Two Runs

It was the bottom of the fifth at the new Yankee Stadium. The boy of no more than six returned from the bathroom ahead of his lagging father. The boy scurried to his seat and picked up the magazine. He looked up at me and asked, ‘What happened?’

I replied, ‘A-Rod flied out to right. And Cano is on first.’

A bit confused, he looked back at me and inquired, ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’

I looked at him equally confused. ‘No, it’s still three to nothing.’

---

It was a friend’s birthday, and she had suggested a Yankees game to celebrate. The brunch she was having with friends proved a bit early, so we chose to meet at the stadium before the game. After a quick stroll around the new sports complex immediately adjacent to the stadium – and the location of the old Yankee Stadium – we met up with the crew and entered.

We climbed the stairs and proceeded to our seats among the Bleacher Creatures in section 201. Although we could not see left field from our seats, there were three large screen televisions to our right to aid us should any ball travel beyond our line of sight. In addition, we did not have the benefit of being able to see the giant scoreboard since we were directly beneath it. But there is an abbreviated horizontal scoreboard that extends across the front of the stadium, which gave us enough information about the current state of affairs.

In the bleachers sat an eclectic mix of young and old. Bud Light flowed like water into the cups of most fans. I decided to stick to water as I was saving the extensive alcohol intake for later in the day. In front of us sat an older gentleman and his five year old kid, who was fully garbed in Colorado Rockies attire. As a Yankees fan, I cannot help but feel disdain for anyone not wearing white, navy blue, or the barely acceptable ‘Away’ gray. But, I decided to make an exception as I immediately recognized a father-son outing replete with the father teaching the son how to score the game.

In the middle of the second inning, the father turned and asked if we would watch their stuff while they went to the bathroom. The kid, at that point, was not making eye contact. When they returned with a beer – presumably for the father – and a hot dog with ketchup (such a travesty), play had already resumed. The kid asked his father what had happened fully expecting him to know. I volunteered, ‘A-Rod got out on a five three.’ The father lit up, and aided his son in the correct scoring.

Over the next couple innings, we chatted briefly. They had traveled from Colorado to watch a few games at Yankees Stadium, and they just happened to come for Old Timer’s Day. In fact, the father told me about how they had run into Goose Gossage in the elevator of their hotel. When the kid very earnestly told Goose that he wanted the Rockies to win, Goose answered, ‘Well, I hope not.’

In the fourth, the father asked me to take a picture of him and his boy. I took his iPhone and snapped what I considered to be a pretty good shot of them with the field extending behind them. After I handed the phone back to the father, the kid looked up at me for the first time and said, ‘What happened?’ I answered honestly, ‘I don’t know; I was taking your picture. But I know he got out.’ The boy harrumphed and went back to concentrating on the next batter.

In the middle of the fifth – just before play was to resume – the kid needed to use the bathroom again. Again, the father asked us to watch his stuff. And off they went. A-Rod flied out to right. Cano got a hit. That’s when the kid descended the stairs – with his father lagging behind – and snuck back to his book. He opened it hastily and looked up at me. ‘What happened?’ I told him. ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’

I made a concerted effort to understand where he had seen the two. The score at that point was three to nothing. The Rockies had five hits and the Yanks had one. The Rockies had no errors and the Yanks had one. I looked at every other number on the board, and there was no two. I looked at him and responded, ‘No, it’s still three to nothing. Swisher’s at the plate.’

As soon as I finished speaking, the crowd roared. Nick Swisher sent a ball hurtling into the right field seats; he and Cano both scored. Amazed, I glanced down at the kid, who was busy filling in the appropriate boxes on the score sheet. I tried to understand if the kid understood what he had just said. But Posada sent a ball to deep center that made the stadium erupt. By the time the roar had ceased, the time to analyze had passed. Instead, the occurrence passed into the realm of that abyss between the sublime and the mundane. I leave you to draw your own conclusions…

Text Me Out 2 teh Ballgame

G1

JT: Startin early. Their goin down.
Me: 7 games, my friend.
JT: JHam's gonna beet ur ass.
Me: We'll see.
[Pause]
Brother1: I was afraid of that.
Me: Me too. Jham's gonna beat our ass.
Brother1: Prolly
[Pause]
Old Man: Ardo sux.
Me: Guessing u mean ARod?
Old Man: he sxu
[Pause]
GK: cant decide if i want fils or jints w tx. ill say jints.
Me: I'll agree w jints. Leave football to tx.
GK: not this yr homey.
[Pause]
Brother2: How much does arod make? Really?
Me: I know. Ridiculous.
Brother2: This isnt even Lee.
Me: I know. Scary
[Pause]
JT: Yankees suck.
Me: Seen the Red Sox playin lately?
JT: Yankees scuk!
Me: Thought so...
[Pause]
TS: Yay Ranger bullpen.
Me: Yay!
[Pause]
Old Man: Go Yank! ARod stil sux
Me: Go Yanks!
[Pause]
JT: got lucky
Me: Ill take luck
[Pause]
Brother2: Whens Lee pitchin?
Me: Dunno, but we won tonite
Brother2: 3 games to go

