So today the Giants get another parade. As I walked through a crowded Penn Station this morning, I grinned with memories of days gone by. Been there, done that...going to victory parades got to be a chore, being a Yankee fan and all. We had too many! Well, lets go back to the 1998 Yankee Victory parade...
as penned over 13 years ago...we were soldiers once, and young.
****************************
That year I remember we got out there early, armed with M & M's, cherry lifesavers, wads of toilet paper (only some used) and various luncheon meats to throw at the large multitude of non-Yankee player and personnel who weaseled thier way into the parade. We were saving the heavier stuff, the halfway filled plastic orange soda bottles and kaiser rolls for the Giant Waving Hot Dog Guy, Pretzel Man, And Giant Soda With Giant Straw Guy. And dont forget the ANSKY guys.
This tomofoolery proceeds cause the parade to us Creatures has become inherently boring. Even only this second one in the 90's. If you really want to see a parade, just hang out in front of a VFW Hall until one comes by. Because 3 million show up for this parade, and you are bunched in a mass like a Russian buying his daily allotment of bread. If those 3 million went to but 2 games each, I don't need to tell you what we would do to attendance marks, but I digress....
So we had these "Big Apple Tour" buses that they were reserved for those Princess Di-killing papparazzi and other suits and ties who gave a corporate bigwig a handjob and ended up on the bus, pretending they were worthy of adulation from the cheering drunken masses. We're talking double-decker buses here. And with 2 levels of targets, no matter how clumsily you lob your armaments, you have a good propensity to hit somone on one of those 2 levels.
So here comes a bus, with a bunch of people waving those slow pose type waves, you know, that welcome the Harlem Globetrotters back from Gilligans Island kind of wave. I happened to have a unique piece of artillery, it was a cracker with a piece of ham inside. Who came up with that combo I will never know, but I was throwing, not eating today, so it worked for me. I placed careful aim on a bald head and threw it with an arc like a bimbos boob.
Ever see those scenes in slow motion, like when the cops partner gets shot on his last day on the job before retirement in every action thriller worth its salt? This is what happened here. That damn cracker started coming apart in mid-air, making a loose melange of crispy cracker and spinning ham. And plop, right in the face, top deck of a Big Apple Tour Bus....SISTER MARGUERITE, JOE TORRE'S NUN SISTER. I repeat, JOE TORRE'S NUN SISTER.
The ham actually stayed there on her head for a second before tumbling off the target, like a dart thrown by a drunk not hard enough to stick it to the board. Of course everyone saw it - ooh, you hit a nun, oh how could you, all that. Hey, i was the victim here! And all she could do up there on that bus is look down at me and smile knowingly, that loving smile of peace.
Cause deep down I think she knew the method to our madness. I mean, the joy of hitting a guy in a hot dog costume who can not put his phony arms up to block it is a thrill every kid should experience. Every sponsor gets a float, the guys who supply the straws for the soda get a float. Hell, I think the drunks who run on the field during the year have a float. I think they forgot this is a YANKEE parade.
Man, was abuse taken to walk the street that year. Political buffoon Betsy McCaughey Ross was there with a painted on Bozo the Clown grin and just as much makeup, and heard the "show your tits" chant, which she greeted with a quick wave of derision. 14 year old dancing high school girls had to hear "you'll be doing that on a table or a pole in 5 years!" Some kind soul stopped the parade from the front with the ANSKY guys right in front of us, and they were pelted with so much messy stuff it looked like they left with the entire alphabet on thier bare chests. The dancing grounds crew were met with as much enthusiasm as brakelights on the expressway.
So for years I have carried this around, that I pelted Sister Marguerite with a cracker sandwich containing some processed ham that probably started out as Porky the Pig Poop. But I got my diving judgement later that day, when leading a crowd at Jeremys Ale House (where beer is not just for breakfast anymore) in a kickline for New York, New York on a table I tumbled off and hurt my buttbone. Right on my glutimous maximous (but I managed to save my whole quart of beer as I fell, a talent i developed over the years)
I would have had a normal column today but someone (and I will not disclose names but his initials are 'gang bang steve' left my Wednesday scorecard in the Stadium with all the jokey fare I could accumulate, and I had that damned 6 of Michelob, so the old memory is not cranking. I was also not there Memorial Day, when I missed the unassisted triple play (figures, that calls back to last year when in a span of 2 days I missed an inside the park home run, a triple play, and a cartwheeling drunk out in LF cause I was in the runway drinking beer)
I was also not there Tuesday when there was complete and utter fisticuffs where the Tag Team of DUI James and Brooklyn Mike took on an old man that had a voice problem (his voice kept saying "Down in Front!") I heard it was the best fight out there since me and Teddy. Or me and Lucy. Or me and John with the mustache. Or me and Mia. Or me and Jasmine. Or me and Larry. Or me and Tina. Or me and Monster Mike. Or.....oh, geez, I have problems.
PS - have fun at the parade!
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Saturday, January 7, 2012
wrestling in town! Impact - Westbury - 1/6/12
Just got back from TNA in my town, at the veritable Theatre at Westbury, on Long Island. Show was quite compact, clocking in at just under two hours, including a 20 or so minute intermission tossed in for good measure. That said, a fun time was had, the crowd was raucous, the action was fun, and the interaction was something to behold.
Your opener was Austin Aries taking on young Jesse Sorensen, sans football. I was seated right on the aisle, which was the source of some amusement through the night. As Aries sauntered on by, Ring of Honor convo seemed to be flying all about. The crowd was chanting for Aries and hooting his honor, which he tried to temper to no avail. It was a fine match, short as house show matches tend to go, and Aries won clean. The fans rejoiced. Now that I think on it, i think its a tsk tsk of a thing that Sorensen did not have a football to hand off to a young fan looking to have their night capped.
Earl Hebner came out for the next match, heaped with crap over the Bret deal. He played it up, challenged fans to fight, showed off his nifty "Damn Right I Did" retort t-shirt to the "you screwed Bret" chants, and after doing a Bret strut he settled down to ref the womens match. Madison Rayne and Gail Kim took on Mickie James and Velvet Sky, who had the crowd all agog. I was distracted as many men were, and I believe the good girls took the duke. Earl did not get one of his famous "kiss the heel to make the crowd go nuts" kisses in, come to think of it.
Next Borash announced that although they were defending their titles at the ppv this coming weekend, tonight Crimson and Matt Morgan were going at one another, to see who was the best. The fans were confused, but seemingly in awe as the big men came to the ring. Morgan is obviously a behemoth. Whenever he comes around, people who dont know the wrestling all too well wonder aloud why he is there, and not in WWE. It was a hard hitting match, which many poop on, but I grew up enjoying big man battles and even adored Earthquake / Bubba Rogers brawls, so it was fine by me. Crimson seized the day to mild surprise, and the champs shook on it and left to applause.
