Uniform Uniformity

Men are more fashion conscious than they let on. Clothing is not something to be fussed with or talked about in the company of other men. But in the privacy of one's home -– or perhaps a locker room -– even the most chiseled men can become seamstresses and fashionistas.

Professional athletes are quite experimental when it comes to their threads, as demonstrated by the bizarre get-ups often on display during post-game press conferences or pre-game specials. For example, lime-green sharkskin suits with backwards lapels are not uncommon for some of these guys. But athletes don't just get bold with their street clothes. They can also get quite creative with their uniforms on the field, too –- sometimes too creative.

The Official Rules of Major League Baseball have an entire section dedicated to the appearance of players' uniforms. Most of the rules pertaining to on-field habiliments are routine guidelines pertaining to home uniform color (white*) or the minimum size of numbers included on the backs of jerseys (six inches). There are a couple slightly more surprising restrictions such as the limitation on glass or metal buttons on jerseys. Wouldn't those hurt to slide on? Or the ban on any "pattern that imitates or suggests the shape of a baseball." One might assume that this is mainly directed at pitchers who could use such ball-shaped embroidery as a distraction to hitters. But this seems like a double standard since every member of the St. Louis Cardinals is allowed to step into the batter's box with the likeness of a bat splayed across his chest. This doesn't seem fair to pitchers.

The collective bargaining agreement between the Major League Baseball Players' Association and MLB gets even more specific when it comes to "uniform regulations." (Regulations, in this author's opinion, are always best when uniform.) These provisions are a "supplement" to the MLB official rules and are an interesting insight into the peculiar behavior of professional athletes when it comes to hemming and stitching.

The first such regulation that caught my attention was a restriction on the practice of lacing one's shoes through one's pants. Kids these days. Additionally "pants pockets may not intentionally be untucked." I thought the tuck rule only existed in the NFL. Speaking of tucking, jerseys also may not be "ordered or altered to a length where it cannot be properly tucked in." I didn't realize baseball was so anti-midriff.

Shoe endorsements are big in basketball, but baseball players are clearly limited by a pesky ban on a runner's ability to "change shoes while running bases." The practicality of changing your shoes while running simply baffles me.

And these uniform rules don't apply solely to baseball equipment. Apparently "any player wearing a golf glove underneath a playing glove may not rub up balls for use by the pitcher." Well, one certainly shouldn't waste time rubbing up a baseball while in the middle of a round of 18. This just holds up the whole foursome.

What I find absent from all these rules is any mention of stirrups. Ordinarily found only on women's stretch pants, stirrups also used to be essential baseball attire. For many of us, stirrups were the most fascinating part of the little league baseball uniform. Once one figured out the front from the back, and how to wear them without them bunching up inside your cleats, stirrups were the best part of dressing for a game. Back then all the big leaguers wore stirrups, too, stretched high up on the calf creating the illusion of a crisp, broad stripe that ran from the waist, down into the shoe. Alas, it appears the stirrup has gone the way of the helmet-without-earflaps and powder-blue jerseys. Maybe they'll come back some day along with those whacky pillbox hats.

Note:
* The Sand Francisco Giants' home uniforms are not white. They are a light cream color.

Werthless

Somebody please tell me. What business does Jayson Werth have being on a major league ballclub? Oh, wait. He's on the Phillies. Nevermind.

Apparently this guy is, too.

Take a Number

I've never bought a lottery ticket before. Until tonight. I bought three.

The urge was brought on by the confluence of two events: tomorrow's drawing is the biggest Mega Millions jackpot in history and I just put an offer in on a house yesterday. The estimated lottery jackpot is $355 million. After taxes, that's approximately one shitload of money. Roughly speaking, it should be just about enough money to cover the outrageous taxes and closing costs on our potential new home.

