(Don't) Give That Fan a Contract

In my 28 years, I would hazard to guess that I've attended upwards of 120 professional baseball games. I've saved every ticket stub from every game I've ever gone to. So I could count them all up to give a more precise number. But that's not really why I save the stubs.

I've sat in nearly every corner of a dozen or so diffent major and minor league parks -- in the upper deck behind the foul pole, in the third row behind home plate, even once in an owner's box. I've seen walk-off homeruns in extra innings of a World Series game. I've seen near no-hitters. I've seen comebacks, blowouts and rainouts. But one experience is still missing.

I've never caught a ball.

A few years ago, I was seated in the left field seats of Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia when Mike Lieberthal launched what would be the game-winning homerun into the air. As it approached, I could start to see the seams of the ball spinning by. I stood, leaned forward and braced my palms for impact. At that moment, a man with a glove reached back a picked it cleany from the air. But that's about as close as I've ever come to catching anything.

As an adult, I've never believed in bringing a glove to a game. I can't remember who said it first, but it's true that a grown man should never bring a glove to a game unless: 1) You're with a young child and so close to the field of play that the glove serves as protection; or 2) Someone in the game is poised to hit a momentus homerun and the ball will be worth six-figures if caught.

So tonight, when I attended the Yankees-Orioles game at Camden Yards, I was true to my principles and went bare-handed. (I was also coming from work, and I don't usually keep a spare mitt in my desk drawer. Although I do keep an extra athletic cup in there. You never know...)

When mitt-less at a game, you always fear the line-drive foul ball. "Would I have the courage to stick out my fleshy palms and take the full force of the ball and all that spin?" You hope that if a foul ball comes to, you can pick it cleanly out of the air, right at the apex of it's arc. All gain and no pain.

Tonight, in the first inning of the game, with Yankee's second baseman Robinson Cano at the plate, this is exactly what happened -- to the fan just above me. Cano lofted a weak foul-pop to the left side. It drifted back toward the upper deck. An eager fan reached out. It slapped against his fingers, then quickly it spilled out and began to drop. Looking up and back, I saw the ball falling right from his hands and into mine. I saw the label on the ball spinning right toward me. I reached up. And it was gone.

For some reason, the ball spun right off one finger tip and into the hands of a Yankee fan two rows down. What happened? How did I miss that? It was coming right to me. I waited my whole life for that moment and I blew it.

Perhaps it was the angle. Maybe it was the lights. Was it just an optical illusion?

Either way, I left yet another game without a souvenir. And it will likely be another 28 years before another one comes even half as close. Had I caught it, I'm convinced I would have had the valor to give the ball to the cute youngster three seats down with ice cream all over his face and glove. Instead that lousy Yankee fan stuck it right in his pocket.

I can't end this entry sounding completely unappreciative. Earlier this year, I attended a Washington Nationals game at RFK. They were playing my hometown team, the Philadelphia Phillies. I showed up early for batting practice. From the outfield seats, I shouted a friendly word of support to a Phillies player shagging flies. To my surprise, he turned around, and tossed me a ball. I didn't catch it. But I was able to scrounge beneath the seats through the week-old peanut shells and beer cups to retreive it. Now that ball has personal value, because it was meant for me. It hadn't just dropped randomly out of the sky. That one I wasn't going to give away. It was mine to keep.

Sure, it's just a ball. But it's also a connection. It's a real connection to a memory. Holding a ball from a game takes you instantly back to that moment. It's the closest thing I know to time travel. But for tonight's game, I'll have to settle for the ticket stub.

F*ck Speed Bumps

Is there anything more universally annoying than speed bumps? I think even aliens visiting Earth for the first time would quickly come to loathe these things (not that their flying saucers wouldn't just hover right over them. Alas, I digress).

What exactly is the point of them anyway? Yes, they make you slow down, but only for 10 feet at a time. For people like me, a speed bump means you floor it and go as fast as you can for 50 yards, then slam on the brakes until your front tires hit the bump, then floor it again.

They're probably kept around by the powerful car dealership lobby. They just want people to blow out their suspension, drop a transmission or accidentally deploy an airbag, as they run over one inadvertently. This then results in expensive repairs they can rape you up the ass on.

I know snow plow drivers hate them. Imagine their surprise when their plow hits one of those things! With any luck, the plow will rip the fucking thing right out.

The only good thing about speed bumps, is that sometimes they're referred to as "speed humps." There's nothing like a big "SPEED HUMP AHEAD" sign to make me chuckle and brighten my day.

Better than Snood

I spent the most productive hours of my college years sitting in front my computer playing Snood. If you're unfamiliar with it, Snood is a cross between Space Invaders and Tetris -- only more addictive. I'd sit there for hours on end, up way later than I should have been, playing this mindless little game. Given the fact that my GPA missed high honors by only a few hundredths of a percentage point, I can single handedly blame Snood on my mediocre success in career and family and for my poor personal hygeine.

Its been years since I've played Snood. I thought I'd grown beyond such petty addictions. Until I stumbled upon a new vice. Internet Poker.

Unlike Snood, or computer solitaire, internet poker involves other presumably live human beings sitting alone in front their computers all around the world. And for the past week, I've been completely hooked. I've played hundreds of hands of Texas Hold'em Poker and turned $1,000 in play money into $120,000 (still in play money).

It's easy to multitask, tracking the rounds of betting while watching Baseball Tonight or having a conversation with the spouse. But there's also the small box at the bottom of the poker table where you can chat with your competitors.

I've never been into Instant Messaging, so I've had a bit of lingo and shorthand to learn. I felt silly asking, "What's 'lol'?" Or trying to figure out how to make funny faces like >:P

But in addition to my improved poker skills, I feel I've truly shined in an entirely realm: The realm of trash talk.

This trash talk is as important to the game as the cards you get. Getting under a guy's skin by making fun of his sccreen name, where he's from or simply egging him on to bet seems to be quite effective in getting great results. Plus, you're completely anonymous and can say whatever you want. It's a great feeling. When was the last time you actually offered someone "a cool refreshing glass of shut the fuck up?" There's nothing like coming home after a long day and razzing someone for half an hour because his nickname is "SyracuseStu." It's truly liberating.

Well, no more time to blog tonight. I'm off to another poker table to talk a bit more smack and make some more fake money.

HF and GL, u DC!