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 :)

Twenty-Seven

YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!
YANKEES WIN!!!

Thank you and good night...

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.

Ode to a Pilgrimage

April 18, 1923

New York Giants 7, Boston Braves 4
at Braves Field
Brooklyn Dodgers 6, Philadelphia Phillies 5
at Ebbets Field
Chicago Cubs 7, Pittsburgh Pirates 2
at Wrigley Field
St. Louis Cardinals 4, Cincinnati Reds 2
at Crosley Field
Cleveland Indians 6, Chicago White Sox 5
at League Park II
New York Yankees 4, Boston Red Sox 1
at Yankee Stadium
Philadelphia Athletics 3, Washington Senators 1
at Shibe Park
Detroit Tigers 9, St. Louis Browns 6
at Sportsman's Park III

On that day in 1923, Fred Lieb of the New York Evening Telegram first dubbed Yankee Stadium 'The House That Ruth Built'. And Ruth did not disappoint. In the bottom of the third inning, the Sultan of Swat sent a line drive into the right field seats that put his Yankees up for good against his former team.

It is now 85 years later. And Yankee Stadium's last. Yes, there will be a new stadium. The name is already etched into the facade. It will be bigger, more comfortable, perhaps even more accommodating. But, it will never be the place where Mantle vied with Maris for 61 and Gehrig considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. It will never be the home of Joltin Joe. It will not be the place where a tattered flag flew over tens of thousands of Americans who looked for solace after 9/11. It will not be the place where John Paul II captured American hearts. It won't be the place where the greatest football game of all time decided football's fate in the United States. And never again can we Yankees fans boast that this new stadium is The House That Ruth Built. Is it a travesty that this American edifice will become a parking lot? Yes. But this is an ode, not a critique.

It begins in a relatively new city to baseball and in a state of the art facility on July 21st. I had purchased tickets to Safeco Field for a friend's birthday to watch the utterly destitute Seattle Mariners take on the seemingly more beloved Seattle-Boston Red Sox. The stadium bellowed with Red Sox cheers that made my stomach ache. Reds and blues outshone the sad spottiness of greens and blues. As the game wore on I began to reminisce about the many games I had attended in my lifetime. Not nearly as many as a self-proclaimed diehard fan, certainly, but enough. My mind wandered more. To baseball fields. Softball fields. Makeshift wiffleball fields. And as I lost myself in the green of the grass, I realized that all of my memories of this glorious game called baseball centered around one person, a person whose birthday it happened to be on that day when I saw the Mariners shut out by the Red Sox. The old man.

The idea dawned slowly but surely. For all the games I had attended and for all that I loved about the game of baseball, I owed it to the old man to make one last pilgrimage to Baseball’s Cathedral with him. But, as most of you know, I’m not a particularly emotional being. When the game ended that evening, logic struck; I convinced myself that the idea was a pipe dream. So, I did nothing.

Seven days passed. I said nothing about the idea. Inside my brain, the emotions and logic began to compromise. I had enough PTO (Paid Time Off) that I could conceivably take time off work. And I hadn’t been home in three years. On that seventh day during a break at work, I looked for Yankees tickets. Sold out, of course. I surfed to StubHub, RazorGator, and countless other sites. Once my brain processed the numbers that my eyes were displaying to it, the logic reasserted itself and guffawed at the emotion. Not a chance in heaven, hell, purgatory, or limbo. Oh wait, no more limbo.

Another day passed. The emotion would not subside. The right brain kept replaying the final sequence in ‘Field of Dreams’. Okay, so a little known fact that won’t be so little known after I publish it for all to see… that final sequence is the only one to date that can make me sob. ‘Fine!’ my logic told my emotion. ‘Let’s do it.’ Once I made that decision, only God could have stopped me from achieving the goal.

God helps those who help themselves. And I needed a plan. Well, even more important than a plan was an accomplice. I thought of the perfect one: my brother. For whatever reason, my brother has this stigma attached to him of not being able to keep a secret. To my knowledge, I can’t remember a time when he disclosed a secret – apart from ratting out my father for some insignificant trifle when he was all of five years old. Because of this stigma, he proved to be – as stated – the perfect accomplice. I called him and told him my plan. He thought it a good idea. Thus, we the brothers Klemenz – with help from my brother’s wife – concocted the perfect plan.

Why did I need an accomplice? A good question. You see, my father’s no slouch. If he’s not at home repairing, building, cleaning, mowing, carrying, or otherwise kicking something, he’s out doing one of these things for the Church, his family, or his friends. And when he’s not doing one of these things, he’s out with his wife traveling or watching football. So, if this was going to be a surprise, I had to have my brother corner him for a date to go to Yankee Stadium. It turned out to be August 17th against the Kansas City ‘what have you done since George Brett left’ Royals.

I bought the plane ticket, left on August 15th after much ado at work to ensure that my projects were copacetic, had an exit row seat on the first plane to Indy, sat next to a talker on the second plane to Hartford, met my brother and his wife at the airport, had my brother’s dog inspect me in the car, watched a replay of one of Michael Phelps’s 342 gold medal races at home in my brother’s basement, and went to bed. The next day my brother and I spent time reacquainting – after a three-year lull – and watching movies. Oh, and I had something akin to real pizza, which is hard to come by in these here parts.

By Sunday, I actually felt a little nervous. I wasn’t certain how the old man would react. I couldn’t remember a time when either of us – or anyone else for that matter – had surprised him in a good way. At a little after 9 a.m. the old man pulled up in his blue van and said hello to my brother and his wife. As he stood garbed in Yankees shirt and hat, I walked from the garage and saw his jaw drop. To catch him speechless is itself a treat. We hugged. And he tried to form words. To no avail…

After a brief stop at Dunkin Donuts, we made our way via the Wilbur Cross/Merritt Parkway out of Connecticut and into New York. A once familiar trip for me who had often traveled the same road back and forth from college. But I rarely ventured into the city; I usually went around. Not on this day. We knew our destination.

We passed through Yonkers and on into the Bronx. ‘That lighthouse up there means we’re getting close’ my father remarked. Just around the next bend were the familiar block letters indicating the home of 26 world championship teams. It was an awesome sight in the true meaning of the word. That pipe dream had come true.

We parked, paid too much for it and went looking to have a beer. No beer before noon on Sundays in the city. Odd rule. So, we tried to walk around the stadium. You can’t walk all the way around the stadium. So, we just went in.

‘I love to see the green of the grass’ my father said with a twinkle in his eye. He began talking of his first visit to the stadium back before the renovation in the 60’s. Of our multiple trips to see Donnie Baseball and the likes of Rickey Henderson and Dave Winfield. The story of Lou Gehrig played on the big screen as the players warmed up on the field.

At the beginning of the game, I purchased the first round of beer and dogs. And we watched as the game unfolded. It wasn’t a particularly good game. The Yanks took it to ‘em 15-6. But it wasn’t really about that game in particular. It was about all the games that had ever been played in that stadium. It was about all the history. All the great plays. All the great wins. Even some of the devastating losses. But it was all about baseball. Every once in a while I stole a glance at the old man and watched him as he watched. And for all the differences of opinion, disagreements, and problems we ever had, I knew this memory would be one to overcome them all.

When the game had finished, we walked down near the field and surveyed the stadium one last time. Frank crooned. Cameras flashed. People lingered. After a few pictures, the old man turned to us and said, ‘Ready?’ We nodded and made our way into the tunnel.

On the eighteenth of April in Twenty-Three;
Hardly a man recalls the glee
Of Yankee Stadium’s first opening day.