I'm aware that I'm about as likely to hold the winning ticket as I am to be the father to Anna Nicole's child. (Acutally, statistically speaking, the latter odds may be better.) I've always said that the lottery is a tax on people who are bad at math. So I don't feel bad buying a few lottery tickets since I know the proceeds benefit convalescents and orphans -- oh, and the one lucky bastard who wins.

I spent three dollars and got three different combinations to play. I let the machine pick the numbers for me. I did this at my brother's advice. I remember him wondering why people use their birthdays and anniversaries to pick their lottery numbers. What are the odds that you'd win the lottery and the number you picked also happened to be the same as the anniversary of your mother-in-law's gallstone surgery?

Of course, what you're really playing for is the momentary rush. For a buck, you can experience the waking dream of just exactly what you'd do with so much crazy money. Since I bought my tickets a couple hours ago, I've spent a little time devising a plan. Here's what I've come up with:

Upon discovering that I posses the winning numbers, I will take the winning ticket, fold it up tightly and place it in a secure location on or in my person. Then, you will not see me or hear from me for days, maybe weeks. I will take my wife and child out of state and check into a hotel under an assumed name. This will become my homebase for contacting immediate family only as well as some financial advisors. I might take a moment to call my employer to offer a few supportive words about my experience working for them. And how much I will truly miss them all since I won't be coming back -- ever.

At some point, one must claim the prize, which I will do in privacy and without the glitzy press conference. I've always wanted to get one of those big cardboard checks, but I do all my banking by mail and I could see that being a bit cumbersome. I will then work with my advisors to calculate just how much money one really needs for their family to live a reasonable lifestyle. Realistically, a few million dollars should do the trick unless you're a total idiot. Familiy and friends will then see a nice windfall, too. (This will be doled out based on how many years you've known me and how often you've left comments on this blog.) The rest of the money will be donated anonymously to deserving charities. Why should I ask buildings and monuments be named for me when I didn't earn a single dime of this money?

I imagine there would be a great deal of guilt in retaining so much false wealth. Which is why most of it would just have to go. Well, maybe not too much. Alright, none of it.

The drawing is Tuesday night. So if this blog isn't updated for a while, you can make your own assumptions.

Hello, Huxtable Residence

Playing in an adult softball league is one of the few youthful pursuits I have left. As I approach a milestone birthday, I feel like I'm showing my age more than I should. I'm married. I'm a father. I own a minivan. I have a mortgage. And now the wife and I are shopping for a bigger home for our growing family.

We've been reading lots of real estate listings and going to open houses. In shopping for homes, I've been in several different styles of abodes, from different eras and with varying floor plans. They include townhouses, ranchers, split-levels, colonials, dog houses and outhouses. They all have "master suites," "beautiful hw floors" and "custom wdw treatments." They also all have kitchens and they all have doors. But none of the kitchens have doors.

I have never lived in a house, apartment or condominium that has a door between the kitchen and the living room. Come to think of it, I've never even been in a house that has a door between the kitchen and the living room -- let alone a house with a double-hinged door.

Of course, in every single sitcom, there is a double-hinged door between the kitchen and the living room (never the dining room, which would make more sense.)

Where did this cliche originate? Is it just Hollywood imitating itself? Why not a pocket door? Or a beaded curtain? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned pass through?

Maybe someday, I will install a double hinged door to my kitchen. Then, while guests are sitting in the living room, I can go in the kitchen and argue with my wife without having to worry that anyone can hear me. Except for the live studio audience, of course.

Mercy Rule

Today I continued to be annoyed by having to traverse icy glaciers just to cross the street. I saw a man across from my office trying to "shovel" the ice off the sidewalk in front of his restaurant this afternoon. He grew increasingly frustrated as the thick chunks of ice that nearly claimed eight lives in 48 hours simply refused to budge. I watched as he broke not one, but two snow shovels. Maybe it's because they were "snow shovels" and not "three-day-old-packed-ice shovels." I surmise that if he had attempted to shovel his walk on Wednesday before the 3 inches of snow turned into two inches of solid teflon-coated-concrete, he wouldn't have had such a problem.

