A Day with Mr Met!

A couple of weeks ago while a healthy batch of you Creatures were out rampaging through Boston I decided to represent in my Yankee garb and led a contingent (well, as much of a contingent of Dana and Justin would make) to Shea to irritate Mutt fans, catch the Expos on the year of their demise, and see mascots dance on the field. You see, it was Mr. Met's 40th birthday party, and the propensity for camp humor was immense. Dana and I arrived pretty early and got some good ducats from some oldtimer who probably could not use the seats as he had plans to die later that day. It was outside that I heard the ONE comment my Wells shirt and highly outrageous Yankee bucket hat elicited, some fat woman hitting me with the "Wrong Stadium, fella!" As I made a threatening muscle pose in her direction I was almost ran over by Edgardo Alfonso, who was steering his way into his own private vestige of Hell. How ironic would it be if Sheriff Tom was killed by a Met behind the wheel. We did some power drinking out in the lot, and the Mutt fans could not be more courteous. I was treated like visiting royalty. They were offering us food off their grills, hearty guffaws, and not one comment in regards to the Yankees. I think between the 3 of us we crushed about 18 cans in less than an hour, and it was on the way in - sadly so as Dana needed a bathroom and we had to leave another 10 beers behind. I promptly purchased a scorecard, marking it at the top with "Mr. Mutts Birthday - hopefully his last!" Once inside I started to get a bit unsettled. There was a matronly looking woman in the row in front of us, waving a homemade sign wishing Mr. Mutt a happy birthday. And - no joke - she had a card she was getting people to sign. I needed to go down and get more beer but I was afraid to miss any of the ceremonies, as they had a vast veranda set up, and a podium and the like. This was going to get good. Some singer came out, sounding just like Tone Capone, then he got the words wrong to the Canadian anthem. I decided I needed beer, and sure enough as I was down there securing some a bunch of the honored guests hit the field. I mean, good God. One by one the mascots hit the field, to some weak cheers and a smattering of boos. Of course I was yukking it up. When Mr. Mutt himself hit the field you would have thought the Lord came out and started having beer dropped out of the sky the crowd popped so huge. Oh Lord, the gifts. Each mascot came with a gift in hand to give to Mr. Mutt. Bernie Brewer had a big cheesehead. Toronto's jackass of a mascot bought syrup for some reason. The Texas mascot stereotyped himself by handing Mr. Mutt a 10 gallon hat. The Angels mascot handed out a cool Cali pair of shades. Slugger bougt out some good old Kansas BBQ. The stupid Pirate Parrot (more on him later) bought crackers along. And that douchebag the Mariner Moose, who received a surprising amount of venom from the family crowd bought along - ugh, coffee. Just when I thought it could not get any worse, it went horribly wrong and did. We were told to take a gander at the Diamond Vision, where a tribute video to the honored guest would be played. I tell you, I will never again in my life be able to hear U2's "Stuck in a Moment" again without seeing visions of Mr. Met at the controls of a train or feeding the elderly soup in my head. This was the definition of cheese. As the song played all the mascots locked arms and did a slow kickline dance. I booed. The ceremony ended as the crowd basically sat, mouths agape, unsure if what we had just seen really happened. Then it got worse. Bobby Valentine took a slow trot behind the plate, glove in tow, and yes...Mr. Mutt headed to the mound to throw out the first pitch. That was beyond surreal. Of course he threw a ball and bounced off to a very misguided ovation. I went off to get more beer. We were not done with the mascots, however. In between frames in the 3rd inning it was time for the dreaded "MASCOT TUG OF WAR." I mean, good god. American League vs. National League, with the Coney Island mascot being tossed on our team. Lucky us. Someone