Monday, August 24, 2009
Sunday Events and Rule Breaking
On Sundays I usually spend the day with my wife and our large hound. We began the day with a relaxing walk, only to discover that the hound had gotten into something bad, and was having a bout with diarrhea. Thankfully we had extra bags to clean the sidewalk, and even more thankfully none of the bags tore.
It was during this walk that we got a call from a friend who had tickets for the Mets-Phillies game at Citi Field, the Mets new home. We are both baseball fans, though not fans of the Mets or the Phillies, but we had yet to pay a visit to the new ballpark, so we jumped at the opportunity. A few weeks ago I had been offered tickets to a game there, but the game was rained out, and the game that we traded the tickets for (against my home town team, the Cubs) isn't for another two weeks. This would be my first game there.
We discussed our nervousness at leaving the poor pup alone in her condition, and came to the agreement that we didn't really have to stay for the whole game, not having anything in particular at stake in the outcome. Now let me state here that normally, leaving a game early is a huge violation of personal rules. As Yogi Berra would say- "it aint over til it's over," and truer words were never spoken.
Since it was a last minute event we were unprepared for the game. Usually we make grilled chicken sandwiches and pick up a bag of chips and one or two liters of water to bring with, avoiding the overpriced ballpark fare. The game was to start at 1:10pm and we didn't even get the tickets until 12:15. The ride of the 7 train got us there about five minutes after the first pitch.
The new ballpark is a thing of beauty. It looks like the old Ebbets Field as you get off the train. Walk into the main entrance and find yourself in the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, a tribute to the hall of fame infielder, race relations pioneer, civil rights leader and humanitarian. It's all about Jackie Robinson and the old Brooklyn Dodgers. Not a Met player to be seen (and that's fine with me, still being angry about 1969, the Cubs' crumble and the infamous Labor Day weekend series where a Met player smuggled a black cat into Shea Stadium that ran across the field to the Cubs' dugout, starting the September Swoon).
Jayne needed to visit the ladies' room and I took a look at the field. I heard the crack of a bat followed by crowd groans. I saw three men in Phillies uniforms circling the bases and I looked at the scoreboard. There were no outs in the first inning and the Mets were already down three-zip. By the time we got to our seats the Phillies were up by six before the Mets were to take their first swings. We sat down, and the player leading off for the Mets slammed the ball to the left field wall. The Phillies' outfielder had misplayed it, leading to a clean inside-the-park home run. An inside-the-park home run is rare. Normally if someone makes it all the way around the bases on one hit an error or even two are involved. I have probably been to 500 or more major league games and I have only witnessed an inside-the-park home run two times.
Seeing a game with nothing personally at stake is very relaxing. We were sitting with Andy, a friend of ours and Jake, his nine-year-old son. Jake is a baseball fanatic and spends long hours reading record books. He is already a walking encyclopaedia of baseball, rattling off statistics of games and players from long before he was born. He knows the Mets team roster, name and number, and all of their major league stats. He and I sat together, which was non-stop entertainment.
Andy and Jake had to leave at the seventh inning to make it to a birthday party. Jake as torn about this- wanting to attend his friends' party but not wanting to leave the game. I completely understood this. Jake already feels the same as I do about staying for the full contest. I have been to games that have been five hour marathons, extra innings, rain delays, you name it. Of the approximately 500 games I have been to I can count how many I left early on one hand. Yesterday was one of those games.
I had two good excuses for leaving early. The first being a well grounded fear of arriving home to find a horrifying mess, and not wanting to be away from the poorly feeling hound for too long. I needed to get home and take the poor pup out. The second excuse was that the game appeared to be out of reach, and I really didn't care who won anyway. Jayne and I were in the process of walking around the park, doing some exploring for the next time we go, two weeks hence to see my beloved Cubs. We had to see where Shake Shack was. We had to find the imported beer booth. Yes, I'm a beer snob- I lived in Europe. American mass produced beer is brewed through a horse. You think the Budweiser Clydesdales just pull the wagon? No! First, they drink large amounts of water while eating hops and barley- but, I digress...
So the game was going into the 9th inning and Jayne says something about finding a seat near the exit to watch the last inning. All I can think of is our poor Torre crossing her legs and doing the bathroom dance and losing the battle. I say- "let's just go home."
Jayne is shocked at this. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, let's go."
"You know, we can stay, it's only one inning."
"Nah- we can go."
So we get on the train and start to head back to Manhattan, Yogi's voice ringing in my head. Ten minutes after we left the game ended on an unassisted triple play. In over 130 years of major league baseball this was only the fifteenth such occurrence. I can't believe it. It was like missing Halley's Comet.
I arrived home to find no mess, no emergency. I kick myself. This game that I didn't care about opened with an inside-the-park home run and ended with an unassisted triple play.