But then my day was brightened by a little e-mail I received just moments later. It was the notice that my spring softball league was now open for registration. The first game is April 29. That's practically just around the corner. Spring is almost here. I can just feel the warm rays on the back of my neck.

Now that's an e-mail I liked receiving. Maybe I won't close my inbox after all. Funny how it all comes full circle.

Willing to Sacrifice

On the subject of manners, people aren't just weasels online -- they're jerks after a snow/ice/sleet storm, too. There are some standards of human decency in times of wintry weather that seem not to apply south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Namely:

1) A few handfuls of rock salt sprinkled on the ground are not a substitute for actually shoveling your sidewalk.
1a) Shovel your g.d. sidewalk.
2) When driving on a road covered with a light dusting of snow, it is not necessary to drive at 5 mph...while riding your brakes...uphill. Please get the hell over.
3) Clean off the roof of your car. The huge, jagged slabs of ice that fly off the roof of your car can actually be slightly dangerous.
4) If there is a snowbank plowed against the curb, this does not give you permission to park perpendicular to the flow of traffic so that everyone has to merge into a half lane to get around your crap-ass car.
5) To the snowplow drivers: Try plowing all the way up to the edge of the curb. Just clearing a single curvy lane down the middle of a street is not terribly helpful. It makes for a fun driver's ed course, but is not efficient for assisting in the flow of two-way traffic.
6) SHOVEL YOUR SIDEWALK!

Perhaps these various wintry hazards are what have caused all the schools in the area to remain closed for two days. Yes, the weather on the first day of the storm was a little squirrelly. There had only been one snow-day all year, so I guess the kids (read: the teachers) were deserving of one. But today, Baltimore County Schools were "closed all day due to inclement weather."

I'm wondering just what about today's February weather was so "inclement." Was it the low humidity? The moderate easterly breeze? What is the sub 29-degree temperature? Maybe it was the bright, shining sun that beamed most of the day. Or maybe they were waiting for the rock salt to melt all the ice in front of the schools, rather than just shoveling the sidewalks.

Don't Be a Human Paraquat

Speaking of mustaches, you never see politicians wearing facial hair. William Howard Taft was the last US President to have any. He was also the last President to weigh more than 300 pounds. I guess times have changed just a little.

Back then, people still knew what a buggy whip was. They read books. And when they were angry with someone, they'd call them a scalawag or rapscallion. Such abasements could be followed by a strongly worded letter or the challenge of a duel. But certainly, there was no e-mail flame copied to eighteen other people in your company.

I am exactly one e-mail away from closing my inbox. It never fails to shock me at how the immediacy and perceived anonymity of e-mail empowers individuals to be complete and utter @ssholes.

At my job, I receive hundreds of e-mails per day. These range from nettlesome business solicitations to inocuous messages about empty tupperware in the staff lunchroom. But mixed among the meeting requests and deal confirmations are always several abusive messages per day. Some of them are directed toward me (deservedly or not). Others are messages I have been copied on for the purpose of embarassing the target. Worse yet, some of them I have been blind copied on.

I can appreciate how easy it is to be a complete and utter schmuck over e-mail. When you're angry, upset or just being an irrational douchebag, it's easy to sit in your filthy hole and fire off an obnoxious and hate-filled e-mail. And with a couple extra clicks, you can enjoy the cheap rush of copying the recipient's boss, secretary, janitors, ex-officemates and former-employees.

But I've learned that if you just stop for one second, take a breath and look at what you've written, it's quite easy not to be a total shithead. Don't call ex-girlfirends when you're drunk and don't write e-mails when you're angry. And certainly do not copy your insulting rants to others. It only broadcasts what a complete and total jerk you are.

