Taking Inventory of Things That Suck

I saw that television commercial where the family is sitting around the dinner table with guests and items start getting pulled into the living room.

"That’s our TV. It sucks," one of the homeowners says.

I believe this is a landmark moment in our lives, when "sucks" is elevated from elementary school taunt and derisive stadium chant to mainstream conversation. Now I’m sure we’ll hear some senator break out with "sucks" during the Supreme Court justice confirmation hearings.

I’m not saying this is good. It’s just what it is.

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays are the poster children of suck.

So we need to take an official inventory of things that in fact do suck and things that do not. And we have to be careful not to overuse the word. There is a big difference between the truly heinous and things that suck. For example, the Yankees are evil but the Devil Rays suck — unless they’re beating the Yankees again, in which case they are my second-favorite team.

So here is a list of things that suck, and feel free to offer suggestions:

1) Beaning Mike Piazza.
Throwing at the coconut of any Mets player is a dastardly deed, but why does it always seem to be poor Mike Piazza? And if Roger Clemens isn’t bonking one off Mike’s helmet he’s hurling bat shards his way. And this week Mike makes his return from the disabled list, launches a bomb and Julian Tavarez nails him in the noggin.

Of course, not all skullings suck. Nailing Derek Jeter is appropriate in many situations. First base open? Blast 'em. Up by a couple runs? Valid. Having a bad hair day? Someone's gotta pay, might as well be Jeter. It's just the right thing to do. I could watch this happen three, four times a game.

2) All-Star Games that end in a tie.

Don’t tell me it’s just an exhibition game. The only thing on exhibit at the 2002 Milwaukee fiasco was the cluelessness of Commissioner Bud Selig and mismanagement of Joe Torre and Bob Brenley.
For goodness sakes, it’s one of the game’s showcase events. Don’t tell me the pitchers would have been at risk if they threw an extra inning or two. Can you imagine a warrior like Bob Gibson coming out of a game like that? And because Bud screwed that up, we’re forced to endure the "This time it counts" nonsense that gives the AL the home field advantage in every World Series. Not even the NHL, the most mis-managed of all major sports, wouldn’t let this happen. And considering that this league allowed someone to name a team after an Emilio Estevez movie, that’s saying something.

Jar Jar sucks, but the whole movie can't be blamed on him.

3) The Phantom Menace

Man, did this movie suck. Going after Jar Jar is to easy. How come Natalie Portman is the queen, but she’s a teen-ager? She’s the queen and she doesn’t have enough money to buy a part so the kid has to win a race to get enough money? Darth Maul was a great-looking character. So why not give him a line of dialogue or two? You can’t just design a costume, let the guy wander into a couple frames and call it a day. Naboo?

The worst ballpark not in the Bronx. No wonder the team moved.

4) Olympic Stadium.

OK, so the tarp-like roof is going to get pulled into the leaning tower by these little cables. The shock here is not that the contraption didn’t work. It’s that somebody thought it would ever work in the first place. This was hands-down, the worst ballpark not in the Bronx.

It's not gray, it's "graphite." And it sucks.

5) Blue Jays uniforms

The tragedy here is that the Jays used to have nice uniforms with an identity unique to the team and it’s Canadian roots. Now they have "graphite" colored caps, and a team with "blue" in its name and a severe lack of blue in its uniforms. The Padres uniforms suck, too. But the Padres have always had sucky uniforms, so it’s more of a tradition at this point and they have no choice.

6) Rockies vests

Since we’re venting about uniforms, what’s the point of having a black vest if you’re going to wear black undershirts? The only thing worse is when they wear the purple undershirts. And what’s with the stripes around the arm holes. Can you imagine the recruiting trip for a free-agent pitcher? "Well, you have to pitch in a stadium that will inflate your ERA by a run and flatten your curveball. Plus, you have to wear a clown suit. But the schools are good." They’re not all as dense as Mike Hampton.

No ring, no love...how's that working for you, Alex?