G2
JT: They aint comin back tonite.
Me: I never count em out.
JT: Start countin
[Pause]
Brother1: Where the hell r the bats?
Me: Think they left em in NY.
[Pause]
DD: Hope ur not standin near a cliff.
Me: I'd punch him if he were a Lee.
DD: HA!
[Pause]
Uncle: Not looking good.
Me: If only Robbie could always be up.
Uncle: If only.
[Pause]
Me: What do you think?
Old Man: dont want2 talk abot it
[Pause]
GK: tx is beatin the !@#$ outta you
Me: You mean the Yanks?
GK: yep
Me: Not me.
GK: same diff
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry they lost.
Me: No ur not.
Mom: Ur right Im not :)

G3
JT: Your goin down
Me: I know
JT: Lee's gonna piledrive them
Me: Prolly
[Pause]
Brother2: The night the scares me
Me: Me 2
[Pause]
GK: lol. i think he'll go all 9.
Me: Im guessing 8. Theyll use the closer.
GK: Good idea, get him some rest.
[Pause]
Me: Ugh
Old Man: Bunh of pansies
[Pause]
DD: Do you need therapy?
Me: Umm... No... Thx
DD: Just checkin
Me: Thanks for the concern
[Pause]
JT: Even better than I thoght
[Pause]
Brother2: I was afraid of that.
Me: Not like it's a surprise.
Brother2: Whose pitchin tomorrow?
Me: Burnett
Brother2: Uh oh
Me: Yep

G4
Me: Why would they start AJ?
Old Man: Girard doesnt no what hes doing
[Pause]
GK: wanna c a bloodbath
Me: U prolly will
GK: tough to come back from 3-1
Me: Yep
[Pause]
JT: FOUL!!
Me: No idea
JT: Not a hr
Me: Not wathing the game
JT: Good thing there's replay
Me: Ok
[Pause]
Brother2: Thought Berkman had it.
Me: Heard it was foul.
Brother2: Yeah, sux. We need a break.
Me: Yep
[Pause]
DD: yay molina
Me: I don't think he's on the Yanks.
DD: nope
Me: Woohoo [sarcasm]
DD: yay [not sarcasm] ;p
[Pause]
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
Me: You can say that again
Brother1: We're in deep doodoo
[Pause]
JT: 1 away
Me: But the sox arent in it
JT: But the yankess are
[Pause]
Uncle: I can't watch em anymore
Me: Not lookin good
Uncle: Football season
Me: Go Giants!
Uncle: That could still be a baseball thing
Me: True

G5
JT: Ready to lose?
Me: Not with cc
JT: They only need 1
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Brother1: That's the way they need to hit
Me: Yep, finally
[Pause]
GK: cc cant save you
Me: No, but Mo can
GK: ur goin down
Me: Not tonite
[Pause]
Me: They found the bats
Old Man: to littel too lat
[Pause]
Me: Wish they could play like this all the time
Uncle: Me too
[Pause]
Mom: I'm happy for you
Me: Really?
Mom: For you, yes. For me, no.
Me: Lol

G6
JT: Redy to lose?
Me: Ready as ill ever be
[Pause]
Brother2: Ugh
Me: It's just 1
Brother2: Just wish the yanks could hit
Me: Me too
[Pause]
GK: ur gonna lose ur gonna lose
Me: Won't even qualify that w a response. Oh wait, just did...
GK: get the ref?
Me: No crying in baseball, got it
[Pause]
Brother1: 1-1 still a chance
Me: Always hope
[Pause]
JT: DONE!
Me: Ain't heard no fat lady...
[Pause]
GK: say gnite gracie
[Pause]
Old Man: They scuk ardo sux cant hit nothnt
[Pause]
DD: Thank God
[Pause]
Mom: Sorry, honey
Me: Really?
Mom: Nah :)

3WW (Gentle, Praise, Vulgar): Golden Age

I decided on a night at the ballpark. I’ll do that every so often; take a train to Flushing or the Bronx and buy a bleacher seat. It’s cheap if you don’t buy the beer, or food for that matter. Funny thing is I’m not a New York baseball fan. In fact, I’m not a fan of any pro team. There’s nothing and no one to praise in this day and age when people can buy ball teams. It’s just a product. People tell me I have to have a team, and I tell ‘em no ball team’s worth my allegiance. That seems to screw with their heads enough to leave me alone.

What I really love is old time baseball. Not the dead ball era. I’d say between 1920 and 1960. Ruth’s dominance to Williams’ exit. Yeah, I know there were other greats I’m leaving out. But I’m not talking about the people; I’m talking about time. A time before California baseball. Before there were teams in Milwaukee, Kansas City, and even Baltimore. When Brooklyn had its Bums and the Giants played in the most ridiculous field you’d ever seen. And no, I’m no racist. Hell, I wish Gibson and Bell had been in the majors; it would have made for some great games. But I ain’t got the power to turn back time. I only wish I had the chance to see an old time ballgame in an old time park.

The Yanks are playing Toronto, I think. Whatever. I just hope it’s a good game. I board the ‘D’ and take a seat. I see a few Jeter and A-Rod shirts. Some Posada and Pettitte jerseys. A Mattingly, Jackson, and Gehrig here and there. It’s essentially an express train, but after a long day of studying and working I fall asleep.

I feel a poke. The old timer’s got his wooden cane in my chest, and he ain’t bein’ gentle. I shake my head, blink my eyes.

‘You’re here,’ the old man crowed.