Ah, time for Flair. He seemed, eh, deep in his cups. Fans were overjoyed to see the man, and he was met with much aplomb. He accompanied Gunner to the ring to face Devon. Flair put the badmouth on Devon, and then waxed poetic to the crowd. Talked about beating guys 30 miles down the road at the Garden for the last 30 years. He told Hebner to "call it like I see it, not how you see it' or he would "beat him up again." He also called a fan "Fat Boy" which was welcomed by many like an old friend. Everyone yayed. The match was fine, I do enjoy some Gunner. He won when Flair, playing classic old-school manager, grabbed some leg as Devon hoisted Gunner up, and next thing you know Devon was down and done, and the bad guys prevailed.
I believe this is where intermission kicked in. While Kurt Angle was signing before the show, and it was quite the madhouse while he was, Velvet Sky took to it at intermission, and joy abounded. She was very gracious, as was Angle, and aside from security moving people along at warp speed, people were in a good mood about it all.
Once the curtains drew on a long intermission, Kurt Angle and James Storm squared off. Angle was amusing, sorta smiling to the crowd before easing into an obscene gesture. Just to make sure no one missed this, he turned to the other side of the ring and did it again. Storm was his entertaining self. The match was hard hitting and fun, and Storm took the day, pinning Angle clean, which surprised the crap out of a lot of folks.
Here is where the fanfaronade really kicked off. Bully Ray came out for "your Main Event of the evening", feet from me and my aisle seat, and he immediatlely started howling down a kid for "almost touching him." He threatened to beat his ass, and this kid was plum scared. Bully then made a production of calling over more security, so he would not be touched on his way to the ring. Then, once there, he really set off into a harangue. First target? An 8 year old girl, of course. He flat-out said he would smack her in the face. He added he would then move on to "your mother....or is that your Dad?" He called out big sis too, saying "dont think I ever hit a woman before." To top this all off, under a loud chorus of boos, he added that this little girl would grow up to be in the kitchen doing the dishes, just like her Mommy. This was met with much derision. And, if this was not enough, Bully then made a run at a young scamp as if to kick them, scaring them half to death.
Partner Robert Roode than joined the fun, getting into quite the brouhaha with the guys directly behind me on his slow stroll to the ring. Apparently this jolly gent remarked to Roode as he went by, "you look like you can only press 185 pounds." Roode did not take a liking to this, and caustic barbs were exchanged. At one point Roode snapped, "what are you going to do about it????" and the guy said, and I quote, "um, nothing." Once Roode was gone and the coast was clear, the guy advised us to never crack wise to someone who works out for a living about what they can lift. Message sent. Though Roode was probably in character (I saw him do this same thing to even less an insult last time around in Westbury) he sure played it in menacing fashion. People were indeed shuddering at the antics of this man and his crony Bully Ray.
Once to the ring, Jeff Hardy came out, showered in adulation, for a 3-way which was set up to be a 2 on 1 beatdown. Yes, Hardy vs Roode vs Bully. NON-TITLE. Of course the heels crossed things up (when Bully decided he wanted to hone in on a pin that Roode had set up finely for himself, and he tossed Roode aside), and Hardy took advantage of this breakdown in communication to land a pinfall. Everyone was happy, things were set up nicely for the regular TNA party at ringside after this show with handshakes and flashbulbs, but i beat a hasty retreat to beat the traffic up on out of there (and got Hebner to sign my program to boot - somewhere along the line Borash spilled he was working his "10,000th match" on this evening, though Im sure that will be said at the next few house shows on the circuit as well.
Im sorry I didnt move for move on things here, just wanted to recap what was a fine and dandy night. This was their 6th time at Westbury, according to Don West, who was selling merch like a madman, and Ive been to all 6. While the crowds get smaller every time, and the shows get shorter, I had a Hell of a time and cant wait till they return to my town.
Thomas Brown
@sherifftom
Your opener was Austin Aries taking on young Jesse Sorensen, sans football. I was seated right on the aisle, which was the source of some amusement through the night. As Aries sauntered on by, Ring of Honor convo seemed to be flying all about. The crowd was chanting for Aries and hooting his honor, which he tried to temper to no avail. It was a fine match, short as house show matches tend to go, and Aries won clean. The fans rejoiced. Now that I think on it, i think its a tsk tsk of a thing that Sorensen did not have a football to hand off to a young fan looking to have their night capped.
Earl Hebner came out for the next match, heaped with crap over the Bret deal. He played it up, challenged fans to fight, showed off his nifty "Damn Right I Did" retort t-shirt to the "you screwed Bret" chants, and after doing a Bret strut he settled down to ref the womens match. Madison Rayne and Gail Kim took on Mickie James and Velvet Sky, who had the crowd all agog. I was distracted as many men were, and I believe the good girls took the duke. Earl did not get one of his famous "kiss the heel to make the crowd go nuts" kisses in, come to think of it.
Next Borash announced that although they were defending their titles at the ppv this coming weekend, tonight Crimson and Matt Morgan were going at one another, to see who was the best. The fans were confused, but seemingly in awe as the big men came to the ring. Morgan is obviously a behemoth. Whenever he comes around, people who dont know the wrestling all too well wonder aloud why he is there, and not in WWE. It was a hard hitting match, which many poop on, but I grew up enjoying big man battles and even adored Earthquake / Bubba Rogers brawls, so it was fine by me. Crimson seized the day to mild surprise, and the champs shook on it and left to applause.
Ah, time for Flair. He seemed, eh, deep in his cups. Fans were overjoyed to see the man, and he was met with much aplomb. He accompanied Gunner to the ring to face Devon. Flair put the badmouth on Devon, and then waxed poetic to the crowd. Talked about beating guys 30 miles down the road at the Garden for the last 30 years. He told Hebner to "call it like I see it, not how you see it' or he would "beat him up again." He also called a fan "Fat Boy" which was welcomed by many like an old friend. Everyone yayed. The match was fine, I do enjoy some Gunner. He won when Flair, playing classic old-school manager, grabbed some leg as Devon hoisted Gunner up, and next thing you know Devon was down and done, and the bad guys prevailed.
I believe this is where intermission kicked in. While Kurt Angle was signing before the show, and it was quite the madhouse while he was, Velvet Sky took to it at intermission, and joy abounded. She was very gracious, as was Angle, and aside from security moving people along at warp speed, people were in a good mood about it all.
Once the curtains drew on a long intermission, Kurt Angle and James Storm squared off. Angle was amusing, sorta smiling to the crowd before easing into an obscene gesture. Just to make sure no one missed this, he turned to the other side of the ring and did it again. Storm was his entertaining self. The match was hard hitting and fun, and Storm took the day, pinning Angle clean, which surprised the crap out of a lot of folks.
Here is where the fanfaronade really kicked off. Bully Ray came out for "your Main Event of the evening", feet from me and my aisle seat, and he immediatlely started howling down a kid for "almost touching him." He threatened to beat his ass, and this kid was plum scared. Bully then made a production of calling over more security, so he would not be touched on his way to the ring. Then, once there, he really set off into a harangue. First target? An 8 year old girl, of course. He flat-out said he would smack her in the face. He added he would then move on to "your mother....or is that your Dad?" He called out big sis too, saying "dont think I ever hit a woman before." To top this all off, under a loud chorus of boos, he added that this little girl would grow up to be in the kitchen doing the dishes, just like her Mommy. This was met with much derision. And, if this was not enough, Bully then made a run at a young scamp as if to kick them, scaring them half to death.