7) Team-hopping Alex Rodriguez

Freaking A-Rod could have been a Met. Then he could have been a Red Sox. Instead he allows himself to get lured over to the Dark Side and join the Skanks, where he plays second fiddle to the aforementioned Jeter. And he's probably going to lose another MVP, this time to a designated hitter from a team he spurned. Bad kharma, Alex. It's coming back to haunt you. I'd rather have David Wright.

8) An occasional Mets player

A rule of thumb is that anything connected with the Mets can’t suck. Call it blind loyalty. Braden Looper doen’t suck, he’s just not being used properly. Kaz Ishii doesn’t suck, he’s just control challenged. Mike Stanton used to suck, then he became an overused reliever. Now he sucks again. There’s one exception. Jose Offerman sucks. After that monumental screw-up in a close game the other night, he shouldn’t be coming to the ballpark without a ticket ever again.

UPDATE:

After Thursday's disaster, I now have to conclude that Braden Looper does indeed suck.

Twenty Years Ago Today...

A couple of crazy kids on a 1989 visit back to the University of Missouri campus. Naturally, I had to show the Mets colors.

There are days that completely change the rest of your life.

Usually you don’t see them coming – or even realize how important they are until a little time has passed.

At least that’s how it was for me on Sept. 12, 1985.

It was a pretty decent day for the Mets, too, taking the rubber game of a series with the Cards. It was tough being a Mets fan and going to school in Missouri at the height of the Mets-Cards rivalry. And this game was important because we were chasing them for the division crown and building for an even bigger showdown later in the month. The Mets took this one 7-6, a patented Jesse Orosco vulture win after he let Willie McGee tie the game in the ninth with a homer. But the Mets came back with a walk-off win.

I’ll have to ask Mark Simon of the amazing Mets Walkoffs site for the details, since I missed the game.

You see, I was a junior at the University of Missouri School of Journalism. And all students working on The Missourian, the J-School’s daily newspaper, had to spend six hours a week in the newsroom for what we called “general assignment hours.”

Neff Hall, part of the School of Journalism

The idea is to have reporters standing by for breaking news – fires, crashes and things that happen that aren’t necessarily on your beat but need to be covered. You were at the mercy of the teaching assistant, a grad student who served as the assignment editor during the shift.

Well, this particular night the TA was polishing his brown-nosing skills. Professors serve as the editors for the paper, and they have offices with short, glass walls on the fringe of the newsroom. The top editor’s birthday was the next day, and the TA decided with would be nice to fill his office with balloons. Being the TA, he could actually delegate his brown-nosing to the lowly undergrads, and I was assigned the task of blowing up the balloons and throwing them over the glass wall.

I didn’t mind the job too much because he also assigned it to a pretty girl who I had never met. Her name was Julie. We started talking between balloons -- and I was hooked!

In a bold move, I casually asked her if she wanted to get some pizza after we were done with the GA shift. Shakespeare’s Pizza was across the street and was a de facto extension of the J-School. It was also the best pizza in Columbia, and you know New Yorkers take pizza seriously.
Shakespeare's, a J-School hangout, has awesome pizza.

Over pizza she mentioned she had a boyfriend. I looked at this as a mere speed bump. Patience and persistence would be the plan.

We made it kind of a weekly event through the fall, following the Tuesday GA shift with pizza at Shakespeare’s. By the time we returned from Christmas break, the other boyfriend was no more. As we know, 1986 was a good year for the Mets -- and me too! Yes!

Two years and a month later we were married, and remain happily so today. So I’m pretty grateful to that brown-nosing TA.

This year I realized it was the 20th anniversary of that big day, but I didn’t know what the actual date was, other than that it was the day before the big editor’s birthday and it had to have been sometime in the early fall. Reporters have a fair number of research tools at our disposal, and checks for this professor’s DOB came up dry.

The professor’s still at the school, so I ventured off an e-mail, explaining that I know it’s strange for a long-forgotten student to ask what day his birthday falls on, and told him why I needed to know. He was kind enough to reply, and now I know that Sept. 12 is a day to celebrate.

We couldn’t make it to Columbia for some Shakespeare’s, but the owner said he can ship some frozen pies to Michigan this week, making the day complete.

