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Tag: Milton the Cowbell King

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Oct 10, 2012

The Evolution of Yankee Fans’ Expectations

Sheriff Tom remembers a time when clinching a playoff berth was a big deal in the Bronx. Now the postseason is a given for the Yankees, but he doesn’t mind.

Well, the Yankees are in the playoffs again. Welcome to every year. I was lucky enough to roll through the 90s from my bleacher bench in the much-missed Section 39, where I saw most of the playoff glories from that point unfold in front of me. As I watch these current affairs from my couch with my family and not my bleacher family, it’s easy to justify not being out at the Stadium with the old, “Let someone else have a chance to see this.” The Yankees and the playoffs have become attached at the hip and I was lucky enough to ride along for most of it, but when I started my first forays into Yankee Stadium, you would never have been able to convince me it would be so. Well, unless it was happy hour and you were buying.

In my wee days I was a drib and drabber – a Yankee game here, a Yankee game there. I have vague memories of attending an Easter Sunday doubleheader with my mom, as inexplicable as that seems to sound. I remember being outside the Stadium one time in 1983 and hearing Bert Campaneris’ name as he came up to lead off for the Yankees and proudly telling anyone who would listen that he threw a bat at Lerrin Legrow during a World Series game “back in the old days.” I was at Deion Sanders’ first game in Yankee Stadium and whooped accordingly. I was at the game where hurler Rick Rhoden was the Yankees DH! I was at the game after the infamous Yankees-White Sox trade that bought the Yankees the joys of Joel Skinner, Ron Kittle and Wayne Tolleson. I was in the stands the night George Steinbrenner’s banishment from baseball was announced and the crowd burst out in spontaneous and hearty applause. That story sure had a different ending than the one in the seats that night would have written.

Well, one constant with me in attendance for those early affairs on my ledger seemed to be the Yankees losing. The first year I got my driver’s license and could get myself to and from the Stadium in my fancy-dan, lime-green Camaro was 1986 – the year I left high school with much aplomb and a “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out!” – I decided making games was my mission. While I was not keeping regular score then (and my old scorecards from this era disappeared from the basement like a heap of my old pro wrestling magazines and all my porno magazines), but I would often wax poetic at the Yankees’ ineptitude with me on hand. I went to 18 games in 1986 and saw three wins. Take that in. Three wins in 18 games for a sterling 3-15 mark. The Yankees were 41-39 at home that year, which meant when I stayed my silly self home they happened to go 38-14. This is astounding and grounds to banish me from the grounds. But when you take time to consider what was to come for this boisterous fan, especially being in house for the epic runs to come, I get a pass.

After this run of mine in 1986 I slowed it down somewhat, as everything from car troubles to girls to the Yankees always losing when I went to games to college to girls to beer to girl troubles got in the way, and I was a “here and there guy” for a few years. I remember going to a heap of the Mayor’s Trophy affairs with friends against the crosstown Mutts, usually in late March, bundled in coats and gloves in the stands while whooping it up in the frosty exhibition air. On one of these occasions my brother Dave meandered down by the dugout and asked then-mayor David Dinkins to toss him a ball, as the Mayor was set to toss out the first pitch. Mayor Dinkins told him with a wink, “I’ll be right back” and went out and did his thing to a cascade of boos. My brother called for the ball again as the Mayor headed back, be the mayor simply waved, causing my brother to holler, “Hey Mayor! You suck!”

My vaunted run in the bleachers started in 1993. I’ve gone into more detail elsewhere and I will get back to it again at another time, but mainly I was new to the city and looking for a place to hang out by myself where I would not stick out like an open fly. This leads me to address something here: the Orioles fans are taking a lot of crap for creeping out of the woodwork like roly polies under an overturned piece of rotting tree bark in the yard, but hey, we did this too. Well, not me. I was there in 1993, so leave me out of this. But man, did we have the place to ourselves just a couple of years before another world title for the mighty Yankees was plastered in the book. One interesting thing that came out of my Scorecard Memories, as I painstakingly worked through the minutia, was the putrid attendances I was dealing with. I was, to my astonishment, seeing numbers like 18,320, 20,259 and if the Yankees had a cool giveaway like a WABC transistor radio, 29,023. I surely remembered the bleachers having space not only for our beers and bags, but to lay down if we had too many or we simply wanted to strike a pose. I have a famous picture tucked away somewhere of a bunch of us posing on the last day of the season in 1993, on the bleacher benches, with about 25 empty rows behind us. Someone who saw the shot once asked, “What, did you guys sneak in after the game to take this picture in the empty Stadium?” and I responded, “Eh, no … that was actually during the game.”

So yeah, we had the run of the place. And this continued well up into ‘95 when the Yankees made a jaunty dance into the playoffs, and then it was on! There went the empty seat for my bag next to me, and the Yankee fans showed up kind of like the Oriole fans are this week. It happens.

