September 25th, 2001 - First game back after 9/11

As penned a couple of weeks after 9/11, with minimal editing, the product of a muddled mind. This is presented with all due respect, and a sadness that lingers to this day.

The First Night Back - Tuesday, September 25, 2001

Well, I suppose it is 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. Most would argue I never could.

Our world changed on the 11th, even the little part of it that we called being a Bleacher Creature. Although my zest for caustic commentary has died a bit, my love for so many of you has grown. And when I remember back to that stupid, horrible day decades from now, (when, knowing me, I am probably decades dead), I will remember so many of you, and how this 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 all season took the time to say "I love you." Subsequently, the things I will take away from all of this is not necessarily 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 and fighting back tears. Or how, thanks to the benevolance 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 Little Mike at the Memorial inside 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 2 weeks later against Tampa Bay, who, may I add, is a team that really, really sucks.

Usually the top of each nights scorecard is reserved for campy lines such as "Knoblauch was eating 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."

Even before making it inside, we saw that our park, the place we drank and peed, copped feels and passed smokes in the rocks, was now a veritbale police precinct, with a police van taking up the same sandbox space that I had used to make sandcastles with neighborhood kids, and duck rocks that we would throw up in the air 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 months events. Bald Vinny and Uptown Mike were crouched on the sidewalk, gleeflully mixing birthday drinks for the Bald Baron. One year ago on that very day I was running around the section dressed in a gorilla costume at Mike Donahue's behest, making stupid muscle poses and sneaking hugs from any lady I could find. Bald Vinny ended up hopping on the benches that night, doing a rousing "Rick Rude", peeling off his shirt to a rousing choir of hoots and howls from a playful crowd. How times had changed, even in our stupid little section.

Getting in was evolution slow. Security was checking to make cell phones were really phones, sniffing bottled water, and waving the little magician wand that did not seem to work, cause it did not beep at the silly Sheriffs badge now in my pocket, which I know set that same thing off the time I went to court to answer that horrid peeing in public charge.

The night obviously started off with ceremonies, the same things we had seen so, no - getting close to too many times. It was touching, but the crowd was already itching to make the sadness go away, at least for a little while. Big Tone Capone was loud and boisterous, as somehow earlier he managed to kill at least a 6 pack under the smothering phalanx of cops around. 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 crew told him to shut it, and here we were again, fighting. It was actually nice to see.

We found out there will be an additon to Monument Park - a memorial to "those who perished in the WTC tragedy." I had always held out secret hope the next monument would hold my badge, Ali's plaque, Milton's cowbell, Walkman Johns scorebook, a few beers.....Funny how bleacher fantasies never seem to 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 the #176 on his hat, which made him look even less imposing than he was - the fact the year before he was #200 I guess signalled a promotion) - the Riddler to our Batman, 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 by the rail. But alas! Here he arrived, demanding Old Man Jimmy to give HIM the camera, so HE could take the picture so Jimmy could join the crew, join his bleacher family, as he should.

It just seemed so odd to see Old Man 176, who has individually told a few of us to "piss off" and would rather kindly escort Pops down the Wedding Aisle than me to seat LL 25, taking a picture of his nightly adversaries so Old Man Jimmy could be in it with us.

The finale to the pregame was our old friend, the Eagle who swoops down Opening Day to land on the mound in a fervent blaze of glory. Unfortunatly, a sad announcement was made that although the Eagle was in attendance he was not signing autographs till 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 the WTC. He would do no flying. Unfortunately, no one heard the announcement because Capone was talking so loud, so at the end of the Anthem everyone was craning towards the Stadium roof waiting for it to fly in, while the Eagle did a bit of a hop 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 them anyway.

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

Speaking of raucous ho's, anyone know where we can get one?

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, with the mayor giving a hasty wave from the radio booth. Our own Rudy, the security maven that was a dead ringer for the mayor in the radio booth, was greeted with "great job with the city" and "4 more years" every time he ambled up to stop us from using expletives.

But what proved that the "Creatures" were indeed back were the loud harangues of "Box Seats Suck! Box Seats Suck!" immediatly following the 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 was hollered up as the nosy upper deckers and mezzaniners 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 perch on the rail, asked aloud if "Does anyone know for sure if Stacker 2 works?" Remembering a man who took the stuff, I said "ask (insert fat bleacher guy here). He took it." Milton took one quick look at our portly friend and said "forget it...it don't work."

More lunacy abounded, as Jonathon pulled a portable TV out of nowhere and started setting up shop. First off, this was a night people could not 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 watched recanted? To see what else is going on in the major leagues, or down at Ground Zero? No. He bought a TV to see.....THE SEASON PREMIERE OF JAG. I mean, Lord.

Gang Bang Steve could not let this go, and immediatly began giving it to him, which prompted Jonathon'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."

Clemens started getting whomped early on, prompting Steve to call the proceedings on the field "oderous." But the emotion stayed high. There were other moments of levity, a "Osama Bin Laden 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 3 exclamation points. On top of this, and I have no idea of what the conversation was about at the time, the buzzing birthday boy Bald Vinny actually used the words "Gazelle" and "Perk" in a 10 second span.

Of course, in this time of mourning Take Me Out To The Ballgame (a dumb song to sing at a game anyway, cause why would you ask to be taken out to the ballgame when you are already there - that old gag) was replaced around the league by all sorts of versions of "God Bless America".

On this night it was a duet, with a deep voiced operatic guy joining an angelic woman. Of course, even this could not escape a joke. After the woman sweetly crooned the first bars, the deep male voice kicked in, prompting Little 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 it as a simple "change of octaves."

It would not be the bleachers without a couple of fights amongst the group, but being I was in a gladhanding mood and extra friendly due to the pregame ales, I did not partake in any. Turns out the nights 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 that it was so cold I was able to score lots of hugs) was near the end, when a man in a Fire Department uniform leaned over the rail of the mezzanine, his young son in his hand. As he gazed out, a man who I know 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....F D N Y!!!! F D N Y !!!! Everyone left in the seats at that late stage hopped up, pointed to this man, and chanted his name, touched their hearts, waved their flags. And he smiled, and waved back, and his kid, oblivious to it all, continued to play with the hat.

And that, aside from the hugs, is what I will take away from that night.

Thank you for reading, and God Bless you all.

Sheriff Tom