The occasion is also a reason to thank the Lord for each and every day he gives us. We never know what his plans are for us. He doesn’t follow our script. If a task as dull as blowing up balloons so someone else can surprise his professor can lead to meeting the love of my life, then I know that each and every day can lead to something wonderful.

Photo updates:

Once again, I got carried away with the photos, going back and adding art -- in some cases, more art -- to some of the earliest posts. If you are interested:

Wiffle Balls and-the Meaning of Life

The Major-Leaguer, the Actor and the Truth

Glories of Opening Day

Pop Shortell, Dave Winfield and Richard Nixon

The Flood, the Sandwich Queen, and the Burlington Bees

John O'Donnell Stadium in the Quad Cities was flooded in 1993.

You’re no doubt hearing a lot about the work of Red Cross volunteers in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

These people are angels of mercy. I know this from having spent some time with them in 1993, when floods devastated big chunks of Missouri, Iowa and Illinois.

I was finishing a travel story in St. Louis when I got a call from the editors to send my wife home, rent a car and catch up with a team of Red Cross volunteers from Flint who were headed to Iowa.

The flooding was national news, and there was plenty of evidence in St. Louis, where the Mississippi was climbing the steps to the Arch.

Julie, a Mizzou friend and Tony on the steps to the Arch. Look at the flagpoles to see how high the water was in St. Louis.

But I was amazed by the size of the devastation on the outlying farmlands I saw while driving north on U.S. 61 through Quincy and Alton and Keokuk. Take away an occasional tree top, power line or silo, and I would have thought I was passing Lake Michigan instead of miles of crops.

The water level had already started to slip back by the time I reached southeastern Iowa. I’ll never forget the stench of the water, which smelled like rotting garbage. And there were flies everywhere.

Just touching the water was considered dangerous, and tetanus shots were dispensed like breakfast.

It was in this kind of environment that I caught up with the volunteers from the Flint area. Some were based in high schools, helping people get their lives back in order and providing a shoulder to cry on.

I was amazed at how much the Red Cross provided — clothes, food, cleaning supplies, mattresses and hotel space until homes were livable again. All of which is provided through donations from folks like you and me. Two of the Flint volunteers preparing meals.

The goal is to get people out of the shelters as quickly as possible, because there is nothing dignified about sleeping on cots in a high school gym with your possessions stacked around you.

Others volunteers hit the road, bringing meals to National Guard members and ordinary folks stuffing sandbags along the swelling Des Moines and Mississippi rivers.

Two volunteers I helped deliver meals to a fire hall near sand-bagging operations.

Volunteers are asked to stay about three weeks, which is about as long as a person can last before enthusiasm and energy dissolve into depression and exhaustion. And they were largely the kind of people who can take three weeks off from work, a lot of good-hearted retirees, teachers in the summer and people with home businesses.

A helper named Norma was dubbed "The Sandwich Queen" for her ability to quickly turn 80-pound stacks of turkey and seven racks of bread into meals.

Others are kind of colorful. One volunteer from Colorado was teamed with the Flintites, and wanted to talk about writing. He said he made good money writing for a particular kind of magazine — the kind with a lot of pictures and very little writing, if you know what I mean.

The impact on these close-knit small towns is hard to describe. One of them, Wapello, was so small that people not only don’t lock their house, but they leave their keys in their cars. It was so small that my arrival was news, and it was known that I had touched water and not yet had a tetanus shot. A nurse from the local public health department tracked me down and gave me the shot.

Wapello, Iowa. A big chunk of downtown was underwater.

The scariest thing happened when I was driving back to St. Louis, crossing a two-lane metal bridge somewhere near Keokuk. It was one of those bridges with the metal grates for a road, and if your car is stopped you can look straight down into the water.

And I was stopped for a while because a backhoe was stretched over the guard rail to dislodge fallen tree trunks and utility poles that had washed downriver and were stuck against a support pillar.

The was rushing quickly, and was so high that it seemed to be only about five feet under the bridge. And at one point I looked upriver and saw something dark bobbing in the water. As it got closer, I realized it was a tree — not a branch, but a full tree. As it got closer I realized there was nowhere I could go, with traffic stopped in both direction.

