Paulie's metldown and other scary Mets moments

Paul Lo Duca during his meltdown as depicted in pumpkin form.

I’m pretty down on Halloween.

I didn’t mind the cartoon-like ghosts and pumpkins. But decorations have just become too realistic. It would be nice to be able to walk down an aisle of my supermarket without seeing assorted plastic severed heads in states of decay in the spots that previously held Ritz crackers with Rachel Ray on the boxes.

I even had an unpleasant moment in The Store That Has No Faults, otherwise known as Costco. Walking past the snacks I saw one of those life-sized witches holding a ball containing yet another severed head.

I didn’t realize it was one of those robotic things with motion sensors, and jumped so high that I almost dropped my Sweet and Salty granola bar sample. The cashiers were all laughing as I was clutching my chest. I went back for another round of samples because, well, I earned them.

Of course, as Mets fans, we are not strangers to scary moments.

My Halloween pumpkin design each year typically salutes some aspect of the Mets or the Homeland. This confuses the neighbors.

This year’s abrupt end to the season inspired a horrifying design, and that would be catcher Paul Lo Duca’s complete meltdown and ejection after disagreeing with balls and strike calls in a close game.

Paulie in real life.

Paulie’s contorted face showed his rage as Willie tried to drag him back to the dugout. Clearly a Met completely out of control. It probably made the front office to decide to find another catcher for next season. We'll have to see.

Alas, the Mets short history is just full of tales twisted and terrorizing.

Here are the five scariest moments in Mets history, not counting Tom Galvine’s first-inning disaster in the last game, which I’m not over yet.

Watch the video -- if you dare.

Suzyan Waldman’s Tom Seaver tribute.

Look, I like Seaver as much as the next Mets fan. OK, maybe a little more. There’s a chance Seaver would seek a restraining order if he ever saw the shrines – you’ll note the plural – in my baseball room.

But even I was close to hiding under my seat at Shea in 1988 at Tom Seaver Day. At the conclusion of the ceremony where Tom’s No. 41 was forever retired, the team directed our attention to the Jumbotron for a video tribute by Waldman, who at that point was still pretending to be an unbiased sports reporter.

It started with scenes of Shea, then a twinkling piano with Waldman breaking out with “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Bad enough, to be sure. But then she started warbling modified lyrics intended to pay tribute but were so grossly over the top that even I was cringing.

I realize there is bad, and then there is Kiss Meets The Phantom of the Park So-Bad-That-it’s-Good bad.

But by the time Waldman got to the 300th win mothers were covering the ears of their crying children to protect them from further trauma. I’m very sure that had there been even one more verse most of the upper deck would have hurled themselves into the box seats.

Scary.

The most frightening moment in Mets history.

Carlos Beltran and Mike Cameron collide on Aug. 11, 2005

Nothing funny about this one. A ball fell in between center and right in San Diego and both players dove, striking head-to-head.

Beltran, in his first season with the Mets, slowly rose to his knees, but Cameron barely moved and was removed on a stretcher. He fractured of both cheekbones and broke his nose.

Many baseball observers said it was the worst collision they had ever seen. Luckily, both recovered.

Bad costumes.

The 1993 “Wardrobe of Failure”

Even in their darkest days, the Mets could always say they looked good. The classy script Mets across the front of the jerseys was an established and proud look that was virtually unchanged from 1962 even as the team added sleeve stripes and collars, removed and restored buttons and tinkered slightly with the blue in the uniform.

So I nearly went into shock during a 1993 spring training game when I flipped through the program and found a photo of players modeling new uniforms with a thick, floppy tail underlining the team name.

Yup, they were going to discard the style worn by Hodges and Ashburn, Seaver and Mays, and Doc and the Kid and replace it with something that looked like it was rejected by a softball team sponsored by a bar.

Of course the team went into a tailspin and finished in the standings below the expansion Marlins, who, even wearing teal, could say they both played and looked better than our boys.

As the brilliant Metstradamas branded it, the uniforms were the wardrobe of failure. Very scary costumes, indeed.

Vince Coleman hurts kids

Among the bad things to happen during the tailed-uniform era was Vince Coleman, whose everyday play was frightening enough.

But following a game at Dodger Stadium on July 24, 1993, Vince allegedly thought it would be funny to toss a lit firecracker at fans from a car after the game, harming two children and a woman. He was charged with endangerment and sentenced to 200 hours of community service.

The thing I don’t understand is how he found Dodger fans after a game, since everyone knows the stadium empties out after the seventh inning.

Anna, the under-dressed elf

With stores starting to put Christmas decorations on display in mid-October, it’s easy to see how some people might confuse the holidays.

Kris Benson was known as much for his outrageous wife as his mediocre pitching.

And in 2006 the team decided to ask him to play Santa Claus at the annual Christmas party, where little kids are invited to sit on Santa’s lap and bask in the glory of all things Mets.

Anna decided to come to the party to help Kris distribute presents. But she apparently got the whole Christmas party/costume party thing all confused. I’m guessing Anna couldn’t decide whether she wanted to dress up like a naughty stripper or an elf – so she decided to do both.

A lot of kids – and grown-ups, too – had long lists that they wanted to share with Santa and his helper.

But Mets management was so frightened by the stunt that they banished both Bensons to the House of Horrors known as the Orioles before Opening Day.

Someone was a very naughty girl.

Yankees target vulnerable Mets fans

I’m in a fragile state right now, sportswise. I admit it.

I can’t enjoy the World Series without knowing that the Mets should be there, especially watching the likes of Kaz Matsui in those awful vests.

The Jets are terrible, even when they pretend to be the Titans.

The Islanders new sweaters are disastrous.

And I’m pretty certain the University of Missouri Tigers will wake up one morning and remember that they are, in fact, the University of Missouri Tigers and go back to being the doormats of the Big 12.

I’m doing everything I can to keep it together until pitchers and catchers report in February.

I think the Yankees know this.

There must be a Department of Taunting Mets Fans somewhere in the bowels of Yankee Stadium. Because one day I went out to my mailbox and came back with an envelope with what appeared to evil Yankee headgear in the corner.

Then I saw the big bold print, right above my name and address: “Dave, get inside the game with the New York Yankees NEW Extra Bases program!”

Flipping it over, again there was big, bold print: “Dave, Ultimate rewards for the New York Yankees fan!”

I thought it must be some sick and twisted joke. Then I opened it up and read further:

“Dear (Mets Guy), Imagine having a private tour of Monument Park at Yankee Stadium … or a dugout visit with one child (age 7 – 14) and four tickets to the game … or shagging fly balls during the 2008 State Farm Home Run Derby at MLB All-Star Week. You can do all this and more with your New York Yankees Extra Bases Platinum Plus MasterCard credit card.”

Private tour of Monument Park? I’d rather have a private tour of Rikers Island.

Bring kids into the Yankees’ dugout? Someone would slap the bracelets on me and I’d get that trip to Rikers because that’s just child abuse. “Look, kids! That’s Jason Giambi! Nooo, stop crying!”