There's a saying that you should never put anything in an e-mail that you wouldn't say to someone's face. Unfortunately, this is not a good rule of thumb. Because when you're sitting behind your vintage 1997 Gateway with 64MB of RAM, it's easy to feel eight feet tall. It's quite possible to picture yourself actually having the spine to say each and every word you're typing to someone's face.

As is the case with so much new technology, there are still few societal mores that keep bad behavior in check -- think cell phones that ring to the tune of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" or oblivious morons wearing iPods and blocking your way in a store.

I am serioulsy considering an e-mail boycott of one whole week. Messages sent to my inbox would receive an automated response instructing the sender to either call telephonically or correspond via US Postal Service. I kind of want to see what life was like before e-mail. If you wanted to "carbon copy" multiple people, it required multiple envelopes, multiple stamps and multiple paper cuts.

Or maybe instead of closing my inbox, I'll contruct a form e-mail that I bounce back to e-morons. If an incoming message contains criticism, editorializing, bullying, sarcasm, venting, foul language, needless "cc'ing," "bcc'ing" or general shitiness, a boiler-plate response will indicate that such messages will not be returned. A telephone number will be provided should additional communication be desired. Otherwise, please go to hell. Simultaneously, your message will be filed under "@."

Michaels, Cosell and Weaver

Speaking of hiatuses, baseball is about to come out of it's annual hibernation. To get us all in the mood, all this week the Mid-Atlantic Sports Network has been replaying a game of the 1983 World Series each night. I guess it's one (dis)advantage of living in Baltimore. Hey, it could be worse. I could live in Toronto.

Even though I know the Orioles will eventually beat the Phillies in five games, I've found myself watching pretty regularly. Maybe it's the lousy mid-season replacements on the networks. Or it could be a touch of "spring phever." Whatever the reason for watching, I sure am enjoying the trip down memory lane.

Oh, the wasting confines of Memorial Stadium. The bright green carpet of the Vet. The powder-blue road uniforms. The cartoon Oriole bird logo. And check out those stirrups and zippered jerseys.

But what's up with the facial hair? I can't believe how many of these guys had mustaches! I think each team was allowed only two clean upper lips. Pete Rose and Von Hayes for the Phillies, Cal Ripken, Jr and Jim Palmer for the Orioles. Every other guy on the field was sporting their own style of soup-strainer. Of course Schmitty's 'stache was way manlier than anything Dempsey or Flannigan could muster. And it's definitely not something A-Rod or Jeter could ever pull off.

So what of the mustache? What killed it? Where did it go? Is it poised for a comeback? Why is it that relief pitchers seem to be the only players these days than can wear a hairy lip?

One Hiatus Begins...

...and another ends.

These are some big shoes to fill. Can I possibly help to bridge this gap in the blogosphere? I can't promise to try. But I'll try to try.

Who's Next, Pauly Shore?

Tonight another new prime time TV game show premiered called Show Me the Money. The show is modeled on the recent success of Deal or No Deal and 1 vs 100. All three shows are based on escalating amounts of money being awarded to or taken away from desparate contestants. William Shatner has taken time off from his Priceline.com commercials and Star Trek conventions to host this new show on ABC. But Shatner's presence on the show highlights a disturbing trend.

The hosts of all these money dealing games shows, Howie Mandel (Deal or No Deal), Bob Saget (1 vs 100) and Shatner, are all Jewish. I guess if you're a washed up Jewish actor in Hollywood, there's a game show being focus-grouped just for you.

I hear Richard Lewis has already been lined up for FOX's "Shyster!"

Real Scary Movie

For some reason, typical horror films, with their formulaic plots and predictable shockers, just don't scare me. I'm more creeped out by psychological thrillers like "The Shining" or one of the more eerie Rod Serling "Twilight Zone" episodes.

But this movie, sends chills down my spines and brings chuckles up from my belly.

Enjoy and be nice to pumpkins.

