My Life as a Baseball Traditionalist, Version 2.0

"Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There's no crying! THERE'S NO CRYING IN BASEBALL!"
-Jimmy Dugan

"You can observe a lot by watching."
-Yogi Berra

You know what's great about baseball games? Attending them. That is, unless you are sitting somewhere near me. That's right, I've been terrorizing various sections of Comerica Park in Detroit. I have twice been a season ticket owner, thus granting me the jurisdiction to say whatever I damn well please.

This season comes to a close with my beloved Tigers poised for a run at the ugliest trophy in professional sports. So with the playoffs in our near future, now is an appropriate occasion to inform all of the johnny-come-latelys of proper ballpark decorum.

First, a quick anecdote. My brother has stories of attending games when we held season tickets. We sat in a section full of other season ticket holders. I was not present this night in question. At one point during this game, prompted by my absence, our drunken neighbor leaned over to Paul and asked, "Hey, where's the baseball nazi?", inquiring after my whereabouts. Normally, one would bristle at being characterized as one of the most despicable groups in history, but I suppose it's true for better or for worse. Remember, the phrase is "baseball nazi", not: "in favor of genocide nazi" or "white supremacist nazi." So please, no angry letters or flaming bags of dog excrement on my porch.

So why on earth is this moniker appropriate? There is a set of decorum, to wit: I have rules. These rules apply to proper conduct during a baseball game. Those exempt are individuals under the age of 12 and their parents/guardians. What could these rules possibly entail? Glad you asked...


1. No gloves allowed!

Permit me to pose a hypothetical. You're sitting in the stands and a batted (or otherwise propelled) ball comes near you. Man up and catch that ball with your bare hand! You are there with your twenty-something year old cronies and you need a glove?!? C'mon, even if you are not of drinking age in the park you are of age in the parking lot. Chances are you've had enough to dull the pain. Plus, how cool is it to catch a ball bare handed? Additionally, you'll probably be a hero on tv. A word to the wise, leave the glove at home. Ammendment 1: Should you have a youngster at the game and are sitting in the line drive zone, a glove is an acceptable and recommended defense mechanism.

2. Stop with the wave nonsense.

A player puts on his batting gloves, grabs a helmet and his bat, and strides up the dugout steps toward the on-deck circle. As he makes his way onto the field he notices 42,000 raucous fans doing the wave. Surely he must be thinking, "Oh goodness, they're doing the wave, now my adrenaline is pulsing and i must perform.", right? Doubtful. The same player, in the post-game interview after driving in the game winning run, will credit the wave with his success at the plate, right? Even less plausible. The wave is a hackneyed institution. I would wager the average fan pays more attention to the wave than the game, then calls sports talk radio to complain about the poor performance of the team. How the hell do you know? You were watching the wave!

3. When at a game, no male shall imbibe booze in a fruity, squishy form.

If you have been to Comerica Park you have seen it. It is the long-necked plastic "flutes" filled with some sort of watermelon - orange concoction. Men, drink beer, please. What do you think Babe Ruth would do to you if he saw you drinking from a neon tube in the stands? On the other hand, females are allowed to imbibe in this manner. If you're a man, grow a set and get a beer! It'll help you catch the ball better without your glove.

4. No more "hulk-fist" beer cozies.

"But it keeps my beer colder longer." No it doesn't, and it looks stupid. Take it off and throw it away. The ballpark beer fits only half way into the fist. Besides, why the hell is your beer getting warm anyway? It's a ballgame, get drunk, get in a fight, get thrown out, run across the field naked and spend a night in jail, do something! just...


5. Do not fall asleep in your seat.

D'oh - yeah, that's me below.



6. One must not throw an opponent's home run ball back to the playing field.

Ammendment 2: Wrigley Field. I understand Chicago, and specifically winning famished Cubs fans created this tradition. It's theirs to have and to hold. After all, what else do they have?

Why does someone always have to ruin it for everyone else? I'm a know-it-all elitist, I am cognizant of this. I try to disguise this as "traditionalism" in an attempt to spin my own snobbery. Then why am i writing this? Mostly to poke fun at myself and to realize that baseball is just a stupid game. It's for the kids, get it? Sometimes i need to remind myself of that fact.

Note to self: lighten up.

If you have read this and disagree with me, good. Thumb your nose at me and continue doing what you will when you attend a game. I'm pretentious, and if I really was as "traditional" as I like to think I am then I would be attending games in a suit and a fedora (still quite an endearing thought when I imagine attending a game at Ebbits Field, Shibe Park, or The Polo Grounds). So i am a fraud. My idea of a good time at a ball game is actually watching the game, giving the beer guy the business (both literally and figuratively), throwing peanut shells all over the ground, and fervently booing Johnny Damon. I'm sure alot of baseball fans find my game routine quite pedestrian and think I'm the true charlatan.

Go to a game, have the time your life, ignore this baseball nazi and any other one you might come across. First and foremost, have fun with it.