It finally struck the bridge with a large KLANG, and it seemed to shake for a second, but that was it, and I could exhale.

Naturally, I attempted to work some baseball into the trip. O’Donnell Stadium in the Quad Cities — not too far north of Wapello — was famously under water.

The home of the Burlington Bees had reopened by the time I was leaving Iowa.

But the Burlington Bees yard was on high ground and not affected. It was locked up tight on the day I had some time to explore. I already had a cool Bees cap anyway. But as I was headed out of town I saw the stadium lights on, a sign that life for these poor folks was slowly returning to normal. As long as there is baseball, things were looking a little better.

Forget Sports Illustrated. Here's the REAL Ballpark Ranking

Shea is so heavenly that St. Peter rips your tickets as you enter.

It’s no secret that Sports Illustrated is a football rag. I think baseball appears on the cover of Popular Mechanics more than it does of SI. And its stable of Yankee-apologist hacks like Tom Verducci ensures that the Mets will get bashed in the rare times they get mentioned at all.

So I wasn’t shocked that the magazine ranked that slice of God’s Country called Shea Stadium as the very worst ballpark in the Major Leagues.

My man Metstradamus posted this nonsense on his awesome site, knowing that all our goats would be gotten. So I mobilized the Thruth Squad to set the record straight with real rankings.

First a couple things to get out of the way. The SI piece ranks ballparks on stuff like food selection, neighborhoods, and the number of toilets. All of that is nonsense.

Hey, if you are going to a stadium for a fine dining, then you’re going to the wrong place. My criteria for ballpark food: Fill my stomach until I can hit the White Castle drive-through on the way home. Or, in the case of a Lemon Chill, occupy my kids when they get a little restless. Those wooden scrapers, er, spoons, keep them busy.

As for neighborhoods, if I want to hang out in some trendy sports bar, I can do it without going to the stadium first. Restrooms? I might care a little more if I was in the other gender, but it’s not like guys require a lot here. I plan to spend as little time in them as possible.

So here is how the stadiums should have been ranked, at least the ones that I have visited.

Elegant and classy Shea Stadium, with tasteful giant neon ballplayers.

1) Shea Stadium: The Mets play here. That negates any kind of shortcoming. Really, what else could you want? The skyline atop the scoreboard is a fine tribute to New York. The apple in the cap is a far better decoration for centerfield than some plaques with dead Yankees on them. And it’s so convenient to have that nice airport across the street, allowing visiting teams to quickly depart the fair city with their tails between their legs. I pretty much go to a ballpark to see a game, and if that game includes the Mets, then everything else doesn’t really matter.

Details like giant baseball cards make PNC a fun place to see a bad team.

2) PNC Park: I was ready to pledge allegiance to this fine yard until I had to pay about $5 for a Diet Coke. Other than that, this is a magnificent ballpark. The view is awesome, our upper deck seats were not ridiculously high and the Bucs do a fine job of celebrating their tradition and history.

3) Fenway Park: Fenway is Wrigley without the idiots. You're never going to get closer to the players. The Green Monster is a cool quirk, the Citgo sign is a classic and the rest of the place was like a museum until they started putting seats atop the wall.

Busch looked cool even before they added real grass.

4) Busch Stadium:I'm a sucker for landmarks, and the view of the Arch from the first base side is just perfect. Add baseball's second-best fans and you have a multi-purpose bowl that still seems like a great night at the ballpark. Sadly, you have less than a month to see Busch, at least this version of it.
I didn't see a game, but they let me take photos.

5) Dodger Stadium: I’ve never seen a game here, but the team allowed me to hit a gift shop and walk around the upper deck one morning when I was attending a conference in Los Angeles. The place was beautiful. I was amazed that at a point I could see the ocean, the Hollywood sign and the mountains. It was also cool that it’s built right into a mountain. I parked and walked right into the upper deck.

Will inspecting Miller Park while it was still under construction.

6) Miller Park: I took in a game at Miller last year, and was greeted by the commissioner of baseball. True story. We had a fun time and the brats with secret sauce actually made me care about stadium food. The roof opened and closed during the game, which was neat, and a massive gift shop was well-stocked with retor cap-and-glovev logo merchandise. And check out the Little League field on the site of old County Stadium.