Shagging flies at Yankee Stadium? I’d rather shag, well, you-know-what with the guy in the circus who walks behind the elephants with a shovel. It would certainly smell better.

There can only be so many reasons for this affront to humanity.

1) They’re so stupid that they actually think I’m a Yankees fan.

2) They’re so smug that they just assume everyone is a Yankees fan and send credit card applications these out to everyone.

3) They’re so cruel that they want to rub it in that our team faded somewhat down the stretch and that their team snuck into the playoffs.

4) Or, they sense that we’re vulnerable. Everyone knows we’re a hurtin’ bunch right now. They’re trying to lure us over to the dark side.

This is how it starts. Take the credit card. We’ll give you a mini-batting helmet allegedly signed by Don Mattingly.

Come sit in the dugout where Joe Torre used to sit until we dumped him because a dozen straight playoff appearances isn’t good enough. Yes, we disinfected it first.

Shag flies? Step into the infield on the spot where Roger made that little oops with the bat shard.
Next thing you know, you’re out there calling ARod ungrateful and declaring Derek F. Jeter to be the best player ever and saying stuff like, “Verducci is right. The Yanks should play all 162 games at home next season because, you know, it is the final year in the House that Ruth Built.

Well, not me, mister!

I’m a hurtin’ pup. But if I can survive the Midnight Massacre, Mettle the Mule, Vince Coleman and the uniforms with the tail under the team name, I can tough out a little late-season collapse.

I shredded that junk mail. Spring training can’t be all that far away. We must be strong.

Joys of modern air travel

A window seat? Yikes. Well, at least I'll have a great view of our fine country from above. Unless I'm in the row above the wing. But what are the odds of that? Pretty good.

I remember my college days, flying out to Columbia, Mo. on Ozark Airlines, with hot meals served with cloth napkins and metal silverware.

I thought of that Monday night on a flight from Atlanta to Detroit when the flight attendant offered me a granola bar – for $2.

Flying is not the same.

Now, I’m not complaining. Just observing. And the thought of any inconvenience evaporates the second I see my Dad waiting for me at the airport.

But after taking two three-leg flights in the last four days, there are a couple things to discuss.

Inconsiderate bastards

I’m going to call them IBs from here on out to be polite.

OK, if the rows are going to get any closer together, they’re going to start spraying people with WD-40 as they enter the jetway so they can get into their seats.

Knowing this, there are still IBs who insist on reclining their seats, knowing full well what this does to the person sitting behind them.

On one leg of my trip, an old guy in the row ahead of us dropped back as soon as he could. The guy behind him couldn’t believe it.

“The last time I saw somebody laying back that far he was getting a root canal,” he said loudly, so the IB could hear him.

“Seriously, they’re going to need the Jaws of Life to get me out of here.”

Of course, the old guy didn’t budge.

There are three things you can do in such situations.

First, as you see the seat going back, jam your knees up against the magazine/barf bag holder. If the IB’s finger is still on the button, you can at best push it back up and at worst stop it from going back further. The downside is that the IB might wait until you are not suspecting it and drop back again.

Second, take the overhead air-blower, tilt it as far forward as you can and turn it on full blast. Unless the IB is completely oblivious, he’ll get annoyed and move forward.

And third, in drastic cases, sneeze. The IB is certain to freak out when he feels that fine mist landing on his comb-over.

If none of these work, you can always set your can of Diet Coke on the IB’s forehead and say, “Oh, you were so freaking far back that I thought your face was an ugly meal tray.”

The baggage guys were slamming luggage on the conveyor like they were playing Whack-a-Mole, in full view of everybody in the gate area. Now, which is worse, seeing them slam your bag around or not seeing your bag at all?

Overhead storage battles

I know checking bags is always a risk, and this seems to be prompting IBs to try to bring all of their luggage onboard no matter how big the bags are. But, of course, there is limited room.

On one of my legs, I got to my seat nice and early, took out my book and magazine – Newsweek with Rachael Ray on the cover, yes! – and carefully placed my laptop case in the bin above my seat.

Well, a late-arriving IB stumbled down the aisle with his way-too-big bag and proceeded to his seat in the row behind me. He opened the overhead compartment, took out my laptop case, put in his bag and tried to cram my laptop in the two inches above his stuff.

Naturally, it didn’t fit. So he started giving my case the two-handed shove to squeeze it in there like it was a pillow, then started slamming the compartment lid down. I was in stunned disbelief, and finally said “Hey!” with as much indignation as I could muster.

I then stood up and shot the guy the kind of look I reserve for serial killers and people who wear Jeter shirts at Mets games. Then I reopened the compartment, took out my case, unzipped it to see that the laptop was OK while shaking my head in disgust. Then, for good measure, I shot him “the stare,” hoping that my new edgy haircut would take the guy down a couple notches.

Alas, IBs don’t care about what other people think.

Yes, that's a kitty. Let the cat out of the bag!

Purse puppies

It used to be that occasionally you’d see people trying to bring their pets on flights, and they’d have these large and elaborate carriers that were stowed with the luggage.

But on this trip I saw at least four people with tiny dogs they were carrying around in their purses the same way my daughter carries her stuffed puppy in her tote bag.

What the heck? When did dogs become accessories?

And I’m violently allergic to these things. I have no idea what would have happened had one of these IBs with purse puppies sat next to me – other than that it would be a heck of a lot easier to start sneezing if the guy in front leaned the seat back.

Even stranger, I later saw a lady with a cat in a mesh backpack. I have no idea how she got it in there – and there was precious little room for the kitty – and how it was being so calm.


Edgy people would rather ride motorcycles than fly. Ignore the kickstand -- or the fact that the motorcycle isn't actually moving. OK, Dad let me pose on his birthday present.


But like I said, all these thoughts vanish in the arms of loved ones at the other end of the trip.

It’s a lot more fun gathering for a celebration than for a funeral, as was the case earlier this year. And we had much fun reconnecting and laughing, having deep discussions while lamenting that the Jets’ offense didn’t show up on Sunday, and that the Mets didn’t show up for the post-season.

And for the record, the family liked the new haircut – but said it is not even close to being edgy.

Watching the Yankee Death Star explode

"Today will be a day long remembered. It has seen the end of Kenobi, it will soon see the end of the Rebellion."
-- Darth Vader

Allow me to paraphrase.

"Today will be a day long remembered. It has seen the end of the bat-chucker Clemens, it will soon see the end of the reign of Torre."

I’m not gloating. Gloating is bad, especially after our own team stumbled somewhat down the stretch.

So these are just observations after watching the Cleveland Indians dismantle the Evil Empire in four games.

1) I sure hope we’ve finally seen the end of the vile Roger Clemens. Something tells me that a 6-6 record and 4.18 ERA was not what the Skanks were hoping for when they paid Bat-Chucker $20 million or so for four months work. And that’s not even including the 2.1-inning performance in the ALDS with that nice, plump 11.57 ERA.

