Playing Hooky

Wednesday marks the end of baseball’s regular season.

And the end of the worst fantasy baseball season I’ve ever had.

Considering I’ve been playing that make believe sport since 1987, that’s saying something.

But as much as I love the fantasy game, there’s nothing like going to a real one.

Our local team wrapped up its home schedule last week with one of those mid-week afternoon delights.

So I did what any good father would do.

I took my son out of school at 11 in the morning.

And we headed to the stadium.

When my son saw me waiting at the front desk, he thought for sure he’d been busted.

For what, he didn’t know.

But the last thing he expected to hear out of my mouth was...

“Do you want to go to the game today?”

You should’ve seen the smile on his face.

It was like I had asked him if he wanted to leave school early to go to a baseball game.

I knew he had a science test in the morning, so before we left I asked how he did.

“104%”, he said.

What?

Does he think I was born yesterday?

Percents only goes up to 100.

Before I could complain to the principal.

My son informed me he got the extra 4% for a bonus question.

Must be the new math.

So off to the game we went.

To say my son was excited about the day’s developments would be an understatement.

104% on his science test.

And now this.

On the way to the game I shared a story with my son that my dad had shared with me when I was around 12.

It went a little something like this.

My dad was raised in Jersey City, New Jersey.

A stone’s throw from New York City.

One beautiful spring day.

“The first beautiful day of the year.”

My dad and his buddies were walking to school.

As they got closer, one of the boys had a brilliant idea.

“Today is way too beautiful to go to school.  How ‘bout we play hooky and go to the Yankees game?”

What boy could say no to that?

So they zigged instead of zagging.

And headed towards the train station.

As the story goes, on their way there they ran into their teacher.

It was pretty obvious these boys were not headed to school.

But away from it.

So when the teacher said, “where are you going?”

The answer “school” wasn’t really an option.

So they took the leap of faith.

And told him the truth.

The teacher took a long pause.

Then said, “would you mind if I went with you?”

SAY HEY WHAT?

And off they went.

My dad said he treated them like kings.

Bought them peanuts.

AND cracker jacks.

Of course, everyone was sworn to secrecy.

Which my dad honored.

Until the time was right to share it with me.

I think my son loved that story as much as I did.

For our day of hooky, we got to the stadium more than an hour before the first pitch.

Unheard of for me.

But a perfect time to get him some autographs.

We worked our way down to the first base area where the home team comes out to the field.

And we waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

There must’ve been 372 people just like us.

Waiting for autographs.

Finally 31 minutes before the game, a handful of players came out to do their stretching.

May not have been all starting nine.

But there were at least seven.

Including the hot shot center-fielder who was greeted by a rousing cheer.

A cheer he didn’t even acknowledge.

Maybe he had his iPod in.

The multi-gazillionaire infielder followed him.

Now I realize that every second is precious.

But this was “fan appreciation day”.

I’m sure you could find a few seconds to make the day of a 12-year-old.

Even if it wasn’t my 12-year-old.

After all, you make 17 cents every second.

$10.46 a minute.

$627 an hour.

$15,068 a day.

$105,769 a week.

All guaranteed, whether he gives 104% or not.

He got on the field at 12:39.

Left at 12:57.

Never said a word.

Never looked our way.

“Did he sign an autograph?”, you say.

HA!

And neither did any of his teammates.


Not a one.


Sure my son was disappointed.

But nothing a footlong hot dog couldn’t cure.

I said “when you make the major leagues I hope you don’t forget how you feel right now.”

“I hope so too,” he said.

For the next three hours we sat in a baseball stadium.

And enjoyed every pitch.

And every hit.

It was a perfect day.

And a perfect game.

Maybe someday he will share this story with his son.

Baseball, Hot Dogs and... Gelato?

I got free tickets to the baseball game on Saturday night.

Three of them.

Free!

Nothing better than a free night at the ballpark, right?

Well, sorta kinda free.

If you don't count the...

$15 for parking.

$18.75 for three foot-long hot dogs.

$5 for garlic fries.

One order.

And $13.50 for three ice creams.

By my math, our free night cost $52.25.

Good thing we smuggled in the $1 water bottles we bought outside the stadium.

And it's a really good thing we are not allergic to gluten.

Whatever gluten is.

Inside the stadium I saw a “gluten-free” food stand.

Never seen that before.

Sign of the times, I suppose.

I didn't see a name on that stand.

But based on the price gauging.

It should've been called, “Kick 'Em While They're Down”.

$9.50 for a gluten-free hamburger.

($7.00 for a real burger.)

$7.50 for a gluten-free hot dog.