Coors right before the first exhibition game with real players.

7) Coors Field: One of the first of the retro stadiums, Coors is bricks and steel, pine trees in the bullpens and a line of purple seats at the mile-high mark. And it made Mike Hampton pay for leaving the Mets in 2001 -- though the schools in Denver are really good. Sure, Mike.

We got to see the All-Star Game Home Run Derby at the Jake.

8) Jacobs Field: They passed on the bricks to come up with a modern ballpark that has some of the touches of the retro yards, just not as nice looking from the outside. But this is still a fine ballpark. Execpt, of course, for whatever spell it cast on Roberto Alomar to make him suck as soon as he left it's diamond.
Pay homge to my friend Kelly Gruber at the dome.

9) SkyDome: I'm not calling it the Rogers Centre or whatever the heck they tacked on the sign outside. People whine about this place, but I think it's fun. Not saying I'd want to see every game there, but it's like baseball in a pinball machine. Embrace the Canadian aspects, despite the new owners' attempts to Americanize the place. And the "OK, Blue Jays" song is pretty cool. And it's hard to not keep looking up at the CN Tower.

10) Kauffman Stadium: I went to college in Missouri, but never had the chance to see this heralded yard. But in 1995 I had two hours to kill before a flight out of Kansas City made it a mission to see the stadium. The folks inside were kind enough to open a gift shop and let we wander around taking photos.

Buy your cheese steak sandwich at Pat's, then go to the game.
11) Citizens Bank Park: From outside this must be the most confusing stadium I've ever seen. It looks like a big pile of stuff in the middle of the parking lot. Inside's a different story, a fine yard. And the giant, light-up Liberty Bell that bongs after each home run is a classic.

"Hey kids, I caught a home run ball today!" "Cool! let's see it!" "Ah, some drunks told me to throw it back on the field."
12) Wrigley Field: Wrigley in romantic theory is much better than Wrigley in reality. In theory, it’s got bleachers full of knowledgeable baseball diehards who live for the ups and downs — mostly downs — of their beloved Cubbies. In reality, the bleachers are packed with drunk posers who think throwing home run balls back on the field is a good idea. In theory, residents of the cute houses across the street climb on their roofs so they can peek the action. In reality, the rooftops are owned by corporations that rent them out for mega-bucks. In theory, fans spill out of the stadium to toss back an Old Style with fellow Cubbie devotees at a local watering hole. In reality, the watering holes are tourist traps. I know. I was one. I know, I know...ivy...Harry..the El. It’s just not real. It’s like people going there are following a script instead of stuff just happening.


My view of Charlie Hough throwing the first pitch in Marlins history -- to current Met Jose Offerman.

13: Dolphins Stadium: People wail on this place like it's some hell-pit, and I just don't get it. It's a lot better than some of the other multi-purpose stadiums, and there is some local latin flavor that the team is starting to recognize. Former owner Wayne Huizenga -- who owns the stadium -- seems to go out of his way to make the Marlins seem like second-class citizens in their own home, but I still enjoy going here.

14) Minute Maid Park: I've only been in the gift shop and walked around the building, but I could see they had the train that rides atop the left field wall decorated for Christmas. It looked like a pretty cool place, and I like the hill in centerfield. The statues of Bigs and Bags were OK. As a bonus treat, it was the scene of Roger "Bat-tosser" Clemens' complete All-Star game meltdown.

I drove my rental car right under the Big A!
15) Angels Stadium: This time team let me in the gift shop but would not let me inside to take photos. Disney did wonders by making this a baseball-only stadium again, though I have no idea what's going on with the rocks in centerfield. I like the giant caps and Hollywood-style hands in cement near the entrance. And the former "Big A" scoreboard is a landmark.