There was no one on the train. And I didn’t hear anyone outside on the platform either. Not normal.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

The old man pointed out the door. ‘Time for the game, boy. You’ve almost slept through it. A good game, I reckon, too. Best be getting yourself to the field.’ He pushed the young man in the back with his cane.

‘Cut the shit, old man,’ I yelled.

‘No need to get vulgar. Stay here for all I care. I’d like to see a ballgame.’ The old man hopped up the stairs like a kid and was out of sight.

I probably would’ve stayed on the train if it weren’t so creepy. Plus, I wanted to see the game. So, I walked out through the turn-styles and up the stairs. The old man was nowhere to be found. The whole scene looked funny, like I’d never seen this part of town before. But I’d been to Yankee Stadium hundreds of times. No one was around, another weird thing on the day of a game. I looked at the street and cross street. 155th and 8th. I was still in Manhattan. Barely, but still. I could see the Stadium across the river. But that’s not what I was looking at. I was looking at a huge oval-looking thing in front of me. And I knew it could only be one place: the Polo Grounds.

Thursday 13: What I'll Remember about Tonight's Game

I visited Safeco Field for the first time this year to see the Yankees game. And here's what struck me...

1. However uncomfortable bleacher seats are, the view from center was awesome.
2. C.C. throwing a mid-90s fastball well into the eighth inning.
3. Alas, Seattle fans didn't boo A-Rod, but only because he wasn't playing.
4. Hideki Matsui's 2 homeruns to right. I'll come back to one of them in a moment.
5. Derek Jeter's HR blast to left.
6. Fireworks at Safeco for Wilson the SS after his HR. Note to Safeconians... Fireworks with the roof closed causes fits of coughing and eye irritations for anyone within the stands. Does anyone else light fireworks indoors?
7. Every person in the Yanks' initial lineup was on base at least once. Even Melky.
8. I attended with 2 brothers with whom I play softball. We call them the brothers Grimm.
9. The wafting smell of garlic. How much garlic do they put on those fries?
10. The 2 fathers with their kids in front of us (3 girls and a boy). All of them were wearing Yankees hats.
11. Watching the Yanks finish it off in the 9th and waiting for New York, New York. It didn't come, but I'll tell ya that there were certainly enough Yankees fans in the house to give a rousing rendition.
12. 11-1
13. A Mariners fan ensuring that Matsui's second HR was, in fact, a HR by sticking his glove out over Ichiro's perfectly timed reach to snag said homer from behind the wall. It would have been one of the best catches I'd ever seen. Instead, it's just another HR that barely cleared the wall.
    

It's Personal: Baseball Part II

When baseball is no longer fun, it's no longer a game. -Joe DiMaggio

When last I spoke of baseball, the 2009 season had only barely begun. The Mariners were off to a strong start. The Yanks weren't. And every teams' fans were hopeful that this could be the year. Even those fans of the Cubbies.

I give you the link to refresh your memory: It's Personal: Baseball Part I

I had just succeeded in winning a championship of sorts on the ServiceMaster sponsored team. And it was time to grow up, i.e. move into Little League. That meant the royal blue and tacky yellow of Ulbrich - a major processor and distributor of stainless steel, nickel alloys, titanium, and other special metals.

I spent a few years on Ulbrich.

During that first year, we were winless. And most of the guys didn't seem to care. Neither did the coach, for that matter. So, we were the butts of endless adolescent jokes. Lots of fun for a kid who didn't feel great about himself in the first place.

But that was the year when I first started playing catcher, a position I must admit I enjoyed thoroughly.

The second year, my father took the reigns and became the Ulbrich coach. In addition, my brother moved into the league. A pitcher, he and I became a better than average battery. Though I can't say Ulbrich became a much better team. We just didn't have the talent. Because we didn't have the popular kids. A scenario to which I became accustomed over time.

The third year, we were better, but not good enough to vie for a championship of any kind. Only good enough not to be the butts of jokes.

I remember only one game on Ulbrich clearly. We were playing Tech Circuits, a team that had the kid who was considered the meanest kid in the league. He liked to slide into people to hurt them. Or, if he were particularly ornery, he'd just run through a guy. Above all people, he angered me the most. Almost to the point of pubescent hatred. And so I approached that game like I have approached few games in my life - with a huge chip on my shoulder. I had a single, a double, and a triple in that game. (I've never actually hit a home run in any organized game.) And I got run over by that meanest of kids in a play at home. But I held onto the ball. Boy, did my nose bleed that day...

I graduated from Ulbrich to the Babe Ruth League. I was marginal at best, though I kept my place at catcher. I played mostly with guys from the other side of the tracks (which in Wallingford meant future Sheehan grads) so I never really clicked with them. Instead, I just endured and played the game because I thought it was expected of me.

After a year of Babe Ruth, I joined the Lyman Hall Trojans baseball team in February, 1992. I stopped being a catcher and instead became an outfielder. A right fielder, to be exact. Where marginal high school freshmen fade away.

My sophomore and junior years followed in much the same way. I rarely impressed the coaches with my skill; it was my work ethic that kept me on the team. On those rare occasions - including a catch on a dead run in the freshman game against North Haven and a double to the fence in Doolittle Park after some tips from the old man - I beamed proudly and received the astonished encouragement of my coaches and teammates. I only wish those occasions were more than occasional.