Partner Robert Roode than joined the fun, getting into quite the brouhaha with the guys directly behind me on his slow stroll to the ring. Apparently this jolly gent remarked to Roode as he went by, "you look like you can only press 185 pounds." Roode did not take a liking to this, and caustic barbs were exchanged. At one point Roode snapped, "what are you going to do about it????" and the guy said, and I quote, "um, nothing." Once Roode was gone and the coast was clear, the guy advised us to never crack wise to someone who works out for a living about what they can lift. Message sent. Though Roode was probably in character (I saw him do this same thing to even less an insult last time around in Westbury) he sure played it in menacing fashion. People were indeed shuddering at the antics of this man and his crony Bully Ray.
Once to the ring, Jeff Hardy came out, showered in adulation, for a 3-way which was set up to be a 2 on 1 beatdown. Yes, Hardy vs Roode vs Bully. NON-TITLE. Of course the heels crossed things up (when Bully decided he wanted to hone in on a pin that Roode had set up finely for himself, and he tossed Roode aside), and Hardy took advantage of this breakdown in communication to land a pinfall. Everyone was happy, things were set up nicely for the regular TNA party at ringside after this show with handshakes and flashbulbs, but i beat a hasty retreat to beat the traffic up on out of there (and got Hebner to sign my program to boot - somewhere along the line Borash spilled he was working his "10,000th match" on this evening, though Im sure that will be said at the next few house shows on the circuit as well.
Im sorry I didnt move for move on things here, just wanted to recap what was a fine and dandy night. This was their 6th time at Westbury, according to Don West, who was selling merch like a madman, and Ive been to all 6. While the crowds get smaller every time, and the shows get shorter, I had a Hell of a time and cant wait till they return to my town.
Thomas Brown
@sherifftom
Friday, June 17, 2011
Friday, May 20, 2011
BLEACHER FLASHBACK - Subway Series'n it!
As penned "with drunken pen" over a decade ago. How far we've come! Reprinted without permission (though its my own stuff)
Mutts come to the Bronx 2000 style!
Well, the weekend has passed like a kidney stone and I guess we survived. Of course, the weather took a turn that only Noah and Bing Crosby could love, and looking back on things only one of my weekend scorecards survived, so again I am doing this on memory alone. And considering my love affair with the beer bottle, this may not get us far.
Friday started off with cops polluting our park. Setting up park benches to accomadate all of the scalpers and imbibers they were planning to nab. The horses were even out, pooping all over the place. I simply retreated to the bleacher catacombs where i was joined by a drunken DUI James. He was very proud, he was booted out of cooking school earlier in the day. He claims for "showing up drunk" but I think it was cause he burned the truffle or souffle and staining his "Kiss the Cook" apron.
We were pretty waylaid by the time we walked, or I should say "stumbled" in. Met fans were being ragged of course. The Puerto Rican flags made an early appearance, prompting a tepid USA! USA! chant. It took Gang Bang Steve to note that Puerto Rico is actually a PART of the USA, so the chant was a bit sorta awry.
For the second week in a row punches flew in the bleachers. Of all things, the chicks were fighting. I guess the best thing I can say about that is that they were not swinging at me for once. The worst thing I can say is no clothes came off. The hoopla and hootenanny started with a Piazza jersey making the rounds, where unfortunatly someone trying to add mustard to thier hot dog slipped up along the line and "accidentally on purpose" deposited yellow spew on the 1 of his 31. Of course the victim turns around in time to see some skirt innocuously flinging water out of a straw at everyone, which causes his ugly girlfriend to start screaming like girls are prone to do. Punches then flew, eveyone cheered, laughed and patted one another on the back, and next thing we know me and some girls were sitting in Twins Fast Food, sheltered from the last 4 innings of the game. Then Loud Lucy comes stalking in, she also threw a punch and was rewarded for her gallant efforts.
Because of that we missed history being made as Bald Vinny passed a kidney stone in the bathroom while having a conversation with Kwik, who had no idea what was going on in that stall. The original idea for Vinny to give it out as some kind of award did not come to fruition, nor did my idea to play Bleacher Creature Survivor at Jeremy's Ale House, where we were going to vote one of our own not only off the table, but completely out of the bar.
Friday night ended as it always does, with people sprawled all over my apartment floor in a sea of beer cans, fried chicken, and cole slaw (God Damn that Palace Fried Chicken place) Even Junior ended up over somehow, and continued his streak of not saying anything but simply nodding and shaking his head a lot. I remember waking up at 5AM, tv on, Junior sitting in front intently watching, as Matlock played out on screen. MATLOCK.
Saturday started out more of the same, with the old drunken trek to the Stadium complete with dripping egg sandwiches and plenty of moaning and cursing, and a group outing to play pool at a nearby locale which shall remain nameless. Gang Bang Steve pretty much cleaned up on Big Tone Capone, but Anthony pretty much cleaned up on the beer. Needless to say, I was deep into my cups. It was during the Saturday affair that I noticed the Caliente Nacho Booth for the first time, as Steve sarcastically said the fact that they replaced our beloved beer stand with a nacho booth was "Fan-fu*king-tastic."
My brother Dave managed to make some friends next door in the box seats using that old Brown family charm, who felt bad we could not partake in the merriment of alcohol. So some dude threw him over a bottle, and it cleared the space between seating areas fine, but tipped off of Dave's hand and ended up rolling into the mentally handicapped section in front of the bleachers. So thanks to Dave, not only did those folks have the best seats in the house (well, the ones not in wheelchairs, actually) but they got to have a nip of Rum on the box seat morons with bad aim.
I was a good boy that night. The good news is I went to sleep real early, the bad news is I did it in the bar sometime around 6. By the time I woke up around the witching hour the party was generally coming to a halt....anyone know how I got home?
Of course all day Sunday rain was in the air, but like funny lines from Walkman John, it did not appear. Until game time, of course. I will never get our suicidal nature when it comes to the rain. Everyone just stands there shirt off, hooting and hollering like a nursing home bingo game gone mad. And then the daredevil activities that have us known far and wide commence.
Angry Teddy, usually known more for his dour nature than the flair for the dramatic, brazenly announced "hey, look at me!" and took off with a running start, doing a perfect swan dive onto the wet benches where he continued to slide for like 25 feet, splashing water like a sprinkler. Of course I can not stand around while someone else decides to put on a show, so I make an attempt. Like 5 times. And like 5 times, rather then sliding effortlessly like Teddy, I plopped down on the benches like a guy falling off a roof and crashing onto concrete. My black and blues have black and blues. At least once I ended up between the benches, on the wet ground. The only thing that area is usually good for is escaping punches when you are attacked by a gang.
Then, in one of the more surreal things I have ever seen around Section 39, a chipper officer of the law, impressed how well we physically hide our alcohol stash and mysteriously still get drunk, started busting on me how bad my diving was. He said I looked like a guy plopping out of a wheelchair when the attendant is playing a joke and stops short. So I was like, "lets see what YOU got, Car 54 where are you guy". Fully expecting the cuffs to come out, instead he stepped back, did the old running start Teddy made so famous, and slid across the benches. Next time a cop busts me for open container or pissing in a public forum, I will not be able to look at that uniform the same.
