Tuesday, August 15, 2006

metsgrrl tours the safe, part 1

I have this odd, unintentional history with the Seattle Mariners. I moved to Seattle in March of 1995, which should tell you more or less what you need to know: I was in the right place at the right time, and I had friends who were baseball crazy. I remember being at work at Internet Startup #1 that fall and listening to the Mariners game over the INTERNET. I remember our IT guy Steve, diehard fan with season tickets in the upper deck first row behind home plate, asking people if they would cover for him and allow him to work untraditional hours when the Mariners started to head into playoffs, because (and I quote), “Who knows if I’ll ever get that chance again?” I knew nothing about baseball but I sure understood faith and devotion, so I was more than happy to help him out.  Steve was The Guy Who Kept The Boxscore. Again, I had no idea what he was doing, but as the woman who writes down setlists of concerts as they happen, I certainly understood the concept and found it to be completely logical.

I also remember my first Mariners game at the Kingdome in the fall of 1995. It was a company event with the aforementioned startup. I remember all 13 of us (again, remember, it was a startup) being there, and how the three of us from the East Coast were booing a questionable umpire call. Someone actually reported us to an usher who walked over and lectured us about how we certainly weren’t from around here but at the Kingdome things are done differently. As the usher walked away, one of my compatriots muttered, “He’s lucky I didn’t bring the D batteries.”

Baseball was a social thing. Baseball was what I went to when Steve would offer his season tickets to friends and I’d go with a girlfriend and we’d sit there and pretend to swoon over Joey Cora’s picture (if you think Miguel Cairo or Chris Woodward have ears, you clearly never saw Joey Cora).

My biggest baseball friends were Alan and Sarah. Alan proposed to Sarah at Safeco. They have a baseball room in their house. They have season tickets, charter tickets, if you ever need a ticket to a Mariners game, Alan can send a series of emails and can get you get you whatever you need.  It was from the two of them I learned what I know about baseball ticket buying strategies, and seniority, and it is, essentially, Alan’s fault that I put the money down in December for our tickets.

When I first started dating TBF, Alan and Sarah’s first reaction was to inquire which New York baseball team he was a fan of. Once that piece of information was ascertained, they started trying to feed me lines to drop into conversation in order to impress TBF.
“You can just casually mention that you think Mike Cameron will really improve their defense up the middle,” Alan said.
I looked at him as though they were insane. “*I* can’t just casually drop that into any conversation, EVER.”
“Well, if you’re going to a bar, and Sportscenter is on, they’ll definitely mention the Mets, you could say it then,” Sarah offered.
“No bar I hang out at has 1) televisions 2) ESPN on,” I insisted. At the time, it was true. Great jukeboxes and ex-members of various punk rock bands bartending, but no sports.

Alan has wanted to take TBF to a game for a couple of years now, but the timing never worked out. WHen the Mets were in Seattle last year, there was no physical or financial way we could make it out West. But this year, there is time and there is money and TBF made a comment about wanting to go to Seattle, so I dutifully sent email off to Alan, who came back with a long list of dates. At the top of that list was an event called Albabe Day At The Mariners, when Alan buys about 100 tickets in the center field bleachers and invites basically everyone he knows. At $7 a seat, it’s a pretty good deal. It’s not much about watching baseball, but it is a big part of what baseball is to some people.

And, he added, he had “some really good seats” for the Sunday game.

We used some of my Alaska Airlines miles and set our sights for Seattle, and the first TBF/MG out of town baseball-related excursion.

Saturday was bleachers day. Saturday we got there early enough to drop off the tickets at will-call (you manage getting 1-year-old twins to the game in time for first pitch and drop off 100 tickets for various people).  It was there that we noticed the ticket windows marked TICKET EXCHANGE, and marveled at the concept: switch your bad tickets for better seats, and you’re actually encouraged to do it?!

We also marveled at the concept of ONE ATM IN THE ENTIRE BALLPARK. Sure, it’s free (Boeing Employees Credit Union), but the fact that there is only one (okay, two machines, in one location) and it is located behind home plate, made us long for Banco Popular.