My senior year. Again, I went out for the team. I actually hit a single in the first practice game against the Platt Panthers. I made the team again. Because of my work ethic. But I wasn't good enough to play. I knew it. The team knew it. The coach knew it. I therefore had a choice. To stay on the team and be a glorified manager who could keep score and cheer for the team. Or to quit the team and enjoy my final spring in high school.

I folded my uniform for the last time and found the head coach. I handed him the uniform without a word. He took the uniform under one arm and extended his hand. 'You're a great guy; I know you're gonna be successful,' the coach said in that awkward way that coaches have in those situations. We shook hands and I exited the gym, no longer a baseball player.

It just wasn't fun anymore.

I haven't played baseball since...

But I didn't stop loving the game. Not to mention the fact that there exists a game much akin to baseball for those like me. And I ain't talkin' 'bout cricket...

It's Personal: Baseball Part I

Baseball was made for kids, and grown-ups only screw it up. ~Bob Lemon

I was born with baseball in my blood. How could I help it? My grandfather loved the game. Hank Greenburg, his favorite player. The Detroit Tigers, his favorite team. The old man loves the game. The Mick, his idol. The New York Yankees, his team.

I suppose it's no wonder I was born on a day when the New York Yankees defeated the Detroit Tigers in Yankee Stadium by a score of 8-7. Almost as if the old man and his old man were determining what my baseball fate would be.

The New York Yankees, having acquired 'Mr. October', won their first World Series in 15 years in that year. The decision had certainly been made.

One year later - exactly one year later - I was no doubt trying to speak some of my first words on George Street for the women in my family while the men sat in front of the TV watching Louisiana Lightning pitch a hell of a game. You know, that game in which Sweet Lou lost the ball in the sun in right field but juked just enough to keep Burleson from going to third. And good thing too since Rice's fly ball to right would have been a sac fly.

Oh, and some guy named Bucky hit a homerun.

The Yankees won that year too.

So, you see, it was destiny. I had to love baseball. There was no question.

Ironically, I began my own career on the Mets. That horrifically tacky mix of Dodger Blue and Giant Orange on a three dollar t-shirt. I don't even remember if we were good. What, I was like five.

I remember my next team better. Dressed in a ridiculously pale yellow with black cursive writing. Servicemaster was the name of the team. We referred to ourselves in those days as some odd local corporation. Valentino's. Milici's. A lot of Italian names in the Wallingford area.

That year, the Wallingford Little League - at least for the level in which I played - decided to split the league into an 'A' and 'B' division. The 'A' division was unfairly better than the 'B' division. I was in 'B'.

The old man was the coach. A good coach, mind you, he took the likes of the Bad News Bears - we even had similar uniforms - and molded us into the 'B' division champions. I was a pitcher in those days. Not a great one. I suppose I did well enough. Playing over on those fields near Pond Hill Road. Jimmy Greenwood. That brother and sister combo whose names I can't now recall. What a memory jog.

We were supposed to play the 'A' division champions - Valentino Oil - in some kind of lopsided Wallingford Little League World Series. In which we would have been utterly decimated. The old man said, no thanks. A good thing, in my mind. We all received trophies that year, most likely from our parents' pockets.

It was during that time that the old man introduced us to Yankee Stadium. I remember those treks. Always a little freaked out when I was in New York City. I remember we went with Uncle Mark once. My brother falling asleep in the back seat of the car, his head tilting back and forth as we laughed hysterically. Some dingbat radio personality saying, 'We have a wiener here.' So many things are funny at that age.

I soon graduated from Servicemaster into a higher level of the Little League. When baseball became the only outdoor activity in which I would partake. The years after the divorce until high school.

But that's for another time. Baseball Part II, as it were...

Sporting Rants and Raves: February 14, 2009

A happy 49th birthday to Mr. Jim Kelly formerly of the Buffalo 'Who Cares about Super Bowls Anyway' Bills. A Hall of Fame quarterback, Kelly led one of the most dangerous offenses of the 1990s.

Is his return imminent? Will he join a team of which he once was an integral part? Will he end his storied career on a team that defeated the New York Yankees in one of the most exciting post-season series in MLB history? Or is this just a sham? Will he simply fade away into obscurity until it comes time to consider him for the Hall of Fame? Please don't misunderstand me. His presence 9 years later will most likely be a token presence. Good for a few more homeruns to tack onto his 611. Not to mention an excellent psychological boost to a team that has been less than mediocre during the past few seasons. What will junior do?

Michael Jordan, John Stockton, David Robinson, Chris Mullin all Hall of Fame finalists. Honestly, which one of these hasn't earned his way into the Springfield, MA museum? That's when I used to watch the NBA.

Now, I don't care. And I can't say exactly why. I could only tell you a few of the better than average players out there. Bryant, Wade, Garnett. Sure, I know a few of the college guys. Especially those from UCONN. Okafor. Gay. And Allen, of course. Brandon Roy from the other Huskies too. But, eh. Just eh.

In case anyone didn't know, the Boston 'Why Do They Call Them' Bruins (because the first GM in Bruins history, Art Ross, was directed by owner Charles Adams - odd, an Adams associated with Boston - to choose 'a nickname that would portray an untamed animal displaying speed, agility, and cunning') of the now defunct Adams Division are at the top of the NHL standings.

The New York 'What Have You Done Since the 1980s' Islanders of the now defunct Patrick Division still haven't done anything lately. They sit at 16-32-6.