Clemens return did nothing but tack an ugly epilogue to the end of his career. From Suzyn Waldman’s hysterics announcing his arrival, to gimping off the mound in shame in his final appearance, this was an unqualified disaster.

Even his departure left a trail of sleaze. The Yanks bumped him from the roster — claiming an "injury" — and replaced him with Ron Villone, a journeyman middle reliever. The Indians howled, correctly pointing out that Clemens wasn’t going to pitch again in the series anyway, and Villone appeared in the next game, this effectively giving the Skanks a 26-man roster.

Posada's going to need more than one can of Raid to get rid of that pest.

2) Much was made about the "Joba rules" during the season. I bet next year there’s a new one: No pitching when there are bugs present.

I don’t know who on the Indians can command insects to swarm and attack like that. It was pretty amazing.

Makes you wonder what other animals are at their disposal. If we see hundreds of squirrels come out of nowhere and pounce on Curt Schilling during the ALCS, I’m going to be really impressed.

3) Is there anything more tiring than the Joe Torre deathwatch? I mean besides the "Frank TV" ads.

Some of the Yankee-hacks on the radio today were actually hyping Old Joe for manager of the year. Outrageous!

Let’s see.

He manages a team with a $195 million payroll. The next highest is $143 million. That’s a difference of about $60 million, a figure more than the entire payroll of seven teams.

He has a team with an All-Star at most positions.

Yet this team at one point was 14 games behind the Red Sox and eight games back in the wild card. We’re supposed to give him manager of the year because his team finally played the way it was supposed to play?

Once Joe gets the boot, if he wants to return to his managing roots and serve as Willie Randolph's bench coach, we might be able to make room for him.


4) For a guy who enjoys a reputation as being Mr. Clutch, Derek F. Jeter didn’t look too good hitting into a double play with two men on base when his team needed runs late in the game -- agruably his most important at-bat of the season.

Nor did he look too tough hitting a harmless infield pop-up even later when his team was mounting another charge.

Nevertheless, I have no doubt Tom Verducci will write something like, "Even when failing spectacularly when his team needed him most, Derek Jeter showed greatness."

5) The TBS announcers at times sounded like they were trying out for the a spot in the Yankee booth next year instead of calling the game properly.

After the Tribe finished off the Skanks, one of them — I think it was Chip Caray — said something like, "And the Indians shock the Yankees."

Well, the Indians had the best record in the league and the Yankees didn’t even win their division, sneaking in as the wild card. So I’d say the only thing shocking was that the Indians allowed one game to get away and didn’t sweep the Yanks.

Heck, sending former Mets castoff Paul Byrd to pitch Game 4 made me wonder if the Indians weren’t throwing the game so they could head back to Cleveland and win before their own fans. And the Yanks still couldn’t win.

I’m not saying that Yankee shame eases the pain of the Mets debacle. And don’t think that every moment of the NLCS I won’t be lamenting that the Mets are not there.

But there’s nothing wrong with watching the Death Star in the Bronx explode.

Beware: I'm 'edgy.'

Apparently I’m “edgy” now.

Of course, I’m only partially over the Mets collapse. It’s going to take a while.

One of the reasons I’m ticked at the team is that I’m a creature of a routine. And my routine from April through September was to listen to the Mets on WFAN through MLB.com and comment along with the guys in the Crane Pool Forum.

I was happy that routine was going to be extended through October. That is, until our boys disintegrated down the stretch, sending me into both a baseball funk and that disorientation that comes from losing the daily rituals.

Complicating matters was the loss of another routine.

You have to understand that I’ve had the same hairstyle for pretty much my entire life. Cut short, parted on the right side. Sure, in high school it was a little longer – but still short by 1970s standards.

And three years ago I tried something a little bold, cutting it really short and a little spiky in the front. This didn’t last too long because my wife said the barbers didn’t do it well and it looked like I had a big bald spot.

She wanted me to go to one of those fancy places to get it cut.

Not a chance.

As with everything, there are rules. I only get my hair cut in places with a barber pole in the front and three years worth of Field & Stream and Sports Illustrated in the waiting area. I found a place like that when we moved here in 1999 and I haven’t had my hair cut anywhere else.

I did stray slightly. The barbers there are old military guys and I soon learned they tend to struggle with anything that isn’t a flat top or trimming the horseshoe. But there are three women who also cut hair in that same place, and I’ve been letting them do the job.

Except for the last time, one of “the gals” – as the former military guys call them – had what we might call a bad day, and my wife decided once and for all that I was going to see Miss Michelle at the fancy salon, who takes care of my wife and kids.

So with great fear I made an appointment. Miss Michelle was not surprised to see me, having heard from my wife and kids of their efforts to get me there. I explained to her that this salon thing was far outside my comfort zone.

She took a look at my hair, moved it around a little bit and cringed. “Oh my. They gave you comb-over and you’re not even bald!”

Couldn’t argue with that. I had no choice but to submit.

“First thing we’re going to do is wash your hair.”

“Hold on there,” I said. “I just did that before I came here.”

“Well, we’re going to do it again. Twice, actually. Guys have no idea how to wash their hair. And I’ll massage your scalp, too.”

I have to say, I haven’t had somebody else wash my hair since I was small enough to sit in the sink, and I thought that was a skill I had mastered.

But, reluctantly, my chair was lowered back so my head was in the sink. It was pretty nice, though I think I could have done it myself.

Michelle explained that we were getting rid of the comb-over look – and the comb as well as a brush. “You’re going to be able to do everything with your fingers.”

At this point I was pretty much in shock. I’ve been using the same brush since college. I don’t mean the same style of brush. I mean the same brush. Routines were falling by the minute.

As she kept cutting, all kinds of strange things were going on around me. A woman walked past with strips of tin foil in her hair. I couldn’t imagine what that was about.

“Don’t worry, we’re not doing that to you,” Michelle said. “We do that to your wife, though.”

She then asked what kind of “product” I use in my hair. Aside from the store-brand shampoo and the 20-year-old brush she said I’m not allowed to use anymore, um, nothing. I was then introduced to “paste” and told how to work it into my hair, which we did after washing it for a second time, this time with a hot washcloth on my face.

Looking in the mirror when Michelle was done, I had to say it was a different look – and better.

Then I went to the register and the guy working handed me the bill. I had to laugh because I thought he said it cost $30, which is more than double what I usually pay at the barber shop. I stopped laughing when I realized I had heard him correctly.

This was all pretty tough to adjust to.

But my wife liked the new look, and co-workers agreed it was an improvement.

The only objection came from one of the people on the school board I cover.
“I don’t know,” she said. “It looks…edgy.”

I assure you, this is the first time in my entire life I have ever been called edgy.

I’m not even sure what it means. Is it edgy as in cutting edge? Or, bold and unpredictable. Maybe even a little dangerous.

Apparently not that dangerous. The day after Glavine’s meltdown ended our season, a co-worker placed a mock headstone on my desk with “2007 Mets” written on it.

Racing, scoring and watching the Mets on a special day

Pedro: I'm worried about this season, John. Some of the other guys in the pen kind of suck.