($4.75 for a “SUPER” dog, just 20 feet away.)

$3.50 for a bottle of gluten-free water.

(Ok, the water was the same price everywhere.)

But $3.50 for a bottle of water?

Not even Chevron would try getting away with that. 

I guess you could say anyone who went to that stand was a gluten for punishment.

Sorry, I couldn't resist.

Now I certainly love the idea of helping out our hypoallergenic friends.

But those prices are insane.

Haven't they suffered enough?

Shouldn't those cardboard boxes disguised as burgers be like 19 cents?

Have you ever tasted food without gluten?

The last time I tried giving my son a hot dog without nitrates.

I thought he was going to take a swing at me.

And with his hand-eye coordination, that could really hurt.

Midway through the fourth inning, my son got a craving for those garlic fries.

And there was no way he was going to leave his seat.

So I left him and his buddy next to John Fogerty, in centerfield.

And I went in search of something that clogs your arteries.

And makes your breath smell.

At the same time.

Turns out the only place they sell them fries is right behind home plate.

In the high rent district.

As if I didn't know it already, I was reminded of the real estate when I saw the garlic fries stand right next to...

The gelato booth.

Who buys gelato at a baseball game?

What happened to an old-fashioned Carnation Malt?

Take me out to the ballgame... 

Buy me some peanuts and an Amaretto Gelato?

I don't think so.

Anywhoo...

On my way back to the seats, with garlic fries in hand.

I saw a pack of 20-something college school girls.

I noticed they were all wearing the same t-shirt.

Well, different shirts.

Same logo.

And that logo said that they were all from the same sorority.

The same sorority where I was a big brother.

When I was in college.

25 YEARS AGO!

How cool... I thought.

I gotta say hi and tell them.........

*Insert Sound of Tires Screeching *

Thankfully the left side of my brain kicked in just in the nick of time.

And reminded me.

I was old enough to be their stalker.

So I shut up.

Walked back to my seat.

And handed my son a half bag of half-eaten garlic fries.

And that's where we enjoyed the next inning.

Until it was time for ice cream.

Nothing like a free night at the ballpark.

Black Diamond

A few months ago my 12-year old son and I went to a Major League Baseball game.

We got there early.

For batting practice.

We both brought our gloves.

Just in case.

As soon as we walked into the stadium, my son sprinted directly into the right field pavilion.

He locked in on one of the visiting San Diego Padres and yelled.

“Hey Adams, throw me a ball.”

My son knew him as Adams.

Because that was the name on the back of his uniform.

I knew him as relief pitcher Mike Adams.

Because he’s on my fantasy baseball team.

But either way.

Adams picked up a loose ball and threw it our way.

The throw was a little short.

But my son short hopped the ball.

As it hit the ground.

Like he was playing first base.

And presto.

He had himself a souvenir.

The goal of every young boy.

To go home from the game with a souvenir.

That was the same goal for Cooper Stone.

A six-year old fan of the Texas Rangers.

Cooper and his dad Shannon went to a Rangers game a few weeks ago.

They sat in the front row.

Behind the left-field scoreboard.

One of the best seats in the house.

On their way to the game, they stopped at a sporting goods store.

To buy a glove.

Just in case.

Or perhaps they had a feeling that this would be the night.

The special night.

The night that Cooper would head home with a ball.

The night he would never forget.

The Rangers took a 1-0 lead in the top first inning.

Courtesy of a Josh Hamilton RBI.

Cooper’s favorite player.

At the end of the first inning, Hamilton headed out to his position in left field.

Right in front of Shannon and Cooper.

As their luck would have it, moments later a foul ball caromed off an empty seat.

And landed next to Hamilton.

So he picked up that loose ball.

And tossed it into the stands.

Like he had done.

Countless times before.

Hamilton said he had heard a fan scream earlier to throw a ball his way.

So he threw it that way.

The fan was Shannon Stone.

Cooper’s dad.

The throw was a little short.

So Shannon reached over the railing.

To catch the ball.

For his son.

But the throw was shorter than Shannon expected.

And when he reached out to catch it.

He leaned too far forward.

And lost his balance.

Falling over the railing.

20 feet down.

Head first.

Onto a concrete floor.

When the paramedics got to Shannon, he was conscious.

At least conscious enough.

Conscious enough to be heard saying:

“Please check on my son.  He is up there by himself.”

Even in his worst moment.

Before anything else.

Shannon was a dad.

The emergency personnel checked on Cooper.

And took him from the front row.

To the front seat.

Of the ambulance.

That drove his dad to the hospital.

But on the way there, things took a terrible turn.

A tragic turn.

The trauma from the fall sent the 39-year old father into “full arrest.”

