stop using expletives.

But what proved the Creatures were indeed back were the loud harangues of “Box seats suck! Box seats suck!” immediately following Roll Call. Man, did that feel good. The box seaters, still very emotional from the pregame, were appalled. Hollers of “Mind your business!” and some more racy stuff were hollered up at the nosy upper-deckers and mezzaniners, who stuck their noses in to see what all the hubbub was about in Section 39 and its nearby reaches.

Around this time the joke line of the night made its appearance. Milton, from his comfy perch on the rail, asked aloud, “Does anyone know for sure if Stacker 2 works?” Remembering someone who took the stuff I said, “Ask (insert fat bleacher guy here) … he took it.” Milton took one look at our still portly friend and said, “Forget it. It doesn’t work.”

More lunacy abounded as Jonathan pulled out a portable TV out of nowhere and started setting up shop. First off, this was a night people couldn’t get a tuna fish sandwich, a purse or even an ugly woman in due to heightened security, but he gets in a freakin’ television! Go figure. Anyway, why does he have this TV? To see the tribute we just recanted? To see what else is going on around the league or down at Ground Zero? No, he brought a TV to see the season premiere of JAG. I mean, Lord.

Gang Bang Steve could not let this go, and immediately began giving it to him, which prompted Jonathan’s mom to call him “jealous.” “Yeah,” Gang Bang snapped, “I’m jealous of a guy who brings a TV to a baseball game to watch JAG.”

Roger Clemens started getting whomped early on, prompting Steve to call the proceedings on the field “odorous.” But the emotion stayed high. There were other moments of levity, including an “Osama Is a Horse’s Ass” song, a few “Taliban sucks!” chants and a message on the Fan Marquee that actually said, “Thanks for the Liver Transplant! You Saved a Life!!!” (And yes, it had three exclamation points.) On top of this, and I have no idea what the actual conversation was about at the time, but the buzzing birthday boy Bald Vinny actually used the words “Gazelle” and “Perk” in a 10-second span.

Of course, in the time of mourning “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” was replaced around the league by all sorts of versions of “God Bless America.” On this night here at Yankee Stadium it was a duet, with a deep voiced operatic guy joining an angelic-toned woman. Of course, this could not escape a joke. After the woman sweetly crooned the first bars, the deep male voice kicked in, prompting Midget Mike to feign ignorance by asking aloud, “How did she get her voice to do that?” Water Girl Debbie, who God bless her, spent so many nights volunteering at a crisis center, properly confirmed the event as a simple “change of octaves.”

It wouldn’t be the bleachers without a couple of fights amongst the group, but being I was in a glad-handing mood and extra friendly due to pregame ales, I didn’t partake in any for once. Turns out the night’s undercard featured “Superfan” Handel and Bad Mouth Larry, followed up by a doozie of a main event between Cowbell Milton and Crazy Pat.

But what it was all about for me (besides the fact it was very cold and I needed all the hugs I was able to score from the girls) was near the end, when a man in a Fire Department uniform leaned over the rail of the mezzanine with his young son in his arms. As he gazed out, a man who I knew must have lost a score of people he knew, his little son was removing his hat and putting it back on all askew. Over and over. Knowing this was a scene that should have been repeated by so many men who were lost made me mist up a bit, all over again. And then the chant began. “FDNY! FDNY! FDNY!” Everyone left in the seats at this late stage of the game hopped up, pointed to this man and chanted, touched their hearts, waved their flags, cried. And he smiled, and waved back, and this kid that was oblivious to it all continued to play with the hat.

And that is what I will take away from this night.

Thank you for reading, and God bless you all.

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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 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!

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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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