That was a Hell of a lot of fun, although it should go into the "lawsuit about to happen" category.
Basically, what happened this column is that the weekend was a blur, what with the alcohol and the general mayhem of the Mets coming to the Bronx. I am going to try and pay more attention out there, both to get some more worthy names into the columns, and so I do not waste all my time pissing people off with my drunken antics. My drunken Tom Tom dances on the bench didnt go so well - insults and debris were flying due to first-timers and Mutt fans, but that is the point of playing the heel I guess.
Until next time, make merry and break stuff and God Bless us all, everyone.
Mutts come to the Bronx 2000 style!
Well, the weekend has passed like a kidney stone and I guess we survived. Of course, the weather took a turn that only Noah and Bing Crosby could love, and looking back on things only one of my weekend scorecards survived, so again I am doing this on memory alone. And considering my love affair with the beer bottle, this may not get us far.
Friday started off with cops polluting our park. Setting up park benches to accomadate all of the scalpers and imbibers they were planning to nab. The horses were even out, pooping all over the place. I simply retreated to the bleacher catacombs where i was joined by a drunken DUI James. He was very proud, he was booted out of cooking school earlier in the day. He claims for "showing up drunk" but I think it was cause he burned the truffle or souffle and staining his "Kiss the Cook" apron.
We were pretty waylaid by the time we walked, or I should say "stumbled" in. Met fans were being ragged of course. The Puerto Rican flags made an early appearance, prompting a tepid USA! USA! chant. It took Gang Bang Steve to note that Puerto Rico is actually a PART of the USA, so the chant was a bit sorta awry.
For the second week in a row punches flew in the bleachers. Of all things, the chicks were fighting. I guess the best thing I can say about that is that they were not swinging at me for once. The worst thing I can say is no clothes came off. The hoopla and hootenanny started with a Piazza jersey making the rounds, where unfortunatly someone trying to add mustard to thier hot dog slipped up along the line and "accidentally on purpose" deposited yellow spew on the 1 of his 31. Of course the victim turns around in time to see some skirt innocuously flinging water out of a straw at everyone, which causes his ugly girlfriend to start screaming like girls are prone to do. Punches then flew, eveyone cheered, laughed and patted one another on the back, and next thing we know me and some girls were sitting in Twins Fast Food, sheltered from the last 4 innings of the game. Then Loud Lucy comes stalking in, she also threw a punch and was rewarded for her gallant efforts.
Because of that we missed history being made as Bald Vinny passed a kidney stone in the bathroom while having a conversation with Kwik, who had no idea what was going on in that stall. The original idea for Vinny to give it out as some kind of award did not come to fruition, nor did my idea to play Bleacher Creature Survivor at Jeremy's Ale House, where we were going to vote one of our own not only off the table, but completely out of the bar.
Friday night ended as it always does, with people sprawled all over my apartment floor in a sea of beer cans, fried chicken, and cole slaw (God Damn that Palace Fried Chicken place) Even Junior ended up over somehow, and continued his streak of not saying anything but simply nodding and shaking his head a lot. I remember waking up at 5AM, tv on, Junior sitting in front intently watching, as Matlock played out on screen. MATLOCK.
Saturday started out more of the same, with the old drunken trek to the Stadium complete with dripping egg sandwiches and plenty of moaning and cursing, and a group outing to play pool at a nearby locale which shall remain nameless. Gang Bang Steve pretty much cleaned up on Big Tone Capone, but Anthony pretty much cleaned up on the beer. Needless to say, I was deep into my cups. It was during the Saturday affair that I noticed the Caliente Nacho Booth for the first time, as Steve sarcastically said the fact that they replaced our beloved beer stand with a nacho booth was "Fan-fu*king-tastic."
My brother Dave managed to make some friends next door in the box seats using that old Brown family charm, who felt bad we could not partake in the merriment of alcohol. So some dude threw him over a bottle, and it cleared the space between seating areas fine, but tipped off of Dave's hand and ended up rolling into the mentally handicapped section in front of the bleachers. So thanks to Dave, not only did those folks have the best seats in the house (well, the ones not in wheelchairs, actually) but they got to have a nip of Rum on the box seat morons with bad aim.
I was a good boy that night. The good news is I went to sleep real early, the bad news is I did it in the bar sometime around 6. By the time I woke up around the witching hour the party was generally coming to a halt....anyone know how I got home?
Of course all day Sunday rain was in the air, but like funny lines from Walkman John, it did not appear. Until game time, of course. I will never get our suicidal nature when it comes to the rain. Everyone just stands there shirt off, hooting and hollering like a nursing home bingo game gone mad. And then the daredevil activities that have us known far and wide commence.
Angry Teddy, usually known more for his dour nature than the flair for the dramatic, brazenly announced "hey, look at me!" and took off with a running start, doing a perfect swan dive onto the wet benches where he continued to slide for like 25 feet, splashing water like a sprinkler. Of course I can not stand around while someone else decides to put on a show, so I make an attempt. Like 5 times. And like 5 times, rather then sliding effortlessly like Teddy, I plopped down on the benches like a guy falling off a roof and crashing onto concrete. My black and blues have black and blues. At least once I ended up between the benches, on the wet ground. The only thing that area is usually good for is escaping punches when you are attacked by a gang.
Then, in one of the more surreal things I have ever seen around Section 39, a chipper officer of the law, impressed how well we physically hide our alcohol stash and mysteriously still get drunk, started busting on me how bad my diving was. He said I looked like a guy plopping out of a wheelchair when the attendant is playing a joke and stops short. So I was like, "lets see what YOU got, Car 54 where are you guy". Fully expecting the cuffs to come out, instead he stepped back, did the old running start Teddy made so famous, and slid across the benches. Next time a cop busts me for open container or pissing in a public forum, I will not be able to look at that uniform the same.
That was a Hell of a lot of fun, although it should go into the "lawsuit about to happen" category.
Basically, what happened this column is that the weekend was a blur, what with the alcohol and the general mayhem of the Mets coming to the Bronx. I am going to try and pay more attention out there, both to get some more worthy names into the columns, and so I do not waste all my time pissing people off with my drunken antics. My drunken Tom Tom dances on the bench didnt go so well - insults and debris were flying due to first-timers and Mutt fans, but that is the point of playing the heel I guess.
Until next time, make merry and break stuff and God Bless us all, everyone.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
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
Thursday, March 17, 2011
St Pats Day Brouhaha!
Well, on this St Patricks Day, while I am safely enconsed at work, lets go back into my archives for a St Patricks Day brouhaha! Reprinted without permission.
I am one of those few fabled drinkers that gets calls from long-lost buddies on St Pats, wishing me a good one, like people get on their birthdays or on Christmas morn. My friend Dave just called me after many a month, and after we blew the dust off things he recanted a favorite Sheriff Tom St Pats memory, the time I was roughed up by a female cop who I had just happened to have attended high school with on that storied day.