For all of you who follow this blog, the problem with yesterday's math problem is that a = b. So, if you divide each side by a-b, the fourth step in the problem, you are actually dividing by zero since necessarily a-b = 0. Thus, 1 = 0.

The UCONN Huskies men's basketball team was dealt a significant blow this past week as it was announced that Mr. Jerome Dyson could miss the rest of the season with a torn lateral meniscus in his right knee. Although UCONN continues to be a powerhouse, this absence could be significant when it comes time for the real Huskies to match wits with the best in the league.

I bet none of you are wondering the origin of the word meniscus. Latin, obviously. But modern, not ancient. Modern being late 17th century, which is indeed more modern than, say, 200 BC. As some of you might know, many modern Latin words come directly from another language or from some other more ancient Latin word. This word happens to originate in the former way, that is from the Greek word 'meniskos' meaning 'lunar crescent'. And 'meniskos' comes from the word 'mene' which means 'moon'.

It could therefore be considered a play on words if I stated that Dyson will be unable to play for many moons because of his torn meniscus.

Thankfully, the New York Football Giants have tagged Mr. Brandon Jacobs as a franchise player. Goodbye, I suppose, to Mr. Derrick Ward. I'm still fine if they keep Mr. Ahmad Bradshaw. And find a new go-to receiver...

Will Michelle Wie finally win one? I mean she's only been competing for 7 years in LPGA competitions. And after 7 years, she really should win the big one. I mean, people were wondering if Peyton could win the big one after 8 years. So, I'm starting to wonder. Yes, I know she's 19. But you can't say only. Only applies only when someone's been doing something for a brief period. She's been playing since she was 4. So, she should have it down by now.

And if any of you think I'm serious, then I have a bridge or two to sell you...

And finally... When I made the argument against Mark McGwire being in Cooperstown, I did so based solely on baseball merit, that is hitting, fielding, and importance to the teams for which he played. But in a comment, the old man stated that I neglected to address the fact that McGwire cheated. In addition, he wondered what my take on Pete Rose would be. Today, I answer those questions and more...

This isn't a baseball issue, per se. It's a sports issue. What type of people belong in halls of fame for any sport? It seems to me that these people should have lent something to the game whether with excellent game play or superior coaching, pioneering ideas or consistently outstanding moderation (referees, umpires, and the like). That has to be the main consideration; the person has to be relatively great as compared to his or her peers not to mention as compared to those great players of the past. There, of course, we run into issues. How do you compare a pitcher like Curt Schilling, for instance, to Cy Young? Cy pitched more innings in a shorter season with a dead ball. Schilling pitches fewer innings in a longer season with a 'live' ball and has the advantage of middle relief and closers. Or in another instance, how do you compare Sammy Baugh and Peyton Manning? The technology between 1947 and 2007 is unbelievably different, which affects football significantly. Not to mention that Baugh was a quarterback, punter, and defensive back while Manning is but a quarterback. But I've read that the voters take this into account. And so, I'll let it alone.

Now, to the real point. Halls of fame generally include a clause regarding integrity, character, and sportsmanship. Here, I remember a profound quotation from the old man: 'It is good to be a great man, but how much greater it is to be a good man.' It is my understanding that the clauses in hall of fame qualifications associated with integrity, character, and sportsmanship can be summed up in two words, namely 'good person'. To be eligible for a hall of fame, you have to be a good person. You might ask me to define 'good', and I'd point you to Plato's Republic.

Now without the coy response, let us examine the likes of McGwire, Rose, Shoeless Joe, and a few others both in and out of baseball's Hall of Fame.

Mark McGwire: Took steroids. Wouldn't admit it to Congress. Didn't abide by baseball's rules. Thought he needed drugs to make him a better player. Hall of Fame? Exclude.

Pete Rose: Great hitter. Great fielder. Hard nosed and gritty. Bet on his own team while coaching them. At first denied involvement. Then switched his story. Has now shown remorse and has cooperated with MLB. Hall of Fame? Include after death.

Joe Jackson: Great hitter. Great fielder. One of the most graceful and talented players in history. Took money to throw the 1919 World Series. Didn't play like he was throwing the series. Fully cooperated with MLB after the scheme was discovered. Kicked out of baseball my Kennesaw Mountain Landis along with the rest of the Black Sox. Showed remorse. Hall of Fame? Include

Barry Bonds: Great hitter. Average fielder. Hit 73 in one season. Home run king with a asterisk. Has stated that he did not purposely take steroids. Ready to go to trial for lying to Congress. Hall of Fame? Hell no.

Now, for a few surprises:

Ty Cobb: Best batting average of all time. Great player all around. One of the 5 originals in the Hall. One of the meanest baseball players ever to have lived. Sharpened his cleats. Beat people with bats. Hall of Fame? Kick out.

Rogers Hornsby: Best right handed hitter in baseball's history which means he's arguably better than Cobb since he faced right handed pitchers 70% of the time and was thus at a disadvantage. Also arguably the best hitting infielder in history. Confessed member of the Ku Klux Klan and compulsive gambler. Hall of Fame? Kick out.

Andy Pettitte: With a .629 winning average, 3.89 ERA, 2002 strike outs, and 215 wins Andy compares with the likes of Randy Johnson, Tom Glavine, and Pedro Martinez, all arguably Hall of Fame pitchers in their own right. Andy took performance enhancing drugs to heal an injury in 2002. Showed remorse for his usage of the drugs. Hall of Fame? If he has the stats, Include.