We did a circuit and a half of the main concourse. Keep in mind - I have been to this ballpark before. Hell, my former employer, a large multi-national software concern located near Seattle, used to hold their company meetings at Safeco. (No, the beer stands were not open for the meetings.) And I even took TBF on the tour during the winter when we were first dating. But I have never been in the Safe as a baseball fan.

Therefore, there was much to wonder at, observe and document:

The espresso stands. (This is Seattle, after all, but as an avowed coffee snob, I would have to be majorly hungover to drink this swill.)

Toto, we’re definitely not in Kansas any more, if we’re seeing listings for where we can listen to the Mariners in Butte:

The multiple microbrews on tap.

The acceptable conduct guidelines. “Obscene or indecent clothing” is how they get away from banning the YANKEES SUCK or A-ROD SWALLOWS shirts sold at my old haunting ground, the Five Point Cafe (whose motto was: “Alcoholics serving alcoholics since 1929").

The field-level bullpens, a detail I certainly wouldn’t have ever cared about before.

The expansive beauty of the Safe on one of the three weeks of summer Seattle gets.

The old-school touches, such as the manual scoreboard and the league flags, arranged in order.

The obscene amount of food offerings (local barbeque, grilled salmon, and the legendary Ichiroll - sushi at the ballpark).

Amongst these - or rather, in the forefront - you haven’t been to Safeco unless you’ve experienced:

Forget peanuts and Cracker Jack. You haven’t been to a ballgame until you’ve eaten chocolate covered strawberries on a skewer for brunch. Of course, this is a food offering we will never, ever see anywhere near a New York ballpark: food served on a sharp stick? Yeah, right. Seattle is possibly the only place where this would not result in immediate riots.

Thanks to our friends’ largesse, we were in the front row of the center field bleachers, with tickets assigned to other friends around me. TBF, stubbornly, insisted on keeping score. He exhibited considerable disgruntlement at how no one, repeat, no one (and I mean literally in a full ballpark) claps at the second strike. Sometimes TBF would do it just because he couldn’t not do it.  Sometimes the scoreboard would read ‘CLAP!” and the crowd would make noise - but then would stop before the windup. The Seattle baseball fan’s need to be given permission to make noise is one of my friend Sarah’s biggest peeves about the city.

However, I am happy to report that Seattle has learned to boo. That’s right. A behavior I was reprimanded for at the Kingdome in 1995 is now acceptable, thanks to Lou Piniella - at least for questionable ump calls. They won’t boo anything else, though, and they - wait for it - applaud the effort if someone tries to make a play and misses. We were aghast.

The seventh inning stretch is just about the same as it would be anywhere else, except that the followup song is - wait for it - “Louie Louie” by the Kingsmen, who originally hail from Tacoma, Washington. I don’t even know if this is a new innovation or if whoever programs the music knows this (they must, there’s a whole Kingsmen exhibit at Paul Allen’s Jimi Hendrix muse-- oops, The Experience Music Project), but I certainly enjoyed the song and the reference.

Somehow, it amazed me that our bleacher seats at Safeco were 1000% times more comfortable than our mezzanine seats at Shea. “Yeah, our seats were put in in 1962, honey,” TBF said, as I attempted to prevent one of the twins from stealing his scoring pen. (Jake was awfully interested in the boxscore, and I did try to get him to wave and yell “Konnichiwa!” at Ichiro - because I’m quite sure no one has ever sat in the outfield at Safeco and done that before.)

And finally, the Mariner Moose, my first true (mascot) love. TBF was grumpy at first, and then started pointing him out every time he saw him. By the end of the game he announced that he wanted to have his picture taken with the Moose if at all possible.  Sweet, sweet vindication.

I do not remember much of the game; the Mariners lost, and they did not play well. I had a lot of friends to talk to, and was happy with my ability to socialize and watch baseball, while my friends tried hard to deal with my apparent transformation.  From our vantage point, I did appreciate the bleacher bums from Oakland who ensconsed themselves out in the standing room in the outfield, and acquitted themselves nicely, rooting for their team. I liked the sunshine, playing with the twins, seeing my friends, eating garlic fries, and not having my butt ache after the game. And, I loved that I had baseball as the background for all of it.