I was quite the Irish rover that day. Green beer, a shot here and there and Hell, I think at one point I even took my beer soaked shirt and stuck a bit in my mouth to suck off the excess foam for a while. I sang Irish ditties, and danced a jig. I told every Irish joke I knew, loudly. With each drink i found the bagpipe more and more amazing. By the time I left the last bar, not by choice mind you, I decided I wanted to put aside the harmonica I had at home and forget about my allusions to playing the violin or viola and learn the bagpipe. But those thoughts were quashed by a more pressing issue....an altercation inside your friendly neighborhood West 4th Street Subway Station.
I approached the ticket booth cause these were the arcane pre-Metrocard days, and was chagrined to find a line. Its one thing to wait in line to buy Yankee tickets or pee on the grave of an enemy, but not to buy a token to give you the means to pass out on the C train and ride back and forth from the Bronx to Queens all night. I decided to move things along, by saying real loud, "um, can we move along please?" Just like that. Only a little slurrier. And with more urgency. Oh, and curse words too.
You see, heres why we had this line in the first place. Cause it was St Pats you had a lot of people that decided to take their alcoholism to the streets and not out of their cupboard at home or hidden desk drawer at work for a change, and you had people in the city for the first time solely to buy a plasic green leprachaun hat or a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" balloon. While I hated the idea of the line in front of me, I will admit it was a pretty line, with all the green colors decorating the people going nowhere in it.
Amazingly enough I made it to the front of the line without having to flash dukes or even tell anyone that was too curious to face eyes front, but I could not leave it well enough alone once I came face to face with your resident token clerk. She was almost as unhappy enough to be working the booth that day as I was to have to stand in that line while already having to pee. We ended up in a verbal altercation, and I am not too sure what precipitated it. She may have simply said "Top of the morning to you!" for all I know. Still grumpy about the turtles engaging in foreplay speed of the line, I had a few cracks for her, which I spiced up with an epitaph or two. All in a brogue tinged with as much cadence as rancor.
And then it happened. The schmoe behind me put thier hand on my shoulder. I cant have that, I dont like to be touched there except during the tender act of lovemaking. I sort of shrugged it off, as by now I was pointing at the lickspittle in the booth and telling her where to go, and exactly how to get there. It was to Hell, via way of suc*ing my *@()@ or some such thing.
By now my shoulder was being tugged and I was being led away. At this point I already had my token so I really did not need the booth anymore anyway. But as I turned I decided to shove whoever decided to take me for a waltz. I mean why not? I am a man, not a bag of chips to rustle your hands through.
It was only after I made my contact that I noticed the police uniform. Not just any police uniform, these duds just screamed Double-XL. It was a woman, or a reasonable facsimile of such, big enough to crush dreams as she walked. And she was not happy with me. But how many women were back then?
You ever see footage from the 1880s of little girls in dresses smacking a hoop in front of them on some prairie grass as they run? Well, she was that little girl and I was that hoop. And the cement was that prairie grass. I ended up on the cold subway surface, after having taken a right turn at the corner of "upside down" and a quick stop at "on my head."
I knew I was in trouble now. For one thing, I still had to pee. For another, I had a cop standing over me, cursing, and there were kids around. And they were laughing. I envied them and their balloons. They had the whole night in front of them, and I had this female cop that looked like Kathy Bates and was snarling down from an Andre the Giant frame.
I started to get up but she must have been tired and chose to use me for a footstool. Hey, I like a little foot fetish here and there, who doesnt want a boot on the back of thier head now and then? This, though, was not my idea of that fantasy evening. She was quite the tease too, that firebrand, telling me to get up as she grinded a heel on the head. I think that is where I got my bald spot, from her boot.
To make a long story even longer, she picked me up, with help from her stereotypical cop buddy, as I was listless and drunk. I was led out of the subway station to the applause of those I regaled with my improv performance at the ticket booth. "Please tip your waitresses! Try the veal!" I remember saying to the guffawing minions. "Keep walking, motherf***er" my new friends in badges snarled in response to my one-man show.
I was put in the back of a van, which already had a couple of sullen sods, one wearing a Hawaiin Lei for some reason. I wish I could give you more details of the denizens in the cramped van (or at least make some good ones up) but my mind was in, "oh, s**t. This is going to take some explaining" mode. I still had to pee but I think asking to stop at the Wendy's on the way was a bad idea. Didnt stop me from asking...I could have used a Frosty too. Obviously the trip continued sans Frosty.
The behemoth, now in the passenger seat with a s**t-eating grin on her face (in place of the usual cake frosting usually on there) then hit me with the most sobering statement of the day (at least since one of the bagpipers told me, "no, the Chinese dont play the bagpipes as far as I know") when she said, "I can't believe we went to high school together."
My heart dropped and I burped and it tasted like beer. Normally I would try to burp again to taste more beer, but for now I had to put these words together in my cloudy and already prematurely balding head. High school together??? Oh, crap, I realized. It was {name deleted to protect the guilty). My only memory of her was a comic one, sitting on her shoulders in a pool only 5 or so years before, playing chicken at a party at a mutual friends house. She was obviously pretty big even then if I was on her shoulders. She and I sure did have quite the relationship, huh? First I ride on her shoulders and then she sticks her boot on the nape of my neck.
I honestly dont remember much after that, outside of sitting in a cell almost as small as the bathroom in my apartment in Long Island City (although the cell was much cleaner). One of those cops that masquerades as a tough guy behind the other side of the bars from those he accosts came to visit and threaten to "beat me up" for HITTING A COP. I "hit a cop" now??? All i had done was shoo my arm away from her. If all the hot dogs she ate had the same idea maybe she would have never gotten that fat.
In sumnation, the charges were dropped. NOTHING came of it. I was left to stew overnight in a vain effort to scare me (I dont scare easily, I once lived in a roach-filled apartment in Albany) and I think I visited a judge, but I am not sure. (I have seen so many they kind of all blend in together)
The moral of this story? There is none, cept maybe turn around to take a peek at who you may or may not shove in the future when they grab at your shoulder. And do your own research on bagpipes and who invented them and plays them before you ask a bagpiper that is not in the mood to answer any questions.
I am one of those few fabled drinkers that gets calls from long-lost buddies on St Pats, wishing me a good one, like people get on their birthdays or on Christmas morn. My friend Dave just called me after many a month, and after we blew the dust off things he recanted a favorite Sheriff Tom St Pats memory, the time I was roughed up by a female cop who I had just happened to have attended high school with on that storied day.
I was quite the Irish rover that day. Green beer, a shot here and there and Hell, I think at one point I even took my beer soaked shirt and stuck a bit in my mouth to suck off the excess foam for a while. I sang Irish ditties, and danced a jig. I told every Irish joke I knew, loudly. With each drink i found the bagpipe more and more amazing. By the time I left the last bar, not by choice mind you, I decided I wanted to put aside the harmonica I had at home and forget about my allusions to playing the violin or viola and learn the bagpipe. But those thoughts were quashed by a more pressing issue....an altercation inside your friendly neighborhood West 4th Street Subway Station.