The Life and Death of a Pumpkin

White Ashes to Ashes

You may have seen the story about Major League Baseball licensing logos to mortuaries. If not, the picture here speaks for itself. In case it doesn't, I submit the following captions for this image, and invite you do the same in the comments area:

- Here lie the hopes of a Phillies' Championship.

- That Phanitic suit is hot inside...really hot.

- In loving memory of Tommy Green's arm.

- Look, I finally caught a foul ball!

- I just couldn't stand to watch Mitch Williams in Game 6 of '93 series. Can someone tell me what happened?

- Kiteman, may he rest in peace.

- Never wear an Emmitt Smith jersey to any Philadelphia sporting event. Ever.

- You shouldn't have booed me.

- "I'm a very safe pilot."

- Wait 'til next life.

FW: FW: Re: RE: FW:

>>>>The greatest thing about the rapid expansion of the blogosphere, is that
>>>>my inbox no longer gets bogged down with annoying group e-mails. People
>>>>with blogs no longer feel compelled to forward along every article or funny
>>>>e-mail they come across. They just simply post their interesting tidbits online
>>>>for perusal at my leisure. I love it. Thank you blog people.

...until it killed him.

When I meet my final end (hopefully many, many decades from now), let no one say: "He died doing what he loved." If I'm killed participating in an activity that I loved, I'll bet I wasn't enjoying it right up until the end. And if I knew that this activity would eventually kill me, I probably never would have done it in the first place, let alone grow to love it.

They're "Trained by Professionals"

With the tragic passing of Crocodile Hunter Steve Irwin, let us all be reminded of the brave TV hosts that put themselves in harm's way every day for our entertainment. For instance, watch these valiant daytime news anchors as they participate in science-man Steve Spangler's daring experiments. Man, I love local news. I could watch this stuff all day. Oh, and remember, don't try this at home:

• Helium Hits: Sulfur Hexaflouride + Television Cameras = Instant Comedy!
  
• Mentos and Exploding Soda: The original Mentos video
  
• He's Got Fire!: This anchor is a real scaredy-cat.
  

Swing and a Long-Held Grudge

Tonight Ryan Howard hit his 49th home run of the season. In doing so, Howard set a new single-season home run record for the Philadelphia Phillies, surpassing Mike Schmidt's 48 home runs in 1980.

Michael Jack Schmidt was the Phillies' starting third baseman for more than 16 seasons. He was a 3-time MVP, 12-time All-Star and was the World Series MVP for the Phillies one-and-only championship in 1980. He won 10 Gold Gloves and 8 home run titles. When he retired in 1989, he was seventh on the all-time home run list with 548.

As a young boy growing up in suburban Philadelphia, Schmitty was my childhood hero. I collected Mike Schmidt's baseball cards. My favorite number was 20 (his jersey number). I wished I could grow as moustache. I watched Phillies games just so I could wait for him to come to bat. Every kid on my little league team imitated Schmidt's batting stance (and trademark butt-wiggle). And we argued about who would win in a fist fight: Mike Schmidt or Superman (Answer: Mike Schmidt).

In April 1987, Michael Jack hit his 500th home run at Three Rivers Stadium in Pittsburgh. It was a huge milestone in Philadelphia sports history. The day he hit it, my brother Jason and I were at home watching the game on TV. In the 6th inning, the Phillies were losing and our mother dragged us out of the house to go buy shoes. My brother's Bar Mitzvah was coming up and I guess shoes were a higher priority. After picking out just the right pair of junior wingtips, we returned to the car and tuned in the game on the radio. Andy Musser and Chris Wheeler, the Phils' radio broadcasters, were talking excitedly describing the big moment that had just happened. Schmitty had hit number 500. Not only that, it was a game winning shot. It was one of the biggest moments in my hero's career and I was in a shoe store.