This yard should always be called Comiskey Park.
16) U.S. Cellular Field: I don’t care if they lop off a couple rows and add a roof, the upper deck is just plain disasterous. It’s as steep as everyone says — you’re afraid to lean forward — and three, count ‘em, three levels of luxury boxes make it seem so high that the observation deck of the Sears Tower is anticlimactic. The lower level is a different story, and the Sox have enough side attractions and promotions to add to the fun. The team gouges on the parking, knowing that no sane person would park in the projects and walk to the yard. I still have no clue why they painted everything black, but the exploding scoreboard is a treat.

17) The Metrodome: We already know that security at the dome is lax. (Read about it here) It's plastic and ugly, but still a step up from where the Twins used to play.

A tiger choking on a baseball is not the image you want to project.

18) Comerica Park: I took my kids to see a game there in the stadium's first year. I asked for three tickets, and the seller said all he had were upper deck seats for $50. "Three upper deck seats are $50? You gotta be kidding me!" Then the guys said, "No, they're $50 EACH." That made me kind of bitter about Comerica. They've lowered the prices, but I still only go once a year. And if you need a Ferris wheel to keep fans amused, your team must really suck.

19 - 29) Bank One Ballpark, Great American Ballpark, Petco Field, Safeco Field, SBC Park, Newtork Associates Coliseum, Tropicana Dome, Ameriquest Field, Turner Stadium, RFK Stadium, Camden yards: I have not been to these stadiums, though I got a hard hat tour of Camden while it was under construction. So it would be unfair to rank them. Except for one thing -- I can assure you they are better than this dump:

30) Yankee Stadium: Otherwise known as “The House of Shame.” A vile hell hole that serves as a tribute to self-glorification with all the beauty and splendor of the South Bronx. The fact that Steinbrenner periodically threatens to move the team to New Jersey — New Jersey! — tells you all you need to know about this landfill. And no, Derek Freaking Jeter is not some stud because he can loft what would be a shallow fly in any other park into that short porch in left. And is there anything stupider that that "roll call" cheer? It makes "the wave" look intelligent. Watch the ballgame and leave the players alone, darn it! Fans, this is where SI got it so wrong.

Phew, I feel better now.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Clem Labine and Flint Journal Softball

Clem Labine pitched for two champions -- and the lowly 1962 Mets.

I was showing off my glorious flannel Mitchell & Ness reproduction of Tom Seaver’s 1969 jersey at a card show where members of the 1962 team were signing autographs.

Clem Labine looked up after signing my Mets history book and smiled.

“Hey, you’re wearing my jersey,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t know if the old guy had kind of lost it, but I didn’t want to be rude.

“I think this is Tom Seaver’s jersey, Mr. Labine,” I carefully responded.

“Nope. I was No. 41 first. Look it up.”

It finally sunk in. For some reason it never occurred to me that other Mets had worn No. 41. I assumed it was the exclusive property of “The Franchise” – and me.

I’ve been wearing No. 41 as a tribute to Tom for as long as I’ve been wearing anything with a number.

One of the responsibilities of being the coach of the Flint Journal’s coed softball team all those years was ordering our jerseys. Being a certifiable uniform junkie, I put great effort into designing our gameware each year. I’d spend the winter planning. We didn't always play well, but we looked awesome!

Our colors were black, red and white because we were a newspaper team. You know the joke from the era before USA Today: “What’s black and white and red (read) all over?

And of course, I got first choice on the numbers. It was a given that No. 41 was locked up.

Looking through the history books, it might have been better if the Mets had locked 41 in the closet until Seaver arrived.

Labine had a nice career, finishing with a 77-56 record in 13 years winning World Championships with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1955 and Pittsburgh Pirates in 1960 -- beating vile Yankees both times!

But his magic was gone by the time the expansion Mets were grabbing former Dodgers and Giants. Labine appeared in 3 games, pitching 4 innings and posting an ugly 11.25 ERA before being released.

No. 41 didn’t fare much better the next year, when Grover Powell wore it in 20 games, wrapping up with a 1-1 record and 2.72 ERA.

Jim Bethke wore the number in 1965, with a 2-0 record and 4.28 ERA. But he gave way to Gordon Richardson later that year, who went 2-4 in 50 games over the remainder that season and 1966.