OK, Sunday wasn’t a good day.

But Saturday, that was something special.

It started early, getting my son on the school bus for his water polo tournament at 6 a.m. But then I got ready for my one race of the year – the Komen Race for a Cure.

I’ve been doing this 5K for six years. I’m not what you call fast runner any more, but then, neither are the vast majority of the people in this race, a fund-raiser for breast cancer research.

The first year I ran, I told people in the office that I’d paste NASCAR-style on my race shirt the name of anybody who sponsored me. Several co-workers approached with money, and most had a story of someone they knew who was affected.

Then one of the guys came by, put some money down and said, “I’m a fan.” Of what, races? “No, breasts.”

Joking aside – and there are indeed some light moments and messages in the race -- it’s very emotional. Survivors wear special pink shirts and other people pinning to their shirts the names of friends and relatives who either were lost to the disease or are were fighting it .

There are others running in groups, sometimes holding signs with photos of relatives. I get choked up reading them.

This year, I was humming along pretty well, with Relient K on the iPod helping to keep the pace. My shin splints started barking around the 2-mile mark and I tried some fast walking for a while. But it seemed like they hurt more walking than running, so I picked it up a little.

Typically there are a lot of people waiting near the finish line, and I started hearing cheers and applause as I got near the end.

This was pretty cool. I was feeling pretty good about myself. And I could see that my time was about 6 minutes better than what I usually do on the treadmill for 3 miles, and this actually 3.15 miles.

Then I looked over my shoulder and saw a woman in a pink shirt – a survivor – finishing just behind me. Naturally, they were cheering for her. Very humbling, in multiple ways.

Panera Bread had special cranberry and vanilla bagels waiting just past the finish line. The results were online on Sunday. Apparently I finished 928th out about 5,000. More importantly I raised $28 to help find a cure.

So after some post-race snack and crusing the vendor tents, I headed out to the high school to catch up with my son for his water polo tournament.

My boy is a sophomore on the junior varsity team. He doesn’t get a ton of playing time, but he really loves being part of the team. And the other players are very supportive.

But one thing has been hanging over his head – he’s never scored a goal in a game that counts. This year he’s been able to increase his assists, but goals have remained elusive. His shots are better, and he’s had a couple hard ones clang off the goalposts. But still, none have slipped into the net.

The second game on Saturday was against a team that included a bunch of juniors, and they were pretty rough. Water polo, I have learned, is very physical. I’ve learned a lot of things, actually. We’ve had a butt crack scandal, but you don’t want to know the details.

Water polo action from last season.

I’m also pretty quiet in the stands. I don’t know much about the sport, and the coach does, seeing that the varsity team has won the last four state championships. So the last thing he needs is some guy in the stands shouting things to the players. And yes, I’ve seen plenty of that from parents from other schools. Makes me cringe.

So late in the game my son was in there, and again, took a shot without scoring. I remember saying to the dad next to me, “My boy is going to feel so much better when he finally gets one in.”

And a minute later, Andrew was on the left side of the goal, accepted a pass – and promptly pumped it right in the corner of the net beyond the reach of the goalie.

I remember jumping to my feet and pumping both arms in the air with a “YES, YES!!” My son made eye contact with me as he swam back toward the other end. He was beaming, my eyes were welling up.

The other parents turned and smiled. They, too, knew it was his first one. And Andrew continued beaming through the remaining minute of the game and through the post-match handshakes with the other team.

We had about a four-hour wait before the next game, and this particular school has a huge flat-screen television mounted to the wall of the pool lobby. ESPN was playing, but being a fall Saturday, college football was getting all the airtime. I did catch that the Mets were up 2-0.

We ran some errands and came back a couple hours later. This school also has wi-fi, so I fired up the laptop and caught up with the game on MLB.com. I did this with some fear, because, well, you know what the week had been like. It could easily have been 6-2 in favor of the Fish.

Then I saw the score – and the line score, particularly the 0 where the Marlins’ hits should have been. No. Way.

I slid the laptop across to my son, but first explained the rules about jinxes. “I’m going to show you the score. Do not say anything about it. It’s a rule.”

I spent the rest of the time flipping back and forth between MLB.com’s Gameday and the Crane Pool Forum.

Being a Mets fan in Michigan can be pretty lonely, and it was fun to be able to cyber-converse with the Crane Poolers throughout the game. It was like watching it surrounded by friends.

And even after the Marlins ended John Maine’s no-hit bid with that cheap-ass grounder, it was still a thrill – especially as we could see that the Phillies were losing and the season was still alive.

Well, at least for one more day.

Phils, corn, Live, caps and other mysteries of the summer

It’s been a pretty freaky summer, with a lot of things that I just can’t figure out. This is the kind of stuff that just keeps me up all night.

Aaron hangs his head in shame. And he should.

Mystery: Why can’t we beat the Phreaking Phillies?

So, we are the best team in the league.

Our MVP candidate, David Wright, is hotter than Rachel Ray, reaching the magical status of 30 steals and 30 homers. Our now-sorta-healthy left fielder, Moises Alou, is even hotter – Rachel Ray in a sauna? – as he charges to the team’s longest-ever hitting streak. And our ace, Pedro Martinez, is back and proving to be the Pedro of recent healthy times if not the studly Zimmer-tossing Pedro of old.

The second-place team rolls up, having recently reached the milestone of their 10,000th loss as a franchise. It’s main slugger, Ryan Howard, is headed toward setting the all-time single-season record for strikeouts.

You’d think it would be time to start unpacking the N.L. Eastern Division Champs t-shirts in the team shop.

So how can we possibly get swept not once, but twice by these guys?

It’s not like our boys are getting their butts kicked. We’re losing because of late-inning reliever meltdowns and freaky stuff like game-ending interference calls.

How can the Mets play like the champs we know they are against the once-vile Braves and then play like the Mets of ‘93 against the Phillies? It’s a mystery.


Mystery: Who is the intended market for this?

I stumbled across this cap, part of New Era’s new “MLB Twisted” line. It looked like the official and classy blue Mets cap, except instead of the stylish interlocking NY that the Mets don, it’s got that goofy NY that the bleeping Yankees wear on their caps.

First, did you every notice that interlocking NY on their caps is different than the interlocking NY on their jerseys, which is different than the interlocking NY on their batting helmets?

You’d think since it’s the only element on their uniforms they wouldn’t have too much trouble getting them to match. Point this out to a Yankee fan and they’ll respond with, “Well, Derek Jeter should have been the MVP last year instead of that guy on the Twins.” So don’t waste your time.

But I digress.

After recoiling in complete horror, I had to wonder just who exactly New Era thinks would buy a cap like this?

Certainly not a Mets fan. As if.

Not the hip-hoppers, who are the apparent intended market for most of New Era’s “fashion” caps, since these designs are too plain.

Not the gang-bangers, the alleged intended audience of some recently recalled New Era caps.

No, I’m thinking these are aimed at Yankee fans who deep down feel guilty about rooting for the Evil Empire, and want to cross over to our more wholesome Metsies but aren’t quite ready to take that full step to renounce all things Yankee.