To celebrate Schmidt's accomplishment, a commemorative video was released fittingly called "That Ball's Outta Here: The Mike Schmidt Story." It followed Schmidt through the first part of the season as he chased the 500 mark. It showed him on the phone with his wife, fielding questions from the press at his locker and taking extra BP before games. The first time I watched the video, at the moment when they show Schmidt silently swinging in slow motion, connecting for the historic blast, I started to cry. I still get choked up just thinking about that scene. Watching the video was the closest I would come to reliving that moment. Did I mention I was in a shoe store at the time?

When the video went on sale, Schmitty was scheduled to make an appearance at our local video store to autograph copies. I begged my mother to take me along. I had never gotten a chance to meet my hero in person. Here was her chance to make-up for the shoe fiasco. After much pleading, my mother decided I would stay in school that day. I wouldn't be meeting my idol.

My mother still went on her own to the video store. When I got home from school that day, she talked about what it was like to meet him -- how broad his shoulders were and how he seemed so tall even while sitting down. From a bag she pulled out the commemorative video she'd gotten him to sign. In dark, bold writing, it read "To Jason, Happy Birthday. Mike Schmidt." My brother's birthday was coming up soon and my mother had thoughtfully gotten him a personalized autograph. I thought it was so cool that Mike Schmidt knew it was my brother's birthday. I couldn't wait to see my personalized copy of the video, too.

This may come as a surprise, but there was no personalized autograph for me. There was only one copy of the video and it had my brother's stupid name scribbled all over it. My mom said not to worry. She had also managed to get him to autograph a small 4x6 photograph she'd taken of him at a Fuji Film Photo Night at Veterans Stadium a couple years earlier. Wow. I couldn't wait to put it on display in my room.

It was then explained to me that the small autographed photo was to remain inside the video's box, which conveniently lived in a cupboard in my brother's room. I was not allowed to have it.

From time to time, I would go into my brother's room, take out the video and peek at the small autographed photo inside. It reminded me of my mother's own story about her father's Babe Ruth autograph. As a young girl, she would go into her father's desk and pull out an old program with the Babe's signature on the cover. But someone else in the family had made off with it. To this day, she doesn't know where it is.

A few years ago, when I was visiting my parent's house, I went into my brother's old room and for old times sake took out the video. The autographed photo slipped out of the box and fell into my lap. I looked at it for a moment, placed it on the bed and put the video away. I carefully slid the photo into an envelope and put it in my suitcase. The next day, I left with the autograph quietly tucked away. No one in my family would realize it was gone until they came to my home years later and saw it on display, in a frame, being enjoyed.

I've met and had meaningful encounters with a fair share of famous people in my life -- from Bill Cosby to Cal Ripken, Jr. But I don't ask for autographs. Autographs are for kids. Rather than asking people to scribble their name on a piece of paper, I prefer to strike up a dialogue. In my opinion, it makes for a far more memorable connection. How can someone have any respect for you if the first thing you do is ask them to write their name down? But because I've never had personal contact with my boyhood hero, Schmidt's autograph is the only thing I have.

So to my family members that would like the autograph back, I'd like to remind you of the 10-year old boy wiggling his butt and swinging a wiffleball bat in the middle of the living room. If you really want the autograph back, I suggest you schedule a personal audience for me and Michael Jack. Then I will gladly give up the photo. Until then, happy shoe shopping.

Yonder Piggly Wiggly

This weekend I drove myself to the grocery store to buy a few things. First I stopped and picked up a sandwich for lunch. The bill was $4.11. I paid for it with a five dollar bill. The cashier handed me my receipt and a bulky handful of change which I stuffed in my pocket. After quickly gulping down my lunch, I ran into the market. Grabbing just an armful of items from the shelves, I made my way to the checkout.

I usually avoid the express lanes because I often find them slower than the regular ones. What happens is that a dozen people, all with "10 items or less [sic]," swarm the express lane. Meanwhile the regular lanes always have shorter lines and I believe they move faster. Scanning and bagging the groceries is quite fast. It doesn't take that much longer to ring up 20 or 30 items than it does 10. It's the transactions, with people writing checks, fumbling with the credit card machine or sifting through purses for exact change that really drag things down. I'd rather take my chances behind one person with a huge cart full of food, than 8 people who might be writing checks.