Alex Rodriguez: On track to being one of the premier players of his generation. Great hitter. Fair fielder. Recently admitted to taking steroids. Was remorseful. Hall of Fame? If he has the stats (including importance to his team), include.

Babe Ruth: Baseball's savior. One of the games greatest sluggers (if not the greatest). Not to mention one of its premier pitchers too. A boozer. Cheated on his wife. Great with kids and made the fans love him. Hall of Fame? ...

Right, like I'd go there.

My point? If the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame - or any hall of fame for that matter - is going to have that clause regarding integrity, character, and sportsmanship, then there can be no double standard. Ty Cobb doesn't deserve to be in the Hall of Fame, period. And Joe Jackson does. Why Joe Jackson? Because it takes humility and integrity to apologize, to show remorse. If I truly have consistent beliefs, then I must accept contrite apologies for what they are.

The final question: is there any room for that clause of integrity, character, and sportsmanship in the qualification for halls of fame? Or are halls of fame for those who have in fact excelled in the game, exclusively? If the latter, then there's no question about Rose, Jackson, Ruth, Cobb, Hornsby, or Bonds. But that doesn't feel quite right either, does it?

There you have it sports fans. Happy Valentine's Day. And I bid you adieu. Until next I write or you read, happy sporting.

Video of the Week: A Reason to Dance

We have our World Series Champions of 2008. Alas, Tampa, you'll need to work your way back. And it can happen. But this year it's the National League that can boast. For all those Phillies fans I don't know, here ya go. A June 2008 game against yesterday's reigning World Series Champions...

End of a Journey

It's over. The last first pitch. The last last pitch. The last homerun. The last out. The final winning pitcher. The final losing pitcher. The final game at the Cathedral of baseball.

And the Yankees won.

But I'll back up a moment. Because today represents the reason I love this season. The end of summer, the beginning of fall. Baseball's pennant races; Football's surprises. The game I was genetically predisposed to love; The game I learned to love by playing, against all odds. All of it in a day.

I woke at 9 and went into the living room. ESPN and CBS and Fox pre-game programming. Let's get to it. At 10 I expected to see some random game like Arizona V. Washington - since Seattle didn't play until 1. But no... Ho, what is this? Giants V. Bagels. Awesome! I sit myself on the couch with some Honey Smacks and start talking at the television. Every once in a while I laugh at myself realizing I'm sounding like my uncle and grandfather. I shrug the thought off and keep talking, scaring the dogs every once in a while with a 'You're dead!' or 'What are you thinking!?'

With about a minute until halftime, I get a call from a friend who happens to be a huge Jaguars fan. He asks if I'm still planning on watching the later games with him and our mutual friend at a local restaurant named Sport. Ready and waiting, I tell him. We agree to meet there early to beat the rush for the later games. About noon.

That's when I arrive. I make my way back to the bar where I see hats and jerseys of every type. Panthers. Eagles. Bears. Seahawks. Cowboys. I have added the Giants to the mix.

Much to my chagrin, they are showing the Cardinals/Redskins, Bears/Bucs, Dolphins/Pats, and Panthers/Vikings games on the four televisions above the bar. Raiders/Bills was playing behind us. But no Giants. Finally, my friend spots a television across the restaurant in a far corner playing the Giants game. Sheesh!

So, I'm watching the Giants game from afar while spying five other games. And there's a beer in front of me. All is right with the world. There come eruptions of applause form every corner of the place at different intervals. A check of all the games will tell you which game has prompted the response. Orton getting spun. Trent Edwards leading his team down the field to try to catch up again. Ronnie Brown scoring a TD. Ronnie Brown scoring a TD. Michael Turner running. Gus Frerotte trying. Randle El leaping. Ronnie Brown scoring a TD. From afar, Carney kicking another FG.

The games are coming to a close. Bears/Bucs coming down to the wire. Giants/Bagels too. Dolphins pummeling the Pats. Cardinals close. Panthers letting it slip away. The Raiders driving.

I have to go watch this up close, I tell my friend. I get up and watch the final Bagel series. In front of me, there sit about 20 - no exaggeration - Philly fans cheering Palmer, Chatman, Perry, and the other multivarious Bagels. I hold my tongue as Graham kicks the FG. OT. I return to the table to find that the Bears/Bucs are going to OT as well. They switch the Dolphins/Pats game to the Giants/Bagels. I watch both games back and forth. Plus the Raiders/Bills game behind me. Loving it.

Long story, short, Carney kicks. Good! Okay, I can breathe. Bucs win. Fine with me. The Bears fans leave in a huff. Bills pull it out. Game winning field goal. I can't help but chuckle anytime I see the Bills have a game on the line that they can win by a field goal in the final seconds. Mean? Yes. But, hey, I'm allowed.

The second round of games start. Not as many, but enough to have one of each on the televisions. Eagles/Steelers. Go Steelers, except I need Westbrook to score a lot for fantasy. Westbrook goes down. Oy! There's Saints/Broncos. Couldn't really care less. Seahawks/Rams. Remember if the Seahawks lost I vowed to write them off. They didn't. They can stay for another week. Lions/49ers. Umm... And Colts/Jaguars. I was there to support my friend. What a game. The best to watch, in fact. Back and forth and back again. Jags seize the day on the second to last play. FG.