They might not even wear a cap like this out in public. They might wear it around the house and wait for some basic truths come their way. Stuff like “Maybe it isn’t really fair that we can spend more on one player than the Rays spend on their entire roster,” and “Suzyn Waldman was a tad hysterical when she saw Roger Clemens in Steinbrenner’s box.”

Then one day, they might think, “You know, the Home Run Apple is really pretty cool,” and “That Mr. Met is a damn good mascot,” and then, “Having jets fly 30 feet above the upper deck is really kind of cool.”

Then soon, the faux-Mets cap goes in the trash and the reformed Yankee fan runs down to Roosevelt Field and walks out with the real thing.

Mystery: Just how bad was Flint radio?

We had two interns working with us at the paper this summer, and I think I learned more from them than they learned from us.

One day we were discussing my love of Christian rock and Jenna said, “Well, you must really like Live.” I confessed I had heard only a handful of the band’s newer songs, and that was just a couple years ago.

Jenna resisted rolling her eyes, and politely wrote me a list of songs I should check out, and I promptly You Tubed “Lightening Crashes,” “Overcome,” “Selling the Drama,” and “I, Alone.”

Needless to say, I spent the next couple days rounding up all the band’s CDs from my public library or iTunes and telling anyone who would listen about how great this band is.

Then I told my buddy Will about my discovery, and he said something along the lines of “No kidding. Where were you in the 1990s when all this stuff came out?”

And there’s the problem. I spent all but a couple months of the 1990s living in Flint, Mich. which I always suspected was a cultural black hole. Now I see that Flint radio was even worse than I thought.

Here’s a typical hour of Flint radio circa 1993:

A “double shot” of two Bob Seger songs.
ZZ Top’s “Legs.”
Something from Rod Stewart’s Spandex soccer-ball-kicking era.
A “Three play” of three Bob Seger songs.
Two ads from any of Flint’s 25 topless bars.
An anecdote from the DJ about meeting Flint-natives Grand Funk Railroad when he was 16, but not actually playing a Grand Funk Railroad song.
Anything from Hootie and the Blowfish.
Anything from the Spin Doctors.
A “Blast from the Past,” which was always something from Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” album.

I wish I were kidding.

This wasn’t a shock to Will, who also lived in Flint for a while, and has spent the last year educating me about another band I just discovered. They’re called Pearl Jam.

Mystery: Why is there corn growing in my flower garden?

One day in late July I walked out of the house and saw what appeared to be a corn stalk rising from my hostas and black-eyed Susans.

Now, we tried growing corn in a small vegetable garden a couple of years ago with absolutely no luck at all.

And now, this stalk is at least 6 feet tall and appears to have several ears sprouting at various points.

I’m fairly confident that one morning I’m going to go off to work and find Shoeless Joe Jackson playing catch on my front lawn.

I certainly didn’t plant this. So who did? Everyone seems to have a theory.

A common one is that some bird ate the seed and, well, it made its way through the digestive tract. But I’ve seen corn seeds and they’re pretty big, and most of the birds around here seem pretty small.

So we’ve either had a sparrow with a really sore butt or an eagle that made a rare appearance on my front porch, admired the hostas, took care of some business and was never seen again. Neither seems likely.

Maybe some Johnny Cornseed type walked the neighborhood tossing seeds and convincing people that ethanol is the way to go. But if that were the case, there would be stalks rising up and down the block.

This one has me stumped. But I'm kind of looking forward to some corn on the cob.

Mystery: Where and how many?

The mystery sure as heck isn’t whether this is going to be on my Christmas list. Life-size inflatable Met. Like, there’s a downside to that?

No, the mystery is which room my wife will consent to have it displayed.

I don’t want to go overboard. Baseball room, living room, family room, sun room, maybe tucked in the corner of the dining area — it’s all good. Maybe we could even have a couple around the house.

Then you have the other mystery. Do we also request the Yankee version?

I suppose the product should be used as advertised. I’d take it out to the backyard and practice pitching.

Of course, with the Yankee version, we’d slap a No. 2 on its greasy back and vent some frustration by going Don Drysdale on the inflatable Jeter. I’d wear the thing out by New Year’s Day!

Heck, when the Yankees find out about these things, they’ll probably try to sneak one out there on defense. Inflatable Derek’s range has got to be slightly better than the real thing.

New patch to say 'Farewell' to Shea

The Mets are to wear this neat patch next season. I love how it combines the original look of Shea with the orange and blue panels and the modern neon players.

Truth be told, the Mets have mixed success with special patches. We know the team doesn't do an especially good job showing off its glorious history, and that extends to shoulder-ware.

We won't include memorial patches in the discussion -- although the Bill Shea design was a nice touch -- nor the patches worn by the entire league or even all the teams, as happened in 1969.

So let's review:

The Mets opened their new ballpark with a design commemorating the World's Fair. This is what was posted on the Chris Creamer site, but I think the team wore something a little different. I'll try to find a better photo.

But I've always had a soft spot for the Unisphere, and any attempt to link it to the Mets is OK with me!

Here we go! Greg Prince of Faith and Fear in Flushing fame noted that the glorious Ultimate Mets Date Base site had a photo of the proper patch -- which should be a surprise to no one because that site is an amazin' treasure chest of Mets history.

Can it be that the team went from the mid-1960s to the mid-1980s without a special patch? The 25th anniversary design always will be special because of the link to the championship team. It's a little bland -- but not as bland as some to come -- but gets points for restoring the skyline logo, which was removed during the racing stripe years.

I've got some issues with this one. For one thing, it's more of a patch collar than an actual patch since the team had restored the logo to the sleeves by this point.

Then you have the whole debate about whether championship teams deserve such commemoration.

And players like Tom Seaver will tell you that using the word "miracle" implies that the team somehow lucked its way into a championship. Amazin' -- yes! Miracle -- nope, just good players playing great baseball.

It didn't help that the patch was attached to the abomination jersey with the big tail coming under the team name, a design that couldn't be scrapped fast enough for my liking. As Metstradamus correctly called it, the "wardrobe of failure."


Snore. Marking the 40 years was worthy, but this patch is boring beyond belief. And the Mets wordmark was already across the front of the jersey, so why include it here? Luckily two years later someone got a clue.



I love it! Note the shoutout to the World Fair design from the Shea's first year, fused with the neon players from the yard today. Brilliant! And, a rare instance of someone at the team knowing something about Mets history.

Viewing Dick Cheney from under the truck

Sometimes I get to see people like Vice President Dick Cheney in fancy ballrooms or boisterous campaign rallies.

Other times, like Friday, I get to kneel under a flatbed truck.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. One of the best parts of a job I love is that I occasionally get to see important people like Cheney up close.

I’m fascinated by the presidency, and I love seeing and learning about all the behind-the-scenes details that go into a visit.

Cheney was in town the day after President Bush’s national address about Iraq to hammer home the president’s message before a friendly audience.