Of course, Seaver debuted in 1967, and today it hangs on the wall at Shea Stadium with Casey, Gil and Jackie.

At the press conference when Seaver announced his retirement in 1987, a reporter asked him how he game upon the number that would be as identifiable to him as No. 3 is with the Babe, No. 44 with the Hammer and No. 9 with the Splinter.

“It’s a very romantic story,” Seaver said with a smile. “I arrived at my locker on my first day and it was hanging there.”

That equipment manager in 1967 had no idea about the important role he’d play in Journal coed softball uniforms somewhere down the line.

In Other Words...

Thanks to the folks at Mets by the Numbers, an amazingly detailed site about every number worn by every Mets player and more. It's one of those site that you start reading, then suddenly realize an hour has gone by.

Roberto Hernandez, the Fish and a Happy Pre-Teen

Getting a ball and proving your Dad wrong...priceless!

I’ve snagged two balls in 34 years of attending Major League Baseball games.

My son Andrew equaled his old man’s lifetime total during one Florida Marlins game last year.

You need to know that my Dad spoils me wildly, and we were at Joe Robbie-Pro Player-Dolphins-Whatever This Week’s Name Is Stadium as the gates opened for a July 26, 2004 game against the Phils.

I don’t know about you guys, but I have set routines for going to a game. I’m incapable of going right to my seat and plopping down until the last out. I have to walk the entire concourse to see every concession booth -- on the off chance that one has different stuff – and scout out the assorted food options before settling in for batting practice.

My Dad lets me get away with this.

We had already inspected everything along the first base side and were working our way around rightfield looking for glorious arepea stands when Andrew spotted Roberto Hernandez – he was a Phillie then – and other pitchers shagging flies and tossing some balls into the stands.

Andrew, who had just turned 12, immediately asked to go down where the other kids were. In one of those all-knowing father voices, I said “You will never get a ball. Keep walking with us.”

But Dad said he wouldn’t mind a break if Andrew wanted to give it a shot.

“That man’s name is Roberto Hernandez. Remember to say ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you.’ You have 5 minutes,” I said, though he was already halfway down the aisle by the time I finished. Dad and I grabbed a seat in the last row of the section.

I swear that within two minutes of Andrew reaching the first row, a ball was hit over Hernandez’s head and stopped near the base of the wall, right where Andrew was standing.

I sat there in disbelief as Hernandez picked up the ball, looked up and placed it in Andrew’s outstretched hand.

Andrew walked back up the aisle with his trophy and said “See, told ya.”

There is nothing that makes a pre-teen happier than being able to tell his father “Told ya.”

We found the booth selling the areapas, a Latin-American treat made from two slices of sweet cornbread grilled with cheese. It's the Marlins' version of selling a knish. Then we and settled in to our seats for the game, which featured A.J. Burnett going up against Kevin Millwood. Dad landed primo seats, 12 rows behind the Marlins’ dugout.

Now, I haven’t brought my glove to a game since I was a kid because I can’t remember the last time a foul ball came to my section, much less my row. Plus it’s hard to keep score wearing a glove. And besides, I can catch anything that comes close, right?

But about midway through the game an absolute screamer goes right past me. I thought about reaching out for it for a millisecond, and it’s probably a good thing I didn’t. It struck an empty seat about five away from me. A slow-moving elderly man had been sitting in that spot until the inning before, and I can only imagine what would have happened to him had he still been there.

So we missed out on a second ball. Or so we thought.

Later in the game, an inning ended with a throw to Marlins first-baseman Hee Seop Choi, who tossed it into the stands on his way to the dugout. It was caught by a guy in the row behind us who tapped Andrew on the shoulder and said, “Here you go, bud!”

And just like that, the 12-year-old had his second Major League ball, just as many as his Dad. Someday, I'll hear the end of this.

A local hobby shop had one of those stands that hold a card and a ball, so I found Topps Total cards of Choi and Hernandez, now proudly displayed with the balls in Andrew’s room.

His conquests were exciting to be sure, but I’m still partial to that magical, misty night in Tiger Stadium when Frank Thomas cemented by fandom.

In other words...