On the way back to Alan and Sarah’s, TBF tried to call into the local sports radio show. He actually got past the screener before he had to hang up because it would have been anti-social. (He was going to bitch about the lack of noise.)

Part two, where we sit in Alan and Sarah’s charter seats, and actually watch the game, next.

Monday, August 14, 2006

walt whitman bridge*

Late last week, after being thoroughly tired of missing first pitch because I’m still at work, or heading home from work, the MG household made the decision to acquire a DVR from Time Warner.  (We are actually not technophobes, nor Luddites, just busy and not realizing that this was an affordable option.) We picked up our new box yesterday, conveniently arriving at the Time Warner store-thingie in time to watch the end of the game, which was of course on one of the many screens around this location.

(Our obvious interest in the game - despite the security guard yelling at us that we had to Sit Down And Wait For Our Number - got the one guy in the store who cared about the game to wait on us as soon as our number came up, where we had a lengthy and spirited discussion about the Mets while he processed the paperwork faster than I have ever seen a Time-Warner employee do ANYTHING. “Clearly, the Mets are on everyone’s mind these days,” TBF commented.)

I proudly programmed the box last night to get the pregame show and the game, and noted to TBF the wonderful feature attached to live events. I think he was peeved he didn’t get to set up the DVR, but he was busy hammering bookcases together.

I got off the L train close to 8pm, giddy that I could actually see all of the game, and not just the highlights. We didn’t have to rush home, or try to cook dinner while craning our necks towards the television set hoping we didn’t miss something.  We took our time making dinner and settling down.  TBF immediately pounced upon the DVR remote, and hit the wrong button. The button for the live tv.

And we saw that the game was at 9-0 in the 6th.

He promptly got up and said, “We don’t want to see this game.”
MG: “They could rally.”
Rolling of eyes, but he returned to the couch and the remote and we began watching the game in fast forward.

As things got worse… and worse… and worse… I grabbed the laptop and watched the game out of one eye. I went over to Faith And Fear In Flushing, which was a slight tactical error, because the game was already over in real time at that point, and one click in the latest post took me to the ESPN boxscore.

“It gets worse,” I said, quickly closing the browser window.
“How much worse?”
“Bad.”
“Did Pedro get hurt??! Willie needs to put him on the DL until playoffs,” TBF said.
“No, not that.”

And then TBF hit the “Live TV’ button by mistake.

13-0.

Well, at least we didn’t try to drive down for the game. Our Philly friends are so going to have trash talking privileges when we see them next if the Mets don’t turn something around in the next day or so, and remember that THE SEASON IS NOT OVER YET.

Go Mets.

*title taken from the song of the same name

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Saturday, August 12, 2006

don’t you start me talking

I do not buy the New York Post. I did not grow up in a family that would have ever considered reading the Post. I don’t care that their sports page is better or that they have four sudoku puzzles, I wouldn’t buy the thing if it was the last thing to read on the planet and I was about to take an 8 hour plane ride.

However, if you walk to work in the morning on the streets of New York City, you are going to see the Post hawked at newspaper stands and by vendors outside subway entrances and on corners throughout town. So there was no avoiding the screaming headlines and photographs better suited for an UK paper’s Page Three than for the front (or back) page of a daily paper.

I’m not a big fan of gossip, either about people like us or celebrities.  It’s hurtful, and I don’t care much for the whole argument that if you decide to be famous you discard your right to dignity, privacy or simple human consideration. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know them or that they make millions of dollars or I listen to their music or watch them play baseball, all I can ever think of is how much it would suck if the tables were turned. If you’ve ever been the target of idle or just plain wrong gossip, you can probably identify.

All I can ever think is: where’s the humanity? When did we start turning on each other with such velocity? I have been in conversations with people I considered friends, and listened to the so-called ‘reliable information’ they were generously sharing with me about Famous Person X (because that’s how they viewed it, they were giving me something precious) and all I could think is: my god, I’m glad I’m not famous yet, because what would you be telling total strangers about me if I was?