I approached the ticket booth cause these were the arcane pre-Metrocard days, and was chagrined to find a line. Its one thing to wait in line to buy Yankee tickets or pee on the grave of an enemy, but not to buy a token to give you the means to pass out on the C train and ride back and forth from the Bronx to Queens all night. I decided to move things along, by saying real loud, "um, can we move along please?" Just like that. Only a little slurrier. And with more urgency. Oh, and curse words too.
You see, heres why we had this line in the first place. Cause it was St Pats you had a lot of people that decided to take their alcoholism to the streets and not out of their cupboard at home or hidden desk drawer at work for a change, and you had people in the city for the first time solely to buy a plasic green leprachaun hat or a "Kiss Me, I'm Irish!" balloon. While I hated the idea of the line in front of me, I will admit it was a pretty line, with all the green colors decorating the people going nowhere in it.
Amazingly enough I made it to the front of the line without having to flash dukes or even tell anyone that was too curious to face eyes front, but I could not leave it well enough alone once I came face to face with your resident token clerk. She was almost as unhappy enough to be working the booth that day as I was to have to stand in that line while already having to pee. We ended up in a verbal altercation, and I am not too sure what precipitated it. She may have simply said "Top of the morning to you!" for all I know. Still grumpy about the turtles engaging in foreplay speed of the line, I had a few cracks for her, which I spiced up with an epitaph or two. All in a brogue tinged with as much cadence as rancor.
And then it happened. The schmoe behind me put thier hand on my shoulder. I cant have that, I dont like to be touched there except during the tender act of lovemaking. I sort of shrugged it off, as by now I was pointing at the lickspittle in the booth and telling her where to go, and exactly how to get there. It was to Hell, via way of suc*ing my *@()@ or some such thing.
By now my shoulder was being tugged and I was being led away. At this point I already had my token so I really did not need the booth anymore anyway. But as I turned I decided to shove whoever decided to take me for a waltz. I mean why not? I am a man, not a bag of chips to rustle your hands through.
It was only after I made my contact that I noticed the police uniform. Not just any police uniform, these duds just screamed Double-XL. It was a woman, or a reasonable facsimile of such, big enough to crush dreams as she walked. And she was not happy with me. But how many women were back then?
You ever see footage from the 1880s of little girls in dresses smacking a hoop in front of them on some prairie grass as they run? Well, she was that little girl and I was that hoop. And the cement was that prairie grass. I ended up on the cold subway surface, after having taken a right turn at the corner of "upside down" and a quick stop at "on my head."
I knew I was in trouble now. For one thing, I still had to pee. For another, I had a cop standing over me, cursing, and there were kids around. And they were laughing. I envied them and their balloons. They had the whole night in front of them, and I had this female cop that looked like Kathy Bates and was snarling down from an Andre the Giant frame.
I started to get up but she must have been tired and chose to use me for a footstool. Hey, I like a little foot fetish here and there, who doesnt want a boot on the back of thier head now and then? This, though, was not my idea of that fantasy evening. She was quite the tease too, that firebrand, telling me to get up as she grinded a heel on the head. I think that is where I got my bald spot, from her boot.
To make a long story even longer, she picked me up, with help from her stereotypical cop buddy, as I was listless and drunk. I was led out of the subway station to the applause of those I regaled with my improv performance at the ticket booth. "Please tip your waitresses! Try the veal!" I remember saying to the guffawing minions. "Keep walking, motherf***er" my new friends in badges snarled in response to my one-man show.
I was put in the back of a van, which already had a couple of sullen sods, one wearing a Hawaiin Lei for some reason. I wish I could give you more details of the denizens in the cramped van (or at least make some good ones up) but my mind was in, "oh, s**t. This is going to take some explaining" mode. I still had to pee but I think asking to stop at the Wendy's on the way was a bad idea. Didnt stop me from asking...I could have used a Frosty too. Obviously the trip continued sans Frosty.
The behemoth, now in the passenger seat with a s**t-eating grin on her face (in place of the usual cake frosting usually on there) then hit me with the most sobering statement of the day (at least since one of the bagpipers told me, "no, the Chinese dont play the bagpipes as far as I know") when she said, "I can't believe we went to high school together."
My heart dropped and I burped and it tasted like beer. Normally I would try to burp again to taste more beer, but for now I had to put these words together in my cloudy and already prematurely balding head. High school together??? Oh, crap, I realized. It was {name deleted to protect the guilty). My only memory of her was a comic one, sitting on her shoulders in a pool only 5 or so years before, playing chicken at a party at a mutual friends house. She was obviously pretty big even then if I was on her shoulders. She and I sure did have quite the relationship, huh? First I ride on her shoulders and then she sticks her boot on the nape of my neck.
I honestly dont remember much after that, outside of sitting in a cell almost as small as the bathroom in my apartment in Long Island City (although the cell was much cleaner). One of those cops that masquerades as a tough guy behind the other side of the bars from those he accosts came to visit and threaten to "beat me up" for HITTING A COP. I "hit a cop" now??? All i had done was shoo my arm away from her. If all the hot dogs she ate had the same idea maybe she would have never gotten that fat.
In sumnation, the charges were dropped. NOTHING came of it. I was left to stew overnight in a vain effort to scare me (I dont scare easily, I once lived in a roach-filled apartment in Albany) and I think I visited a judge, but I am not sure. (I have seen so many they kind of all blend in together)
The moral of this story? There is none, cept maybe turn around to take a peek at who you may or may not shove in the future when they grab at your shoulder. And do your own research on bagpipes and who invented them and plays them before you ask a bagpiper that is not in the mood to answer any questions.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
PLAYOFFS! 10/4/95 - THE LEYRITZ HR GAME!
1995 Wildcard - Game 2!!
October 4th, 1995 - Yankees host the Mariners
The Leyritz home run game!
Handwriting is a little more sloppy on this scorecard, so I obviously found some time for pregame drinks, whereas I did not partake before game 1. But it is all highly legible, so I was coherent and lucid, unlike, say, game 6 of the 1996 World Series...but we'll get to that in due time.
The cynical bastards that we were, we were already joking about the bunting adorning the tiers. We were already tired of looking at it, and thinking about it now it was something we grew to completely take for granted. "Looks like Grandma sewed that fu*king stuff." someone said.
"Welcome to the fu*king show!" howled the burly Captain Bob, with both beefy arms held aloft. I remember when he got so excited about the Yankees even getting a sniff of first place during a regular season campaign...I have a picture at home of Captain Bob holding up a newspaper aloft in the street by the Stadium, with Jim Abbott pitching on the back cover, with the headline tag, "Hey,Abbott, Yankees are in first!" And there is Bob in the picture, with the biggest shit-eating grin ever, celebrating a first-place tie in the month of July...did not take much to please a Yankee fan in the dark days.
Phil Rizzuto threw out the first pitch, which caused people to yammer on and on about how much he was missed in the TV booth. There was a guy going topless on this cool, drizzly night, but knowing he was inviting trouble in his attempt to get on TV he had "I'm an asshole" painted in blue paint on his back. "What an asshole" we muttered, as he walked by.