actually took a bet before this went off, although even a blind man could have seen this coming. Of course the National League was just about to lose when Mr. Mutt, ever so gallant, left his station, ran to the seats, plucked out a chubby kid, and bought him back to help foil the AL's chances. Of course the National League got the win, and I booed, then went off to get more beer. Sometime a couple of innings later Mr. Mutt was again desecrating the big screen, the receiver of his own "Met Biography." I kid you not, there were "pics" of him as a baby, and yukking it up with people like Gil Hodges and Casey Stengel. I was very confused, and feeling dirty. Cotton Eye Joe blared through the speakers at some point, causing Justin to toss his hands up in utter disgust, snarling "Um, can we get away from this fucking song please???" The music was appallingly bad, from Autograph's "Turn Up the Radio" to the organist playing Beatles songs on a FUCKING ORGAN. The usless fact of our life was put up on the board when Mr. Mutt finally got off of it, telling us Hall and Oates' "Your Kiss Is On My List" was the top song that week in 1981. I actually saw people getting mad while that song played. Then it was more with the mascots. The worst of the worst, the MASCOT RACE. We see it kick off on the scoreboard, watching the mascots in taped segments running through Central Park, by the Empire State Building, and down 42nd Street. In some unintentional comedy you can clearly see a porno store in the background as the ran down the street. Then we see them on the screen running into the bullpen areas, and there they are in real time, busting through the door and traipsing through the outfield grass. Mr. Mutt was so far behind, which had me gleeful, until I figured out EXACTLY what was going to happen....and it did. All the mascots STOPPED in front of the finish line and allowed Mr. Mutt to run by, gladhanding him all the while. I booed louder there than I had booed all day. Then I went to get more beer. In yet another in a series of bad decisonmaking on the part of the promotions staff, they then let the mascots loose in the seats. Of course I was in the beer line when the first mascot sauntered into our section, getting whomped in the head with a couple of pretzels, showing even Mutt fans can think logically sometimes. Dana got what she called some "mascot lovin" as the damn Pirate Parrot gave her a grope, and actually left her doused in green fur from his costume. For some reason I have it saved. But then, joy of joys, like a gift from God the Toronto Blow Jay mascot came rollicking right by. I chased him, and I swear he saw me coming and started hauling ass. He got stuck in a melange of giddy kids around the next ramp, though, and I caught up to him. I actually handed him my scorebook to sign (what can I tell you, I was drunk) - he deserved to cause during that horrid race on the field he actually started doing backflips for some reason. As he signed "Ace - 00" I put him on heads up for the Creature Invasion come Labor Day weekend - I was ripping him one. I told him to stay away from us as there may be physical punishment if he did not heed. He muttered something and did his best to get the Hell out of there. That was basically it. The mascots were getting a whole bunch of venom just by walking around in the seats. I had a nice buzz on, so I was laughing and booing intermittently. The Mutt fans gave us a wide base, not one comment. Meanwhile, on the field the Mutts were busy winning and making me even more sour, behind two Robby Alomar home runs. After the game we had nothing but warm beers in the car, and the Mutt fans were practially lining up to hand us ice to cool our drinks. They passed us off much food, told us they are looking forward to seeing us when the Yankees invade thier pittance of a playing field, and sent us on our way. There it is, my day at Shea. I represented the best I could, we were all bedecked in Yankee colors, and I got to see mascots frolic and dance. Mets suck! F You Mr. Met! I hope you get killed in an archery accident. Thank you for your time.