(I do want to make it clear that someone who commits a crime is in a different category as far as I’m concerned.)

I also always, always, always question so-called “inside sources” or “friends of” sources. How good a friend can this person be, how much of an intimate, if they are willing to share private information with total strangers, or blatantly spill secrets to a journalist. How reliable could this information possibly be? Or even if factually true, if you have an agenda that impels you to spread it around, what are you leaving out? What context is being omitted in your quest for your 15 minutes?

The other thing that occurred to me this week, walking through the barrage of Mets-related trash in the media, is that none of this would be happening if the Mets weren’t doing well, weren’t being taken seriously as contenders. Otherwise the media would be continuing to fawn over Jeter’s perfume brand.

(I’m sorry, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth when I said that.)

I had hoped to write about the Seattle trip last night but it’s been a long week. Hopefully over the weekend. About last night’s game, all I can say is that I’m glad we decided not to drive down to DC this weekend.

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this week’s stupid nyc blogger post of the week award

...goes to This Is What We Do Now.com, with a post entitled: ”Sweet Jesus, why would anyone be a Mets fan?”

If you ever needed a sign that the Mets are now in mainstream consciousness in NYC (aside from this week’s tabloid-fest [and no I am not linking to any of that trash]), this would be it.

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Friday, August 11, 2006

scenes from a punk rock bar

The conversation started a few weeks ago, when I confessed to one of my best friends, V., that I had been writing this blog.

This has been a hard thing for most people I know to understand. Unless they are already baseball people, they are bemused, confused, cynical, patronizing, condescending and a million other similar adjectives. It doesn’t compute. They don’t know how to respond to it. They leave voicemail messages like, “Well, it’s Sunday afternoon, so you’re probably at a baseball game...” And all I ever want to respond is, Yeah, asshole, I probably am. Where are you? Drinking in the latest hipster bar in LA or Brooklyn or wherever? That’s certainly new and unique and progressive.’


But it is hard. It is like I have announced that I’ve turned Republican or religious or something (and I don’t much care if you are one or the other or both, leave it). It’s just baseball.

This week V. is in New York, and we are out drinking on Avenue B. There is a game, but I have one night to hang out with her while she is here on business.
Shaking her head: “I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I.”
“So you write every day?”
“Sometimes.”
“I think it’s great that you’re writing every day again. You’re excited about it.”
“I am, that’s why I started it.”
“What do you write about?”
“The games, the people, what it’s like to sit there, what I’m learning about, how much I hate Alex Rodriguez.”
“Didn’t he used to play for the Mariners?”
“Right. And now he plays for the Yankees.” I nod at the televisions over the bar. This place is Yankees territory. I come here because of the jukebox and the photos on the wall and the fact that it’s not ironic enough for hipsters. And I like the owner, even if he is a die-hard Yankees fan. Plus, my friend K. is behind the bar twice a week.
“You don’t write about numbers or statistics or anything like that--” She looks fearful, for a second, trying to figure out how I have turned into a person who likes sports.
“No, no, not at all. I can’t do numbers. I know more or less what they mean but I could stare at them for hours and they would never make sense to me.”
“And people read your blog? Still?”
“Yeah, still. Some people read me every day.”
Another incredulous look.
“With all the things you have written about...”
“Well, this is the next thing.”
“But this! Of all things.”
“You know, I never thought I would be the person who would go and choose to sit in a baseball stadium, and know who the players are, and follow the rivalries, or come home and say, ‘Honey, can’t we just watch Baseball Tonight? I don’t feel like I know what happened around the league today.’”
She shudders.
“And I listen to sports talk radio.”
Horror now. “You don’t!”
“And I get upset about what some of the callers say.”
“NOooooO!” She reaches for her cocktail. Gulps.
“I love it because it is new, and it’s different, and I’m outside, and there’s air, and there’s beer, and the green is just so soothing and peaceful, and I get to talk to people I would never ever in my daily life have any opportunity to have a conversation with. I’m not talking about the war or politics or gossip or what musician X did this week or what so-and-so wrote on the internet.  I can have conversations with 9 year old Hispanic girls on the 7 train, a bank teller up on E. 82nd Street, the people who sit around me every Tuesday and Friday, the old drunk Polish guys who see me walking home from the game in a Mets shirt and want to know why we lost. It takes me out of myself and my world and my life and engages me in the rest of the planet.”