One of our editors came over and asked if I’d like to be a part of the coverage. He already knew the answer and saved us all the spectacle of me begging.

My assignment was to cover Cheney’s arrival at the airport, then head to where he was giving the speech to monitor the protesters who would no doubt be there and look for things that can be written as vignettes.

We call the arrival assignment “death watch” because it tends not to generate any news. But woe to the news organization that passes up the opportunity and have something terrible happen.

A presidential aircraft just doesn’t drop down and taxi to the main terminal. In our city, they tend to land at the opposite end of the airport near hangars owned by one of the freight companies. It’s out in the middle of nowhere and easier to secure.

And security is tight as you can imagine. Media types were required to show up more than an hour before the arrival time, and television crews left their equipment out on the airport apron – don’t call it a tarmac – so the Secret Service could check it out.

Once the crews are done, each reporter and photographer was checked out with the hand-held metal detectors before being allowed through the gate. A staff member handed us red identification badges and a piece of string so we could wear them around our necks. The string is cheesy, but the press pass is not and I hang them above my desk because I am a geek.

Out on the apron, there were two of those portable staircases to move to the plane and a flatbed truck trailer for us to stand on. The motorcade was already in place, brought, I suspect, in the Air Force cargo plane that was off to the side.

There were a handful of dignitaries assembled to greet the vice president after he arrives, usually state and local political leaders. There were Secret Service agents everywhere and you do no mess with them. I keep waiting for another reporter to tick them off because I think it would be fun to watch.

Cheney’s jet arrived about 10 minutes ahead of schedule. When a president arrives there are two jets because there is a back-up for everything. But the vice presidents get just one.

There are few things as stirring as seeing a presidential jet with UNITED STATES OF AMERICA written in huge letters above the widows.

It had been overcast all morning, and rain started coming down hard as the jet taxied closer to the hanger. I didn’t even think to bring a jacket, much less an umbrella, and I was getting soaked. I asked the officer guarding the flatbed if it would be OK if I went under the trailer so I could stay dry and take notes. He asked one of the Secret Service agents, who smiled and said that would be fine. It was the first time I had ever seen one of those guys smile.

In case you are wondering, there is no dignified way to crawl under one of these trailers and, naturally, I banged my head.

Luckily, the rain died down as the jet came to a stop, and the greeters were quickly escorted to the end of the portable staircase. I was able to get out from under the trailer and stand in front of it.

The door at the rear of the plane opened first, and assorted Air Force personnel and staff people scurried down with carrying cases of all different shapes that they unloaded into the trunks of cars in the motorcade.

Then the door toward the front of the jet opened, with the vice presidential seal affixed to the inside. Usually, the politico will stand in the door for a moment and wave as if there were throngs of people waiting. The first President Bush was famous for pointing, as if there was someone special there. This is done entirely for the cameras.

But Cheney tends to be all business. Last time I covered him he walked out the door and down the stairs without even looking up. This time he walked out with a huge umbrella, followed by his daughter, Elizabeth.

Two black limos with the vice presidential seal are parked near the bottom of the stairs, and the Cheneys shook hands for a moment or two before stepping into the second car.

We were allowed to leave only after the motorcade cleared the area.

Next I went to the area downtown where the protesters were supposed to be, only to find that they had marched down to the Gerald R. Ford Presidential Museum, where Cheney was speaking.

There were about 75 of them, holding signs, blowing whistles and banging plastic buckets.

After covering these things for years, I’ve come to realize protesters fall into two groups.

There are people who are passionate about an issue and believe it is their responsibility to make their opinions known to their elected leaders. They’re usually interesting to interview.

Then there are people who just like to protest anything, anywhere and any time. “Fighting the Man” is kind of a hobby, even if “the Man” is kind of a shifting target.

I understood the signs and the banners, but I didn’t get the whistles and drums. As reporters, we can just go up to people and ask questions. So I approached a group of the whistlers.

They said the idea was to make a distraction to all attention to their position on the war.

“The giant banners don’t do that?”

“We want to drown out the speech inside.”

“Do you think that’s going to change the mind of anyone inside?”

“Probably not.”

Seems kind of pointless to me, but I suspect they’d think that me paying to watch other people play baseball is pointless as well.

After the speech, Cheney briefly visited President Ford’s grave, where nine months ago he presented Betty Ford with the flag that draped the president’s casket.

Then it was back into the black limos and the airport for Cheney to deliver the speech in another city.

Pennies, passports and difficult Euros

Here's a Washington monument I didn't know about. JFK played hockey?

I have come to realize that not only am I an obsessive collector, but I’m an enabler to other people who are obsessive collectors.

And apparently the collector trait was passed to my daughter, who sent me off to an education writer’s conference in Washington, D.C. with a list of places that have penny squishing machines.

My job was to collect shiny new pennies and squish them at the assorted sites during my down time. Who knew this would lead to some adventures?

And I had my own items to chase. Years ago I bought one of those national parks passports that you are to carry along when you visit a historic site and find the postmark-like ink stamp in the gift shop that records the date of your visit in colorful glory.

I used to keep mine in the car glove compartment, and it indeed has traveled to places with many historic sites like New York and Philadelphia – only to have it never leave the cozy confines of the glove box because I always forget about it until driving back home.

In fact, I forgot about it altogether in recent years, reminded only after reading Neil Peart’s Roadshow, where he recounts obsessively getting his stamped along the East Coast while with Rush on the Vapor Trails tour.

So with pennies and passport I touched down in DC on Friday with three hours to fill before the first session. My daughter’s list showed there was a machine in a store in the Old Post Office Pavilion on Pennsylvania Ave. The clerk told me there is a surprising number of people stopping in throughout the day to turn the crank.

This was a good machine, too, because it had some general Washington designs like the White House and Washington Monument, as opposed to the museum-specific machines in two Smithsonian sites.

I cranked out three of the four designs and lined them up carefully atop the machine, then accidentally forgot to set the device properly and printed a design twice. I took two steps over to the patient clerk to get more change, and turned to discover two tourists from Europe picking up my squished pennies.

I certainly didn’t want to be an ugly American, but these people need to know that just because we’re the Land of the Free does not mean they get free squished pennies. Apparently the horrified look on my face required no translation.

Stats: Pennies 4, stamps 0


Walking back, I discovered that Ford’s Theater was around the block from the hotel, but was closed for renovations. But the Peterson House, where President Lincoln died, was open. You know all those paintings of Lincoln on his deathbed surrounded by seemingly half of Congress? Let’s just say some artistic liberties were taken, because that room barely had space for the bed and a dresser.

I got up early the next morning, figuring that time resting is time wasted, especially when there are missions to accomplish. The White House was about three blocks away and was beautiful bathed in morning light. And I was geeked to find that the White House Visitors Center opened at 7:30 a.m., which is about the time I was walking past.

I knew there would be a passport stamp inside, and this would be the first time I remembered to bring it somewhere since July 5, 1999 when I hit both the Lincoln Home Historic Site in Springfield, Ill. and the Gateway Arch in St. Louis on my way to a Cardinals game.

