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Category: baseball

Rule 15c. Temporary Fan Status

Excepting the lovely company, Sunday was a wretched day. What the hell happened?! I could speculate, but there are far better people in this world to offer analysis and conjecture on the situation. The last thing anyone needs is another 2 bits tossed into the growing bank of Mets mockery.

There are a lot of things that go through one’s head when witnessing a collective meltdown of extraordinary players. Like all good fans, I feel the bizzaro need to take partial responsibility. In my heart, I know it has nothing to do with not wearing my number 7 jersey.  It isn’t that I wasn’t listening to their games as regularly as I could have. It wasn’t hubris. I know better than to get cocky about the September play of my Mets. At some point, I need to let go and recognize that I had absolutely nothing to do with it.


Ordinarily, such a collapse would also signal the end of my baseball watching season. Like so many sore losers, I am not above storming out in a huff. I have no qualms about curling up into the fetal position until February. I take no issue with pouting my way out of a seriously depressing September of play.

PoseurThen again, there is always Rule 15c:

15c. If one of your best friends loves a certain team that has a chance to win a championship, and your team is out of the picture, it’s OK to jump on the bandwagon and root for his team to win it all. That’s acceptable. Like Temporary Fan status.

Thank God for Bill Simmons.  As Chicago remains one of my truest loves, I want nothing more than a city of happiness.  As I live in the heart of Cubby-dom, I will throw my windows wide and let the organ stylings of Gary Pressy fill my home. I will join my dearest of friends in their Cubs affection. I will don my Cubbie blue like our poseur of a mayor.  I will humbly embrace my Temporary Fan status.

That is, until next spring.


the Subway Series series: Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistencies of pocket pals

Part 1 – The Rant ::::: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

[EDIT: Fixed the footnotes. Sorry about that! st.oki]

After a short morning in the Jerse pretending to help my Righteous Ms. Al get ready for the move to Bonus Eye Rays, we rushed to get me back to the city. You see, my dear friends. Girlfriend had another game to attend. The “Second Chance” offered by the Mets site was definitely kind to your girl. I was able to pick up four tickets to the Saturday game, and was over the moon excited.

When purchasing the tickets, the plan was to bring Mr. Math, Miss Boom Boom, and her roommate, Ms. Same Name As My Sister (aka MS. NAMS). It was my feeble attempt at a thank you so much for letting me invade your futon while I get my crap together. Unfortunately, MS. NAMS makes doing nice things very difficult. Though she would have loved, loved, LOVED the tickets, she and boy were hightailing it to Boston for the weekend. [1] Probably for the best, as she is a Yankees fan.

In a completely unrelated turn of events, Mr. Math was heading up to Boston as well. Could it be that Mr. Math would leave me without my baseball bookend?! Well dang. He sure did. It seems that I was running low on people who might truly appreciate the fun of this game.

I turned to Miss Boom Boom and asked her if there was anyone she wanted to invite. This question was a no brainer. She was going to invite my little Pocket Pal, Flaky. Needless to say, I was super excited. My pocket has long been lacking a cute little something, and Flaky always fits the bill.

Silvija and the Big Orange Foam Finger!Using my revisionist powers, guest number three was the phenomenal Ms. Dig that Crazy J. When approached with the notion of going to the game, her response: “Where should me and my giant foam finger meet you?!” Seriously, could you ask for a better plus one? You could try, but you would probably fail. Where was I? Ah, yes. Game time. I returned to Astoria for a quick freshen, and sanity check. The troops have been assigned, I’m in my home team black, and I have but one question. WHO’S READY TO ROCK?!?!

Apparently, just me.

You see, Miss Boom Boom was coming off of a boon of business travel, and just about ran herself into the ground. By game time, she was down for the count. My poor dear was exhausted, curled up in the fetal position, and groaning up a storm. As much as I wanted to pull out my powers of guilty persuasion, I just couldn’t. Seeing Miss Boom Boom in all of her pathetic glory was reason enough to leave my superpower in check.

Well, all is not lost. I had been texting Flaky the Pocket Pal for most of the afternoon. I would just have him bring another adorable Pocket Pal, and we would be right as rain. Simple. Or umm… maybe not.

You see my dears; the name Flaky is more than apropos. Apparently, my sweet little thing decided that he was far too hung over for a journey out to Shea. It was nice for him to give me a little warning though. And by little, I mean fifteen minutes before we were to leave for Flushing. And by warning, I mean texting Miss Boom Boom a wishy-washy excuse and hiding from my calls. [2]

Okay. Now I have two tickets that might go unused to the Subway Series.THE G-D SUBWAY SERIES! What does a girl do? Well, she texts her entire tri-state contingency and said that the tickets are up for grabs to anyone who can get to Flushing. By the way, did I mention that the first pitch was in a mere 35 minutes? For cryin’ out loud! I have two tickets to a game that a majority of the baseball fans within a 100 mile radius were pining for, and I can’t give them away. Or so I would like to believe.

Miss Boom Boom kindly informed me that I might be able to sell them, either at Shea, or on the 7 train on the way to the game. “But isn’t that illegal?” Famous last words. I love her, but her notion was dubious at best. Not only was the weather overcast, bordering on rain, but the game is in frickin’ Flushing. Why would anyone head out there if they didn’t already have a ticket, now 20 minutes before the first pitch? Your guess is as good as mine. So there I am, wandering up and down the train, trying to sell these tickets. People are looking at me like I am the scourge of the earth. By the time I reach Shea, I am disheartened.

