Monday, April 2nd, 2001

Opening Day dawned cold and bleak. I tripped over all 4 guys sprawled out on my floor, making my way to the shower, with a stop beforehand to grab a beer from the fridge. The clock read 7:30AM.

By 9AM we were pounding beer and peeing in corners, huddled by a grill to combat the cold and smell the hot sausages on Blue Lou's grill. "Hey, I got some hot sausage for ya" basically every guy who sauntered by used as his way of saying good morning. Soon enough a drunken stickball game was underway, and all the ghosts from the past appeared once more on the top deck of the Stadium parking garage.

The barbecue continued on. DUI James was very drunk, wearing pants soaked with a bottles worth of beer, which in leiu of a woman he decided to take to bed with him the night before. His day started with a fruitless search around the Stadium "for a pair of pants." He stumbled around like the "Walk this Way" guy from Young Frankenstein. Meanwhile, Bald Ray was dropping fly balls on the tarmac and hearing it from his teammates, all playing with one hand, beers gripped tightly in the other.

It was all beautiful inside the Stadium. Apparently. We would not know, the stickball game on the roof was in extra innings. I was not even playing, but I was drawn to the action on the blacktop, and the 4 pints of beer still left in my bag. And at precisely the moment the World Championship flag went up, the culmination of the Yankee's proud efforts last year, the burial of the putrid Mutts, the messy climax on the heaving chest of the baseball world, where were we? Well, Gang Bang Steve was ducking a beanball from Knoblauch, dropping the bat, and heading for the mound. The benches cleared, and inside the Stadium they cheered.

We did make it inside though for that silly eagles 88th run from the roof, despite the best intentions of our cohorts to distract him from his route with the old "bird whistle from the bleachers" gag.

The Royals had the intimidating Jeff Suppan opening up their season, causing one fan to say they would have been better off with Dan Quisenberry's baseball card on the mound. We had Roger Clemens, who despite not being accepted by a ton of the David Wells groupies, was on his way that day to overtaking Big Train Johnson for the AL all-time strikeout mark. As for the bleacher all-time strikeout mark, that would be Mo Love Milton the Cowbell Man.

"Way to play left field!" people hooted at the pinstriped Chuck Knoblauch, as he jogged out to the newfangled fence out there with the little windows that make it look like a betting window at the track. We warned our own Knoblauch, who the night before dropped $40 in a one on one board game of SORRY to Capone, not to venture over there with his ragged luck.

Gang Bang, not as visibly intoxicated as the rest of us, was the first to notice the tombstone gray color now hosting the retired numbers. "Hey, look. They changed the color of that wall." he said to no one in particular, shaking his head in either wonder or disgust.

"It's easier on the eyes" Carletti stated, a perfect softball for me which I hit out of the park by countering "I wish you were."

I saw the Security guy who doppleganged for Rudy Guiliani ambling about, contrary to rumors that he had left to take the job of making sure people who board the Merry Ferry at Adventureland were at least 4 feet tall, so I took time from my tasks of hitting on chicks to run down and say hello. "Hey, I thought you were gone." I said in greeting, to which he looked at me, raised an eyebrow, snapped "You're drunk." and turned on his heel and left.

There were not too many jokes put on the scorecard cause we were all too busy gladhanding and rehashing old friendships. The first Tom Drum kicked off in the bottom of the 2nd, and I teeter tottered for a second before hitting it in fine fashion, gyrating on my bench. I was a bit out of practice, doing that on a bed on top of a lucky woman is not as good a practice for doing it standing on a bench as you would think.

Of course I missed the 2nd and 3rd Tom drums, once while taking a pee (and yes, the guys in the bathroom started pointing towards the downstairs ramp and the mens room and chanting Tom) and the other time flirting with some girl in the runway who was trying to trade her bra for my Sheriffs badge. Figuring I would end up with the bra anyway, or my floor would, and figuring wrong, I demurred.


"Nice marijauna hat, you stoner!" Gang Bang yelled as some retro hippie walked around smelling the flowers. We then began talking about Gaylord Perry for some reason.

For some reason Donahuge was in a bad mood, probably cause he left Blue Lou's barbecue before the ribs were on the grill, and he and I even engaged in a spat over a seat which actually did not belong to either one of us. Mo Love the Cowbell Man, bored of being booed for his incessant clanging early on, got involved as well, so we had our first portence of drama. Of course by the next batter and the next pass of a bottle it was all forgotten.

The game itself was more than predictable with the pitching matchup, and disparities in budget and heart alike. The Yankees won, yada yada yada. Then it was on to the bodega.

For some reason I made the mistake of picking a fight there....with Vegas Dennis' 8 year old son Theo. Basically I lost, that had to be the shots I garnered from Big Don that kept me off balance, and took a kick to the balls as I lay on the sidewalk in Rock at Wrestlemania fashion. What is it about me that causes little kids, and women for that matter, to want to hit me?

Somehow through this I made it home in time to drink even more beer and watch Raw with DUI James, now wearing ridiculous striped pants, and Grover. On to the next Stadium venture...