And there's still the Cowboys/Packers game. My friends want to go to another bar. Nah, I said. I'm done with bars for the day.

When I arrived home, I found the following text from the old man: 'Tonight is the last at the stadium. Now I truly appreciate our day. It started with Grandfather Morrell and ended with MY sons. Thank you.'

The football that day had been awesome, enjoyable, and all that. But now, I had to watch the final game, media circus that it was. No, I didn't catch all the ceremony that preceded the game. I was, however, sitting on my couch for the first pitch thrown by Andy. I watched as the night unfolded. The sparkle of cameras like stars in a field of black. The Orioles were there for show, to be honest. There was no way in hell that this final game at Yankee Stadium would spell the entry of the Red Sox into the playoffs. I don't doubt that the Orioles played hard and to win, but they had to know it wasn't happening. That can be some other night. This night was reserved for the Yankees.

I felt that sense of history. The greats. Derek. Joe D. The Mick. Lou. Mariano. Thurman. Roger. Yogi. Reggie. Whitey.

The Babe.

All of them were there in some way or another. I'm sure Joe Torre was watching from afar. With Casey and Miller and Ralph and Billy and Joe all haunting the place with their dirt kicking, double speaking, and ass chewing.

After the final lap around the stadium. And after all the pictures and the pomp, they ended with Yogi. 'I'm not gonna miss this place because it's right here,' he said pointing to his heart. Yes, I know that final tribute was meant to pull at the heartstrings. And if it were most anyone else, I'd chalk it up to nostalgic kitsch. But there was something in Yogi's face that made me believe him. For his age, for his experience, for his intelligence, I can say by looking at him that he has never lost that quality of loving the game as would any little boy. And in that final look into his eyes across the television, I was reminded of my grandfather Klemenz.

A tear fell. Thank God I had made it to Yankee Stadium one last time. Thank God it was with my brother and father. Thank God we have that memory.

I enjoy football immensely, yes. But there's no game akin to baseball

New York Mariners?

On November 13, 1851, the Denny party landed at what Seattlites know to be Alki Point. What is not so well known is that Arthur Denny named the new settlement 'New York Alki'. 'Alki' In Chinook Jargon means 'eventually' (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alki,_Seattle,_Washington). And New York means 'big apple-like place with lots of buildings, people, sports teams, and congestion'. So, literally this first settlement's name meant 'eventually to be an apple-like place with lots of buildings, people, sports teams, and congestion'.

We now fast forward almost 157 years to the Pyramid beer garden outside Safeco Field just two nights ago. A friend from our softball team had offered two tickets to see the first game of the Yankees-Mariners series. I, of course, accepted and convinced Joseph to come.

Earlier that day, we had discussed meeting at the beer garden with a co-worker, who himself was going to a Mariners game for the first time since the Jamie Burke debacle earlier this year. This co-worker - we'll call him Steve since that's what everyone else calls him - had come prepared for the game with a Mariners hat and a Mets jersey.

Tangent. Steve was born in the Bronx and then had lived in Long Island growing up. He is, in fact, a Mets fan. Mr. Met, as it were. And no bandwagoner is he. He's been a fan since they were established. As a kid, he endured the lovable losers but was awarded with the 'Miracle Mets' of '69. He often recalls the likes of Seaver, Agee, Koosman, and Cleon Jones.

And so, although many of the people in the beer garden accused him of being confused, I knew that he was just representing both the team he loved and the team he wanted to win.

While drinking our Hefs, Steve decided to have a little fun. He hypothesized that he could ask ten people wearing Yankee garb where they were from and that nine of the ten would not be from New York. I suggested that they would have to be from the tri-state area - since I'm from CT - and he agreed. Having had a few beers - and having originally been from New York - he began the show.

He approached a young guy with a Rivera jersey. 'Hey, you from New York?' Steve stood smiling. 'Yep, Brooklyn,' he said. 'One for one,' I said. Steve said to him, 'You serious? Where?' The guy told him. Then he admitted he now lived in Chicago and flew in to see the game. Strike.

Next was a 30-something woman with less impressive gear. 'Hey, we're doin' a survey. You from New York?' he asked. A little surprised, she came back with a full-fledged Jersey accent. 'I was boarn dare. Then I lived in juhsey. Now I live in Tarrytown. But I still commute. I love Metro Noarth.' Steve engaged her a bit more, then turned to me and said one of those words not made for television. 'You already lost,' we said. 'Yeah, but I gotta do the whole ten to see if I'm even close.'

The next gentleman was an unassuming man with a Yankees cap. In his 40s, he stood with a woman of about the same age, who herself was wearing no baseball affiliated clothing whatsoever. 'Hey, you from New York?' Steve asked. 'Yep.' 'Aww, @#$%' Steve exclaimed to himself. 'Where?' I was laughing so hard I didn't catch where. 'But we live in Chicago now.' 'Oh yeah, this guy lives in Chicago,' he pulls in the Rivera-shirt-wearing guy. They start talking about the Windy City.

'I can't believe this,' Steve says to us. Three of three. Next? 'You from New York?' 'Yep, Long Island.' 'Oh yeah, where abouts?' 'Northport, Exit 51.' 'Oh yeah? I'm from Plainview. Exit 45.' Four for four.

He proceeded to ask another two nearby. The first replied, 'Yep, I'm from the Bronx, two blocks away from the stadium. 161st and Sheridan. I bet you can't find anyone else here who can give cross streets.' The second answered, 'Yep, I from da Bronx' and kept walking.