At this point, I am already late, and I am late meeting up with Ms. Dig that Crazy J. What to do, what to do? Then, a light at the end of the tunnel. These two cuties walk up to me. I swear, one of them looked like the Commish, except tall. The asked “Are you selling any?” I said, “Yeah. I have two.” Then they said, “How much?” I said, “the game already started. I will give you two for one.”

In a moment that I can only call part eighty-five in my comedy of errors, the cute, non-Commish boy frowns, shakes his head, and said, “Damn. You are such a sweet girl. I hate to do this, but I am going to have to give you a ticket.” I said, “I don’t want any tickets. I am just trying to get rid of mine.” He said, “No. I am going to have to WRITE you a ticket. Reselling tickets is a crime.”

Um… But I am from Chicago?

Try as I might, the boys in not-so-Blue wouldn’t budge. I tried cute, charming, proletarian, watering the eyes, anything. “Come on! This is a victimless crime if ever there was one,” I plead. Nothing. Then, I took a long hard look. They were wearing Yankee jerseys. Ugh. I should have known. In a strange turn of events, they said, “we are supposed to confiscate these, but just take them.”


In moment eighty-six, a frat-boy from Cleveland came up to me and asked if I was selling. Where were you ten minutes ago?! I gave the dude the tickets, no strings, and wished him well. The cop said, direct quote, “This is a very sweet girl. She is doing a very nice thing. You better buy her drinks and dogs for the rest of the game. I know where you are sitting.” Love the commish, even if the bastage did give me 5 demerits!

Saying farewell to the hall monitors, I raced around Shea to see Ms. Dig that Crazy J standing there panicked, foam finger and all. We finally went in, saw a great game, and watched all of the people with the expensive seats get rained on, while we working class had it made in the shade.

Seats of the working class rocks!


[1] There is sweet, and then there is insulin coma inducing sweet. MS. NAMS is just about the most accommodating person I have known. She barely knows me, and on Miss Boom Boom’s recommendation, she has allowed me to invade hearth and home. I have been trying to find the right gift, but she neither wants nor needs anything. ARGH! I am having kittens trying to find a way to thank her properly. Perhaps it is my need to convey my appreciation. Perhaps I’m trying to compensate for my intrusion into her world. Perhaps it’s that I don’t want this wedding day favor hanging over my head. In any case, I am obsessed with finding a way to buy her off. It’s not like she’s going to leave a banjo head on my pillow if I don’t comply. I am just saying.

[2] To all of my loved ones who approach potential disappointment infliction by hiding, please cease and desist. It is annoying and really frustrating. It drives everyone crazy, and makes us not want to include you in plans. Then, you wonder why you weren’t invited.

the Subway Series series: Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!

Back to Part 1 – The Rant


A couple of weeks ago, I happened upon a few tickets to the Friday and Saturday games of the Subway series. Nothing elicit, I assure you. I was selected as part of the”Second Chance” drawing c/o the Mets site. Lucky me, right? I am allowed up to 6 tickets total, so I am thinking, two for Friday, 4 for Saturday.squishedheads.jpg

It was decided that Friday night would go to my Righteous Ms. Al. As she would be leaving for Bonus Eye Rays the following Monday, we needed serious quality time before her foreign sojourn. With a little revisionist recollection, we were able to rationalize the whole evening as a last brush with Americana.

Americana did not let us down. Hot dogs, beers, and a blast, BABY! We CHAAARGE-ed at the top of our lungs without a hint of irony, begged Mr. Met to shoot swag in our direction, and sang along happily to “Enter Sandman” when Billy Wagner took the field (heck of an entry,BTW).almets.jpg

My Righteous Ms. Al described the game, and I am paraphrasing here, as “really boring, and then really interesting.” She wasn’t wrong. I think that the Mets are kind of goofy like that. When it looks like a game is an easy win, maybe they start getting lazy. Maybe they think it’s fun to give themselves a challenge. Maybe it’s to get the crowd back into the game. Maybe because they like sliding around in the rain. I can’t tell. In any case, when time begins to run short, it’s back to business they go. The bidness, that is, of kicking some serious bot-tom.

After cheering my Mets to a very soggy victory, we hopped on the 7 train, and it was back into the city for us. As many of you know, riding the subway is always an adventure. Early in our ride, we were gently accosted by a few drunken frat boys who were asking our opinion on the politics of a booty call. Then, on the tails of that conversation, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

The tapping person asked, “Is that girl’s name Amy?” I said yes, though he might swear that I said no. Any who, turns out that this guy knew my Righteous Ms. Al from her days as a co-ed. Did I mention that this was on the subway. In New York. CITY. Serendipity aside, the dude was a tool. Long story short, we all went out for a few drinks, he bored and annoyed me to tears, and we sent him a-packin.

In fact, we sent ourselves a-packin, as we needed to high-tail it to the Jerse for a diner run. We rushed to Penn Station, where I took this picture. Other than the person my Righteous Ms. Al is speaking with, a sloppy kiss to the first person who can tell me what else is wrong with this picture!


Part 3 – The Mets, the NYPD, and the inconsistency of pocket pals…

the Subway Series series: Part 1 – The Rant



Like many baseball fans worth their salt, I believe that interleague play should be abandoned. It is an irritating practice that is used by the man to make money off of contrived historic match-ups.

Let’s face it. While some fans might be amused by the practice, it completely devalues the games of relevance. The Subway Series, The Crosstown Classic, The Battle of the Beltway? Big effin’ deal. On the hard-earned chance that any long-time rivals get to dance at the big show, where is the g-d gravitas?!

Mets v. Red Sox, folks?

I like interleague play the way it was meant to be.

In the frickin’ World Series.


Part 2 – ¡Buen viaje!