He was pronounced dead an hour later.

The story shocked the world.

The baseball world.

The Texas world.

My world.

How could this happen?

Why did this happen?

The answer to these questions didn’t matter.

The only thing that did was that a father was gone.

And a son was scarred.

Forever.

I don’t know the Stone family.

But I’m a dad.

I’m a human.

And I can’t help feeling for what they must be going through.

Even though I can’t even come close.

To feeling what they are going through.

A father and a son head to the ballpark.

For a night of perfection.

And what transpired was anything but.

The best of times became the worst of times.

In a matter of seconds.

Recently I visited the Ballpark in Arlington.

For a game.

My friend and I bought the cheap seats.

But snuck into the good ones.

Right behind home plate.

To see a game.

But from the moment I got there.

I couldn’t stop staring.

Staring at left-field.

Right above the scoreboard.

Where the game didn’t matter.

Where a boy lost his dad.

A Perfect Game

When I was 12 years old my dad and I went to the Catskills.

In Upstate New York.

We spent a few days (and nights) at Grossingers.

The swingin resort.

For Jews.

50 and older.

To say I stood out like a pre-teenager at a Jewish resort.

Would be an understatement.

32 years later, I still remember a few details about our trip.

One.

We were there when Yankees Catcher Thurman Munson died in a plane crash.

And two.

Grossingers served a lot of herring.

Pickled herring.

Creamed herring.

Smoked herring.

And we ate them all.

(I’m not sure I’ve had herring since.)

Last week my 12-year old son and I made our own trek to Upstate New York.

But there was no Scandinavian fish involved.

Just baseball.

100% baseball.

We were in Cooperstown, New York.

The home of baseball.

And we were there for a baseball tournament.

What else?

Actually this was not just “a” baseball tournament.

This was “THE” baseball tournament.

The most incredible week of baseball I have ever experienced.

And I didn’t even play.

For 12 weeks this summer, 104 “12 and Under” teams will make the trip to Cooperstown Dreams Park.

That’s 104 teams PER week.

For 12 weeks.

1,248 teams.

About 12 players per team.

14,976 players visiting a city with the population of 1,852.

To play baseball.

Add three or four coaches.

And a couple dozen parents.

Per team.

And we are approaching 50,000 visitors for the summer.

Do you think the Cooperstown Tourism Board is a fan of Dreams Park?

These teams are coming from all the country.

Alabama to Utah.

Houston to Hawaii.

To Florida.

25 teams from Florida.

1 from Delaware.

And that’s just last week.

It didn’t take us long to realize that we had no chance.

We come from a place where baseball is king.

From March through July.

The teams from Florida and Georgia and Texas and California play year round.

Or at least they could.

Our team entered this shindig with an 18-game winning streak.

That streak ended about six minutes into our first game.

Most of our boys are pretty good baseball players.

For 12 year old boys.

But compared to the man-childs we were facing.

We had no chance.

We faced a team from Tennessee where several of our players went up to the waist of several of their players.

No joke.

As long as you don’t turn 13 before May 1, you are eligible.

I’m sure most of the teams were on the up and up.

But we ran across several teams who brought in extra players just for this tournament.

I guess you could say there were more ringers than an AT&T store.

But this tournament is a big deal.

And the organizers definitely know what they are doing.

Every thing was first class.

23 baseball fields.

All with lights.

That work.

10 of those fields broadcast games live on the internet.

A couple dozen batting cages.

For teams to practice hitting.

Acres of perfectly manicured grass.

For teams to practice fielding.

Grounds crew at each stadium before EVERY game to re-chalk the field.

Concession stands where you didn’t need a gold card to buy a hot dog.

They have definitely found the formula.

And it works.

Which may explain why they just entered their 15th year.

So far, they’ve had 12,669 teams.

343,000 innings played.

210,000 home runs.

1.1 million runs scored.

One team in 2008 -- from Miami -- hit a record 73 homers in one week.

(We hit three.)

Several major league stars played here.

Before they were stars.

David Price of Tampa.

Matt Garza of the Cubs.

And Washington’s Bryce Harper, the #1 Overall Draft Pick last year.

Like the Olympics, the week starts with Opening Ceremonies.

Including skydivers.

Like the all-star game, we had a home run hitting contest.

And then the games begin.

Which was the worst part for us.

By far.

If you made me, I’m sure I could nitpick and find something wrong with the tournament.

No place to hang clothes in the barracks.

How’s that?

Yes, we lived in barracks for the week.

Ok, that’s a whole ‘nother blog.

But everything included, this was an incredible experience.

For everyone.

My best trip to Upstate New York.

By far.