And that was something that even my former anarchist friend could understand.

This approximated the conversation Wednesday night. When I was out West I had come clean about this blog to her, my independent businesswoman, total leftist-feminist-progressive, former anarchist-punk-rocker, modern revolutionary pal. We talk about the ACLU and police brutality and fashion trends and life and love. Sports was so far away from anything we considered to be our orbit.

But V., unlike most of the rest of my friends, is fascinated and supportive and curious and asking a million questions, and, while flabbergasted at this turn of events, is thrilled for me.

“Where’s the Metsgrrl fashion line? Start the t-shirts now!” she said, hugging me goodbye at the end of the night.

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Tuesday, August 08, 2006

i stand up next to a mountain

An errant 7 train, marked as express, but in reality running local, meant that I walked out of the subway station a few minutes before 7 and saw the crowd on its feet and cheering. I cursed out loud and started running, knocking into some random lollygagger with no sense of urgency.

I can’t pretend to Really Understand Mike Piazza’s impact on the Mets. Unlike 1/3 of the crowd at Shea tonight (including TBF) I don’t own a #31 t-shirt; to do so would be (in my opinion) fronting of the worst kind. I became a semi-fan in the last year he was on the team, I can’t claim much.

But I did make a point of coming to the last game of 2005, even though TBF was already gone for the year, sitting in the upper deck by myself and staying until the very last minute, half wanting to watch Mike wave goodbye to the crowd, half me not wanting to leave Shea behind for the last time that year.

The signs! They were everywhere, and I cursed leaving my camera behind tonight. Signs for Piazza, signs demanding the Mets retire his number, signs saying WE MISS YOU, signs saying WELCOME HOME.  There was a two-sided sign on the field level - I never saw what the front of it said, but the back said MIKE CAMERON: THE BEST SMILE IN BASEBALL.  And the signs for Wright, running alongside saying hello to our former friends, affirming the declaration that he’d like to be a lifetime Met.

it wasn’t until Piazza’s first at- bat that I finally got the chance to pay my respects, standing along with the rest of the crowd. (And of course, Mr. Cameron in the lineup before him.) I felt sad and a little left out, if that makes any sense; the salute was genuine on my part, but I can’t possibly appreciate him as much as the rest of you do. It’s kind of like never having seen the Who with Keith Moon: no matter how much of a freaking psycho Who fan I have been in my life, and as many times as I have seen them and written about them, in some ways I always felt like a pretender.

(And I think Mr. Piazza—he of the $50k stereo system and “Voodoo Chile” intro music—would appreciate that analogy.)

The game itself was fine, if a little too much on the nail-biting side for my liking; despite Trachsel’s presence on the mound, it moved quickly enough for me to be home in Brooklyn writing this well before midnight. Milledge is getting some disgruntled voices - not outright booing, but it’ll get close. And the ubiquitous “You’re making $55 million, try harder” types of heckles at Wright. Yeah, whatever.

As we were walking down the ramps after the game, TBF made the suggestion we think about going tomorrow night - we have yet to see #45 on the mound this season, and his original plans to go tomorrow night with his folks were scuttled at the last minute.

“Nah.” I said. “Let’s save that money for the post-season.”

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Monday, August 07, 2006

back from the emerald city

TBF and I rolled into town over three hours late, so there’s just time to catch up on the news, the gossip, and upload a couple of pictures before getting to sleep early, so I can get to work early, so I can try to get to the f’in game in time to see the starting lineups announced.  I am VERY excited to see the returns of Mr. Piazza and Mr. Cameron, but I also hope we kick their asses.

We managed to keep up with Friday’s game via gamecast, Saturday’s game via the out of town scoreboard at Safeco, and Sunday we watched the game later that night - well, we fastforwarded through it - after being out all day and all evening. We saw two Mariners games, Saturday from the bleachers, Sunday from the first base line. We passed on seeing Zito start Friday night to have dinner with friends.