I always believe that anytime I walk into a major league baseball park I might see something rare and magical, and I am frequently rewarded. I once saw a game that the Cubs were down nine to nothing in the sixth inning and came back to win it ten-nine in ten innings. Anything can happen. I know this. Yes, Yogi, it aint over til it's over. I promise I'll remember this next time.
It was during this walk that we got a call from a friend who had tickets for the Mets-Phillies game at Citi Field, the Mets new home. We are both baseball fans, though not fans of the Mets or the Phillies, but we had yet to pay a visit to the new ballpark, so we jumped at the opportunity. A few weeks ago I had been offered tickets to a game there, but the game was rained out, and the game that we traded the tickets for (against my home town team, the Cubs) isn't for another two weeks. This would be my first game there.
We discussed our nervousness at leaving the poor pup alone in her condition, and came to the agreement that we didn't really have to stay for the whole game, not having anything in particular at stake in the outcome. Now let me state here that normally, leaving a game early is a huge violation of personal rules. As Yogi Berra would say- "it aint over til it's over," and truer words were never spoken.
Since it was a last minute event we were unprepared for the game. Usually we make grilled chicken sandwiches and pick up a bag of chips and one or two liters of water to bring with, avoiding the overpriced ballpark fare. The game was to start at 1:10pm and we didn't even get the tickets until 12:15. The ride of the 7 train got us there about five minutes after the first pitch.
The new ballpark is a thing of beauty. It looks like the old Ebbets Field as you get off the train. Walk into the main entrance and find yourself in the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, a tribute to the hall of fame infielder, race relations pioneer, civil rights leader and humanitarian. It's all about Jackie Robinson and the old Brooklyn Dodgers. Not a Met player to be seen (and that's fine with me, still being angry about 1969, the Cubs' crumble and the infamous Labor Day weekend series where a Met player smuggled a black cat into Shea Stadium that ran across the field to the Cubs' dugout, starting the September Swoon).
Jayne needed to visit the ladies' room and I took a look at the field. I heard the crack of a bat followed by crowd groans. I saw three men in Phillies uniforms circling the bases and I looked at the scoreboard. There were no outs in the first inning and the Mets were already down three-zip. By the time we got to our seats the Phillies were up by six before the Mets were to take their first swings. We sat down, and the player leading off for the Mets slammed the ball to the left field wall. The Phillies' outfielder had misplayed it, leading to a clean inside-the-park home run. An inside-the-park home run is rare. Normally if someone makes it all the way around the bases on one hit an error or even two are involved. I have probably been to 500 or more major league games and I have only witnessed an inside-the-park home run two times.
Seeing a game with nothing personally at stake is very relaxing. We were sitting with Andy, a friend of ours and Jake, his nine-year-old son. Jake is a baseball fanatic and spends long hours reading record books. He is already a walking encyclopaedia of baseball, rattling off statistics of games and players from long before he was born. He knows the Mets team roster, name and number, and all of their major league stats. He and I sat together, which was non-stop entertainment.
Andy and Jake had to leave at the seventh inning to make it to a birthday party. Jake as torn about this- wanting to attend his friends' party but not wanting to leave the game. I completely understood this. Jake already feels the same as I do about staying for the full contest. I have been to games that have been five hour marathons, extra innings, rain delays, you name it. Of the approximately 500 games I have been to I can count how many I left early on one hand. Yesterday was one of those games.
I had two good excuses for leaving early. The first being a well grounded fear of arriving home to find a horrifying mess, and not wanting to be away from the poorly feeling hound for too long. I needed to get home and take the poor pup out. The second excuse was that the game appeared to be out of reach, and I really didn't care who won anyway. Jayne and I were in the process of walking around the park, doing some exploring for the next time we go, two weeks hence to see my beloved Cubs. We had to see where Shake Shack was. We had to find the imported beer booth. Yes, I'm a beer snob- I lived in Europe. American mass produced beer is brewed through a horse. You think the Budweiser Clydesdales just pull the wagon? No! First, they drink large amounts of water while eating hops and barley- but, I digress...
So the game was going into the 9th inning and Jayne says something about finding a seat near the exit to watch the last inning. All I can think of is our poor Torre crossing her legs and doing the bathroom dance and losing the battle. I say- "let's just go home."
Jayne is shocked at this. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, let's go."
"You know, we can stay, it's only one inning."
"Nah- we can go."
So we get on the train and start to head back to Manhattan, Yogi's voice ringing in my head. Ten minutes after we left the game ended on an unassisted triple play. In over 130 years of major league baseball this was only the fifteenth such occurrence. I can't believe it. It was like missing Halley's Comet.
I arrived home to find no mess, no emergency. I kick myself. This game that I didn't care about opened with an inside-the-park home run and ended with an unassisted triple play.
I always believe that anytime I walk into a major league baseball park I might see something rare and magical, and I am frequently rewarded. I once saw a game that the Cubs were down nine to nothing in the sixth inning and came back to win it ten-nine in ten innings. Anything can happen. I know this. Yes, Yogi, it aint over til it's over. I promise I'll remember this next time.