The Nicholson-Freeman Phenomonon: A Study

"Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait"
-Longfellow

"Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness,
and some have greatness thrust upon them"
-Shakespeare

So I have wasted another year of my life...

Soon i will be 33, leaving me, optimistically, with maybe 10 more years of life. Time to take stock of things. In the here and now lie my aspirations. What is it, waking up everyday, I hope to accomplish? After careful consideration and reflection I present to you: my self interpretation of The Nicholson-Freeman Phenomenon. Now, I must insist that through the duration of this essay you refrain from making mental connections between it and a movie called "The Bucket List". I have never seen said movie nor do I ever have intentions to do so. To wit: as "The Bucket List" is not on my bucket list it is irrelevant vis a vis this discussion

My first undertaking is one that I have aspired to since I was a young boy. I desperately want to catch a batted ball during a major league baseball game. I suppose that as a child, this hope came out of a craving for status of some sort, even if I was not cognizant of it at the time. Currently, my desire to catch a ball is similarly a quest for status, but in a different way. I am not interested in acquiring a baseball or appearing on television, I want to know the simple pleasure of catching a batted ball at a big league game. You see, I've been to games all over, and I have still not caught a damn ball. C'mon baseball gods, I've spent the requisite years in fan purgatory, let me into batted ball heaven. This ball can be fair or foul, that part is of no matter to me. Ideally, my catch would occur in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. This ball would be a home run hit by the Cubs' opponent. Then, I would promptly return said ball onto the field of play. This practice is only acceptable at Wrigley Field...you hear that Philadelphia?! You got Cliff Lee. The Cubs suck, at least let them have exclusive rights to the tradition. You hear that Detroit?! You've got the auto industry and a thriving techno scene, Chicago's got nothing going for it except throwing upwards of 1,500 National League (and American League during inter-league play) home runs back on to Wrigley Field's carefully coiffed outfield grass every summer. (Editor's note: watch this space for a comprehensive set of rules for baseball game decorum) Digressions aside, one fateful day a ball will arc its way in to my waiting hands and I don't care if I am holding my first born infant child, I'm catching that baseball.

My second ambition is the one I feel I am least likely to accomplish as it can be considered a felony. Granted, I wish no harm on any person or property, but I would sure love to throw a Molotov Cocktail. Surely no crime would be committed if I were to throw said incendiary device in a vacant lot. The fire would just burn itself out as opposed to endangering an orphanage or a school for the blind. Like most red-blooded American males, I am a pyromaniac; but it isn't just the fire, it's also the sound of glass breaking. One of my favorite sounds on the planet is that of breaking glass and I'm currently working on a patentable onomatopoeia for it. How can it be expected of me to resist the ideal amalgamation of two of my favorite earthly delights. Explosions combined with breaking glass. What a concept! My life will not be complete until I am able to throw a Molotov Cocktail!

My next feat requires strength of both body and mind. We've all seen those cop shows on television, and I am in no way referring to Fox's timeless series, COPS. I want to give a locked door the Elliot Stabler treatment. Perhaps I have been warped by far too much prime-time television programming, warping me to the foolish extent of thinking this could be fulfilled by my humble shoes. Yet, if these swishy thespian types can make it happen for a camera, then I could assuredly strap on a pair of Bruno Magli's and go all Sipowicz on a door and its frame. Or maybe I should change this entry to: "I'd really like to break my ankle again."

The fourth ambition on my little list may be the most difficult to attain, even if the ball is already in motion. Unfortunately, in this instance, my name is Sisyphus. Three times already that ball has rolled back down that hill, crushing me all the while. I will keep taking that test, no matter how many times it takes me, and I will make my appearance on the television show Jeopardy! It is under this circumstance only that I wish to appear inside everyone's boxes. But dammit, that test is really hard, and am I really prepared to parade my bloated and ugly mug in front of the millions of octogenarians that watch that show each night? I don't have an answer for that question, but I sure am going to keep trying.

Finally, this list comes to a close with my compulsion and zeal for the American Luxury car. While my dream car might be a black convertible 1969 Lincoln Continental, I realize that the monetary strain might be worth more than the satisfaction of owning such a vehicle. Instead, I wish to own an auto that is a viable mode of daily transportation (for when my legs fall off and I am unable to safely pilot a bicycle anymore). The solution is simple, a Cadillac. One day I would like to own one, along with a passenger so I can constantly bump "Two Dope Boyz (in a Cadillac" by Outkast. Nothing says "class" like that.

So there you have it, all of my hopes, dreams, and aspirations encapsulated in one essay. Now, there are still so many things I want to do with my life, like help ALF find Rhonda, his long lost girlfriend from Melmac. I also want to drive a car with my feet a la Fred Flintstone, and at long last slay Puff the Magic Dragon to end the decades of feuding. These other things would be the icing on the cake made of the other five listings. Thank you and good night.