The Lost Hall of Fame / Steroid Rant

Last January when the Hall of Fame voters came back with a resounding no, I got cranky and pounded this one out. It has not seen the light of day. While cleaning out my inbox i stumbled upon it, and its just as full of vim and vigor now as it was then. So here it is, a lost classic....so cue the music and pick a side! Here goes, from January 2013.... Santcimonious fools. So now we have a Hall of Fame that already shuns the all-time Hit King now locking the doors for now on the Home Run King, and a man who many would call the best RHP of all time, without having to be drunk to be make such a remark. All to make a stand on steroids. Listen, I am as grumbly as any about the cloud of steroids that has darkened the baseballian shores. But at this point this an “it is what it is” sort of situation. Lets add, mind you, there are no failed tests for us to peruse. There were no suspensions of these men in question. We are going by hearsay, and some sprinkles of evidence. Damning evidence? I suppose in some respects, as far as these things go. But who made the baseball writers judge and jury? Or in the class of the 2013 class, executioner? To add to this puddle mess, I think this is a mere hiccup, a needles delay, akin to freezing the kicker just before he dinks in a chip shot to win the game anyway. Bonds and Clemens will be in the Hall and probably bring Piazza in with them, and I think as early as next year. I saw enough print interviews (usually with the ever-popular ‘anonymous source’) to where this may indeed be the case. When you take the smattering of idiots who will never vote anyone in on the first ballot in yet another meaningless stand and mix that in with voters who were more interested in levying punishment than prestige, the doors were locked for Clemens and Bonds, and Piazza, who may be the most aggrieved of all. I have seen some shrug off his under 60% of the vote as the product of poor defensive skills behind the dish, and a laughable throwing arm. This is hooey mixed with claptrap. The man was shunned due to acne on his back and dealings with shady and nefarious characters who dabbled in performance enhancing products. A few croutons to toss into the soup here. The good old voting process. While I am not of an ilk to blow the whole thing up, amendments must be made to this Constitution. As it stands baseball writers on the beat for 10 consecutive seasons get to submit a ballot. So yeah, the guy who covers the Rays for a sleepy Florida daily casts a vote while veritable baseball God Vin Scully does not get a say, as he is a broadcaster on the Dodgers payroll. I am no Michael Kay fan, he is a master of bluster and bombast, but are you telling me he does not deserve a vote? As he will tell anyone who will listen (a few Creatures and I once had a chat with him outside the Stadium that went on so long we made up a lie so we could get the Hell out of there) he sees as much or more baseball than anyone, and if you want to dig even deeper he was on the newspaper beat himself. But once your consecutive days of reportage end, so does your Hall of Fame rights. So I suppose they should consider adding to the pool if they are not going to kick anyone out, or move them into the smaller end with the kids. The idea of fans having a say is ridiculous and pretend I never said that so the idea goes away NOW. Perhaps MLB alumni can have a say in the matter, aside from the stodgy veterans committee dishing out matters over their Scotch and cigars. Then you have the renegade voters who throw in their bones for the likes of an Aaron Sele. I have done a 180 on this topic. A few years ago I found this sort of thing harmless, almost like taking a peek through the Playboy magazine you wont be buying in the stationary store if you notice the aisle is clear. As I figured a wayward vote for the likes of a Sele or a Claudell Washington would not put them into the Hall by mistake I myself was more apt to chuckle and recognize it for what it was, a nod from a reporter to a merry soul that they enjoyed covering over the years. A way to go, “hey, you were a class act and I wish you well, and in 100 years your ancestors can sit around and talk about your 1 Hall of Fame vote until older members of the family start telling fish tales and you end up with like 3 instead.” But I have changed my mind on this. Enough with the token votes. Enough with the pats on the back for super service. I can not sit here and whine that reporters took it into their own hands to tarnish the ballot by making their faulty stands on steroids, while praising them for wasting votes on people cause they were nice guys or wore their socks in the right way. Oh, and lets get rid of the anonymous ballot. People can do whatever they want in this regard when they do not need to own up to it. In fact, just before I hammered this piece out I was on a news website voting in a poll, and voting the opposite way than I felt cause it was so one-sided I thought it would be funny to be part of the 4% Force for once. So its time for MLB to consider doing something about this process do that it does not become an indictment on an era. Oh, do I feel sad for that wonderland known as Cooperstown. Don’t exactly see people hopping buses and flying in from out of town to see Hank O’Day, Jacob Ruppert (Yankee baseball!) and Deacon White enter the Hallowed Hall this summer, long after their announced times of death. You know how you hear your average retailer does almost 40% of its cash cabal during the holiday season? Well, for the Hall of Fame and their procurement of that piece of pie, lets try 80% and Hall of Fame weekend. That sleepy postcard town becomes a thriving metropolis every late July, complete with Pete Rose at a table on Main Street, hawking wares. He will be playing to an empty crowd this year. In fact I should consider heading up, as there will surely be space on the grass to settle in for the ceremony, and maybe even room for a picnic basket? A ceremony, I may add, that will be overseen by a bunch of grumlby grump old players on the dias, feeling self-satisfied I suppose, as their fervent cries from on high to keep the cheaters out of the Hall have been heeded. You got guys like Goose Gossage, who