In terms of our recent joyous news, all I want to say is that TBF and I argued all day yesterday about which Reyes jersey the other is buying (I want road gray, he is a purist who really only likes the pinstripes).

I’ll post more about the Safeco trip later this week while the Mets are out of town. But, for now:

Our friends are charter seat holders at Safeco. Let me tell you, this vantage did not suck.

Gratuitous Ichiro action shot.

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Thursday, August 03, 2006

why don’t I LOVE jose valentin?

This article from mets.com yesterday got me to sit down and think about this quandry, which has been rolling around in my head for a while.

I remember the Milwaukee series when Jose Valentin changed from the guy whose at-bats you’d watched behind split fingers, into the superhero, Grand Slam-slugging guy we have today. I remember sending a text message to TBF:
“where is jose valentin and what have they done with him”
“its someone else wearing a jose valentin suit” was his response.

And, to our continued amazement, it wasn’t a fluke. He kept producing. And producing. And his defense wasn’t half-bad either - he wasn’t going to win a Gold Glove any time soon, but he was no Kaz Matsui, either. He didn’t seem to have any attitude - none was exhibited - he accepted well-earned congratulations with equanimity, zero showboating. He even swept out a rain-filled dugout in Philly during that last day game.

I liked this story. I liked the fact that everyone had written him off and at the age of 36, he somehow found his groove again and became an active contributor, the regular second baseman (even if Willie never said as much). It warmed my heart to see this comeback - not just because it was good for the Mets, but because, damn, it must be a pretty amazing thing for Jose Valentin to have turned his performance around like that.

And, unbelieveably, he continues to amaze. TWO Grand Slams. TWO! From JOSE VALENTIN!

Which brings me to my point. The all-caps up there. When does it stop being all-caps? When do we start to believe?

Last night, watching the game, I asked TBF: “Why don’t I love Jose Valentin? Why aren’t I running to the Team Store to buy a shirt?”
TBF’s response was a very philosophical one about which players the Mets actively market, which, while fascinating (and obvious - he forgets about my MBA sometimes), didn’t answer my question.

I mean, why don’t I LOVE Jose Valentin? We cheer him and we are happy when he does what he does, but I am so not feeling the l-u-v for this guy. We applaud him and we cheer him on and we wish him well (genuinely), but I don’t see “Valentin’s Valentino’s” sitting out in the bleachers.

And I, as a fan, feel guilty about it.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

nail-biting thrills (not)

I thought by now I was used to the continuum of suspense, the rollercoaster, the ups and downs. Tonight, however, I don’t know if I’m just tired or if it was really that bad, but my mumbling in the kitchen about my lack of confidence that the Mets would pull this one out in the 9th earned me a mini-lecture from TBF, something about “you don’t have a lot of confidence in your players, now do you”.

At that moment, my answer would have been a resounding “no”.

I wish d.wright would pull out of his slump.  And Cliff - well, you know, Cliff.
TBF: “Wow, is that the first ejection this year?”
MG: “No. Lo Duca - and Duaner, in Milwaukee.”
TBF: “Wow.”
MG: “Pretty good?”
TBF: “Um, yeah.”

Tomorrow I will be trying very hard to watch Pedro and Dontrelle Willis, while I frantically pack for a long weekend in Seattle. We’re back at Shea on Tuesday, for the return of the Mikes. This weekend, we’ll be watching Oakland play the Mariners (but no Barry Zito, two games on three days is all we can cram in amongst the other obligations).

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duaner is gothamist’s “idiot of the month”

Yes, Gothamist’s sports coverage is puerile at best. But this has got to be the most dumb-ass article I have seen, since the one that complained that Patti Smith hogged the Bowery Ballroom every New Year’s Eve, depriving indieflavorbandofthemonth from that venue, and couldn’t she just die already?

TIEN MAO, YOU LIVE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD, WATCH YOURSELF.

[kidding.]

[well, sort of.]

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