While we settled in we discussed our pregame activities, which included a "God bless the bowling alley bathroom" from me. Hell, they just closed down that bowling alley this year of 2010, and I wanted to out there to light candles and hold vigil. There had been a guy walking around outside the Stadium beforehand, gladhanding and drinking out of a bag, dressed as the Pope with big Pope hat and everything. We looked around for him in the bleachers as he was last seen by the gate, but to no avail. "He must be in Stans, drinking out of the almighty chalice" someone speculated.
I gave a nod to the true old-schoolers who were on hand. From Captain Bob to our loud friend Kevin, Animal to Elder George, Queen Bee Tina to Cowbell King Ali, and a cast of thousands that "no one wants" - it was all for them. Tina was on seat patrol, and got into quite the spat over a corner seat that she would not relinquish. "What, is your name on that seat?" one guy snapped, to which Tina shot right back with "as a matter of fact, now that you mention it..."
I see where we were hung up over a bad call on the field for a while. It even got a "bull-fu*king-shit" out of someone named Joey three different times. Someone blamed it on us all standing up during the play. "Every time we stand up, something bad happens." he grumbled. Wish I could have introduced him to Junior years down the line, who would stand up at something as meaningless the appearance of a bird. Regarding the call on the field, someone shouted, "Ump, you couldnt lead Ray Charles through the forest! You asshole!"
We were keeping a running tab on bad umpire calls, and it reached 3. And, in quite the coincidence, Buck Showalter made 3 different appearances on the field to question calls on that cool October evening.
A fistfight actually broke out, and to no one's surprise our very own Animal was involved. I wrote down an abridged play by play - a guy was arguing over a seat, Animal told him to get to stepping, he went after Animal, and a third guy jumped in. Well, first guy and third guy gone, Animal gets to stay. Amazing how that worked in our own gated community out there.
"Bear Ass", my tagalong stuffed bear, was back on hand, with the Yankees record with him now on hand standing at 12-1. The unthinkable happened as he dissapeared at exactly 8:08, and I thought he was stolen and cut to shreds for shits and giggles, but he reappeared at 8:20. In a comic note, I handed him off to one of the old crew to "babysit." The babysitter on that night? Some fine chap named John Hughes. You know, the guy that was later "arrested for counterfeiting money." This was a story I made up years later to explain his sudden dissapearance. Of course years laster he shows back up, and everyone thinks he just got out of jail for counterfeiting money. Meanwhile, he was out getting an education.
He ended up autographing the scorecard (another bad gimmick bought back for the playoffs) as did Syphills Joe, who even added the tagline, "Syphillis....it all started with a simple kiss!"
This game went deep, into the 15th, and by the time I got to page 2 "The Pope" from outside reappeared. "Jesus Christ, the Pope is here!" someone howled, bemused. By then the ground beneath our feet was covered in a sea of empty beer cups and George, among others, proudly announced, "after we win, these cups are going that way" - pointing either to the field or to the people in front of us that annoyed us all night by standing up for all the wrong reasons.
When I remember in my head some of the funny lines over time and recount the simplicity of some of our wit and humor, this one always came to mind, and it was from this very night....a guy with a Gilligan hat was one of those people standing up and blocking our view at all the wrong times, and finally fed up with it someone shouted, "Down in front, Little Buddy!"
Its amazing at how, even during a playoff game, we could find time to argue about something dumb, or wonder about stupid minutia that has nothing to do with the task at hand. After a couple of innings of seeking out the answer we finally learned that the song that "Dancing Homer" did his thing to was in fact called "The Baby Elephant Dance."
I went through both sides of the scorecard during this extra inning tilt, and Page 2 has the 11th through the 15th innings, and even that late we were still grousing about the umps. "The ump needs to get out of here early, he has to get up in the morning for umpire school." someone reasoned. "Even the OJ jury would not find those umps innocent of killing us" someone chirped in. "This is a tragedy...a debaucle" someone surmised.
But all is well that ends well. I dont remember exactly what happened, but leading into Leyritz' home run apparently the Yankees got handed an "even-up call." "I can hear the ump now" someone said just before Leyritz laid into one. "Games over, Yankees win, go home."
You always get some of these...I had to comment on the spate of people that actually got up, collected their coats, and left with a 4-4 playoff game in front of them. I understand the game ended up at 1:20 in the morning, but come on now...
And after that ending, one of the moments out there that will stay with me FOREVER, maybe the first one I experienced of dozens of magical moments the next few years. 10 minutes of celebrating in the rain, singing to New York New York, hugs and handshakes, dancing on the benches, slipping off and falling down, only to clamber up again. Someone passed around a flask, and we struggled to light soggy cigars. But that singing....I will never forget the Stadium singing in unison, and our high hopes for the rest of the playoffs. And it was incredible to spend it with that crew that was out there on that night, in that fashion. Good times, good times...
I'll make this quick. You dont need a recap from me on a playoff game, and this is long already. Here are your starting lineups for posterity...the Yankees marched out 3B Boggs, CF BW, RF O'Neill, DH Sierra (a few "where's Strawberry"s were uttered despite Sierra's monster spurts), 1B Mattingly, LF Dion James (lol), C Leyritz, SS Fernandez, and 2B Velarde. Your Yankee hurlers on the night were Pettitte, Wickman, Wetteland, and Rivera, who went 3.1 innings of scoreless ball to notch the W just a day after I had written down that he was not eligible for the playoff roster.
And Sierra did it AGAIN. Another home run, and for the second time in a matter of weeks a home run right to our little gaggle out there in Section 39. Don Mattingly, in the middle of his last stand, followed that with a home run of his own, there to lead off the 6th, and put the crowd all agog.
The Mariners countered with LF Coleman, SS Sojo, CF Griffey, DH E Martinez, RF Buhner, 3B Blowers, 1B Tino, C Wilson, and 2B Cora. That pesky bastard. On the hill we saw Andy Benes, Bill Risley, Charlton, Jeff Nelson, and of course, Timothy Belcher, who belched up the winning HR.
5 hours and 12 minutes to play. Yes, 5 hours and 12 minutes. 57,126 on hand, with no less than 678,203 claiming they were there that night currently. Your umpires on hand were none other than Dale Scott, Jim McKean, Larry McCoy, Rich Garcia, Mike Reilly, and the ever-popular Jim Joyce.
And THAT puts a wrap on the playoffs of 1995. And what comes next but 1996.....the jokes will become more biting, the characters the more vivid, the beer even better.
See you soon with your first installments of the wild ride that was 1996!!!!!!!!
October 4th, 1995 - Yankees host the Mariners
The Leyritz home run game!
Handwriting is a little more sloppy on this scorecard, so I obviously found some time for pregame drinks, whereas I did not partake before game 1. But it is all highly legible, so I was coherent and lucid, unlike, say, game 6 of the 1996 World Series...but we'll get to that in due time.
The cynical bastards that we were, we were already joking about the bunting adorning the tiers. We were already tired of looking at it, and thinking about it now it was something we grew to completely take for granted. "Looks like Grandma sewed that fu*king stuff." someone said.