But this weekend, I saw the express lane had only a very short line and I thought I would give it a shot. To my surprise, I was quickly at the front having my few items scanned. The total was $13.35.

In addition to avoiding express lanes, I almost always pay for groceries by credit card. But because I was in an express lane, I thought I would be considerate and pay by cash. That's always the fastest way, right? Especially if I have exact change.

So I reached down into my pocket knowing that I had a sizeable amount of change. But the coinage had become intermingled with my car keys, the paper receipt from lunch and an alarming amount of pocket lint. I was able to fish out a few coins: a quarter and a penny. Nervously, I reached in again, pulled out my keys and the receipt and set them on the counter. With the obstacles clear, I was able to get out the full collection of change. Sorting out a quarter, nickel and dime, I handed them to the cashier. I then reached into my bill fold to hand over the correct amount of cash. This is when I realized I didn't have as much money with me as I'd thought. After buying lunch, I now only had a five and three ones. I was five dollars short.

I felt mortified. I apologized to the cashier and asked for the change back so that I could pay by credit card. I was now one of those people holding up the express line. As I reached in for my credit card, I turned around to express my contrition to my fellow customers waiting behind me. That's when I noticed her. It was Betty.

Betty was my friend from the local post office. Betty was the line nazi who was mean to her customers. I recognized her immediately. She was wearing a blue USPS shirt and a name tag that read, "Betty."

I nodded at Betty. She gave me a sharp stare and flicked her tongue.

"Sorry about this," I said to her.

"Uh huh. Just keep it moving," she barked.

"I'm just going to..."

"Stop talking and start paying," she interrupted.

Turning back to the cashier, I put away my credit card. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a slip of paper I've had folded up in my wallet for emergencies just like this. I knew I had to do it for all the people in my ZIP code who have had a run in with Betty. I unfolded the paper, picked up a pen and said to the cashier:

"I'll just pay by check."

Remember Cop Rock?

In 1990, the Berlin Wall came down. The first President Bush was in the White House starting the first Iraqi war. Yours truly was in seventh grade. A postage stamp cost 25 cents. Julio Franco was a spry 33 years of age. Brian McCann was 7. And the Atlanta Braves finished the season with a record of 65-97, in last place, 26 games behind the NL West Champion Cincinnati Reds. (Remember when the Braves were in the NL West?) And the NL East was won by the Pittsburgh Pirates. (Yes, those Pittsburgh Pirates.) The Florida Marlins, Colorado Rockies, Arizona Diamondbacks and Tampa Bay Devil Rays didn't even exist yet.

In the fifteen seasons following, the Braves tallied up a record of 1431-931 -- a .606 winning percentage -- and won fourteen division titles by a total of 116 1/2 games. Only the strike-shortened 1994 season left them without a banner that year, even though they were trailing the Montreal Expos by six games at the time.

(Here's where I feel obligated to disclose that from 1991 through 2005, my hometown Philadelphia Phillies racked up a combined record of 1144-1218 -- a .516 losing percentage -- and only made it to the post-season once losing to the Toronto Blue Jays in the 1993 World Series. We now return you to our regularly scheduled programming.)

Here we are today at the end of August 2006. The Braves are 60-68, in fourth place and 19 games behind the division leading New York Mets. The Mets have a "Magic Number" of 20 to clinch the NL East. It will be the first time in 15 years that the Braves will watch someone else hoist their division's pennant. Even better yet, the Braves are only five games ahead of the last-place Washington Nationals. Any combination of Nationals wins and Braves losses, totaling 39, will mean the Braves finish in last place. Let's call this the "Black Magic Number." We'll track it throughout the next five weeks.