would take to a lightpost if it would simply creak in the wind as a response, with his grandiose speeches about the honor and the glory in the Hall. While I agree he is a worthy member (although not nearly as worthy as he thinks he is) I will point out to Mr Gossage that he did not exactly have a carpet rolled out for his induction himself. If there was a Hall of Fame for shooting off the mouth he would have a wing in there bigger than Cooperstown’s current shrine to the Babe. But all of a sudden this guy is the Henry Clay of Cooperstown, who knows how the bread should be buttered and who should and who should not be allowed into the club. With all the vitriol he has directed at Bonds in particular, it will be very interesting to this armchair pundit when Bonds inevitably gets his call to the Hall, and has to share a stage with the Goose. If Goose even has the fastballs to show up. He missed enough ceremonies for his honored buddies while he was eligible cause he was sitting home moping about his lack of votes, so I guess he can skip some more. But I digress. Some chucklehead called in to one of the local yak pack and pretty much excused any type of person for any sort of crime on mankind in regards to entry, saying Hall of Fame stands for Hall of FAMOUS and discounted all the glory part of the thing altogether. I would not take it this far. I am willing to listen to those who are hurling around the infamous “asterisk” to stack on a plaque, or put by the door to the Hall. Hell, precede every Hall of Fame program from now onward with a litany on the “steroid era” and admit to the aspersions cast. Name names if you wish! But again, the crux in that matter begins with no failed tests, and ends with who makes any of us Popes on the Hill? Do I think Bonds took steroids? I suppose. Who else blew up his head to Mount Rushmore size, the same guys that blow up Snoopy before the Thanksgiving parade? But again, wether you go by the “innoncent until proven guilty” side of it, or the “everyone was doing it” mantra, or even the “who the Hell cares what they did” side, it matters little to those folks. I don’t need to make a speech about the virulent racists in the Hall. The known thugs, people who were reputed to partake in chicanery ranging from the card table to the bar stool to the bordello and everywhere in between. And lets touch on cheating for a just a minute, shall we? On the grander scale we have one Mr. Whitey Ford, who explained with glee in his own book how he would “cut the ball” later in his career for an added edge. Well, is even one time too many? Or lets put this on the table with the Bonds scenario. Many will admit Bonds was on the Hall of Fame path before steroids “so obviously” came into play. Well, what, he could not add the edge but Whitey Ford could? Or is that cheating during the game does not matter, while steroids do? Says who? Goose Gossage? The Brewers beat reporter? Usually when this sort of conversation kicks up the pundits holler, “It’s the drugs! That was the real trouble!” Well, I guess greenies do not count, huh? Everyone knows greenies were a clubhouse staple when the games were in black-and-white and the “Old Perfessor” was roaming the field, tipping his cap so a bird could fly out to the applause of the crowd. Mickey Mantle was said to roll them out and down like Tic-Tacs. Players that were hung over and creeping through the clubhouse like a skeleton dragging chains would then hit the field and steal second and third, and bounce the next one of the upper deck façade. Yes, greenies did not add 20 feet to the trajectory of a clout, but did they enable someone who was in absolutely no condition to perform to go out there and, well, perform? Where is the line drawn? Don’t even get me started on Gaylord Perry. Of course I do not have all the answers. I just want in on the conversation and I like to complain about stuff. Personally this year I would have voted Bonds, Clemens, Piazza, and Jack Morris. All for different reasons. The Bleacher Creature fan in me will tell you right now that I always detested Bonds, could not stand Piazza (and his taste in metal music is too ‘hair-metal’ for me as well) and I see all the arguments against Morris going in, and I get those. At the same time I will remind you he was the pitcher of the 80s, but that is a discussion for another day. But considering these names and other worthy ones ranging from Raines to Trammell and then seeing Craig Biggio got the most votes….well, that’s just wrong. At the very least a memo needs to go out telling the writers to get off the high-horse. Yes, they are important to the process. I applaud their efforts, and they can go accept their laurel and hearty handshake on the way to bed or bar tonight. But enough with their statements and protests, wielding the ballots like a sword. If we are going to see Bonds, Clemens and Piazza have to put up with this hokum for the next 14 years, take them off the ballot now and don’t waste their time, or ours. Bottom line is this – 50 years from now people will still be talking about Bonds and Clemens. With awe, not necessarily with disdain! These are legendary figures in the game. You are delusional if you think steroid use made these men. And if it did maybe its time for baseball – and us – to get over it. I myself am for the most stringent of steroid policies they want to dredge up. When it was announced all MINOR LEAGUERS would be going through regular testing I popped a cork. I want users tested, caught, suspended, and booted if need be! I am not giving steroids a pass. But this ship has sailed. So now we have a Hall of cobwebs, and a blank sports page from from the New York Times, and a bunch of reporters patting themselves and others on the backs on a job well done, while grumps like me rail about it. Lose-lose situation. Free these men! Open the Hall! And tell Goose Gossage to shut up for once!

Parade lunacy - Yankees Victory March, 1998!

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!

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

The David Wells Perfect Game!!!

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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.

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