Finally, on the seventh try, Steve found a Yankees fan who was born and raised in Washington state. A fan of Louisiana Lightning, he knew that players and the stats but not the city.

The final three? Jersey, Connecticut, and a guy from Queens that Steve chided for not being a Mets fan. In the end, Steve's theory that 9 of 10 would not be from the tri-state area was not just wrong, the end result was completely the opposite of the theory. 9 of 10 were from the tri-state area.

It's obvious that Denny foresaw the emersion of Seattle as a big apple-like place with lots of buildings, people, sports teams, and congestion. We have most of those in Seattle. What I don't think he foresaw is that the Seattle people would actually root for non-Seattle sports teams more often than not.

So, to boost the fan base of the Seattle teams, I suggest we rename them with 'New York Alki'. The New York Alki Mariners, the New York Alki Seahawks, and the New York Alki Oklahoma City Sonic Thunder. Maybe then - well eventually - those teams might win it all.

Stalking the Wild Coincidence

I offer my apologies, dear readers, as I was too exhausted last evening to cogitate and type anything of merit. And the coincidence about which I intend to wax 'prosetic' is the reason...

The story begins approximately two and a half short days ago. Traveling home from work, Joseph and I stopped at Costco. A 4-pack of candles. Cream cheese for bagels. Processed meat for sandwiches. It was a quick stop for necessities as we had to get to our friend's home for an informational session regarding the Breast Cancer 3-Day.

We sidled up to an empty checkout line when a short, auburn-haired woman of about 40 slipped over carrying a box of dog bones. 'Do you mind if I go in front of you?' she asked Joseph. 'Yes,' he replied. His back was to me, so I couldn't tell if he was being serious. I couldn't imagine he was. She looked up at him in shock, but not yet in indignation. 'Really?' 'Yes, really.' But Joseph couldn't keep a straight face. 'Yeah, go ahead.'

She put her box on the conveyor belt. Joseph said, 'Wouldn't it have been crazy if I didn't let you go?' She smiled. 'I gotta tell ya. I'd a had to say something. I'm from New York. I don't do this Seattle passive aggressive @#$%.' We chuckled. She related a story. 'I was at work this one time and this guy was being a pussy, so I told him so. He stopped talkin' to me for a while, and I thought nothin of it. Then, one day three weeks later he comes up to me and tells me that I hurt his feelings. What is that @#$% ? Just tell it like it is.' By the time she finished her story, she was checked out and ready to go. 'Alright, take care,' she said. 'You too,' we answered.

'That's my kind of woman,' Joseph told me as we were checking out. 'I'd like to have a beer with her.'

Fast forward to last evening. A pair of generous friends invited us to the Yankees game (what Seattlites might call a Mariners game). I'll be relating the pre-game festivities in another post. As for the game itself, well, the Yanks were no-hit by Morrow into the 8th. And lost. Not much more to say there.

After the game, we said goodbye to our friends and walked down 1st Avenue South keeping pace with the other departing fans. Just past S Massachusetts there was a bar, evidenced by the intoxicated smokers on the sidewalk and the big 'BAR' sign jutting from the building. As we passed, Joseph recognized someone - not an uncommon occurrence. 'It's the Costco lady!' he announced to anyone within earshot. 'I can't believe it's Costco lady.' She immediately remembered us as well. 'I love you guys,' she said rather gushingly. And then she proceeded to announce the fact to the rest of the intoxicated smokers. For the next few minutes, Costco lady and Joseph engaged in an interwoven duet of 'I can't believe it's Costco lady' and 'I love these guys'. It reminded me of a bad musical.

'You have to have a beer with me,' she shrieked. 'Okay,' Joseph agreed. He turned to me, 'Is that okay?' 'Uh sure,' I replied. Just rolling with the punches. 'Manny's?' she asked us. We nodded. We entered the hole-in-the-wall bar - called the Hooverville - and accompanied her to the counter and then to her seat. An empty booth with multiple full drinks sitting atop the table. A few moments later, a tall man, a fat man, and an atheist walked into the bar. What, am I in the midst of a bad joke, I asked myself.

They sat and commenced with a political discussion. The atheist claimed that Sarah Palin was just a smoke screen. 'Two months before the election, she'll get bounced and McCain will pick up Condoleeza Rice for VP. And then they'll win because they can take the black vote. And we'll be @#$% out of luck for another four years.' I didn't have the heart to tell her that we're at two months before election time. Then, she turned her head towards me and Joseph, pointed, and asked 'Are you Christians?' 'Yes,' we each answered. 'Do you know which minority group is most discriminated against in this company?' she continued. We shrugged. 'Atheists!' she yelled. 'Well good luck with Jesus,' she said before turning back to the fat man. The night had definitely taken a turn for the weird.

I listened, thinking myself merely a fly on the wall. Relationships. Politics. Music. Work. Sex. Same old, same old. But with an odd twist, i.e. my involvement through a random dog-bone toting Costco lady. Finally, Joseph turned to me and asked me if I was ready to go. I nodded. We discovered that Costco lady had a name. Hope. She and Joseph traded numbers. And we left. We continued down 1st Avenue South about an hour and a half after we left the field, got in the car, and drove home.

The silver lining of our encounter? No traffic. Oh, and this story...