Not only were the ladies inside excited to do some stamping, but they gave me a list of all the other places around the National Mall that had them, far more than were indicated in my 1999-era passport.

Then they let me in on a secret: The little Parks Department bookstore near the Washington Monument has one of almost every stamp on the Mall – a one-stop passport-stamping paradise!

Stats: Pennies 4, stamps 1

So I went back to the conference plotting my trip to the book shop after the last session of the day. But I also wondered about Ford’s Theater. It was closed for renovations, but there were a lot of workers running around and maybe they had the stamper available.

During a 20-minute break, I sprinted around the corner but didn’t see any workers. I stepped into the Peterson House and asked the park ranger if there was someone in the theater who might stamp.

“Nope,” he said, then pulled a small box out from under his desk. “I’ve got them here.” Yes! Not only did he have the theater and the house, but one for the African-American Civil War Memorial, which I didn’t know existed. He also said there were two stamps back at the old Post Office Pavilion, which I had already visited for the pennies, and a whole bunch at Arlington Cemetery.

An older woman overheard this and said, “Oh good!” and pulled out her own passport and, I swear, pushed me aside to get to the box. And not only that, she had to test them all on scrap paper to see how well they stamped.

I’m thinking, “Ma’am, I’m on what is supposed to be a bathroom break at a conference and I need to get back quickly.” But she was not getting my subtle hints and I suspected that if I took the stamps before she was done, she might have made sure a second person would have passed away in the house.

I made it back — a little sweaty since I had to jog, but no one seemed to mind.

Stats: Pennies 4, Stamps 3

I embarked on the stamping mission after the last session of the day, changing into cargo shorts with pockets designated for the passport, camera, bag of pennies and quarters and cell phone. I love walking around cities, and Washington seems to have something interesting on every block.

The first stop was back at the Old Post Office Pavilion, where the guard was friendly and nice despite me knocking over his box of stamps and scrap paper, sending them sprawled on the floor. There was one for the pavilion and one for Pennsylvania Avenue as a whole, which seems strange.

Stats: Pennies 4, stamps 5

From there it was short walk to the Washington Monument, which I’ve only seen from a distance. And, as promised, there was a small Parks Department book store near the base.

Before I could finish my sentence, the clerk pointed to a wooden tray with an array of stamps, ink pads and test paper.

I was a stamping fool! Some of these were for memorials I didn’t know about and in one case a person I had never heard of. I quickly filled the pages for the Capitol Region: Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Vietnam Veterans Memorial, World War II Memorial, Korean War Veterans Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, Franklin Roosevelt Memorial, National Capitol Region, District of Columbia World War memorial, The National Mall and Memorial Parks, The John Paul Jones Memorial, the 56 Signers of the Declaration of Independence Memorial, the George Mason Memorial, the John Ericsson Memorial and the Constitution Garden.

Stats: Pennies 4, stamps 21

With the mission accomplished rather efficiently, there was plenty of time to take in the splendors of the National Mall, starting with touching the Washington Monument then walking across the street to the World War II Memorial, which was much better in person than from what I’ve seen in photos.

Still, you walk through it and are impressed. But you walk away from the brilliant Lincoln and Vietnam Veterans memorials with a lump in your throat.

And that’s OK, because not every Rush album can be “Moving Pictures.”

Walking down to those other memorials along the Mall I stumbled upon some other things, like the JFK Hockey Field. I must do some research on this, because I am unaware of any connection between Kennedy and hockey.

Having made the loop of the Mall and with darkness approaching, I made it back to the hotel excited to discover a Qdoba two blocks away.

The conference ended around 2 p.m. the next day, and my flight didn’t leave until 6:45, so there was some time to squish some more pennies if I hustled.

The National Air and Space Museum was first, and http://www.pennycollector.com/noted there were two machines. Alas, the one of the machines had a big “Out of order” sign. The second was in a lower-level gift shop, where two guys in their 20s were already squishing.

Pretty sweet designs, too: The space shuttle, the Wright flyer, the Spirit of St. Louis and the moon landing.

Stats: Pennies 8, stamps 21



Next I crossed the Mall to the Museum of Natural History, navigating the maze of the lower level and the old-fashioned stuffed birds exhibits to find the gift stores, where two machines awaited.

One was all dedicated to dinosaurs and the other with a spider, elephant, moth and another dinosaur.

I cranked out the first four and noticed a guy in his mid-20s watching me closely. Then I moved across the hall to the other machine and the guy followed. In a thick accent he asked how the machines worked, and showed him how to put in the coins and turn the crank.

He walked over to the first machine, then came back over to me and said his wife would like one, and if there were any that had Washington designs and not museum-specific designs.

I told him about the Post Office Pavilion and that it was only across the street and over one block.

He said didn’t understand, and I told him again, pointing to the back door and telling how you cross the street, turn up 12th Street and there it is.

He said he STILL didn’t get it and I pulled out my map, showed him where we were and where he needed to go and assured him that he could be there in three minutes, four if he stopped to admire the statue of Ben Franklin in front.

He still didn’t get it, then told me how much he liked Washington and that and his wife were traveling around the country. Then he broke out with, “Can’t I just buy your pennies from you?”

“Dude, where are you from?” I asked.

“France.”

No pennies for him.

But I told him I was glad he was enjoying the country and said the World War II Memorial down the mall was really neat. Then I finished squishing my pennies and set off to the next destination.

Stats: Pennies 16, stamps 21, confused Euros 2.

Over a couple blocks away from the Post Office Pavilion is the Commerce Department, which for reasons unknown to me is the home of the National Aquarium. Since this is a federal department, the security was even tighter than in the museums and my laptop and its case got thoroughly checked out.

I figure checking tourist bags all day is a pretty sucky job, so I thanked the somewhat grumpy guard for keeping me and the fish safe, and she rewarded me with a nice smile and directions to the machine, located outside the gift shop.

But, horrors, the pennies in this location were twice as expensive as anywhere else I’ve ever seen, draining my quarter supply. Luckily the shop clerk was kind and made change. My wife pointed out later that of course the Commerce Department was more expensive.

I cranked out the first three, then goofed by putting in the money before adjusting the crank to select a different design, producing a double of the sea horse.

Then I set the handle for the design I wanted and was about to push in the money when I kid ran up and started cranking the handle.

Now I suppose the proper PC thing would have been to say “Hello, tyke, do you want to turn the handle for me?” But I was not in the mood.

“Hey!” I yelled. “Don’t do that!”

Then mom and dad walked over, and these were the kind of mom and dad who like speaking to their kids in really loud voices so everyone around them can hear them being wonderful parents.

“Oh, Ian,” the mom said. “I guess we shouldn’t be touching that.”

And she was shooting me a look like I was being unreasonable. I reality, I should have scooped up Ian, paid the $5 admission and heaved him into the shark tank. Because you just don’t mess with people on a squishin’ mission and these people didn’t deserve slack like the previously encountered foreign visitors.