Here’s how far things came along, for the team back then and the fans following. There is a legendary figure from early bleacher days, the infamous Captain Bob. With his burly nature, booming voice and epic beard he was one of the early foundations. His resemblance to Thurman Munson immediately made him a lovable figure. If you look like Thurman Munson you can steal an old lady’s handbag and that crew of Creatures back then would cover for you. Well, Captain was the focal point of another legendary photo I have tucked away somewhere – what passed for Yankee glee and grandeur in the barren years. There was Captain outside the bleacher gate, holding up the back page of a local newspaper, showing Jim Abbott in action with the bold heading “HEY ABBOTT, WE’RE IN FIRST!” So yeah, the newspaper was trumpeting the fact that Yankees had a share of first place. I believe now (without researching because who has the time?) that the Yankees had simply moved into a tie with Toronto on this occasion. I also believe they were out of first by the time the next edition hit the stands. It was probably July or so, but it may have even been May. Jim Abbott was on the team, so you know not much came out of it. But that is not the crux of the matter.

The crux of the matter is that Captain Bob took this newspaper, held it aloft and shouted with glee. A grand “Whoo-hooo!!!” or something to that effect. This was clicked for posterity on whatever camera I had at the time and had not lost yet. I have since seen pictures of the Bleacher Creature crew after the Yankees won the World Series time and again a couple of years later. Hell, I’ve seen pictures of people after we won World War II and they are not as overjoyed as this jolly Yankee fan over the Yankees simply being tied for first place early in the season. So yeah, times have changed. And with them, so did the crowds and the expectations toward the team.

I’m not sure which bar I was in when the Yankees clinched that first wild card on the last day of the season in 1995 since they all blend together at times like that. That initial euphoria was so new and fresh, and we thought so elusive. Who knew in 1995 that the Yankees were just starting a run for the ages? And this one started with a wild-card berth, something that some fans still look upon with derision. Hey, in the interest of full disclosure I was one of those purists that pooped on the whole parade of the idea, even though I was among the first to feed on that fruit as a fan of a team who used it to their advantage. I railed long and hard against the thing and still hold a grudge, but it is what it is.

In coming years I was out there in the bleacher seats when the Yankees clinched playoff berths and the joy and euphoria is something that every baseball fan (well, except for Red Sox and Mets fans) should experience firsthand at least once in their lives. The fact that we Yankee fans have enjoyed such euphoria dozens of times is a blessing and a boon. I remember one year after the Yankees took care of their business and slotted themselves in for hot playoff action I marched out the bleacher gate right after the clincher, parked myself by the entrance down to the subway by the old cigar shop that used to be there and started slapping the high-fives. I saw this news item earlier this year about some doof who was out to break the record for “most high-fives” given in a certain timespan. He was in some park or with much hoopla and was wearing gloves because I guess he was either too good to touch others or afraid a fervent high-five would hurt his precious pinkie. Well, screw that guy, as I’m sure on this night I gave that chucklehead a run for his money. I was out there going on an hour, slapping five with every person going down to the trains, coming back up from the trains or loitering on the streets. I was not the only one. Hundreds, if not thousands, were packing River Avenue and hugging, kissing and falling down. Milton the Cowbell King was out there with his tin, clanking the happy hits and everyone was adding a voice to the mix. People were shimmying up posts and stagediving to the crowd below. Typing about this now almost brings wistful tears to my eyes. I’m not saying we have become jaded, but wow, winning all the damn time really made it almost “business as usual” as the years rolled by. I hate to say this, but in further years I think some reverted to happy handshakes and congratulatory pats for this honor of seeing the team we loved move onward through the playoff field. Though I attribute some of that to age and our backs being bad!

So yeah, I miss a lot of that initial glee. I loved winning it all in 1996 when the Yankees payroll was not more than that of the rest of the league combined. In time I hope to write a lot more about playoff experiences, up to and including World Series parade experiences. Life as a Yankee fan has been a fun one.

***

This new playoff format bites the bone. A couple of weeks ago co-workers would line up at my desk as they always do, as they like to see me get riled up. In one form or another I would be queried, “So what do you think of the Yankees’ chances in the playoffs?” I would then usher them out of there with a “Get back to me when I know who they are playing, and why.” There was so much mystery involved in most of these matchups I was waiting for the networks to call in Miss Marple to figure it out. Look, everyone likes baseball drama. What we don’t like is invented baseball drama. As much as I was against the initial wild card, I’m even more so against the added wild card and the wonders of a one-game playoff. Will I adjust? Sure, what’s my choice? Stop watching baseball? If the Yankees end up sneaking in one year due to all this tomfoolery I will take it as a fan and use it against others because you are simply working within the parameters in place. That said, the parameters are dumb and once I’m done with this blog I will work on a letter to the commissioner. While he will never see it, someone will have to read it and maybe if it ruins their day cause they have something better to do at the time, so be it.

So yeah, from the wonkiness of the wild card to the pulling out game times only a couple of days before the game like a magician pulling a rabbit out of the hat hoping for applause, its all a big mess. But I will persevere and drink my beer because not only does that sound like a cool motto, it’s how I choose to live. Thankfully I will be doing so once again as I watch the Yankees in the playoffs.

Enjoy the ride, folks. We are Yankee fans and we have it better than everyone.

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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 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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