GAME 2 - WEDNESDAY, APRIL 4

Our first visit to Yancey Park across from the Stadium, and a chance for the tokers to hit Rocky Mountain High and get reacquanted. I tell you, the bleachers are the only baseball spot where the answer to the baseball question "what is high and outside" is "a bunch of the Creatures at 6PM before a night game." High, and outside.

Anyway, I made like a magician by making 4 pints dissapear in under an hour. I was a heat magnet, getting booed and hooted down for leaving the park 10 minutes early (Hell, I had no beer left anyway, what was I there for - the conversation??) to say hello to some lady friends of mine outside of that fine culinary establishment, Twins Fat Food. And keeping with the theme of the week, I did not get none from them either.

Before this all took place Tone Capone had parked his car, and was accosted by a finely dressed individual representing the Homeless Coalition, asking for a donation. Capone handed him a dollar, and the man offered him 2 stickers for his generosity, one a predictable American Flag (which is now on a post in the park to piss off the soccer players) and one that says "Don't Be A Dick"

I just find it funny that the same homeless guys that play beautiful melodies like the Godfather theme with an oboe inside the N train can also hand out stickers with the word Dick on them. I am happy they did, though, cause Capone ended up walking around with "Dick" on the back of his jacket all night, unbeknowenst to him.

Inside the Royals were greeted pleasantly with such friendly comments as "we'll see you in July when you are 30 games under .500!" and "nice team, jerkoffs!" For some reason people started piling thier jackets and coats in front of a consternated Diggety Dan, who exclaimed "How did I end up being the coat check?"

The first Tom dance that night was even more calamatous than the first one of the year, as I was on the loose seat that has harkened many a fall. I call it the Rowboat seat, cause dancing on it is like dancing on a rowboat. I was having fun, calling birthday boy Midget Mike "a figurine" and going face to face with Little Anthony in a fierce bump of chests, in a battle of supremacy. There are those little kids attacking me again....

The game started off in goofy fashion, with Soriano lining a ball down the left field line which would have scored Chuck Knoblauch, but the ball hit the ballboy of all things. I mean, Jesus Christ. Can you get out of the way? Then, in something even more odd, Queen Bee Tina came up with a joke. Fresh off of walking up the ramp with Sean she asked, "Did you guys see that? It was Jackie Gleason and Lucille Ball." We couldn't have said it better ourselves.

Our own Knoblauch was drunk, and frankly annoying, as he was looking all over for his "missing cell phone." "I just had it" he muttered, as the cell phone dangled for all to see but him right from the inside of his jersey. "Someone must have taken it." He started calling people out over that, but that was met with rolling eyes. The cell phone continued to hang a mere 6 inches from his eyes. Lucy had what must have been climactic pleasure in being the party pooper who alerted him to his staggering lack of comprehension.

A new bleacher friend, - code name Laura - came by to bemoan the fact that her boyfriend, while being a swell chum, was "a Met fan." Well, she said, at least he bought her to see Paul O'Neill at some art show. "Yeah" countered I, "but I could bring you to see God." Hey, they don't call me Humplestilsken just cause it sounds funny.

I asked Lucy to autograph my scorecard cause she gave me a Godiva Chocolate Covered Strawberry for me to fantasize about. Of course she signed right over the pitcher boxes on my scorecard, so Pettitte's impressive hurling line is basically superimposed for posterity by a melange of looping letters in an oh so feminine hand.

I have to call the strawberrry my best gift of the 2 games, just beating out Big D's volcanic mix, Bald Rays, um, Ginger Ale, a countless flurry of kisses, (too many confined to the cheek unfortunatly - but I would be remiss if I did not thank Rachel in particular...) and a picture of Gary Coleman riding a bike some kid gave me "cause he thought I would find it funny."

The crowd was up to their usual antics. Some schmoe in the box seats was tossed for throwing peanuts at us right in front of security. Jermaine Dye and Carlos Febles came together in a violent collision that prompted a "hey look, it's Tom and Mia" from Capone. Gene Monahan ran onto the field in ridiculous white pants, causing everyone to start yelling for a snow cone or a bomb pop.

Mo Love the Cowbell Man, who I shared many a laugh over the rail this week, sauntered up with a coffee, causing a disgusted Gang Bang to grab his crotch and howl, "Hey, you need some milk for that?"

In keeping with this frivolity, Bald Vinny was more animated than usual - I thought marijuana was supposed to make one mellow - causing Rudy to shout up at him, "Hey motormouth! Sit down!" I exchanged pleasantries with Rudy again, which seemingly consists of me saying "hello" and his reply being "you're drunk" Ah, some things never change...

When this game finally shot its load, I was able to score a ride home with Vegas Dennis, thus missing the first postgame 4 train party - (remember, folks, the last car), and as I drank my milk and ate my pork rinds and watched my porno I was happy. Cause I was back where I, and where we all belong. Greatest team in baseball history, the greatest fans, some friends I will take with me to my grave (don't worry - I am not considering killing anyone) and some real cuties with the booties. All hail Section 39.

See you over the weekend. I will be the drunk guy with the badge. If you are a woman, I would like your number, if you are a guy I would like your beer.

And remember - it is better to be pissed off than pissed on.

Sheriff Tom
It Doesn't Get Any Better Then This