Roberto Hernandez, of course, is now one of the best relievers in the Mets bullpen. So he likely won't ever appear on Mets Walkoffs list of the worst Mets relievers, an awesome post. As an added bonus, it inspired Metstradmaus to reveal how he once taught Donne Wall and Lenny Harris lessons they won't soon forget!

The Yankee Upstairs

In hindsight, It’s probably better that I didn’t realize the guy living right above us was Yankees pitcher Scott Kamieniecki.

My wife and I had just moved into a new apartment in our sprawling complex, landing a better unit with two bedrooms and a washer and dryer. It had only two floors, and four units – two upstairs and two down -- shared a little foyer and an outside door.

I claimed the extra bedroom as my first “baseball room,” a place to hang the glorious life-sized posters of Tom Seaver, Frank Thomas and Harold Baines, the pennants I’d collected since childhood and other stuff.

In the six years we lived in apartments, I can’t say we really got to know any of the neighbors other than a “good morning” when we passed, only sometimes even knowing their names

So it wasn’t much of shock that I didn’t really formally meet the new family that moved upstairs in the fall of 1992. The guy had one of those nasty halo harnesses you wear after a neck injury, and he had a wife and young child.

I saw them a couple times as we passed in and out, even once in Meijer, which is a big store here in the Midwest. My wife was a little miffed after she helped the woman carry some boxes once. Julie introduced herself, the woman said, “We’re only here until our house is done being built” and closed the door on her.

My colleagues in the Flint Journal’s sports department did a good job keeping track of local athletes in the pros, and Flint’s got a lot of them. On the baseball side, Scott Aldred, Mickey Weston and Jeff Hamilton were from suburbs. Scott Kamieniecki was from Mount Clemens, which is closer to Detroit than Flint. But his wife was from Grand Blanc, a Flint suburb where we lived.

My friends at the local card store stayed on top of such things, too. Dave “Pop” Zittel was a retired school administrator who was active with sports programs and opened the store with his brother as a hobby. He knew everyone, and told me Kamieniecki was moving into the area. And we had read that he was having some kind of neck surgery during the off-season.

But I never thought that the guy living upstairs might be the Yankees pitcher. And we barely took notice when the family moved out after a short time. People moved in and out all the time.

A new family moved in, and one day they placed a letter atop of the mailbox in the foyer, and wrote on the envelope “Please forward to Scott Kamieniecki” and the address.

Finally, all the dots were connected…neck surgery…building a house…wife from the area…A MAJOR LEAGUE PITCHER IS LIVING RIGHT ABOVE ME! Or, more accurately, was living above me.

My wife said, “Oh yeah, when I helped the woman with the box I saw all kinds of bags with the Yankees logo on them.”

“And you neglected to tell me this why?” I asked.

“Well, when the woman closed the door on me, I thought ‘That’s not very nice' and forgot all about the bags.”

I was crushed. The guy was living right upstairs from my baseball room.

Looking back, I realize this could have gone one of two ways:

Scenario one: Me and Scott become tight buddies, he comes downstairs to hang out and tells funny stories about Rickey Henderson while I throw some brats on the Weber. Then he teaches me a devastating change-up so I can finally beat Will at Wiffle Ball. When the Bombers pull into Detroit during the season he sets us up with tickets behind home plate.

Scenario two: Overcome at having a Major League ballplayer live upstairs, I’m reduced to a stuttering, pointing mass whenever I see my new neighbor, who humors me once by accepting a tour of the baseball room and deeply regrets it when I retell the story of Reggie Jackson and the Hall of Fame ball for the third time. From that point on, Scott tiptoes past my door and up the stairs every time he enters the building to avoid making contact with me, who rushes to the window every time I hear a door slam in the parking lot.

Yup, I think we know which one of those paths we would have walked down.

Kamieniecki, who still lives near Flint, had a nice career in the majors, pitching 10 years with a 53-49 record and 4.52 ERA. He was with the Yanks from 1991 to 1996, spent some time with Baltimore from 1997 to 1990 and split 2000 with the Indians and Braves.

And let’s just say I’ve made it a point to thoroughly get to know any and all new neighbors – just in case.