"Welcome to the fu*king show!" howled the burly Captain Bob, with both beefy arms held aloft. I remember when he got so excited about the Yankees even getting a sniff of first place during a regular season campaign...I have a picture at home of Captain Bob holding up a newspaper aloft in the street by the Stadium, with Jim Abbott pitching on the back cover, with the headline tag, "Hey,Abbott, Yankees are in first!" And there is Bob in the picture, with the biggest shit-eating grin ever, celebrating a first-place tie in the month of July...did not take much to please a Yankee fan in the dark days.
Phil Rizzuto threw out the first pitch, which caused people to yammer on and on about how much he was missed in the TV booth. There was a guy going topless on this cool, drizzly night, but knowing he was inviting trouble in his attempt to get on TV he had "I'm an asshole" painted in blue paint on his back. "What an asshole" we muttered, as he walked by.
While we settled in we discussed our pregame activities, which included a "God bless the bowling alley bathroom" from me. Hell, they just closed down that bowling alley this year of 2010, and I wanted to out there to light candles and hold vigil. There had been a guy walking around outside the Stadium beforehand, gladhanding and drinking out of a bag, dressed as the Pope with big Pope hat and everything. We looked around for him in the bleachers as he was last seen by the gate, but to no avail. "He must be in Stans, drinking out of the almighty chalice" someone speculated.
I gave a nod to the true old-schoolers who were on hand. From Captain Bob to our loud friend Kevin, Animal to Elder George, Queen Bee Tina to Cowbell King Ali, and a cast of thousands that "no one wants" - it was all for them. Tina was on seat patrol, and got into quite the spat over a corner seat that she would not relinquish. "What, is your name on that seat?" one guy snapped, to which Tina shot right back with "as a matter of fact, now that you mention it..."
I see where we were hung up over a bad call on the field for a while. It even got a "bull-fu*king-shit" out of someone named Joey three different times. Someone blamed it on us all standing up during the play. "Every time we stand up, something bad happens." he grumbled. Wish I could have introduced him to Junior years down the line, who would stand up at something as meaningless the appearance of a bird. Regarding the call on the field, someone shouted, "Ump, you couldnt lead Ray Charles through the forest! You asshole!"
We were keeping a running tab on bad umpire calls, and it reached 3. And, in quite the coincidence, Buck Showalter made 3 different appearances on the field to question calls on that cool October evening.
A fistfight actually broke out, and to no one's surprise our very own Animal was involved. I wrote down an abridged play by play - a guy was arguing over a seat, Animal told him to get to stepping, he went after Animal, and a third guy jumped in. Well, first guy and third guy gone, Animal gets to stay. Amazing how that worked in our own gated community out there.
"Bear Ass", my tagalong stuffed bear, was back on hand, with the Yankees record with him now on hand standing at 12-1. The unthinkable happened as he dissapeared at exactly 8:08, and I thought he was stolen and cut to shreds for shits and giggles, but he reappeared at 8:20. In a comic note, I handed him off to one of the old crew to "babysit." The babysitter on that night? Some fine chap named John Hughes. You know, the guy that was later "arrested for counterfeiting money." This was a story I made up years later to explain his sudden dissapearance. Of course years laster he shows back up, and everyone thinks he just got out of jail for counterfeiting money. Meanwhile, he was out getting an education.
He ended up autographing the scorecard (another bad gimmick bought back for the playoffs) as did Syphills Joe, who even added the tagline, "Syphillis....it all started with a simple kiss!"
This game went deep, into the 15th, and by the time I got to page 2 "The Pope" from outside reappeared. "Jesus Christ, the Pope is here!" someone howled, bemused. By then the ground beneath our feet was covered in a sea of empty beer cups and George, among others, proudly announced, "after we win, these cups are going that way" - pointing either to the field or to the people in front of us that annoyed us all night by standing up for all the wrong reasons.
When I remember in my head some of the funny lines over time and recount the simplicity of some of our wit and humor, this one always came to mind, and it was from this very night....a guy with a Gilligan hat was one of those people standing up and blocking our view at all the wrong times, and finally fed up with it someone shouted, "Down in front, Little Buddy!"
Its amazing at how, even during a playoff game, we could find time to argue about something dumb, or wonder about stupid minutia that has nothing to do with the task at hand. After a couple of innings of seeking out the answer we finally learned that the song that "Dancing Homer" did his thing to was in fact called "The Baby Elephant Dance."
I went through both sides of the scorecard during this extra inning tilt, and Page 2 has the 11th through the 15th innings, and even that late we were still grousing about the umps. "The ump needs to get out of here early, he has to get up in the morning for umpire school." someone reasoned. "Even the OJ jury would not find those umps innocent of killing us" someone chirped in. "This is a tragedy...a debaucle" someone surmised.
But all is well that ends well. I dont remember exactly what happened, but leading into Leyritz' home run apparently the Yankees got handed an "even-up call." "I can hear the ump now" someone said just before Leyritz laid into one. "Games over, Yankees win, go home."
You always get some of these...I had to comment on the spate of people that actually got up, collected their coats, and left with a 4-4 playoff game in front of them. I understand the game ended up at 1:20 in the morning, but come on now...
And after that ending, one of the moments out there that will stay with me FOREVER, maybe the first one I experienced of dozens of magical moments the next few years. 10 minutes of celebrating in the rain, singing to New York New York, hugs and handshakes, dancing on the benches, slipping off and falling down, only to clamber up again. Someone passed around a flask, and we struggled to light soggy cigars. But that singing....I will never forget the Stadium singing in unison, and our high hopes for the rest of the playoffs. And it was incredible to spend it with that crew that was out there on that night, in that fashion. Good times, good times...
I'll make this quick. You dont need a recap from me on a playoff game, and this is long already. Here are your starting lineups for posterity...the Yankees marched out 3B Boggs, CF BW, RF O'Neill, DH Sierra (a few "where's Strawberry"s were uttered despite Sierra's monster spurts), 1B Mattingly, LF Dion James (lol), C Leyritz, SS Fernandez, and 2B Velarde. Your Yankee hurlers on the night were Pettitte, Wickman, Wetteland, and Rivera, who went 3.1 innings of scoreless ball to notch the W just a day after I had written down that he was not eligible for the playoff roster.
And Sierra did it AGAIN. Another home run, and for the second time in a matter of weeks a home run right to our little gaggle out there in Section 39. Don Mattingly, in the middle of his last stand, followed that with a home run of his own, there to lead off the 6th, and put the crowd all agog.
The Mariners countered with LF Coleman, SS Sojo, CF Griffey, DH E Martinez, RF Buhner, 3B Blowers, 1B Tino, C Wilson, and 2B Cora. That pesky bastard. On the hill we saw Andy Benes, Bill Risley, Charlton, Jeff Nelson, and of course, Timothy Belcher, who belched up the winning HR.
5 hours and 12 minutes to play. Yes, 5 hours and 12 minutes. 57,126 on hand, with no less than 678,203 claiming they were there that night currently. Your umpires on hand were none other than Dale Scott, Jim McKean, Larry McCoy, Rich Garcia, Mike Reilly, and the ever-popular Jim Joyce.
And THAT puts a wrap on the playoffs of 1995. And what comes next but 1996.....the jokes will become more biting, the characters the more vivid, the beer even better.
See you soon with your first installments of the wild ride that was 1996!!!!!!!!
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