Stats: Pennies 20, stamps 21, kid saved from being shark bait 1



I had just enough time to head back to the hotel, get my luggage back and hop on the Metro to Reagan Airport. I slipped my fare card into the machine and it pumped out my $3 in change -- all in quarters.

“Great,” I thought. “Now I get quarters.” This is known as foreshadowing.

Arlington Cemetery is one of the stops before the airport. And I was really tempted to jump out, run up the hill and get more stamps then catch the next Metro — even stood up and took a step toward the door.

But the image of walking up the hill to snap a photo of the Kennedy graves with my luggage clacking on the cobblestones behind me was probably not the dignified scene the cemetery deserves.

I later arrived in Detroit, bummed that there was a two-and-a-half hour layover for a 30-minute flight. We arrived at gate 77 and would depart from 19, way across the long terminal.

I passed on the tram, thinking there was plenty of time and you just never know what you might come across.

Midway through the trek, I saw a Motown-themed music store and thought it might be worth a look.

Except I never made it inside. Because there in front was a previously unknown penny squishing machine. There was one airport design and three for Motown. And here I was with a bag full of quarters and pennies.

The clerk, who said she was standing near the entrance because the music was too loud inside, noticed my glee.

I told her of my assignment, and how we didn’t know there was a machine in the airport.

“Heck, there are more,” she said, pointing over my shoulder where the Henry Ford Museum also had a store — with two machines! Plus, there was a Michigan-themed store down the end of the terminal near my gate.

I was never so happy to have a couple hours to spend at the Detroit airport. I cranked out two from the Motown machine and six of the eight from the Ford Museum — including the Oscar Mayer Weiner Mobile, the Rosa Parks Bus and the Kennedy presidential limo — and all four from the Michigan store, an amazing haul -- and without the demanding Euros and annoying tots.

Stats: Pennies 32, stamps 21, tired travelers 1.

I got home after midnight, and carefully laid out all the pennies for my daughter to find when she got up the next morning. Also set out were the t-shirts from the Hard Rock Cafe and International Spy Museum for my son, who was spared the collecting gene but has his mother’s appreciation for cool attire.

She got the shirt right off his back

You know I’m a jersey nut. So each year the kids and I attend the West Michigan Whitecaps’ final home game, which is called “Shirts Off Our Backs Night.”

After the game, the players line up and pull entries out of a box. If they call your name, you run down to the field and the player takes off his jersey, signs it and hands it over.

The Whitecaps are a well-run team, and have become better and better handling this promotion. It used to be that people were allowed to take entire pads of entry forms and spend the game filling them out to stuff the box. In the last three years we got a form as we entered the gates, limiting each person to one, which is fine with me.

Not that it has helped us. Each year, we’ve gone home only semi-disappointed – we don’t really expect to win, and any excuse to go to the ballpark is a good one.I say the kids and I because my wife attends one game a year, and that’s usually around Father’s Day.

But we were out of town that weekend this year – setting foot on the glorious Field of Dreams – and I joked that she could boost our chances of winning a jersey if she joined us to see the Whitecaps take on the Great Lakes Loons on Friday night.

But my wife said she might not mind, as long as it wasn’t too hot. And with the temps in the 70s, off we went.
OK, as an aside. Jersey collectors are a fanatical bunch to be sure. We are sticklers about certain things, and that means getting the proper lettering. Having a name added to a jersey is big bucks, and you need to be sure it's done properly. This guy actually had a World Series replica, which is not cheap. But whoever added Justin Verlander's name used the wrong letters. The Tigers don't have a white outline on their names, and the letters are much taller and thinner. This is at best a rip-off, and at worst jersey abuse. Don't let this happen to you.


Now, I often say that the best part about minor-league baseball is that games are so affordable that you can bring the whole family. And the worst part is that, well, many people bring the whole family. And if you get stuck sitting near bad kids it can be a not-quite-as-glorious experience as it is supposed to be.

But we had fun watching the two kids in front of us this time. I’m guessing the two boys were four and five, and both were thrilled that the Whitecaps had stationed a player at each gate to greet fans and sign autographs.

Pitcher Matt O’Brien was signing near our gate, but it might as well have been David Wright to these kids, as excited as they were. They made multiple trips to have O’Brien sign things, first their programs, then the free mesh jerseys all kids were handed on their way in.

These items were carefully laid out on the bleacher in front of us, as if they were artifacts in a museum for everyone to appreciate.

But O’Brien was still there, and the kids had run out of things for him to sign. We noticed one of the brothers came back with the back of his hands signed. Seeing this, the younger brother wanted to go back and have his hand signed, too.

We overheard the dad say, “No. Look, it’s just going to wash off.”

Which was followed by the priceless: “Nooooo, it’s a permanent marker!”

Now, O’Brien is a decent player and clearly a man of great patience. But I can’t say I’d want to have his signature tattooed to the back of my hand. But it sure was fun to see the kids so excited.

The game itself had some drama, with the Loons tying the game in the top of the ninth, then going ahead in the top of the tenth when the Caps started throwing the ball around. Apparently I'm a jinx for the Whitecaps as well as the Mets.

But the then the real drama started and the players were called out one at a time to pull entry forms out of a huge box.

Throughout the game, there was much teasing about what would happen if my wife's name was called, and about how she’d have to go on the field to claim her prize – and her wanting nothing to do with taking a sweaty jersey from a guy she doesn’t know or getting any closer to the field than row 21 in section 220.

The game was close to a sell-out, so the odds were not good. And as in every other year we’ve attended these games, player after player would step up and read out a name from someone in Hudsonville or Kentwood. I was mock pouting, and my wife said, “Well, looks like you’re going home empty handed again.”

And at that moment, we heard: “And the jersey from Jeramy Laster goes to…" and we heard my wife's name.

I think the older guy sitting next to us was somewhat startled by my fist-pumping and yelling. There’s a chance everybody sitting on the third base side was startled by my fist-pumping and yelling.

My wife rolled her eyes. No. Way.

We quickly gathered our stuff and worked through the crowd to the gate near the first base dugout. Only the winner is supposed to go out on the field, but no one stopped the four of us from heading out. I already had the camera out and ready as we stepped close to the players.

They had started calling names of other people for other jerseys by the time we were out there, so it was a little confusing. We told the on-field announcer my wife's name, and he asked the players who pulled her name. Laster stepped up, shook her hand and asked her if she wanted him to sign the jersey.

He looked for a marker that would work best, signed the jersey – actually, the batting practice jersey, which the team wears for these games – and handed it over with a big smile.

I was documenting all of this, and tried to dodge the team’s on-field cameraman, who was projecting images to the video board in left field.

I asked Jeramy if he could pose for a shot, which he did happily. He seemed pleased that we were thrilled to meet him and get his jersey.

“It’s still damp,” my wife said as we went back to our seats. “You so owe me.” And I did. We went to a nice restaurant the next night.

Laster, drafted in round 12 in the 2003 draft, might not be the highest-rated prospect to pass through Grand Rapids. That would be Cameron Maybin, who is with the Tigers as we speak.

But Jeramy’s our new favorite Whitecap.