Braves fans old enough to remember powder-blue uniforms aren't unfamiliar with last place. Before their historic run, the Braves were pretty bad. Okay, really bad. They finished dead last four times between 1986 and 1990. Before 1991, the Braves only moved on to the post-season twice, in 1982 and 1969, since moving to Atlanta in 1966.

The Braves more than made up for those losing seasons with their unprecedented streak of domination since 1991. In that time, they've won fourteen consecutive division pennants. Fourteen. That's fourteen trips to the playoffs. But this is where their legacy will be a bit more hazy. Because baseball, ultimately, is about winning a trophy, getting a ring and staking claim as champions of the "world."

Of those 14-straight division championships the Braves won, only one yielded a World Series title. Yes, they made it to the world series on five occasions. But that's only five out of fourteen -- 36 percent. And of those five, only one ring. One. Even with a post-season record of 81-62 since 1991, the Braves pursuit of championships has been mired in futility. Especially in recent seasons where they have been eliminated in the first round five of the last six years. It got so bad, the Braves had trouble selling seats to playoff games in the last few years. Where else do you see empty seats during playoff games? (I'm looking at you, NHL.)

The phrase "high school hero, real life zero" comes to mind. The Braves are regular season bruisers, post-season losers. That empty mantle will be their legacy. Many will disagree. In a few weeks, or even days, the debate can begin. The Braves will not win the Wild Card. On October 1, at the conclusion of the 2006 regular season, the Braves will find themselves on the sidelines. Then history can decide if they belong in the company of the New York Yankees or the Buffalo Bills. One thing they won't have to worry about: being compared to the Philadelphia Phillies.

Brother, Can You Spare a Vote?

Baltimore has the longest red lights of any city in the country. It makes driving in this city really annoying. These red lights can lengthen your commute by over twenty percent and needlessly increases the waste of fossil fuels.

The extended red lights also create a very dangerous situation as people race between signals at breakneck speeds. Some drivers just run the lights all together. To combat this, the city has installed red light cameras at 50 intersections. So now, in addition to having the longest red lights in the land, Baltimore is also the red-light camera capital of the world. Receiving a commemorative photo of your license plate in the mail makes for a nice keepsake, but will also set you back a few bucks.

But the oil companies and the City of Baltimore aren't the only ones who benefit from the long red lights. The traffic back-ups caused by mistimed, lengthy traffic lights also make panhandling at intersections a big business in this town. Major intersections swarm with itinerants and vagrants, each with their own unique and gruesome disfigurement on display.

One of these major intersections is part of my daily commute. It's populated by these licentious degenerates morning, noon and night. They wander up and down the median begging for change. They seem to work in shifts. Every morning there is the same toothless hippie with long grey hair, an acutely swollen hand and a limp that would do Hugh Laurie proud. In my head I call him "Stinky." During the evening rush hour a gaunt woman with one leg wobbles on crutches. I think of her as "Hoppy." And late at night, an older gentleman with no apparent disability (unless you count poor penmanship as a handicap) paces with a crudely constructed cardboard sign in hand. I call him "Old Guy."

I never give money to any of them. And I can't believe anyone would. But the amazing part is that people actually do. I watch each day as people roll down their windows, toss out change or offer a cigarette. Obviously the panhandling pays off or they wouldn't be there every day -- rain, sleet or snow. I often wonder just how much it pays off. Luckily the traffic light is long enough to do some rough calculations.

This traffic light cycles approximately every two-and-a-half minutes. That's 25 times per hour. When I see people handing out money, it's often change, but there's paper money too. I don't think it's unreasonable to think that these guys can average fifty cents to a dollar per cycle. That's almost $20 an hour. And no taxes. Beats working for minimum wage.

I remember seeing a local TV news story once where they followed panhandlers after they finished working their corner. They walked a few blocks, got into their car and drove away. Some of them had pretty nice cars and were followed to their homes in nice neighborhoods. I try not to be that cynical. Some of these individuals do need help. And they really aren't harming anyone. It's just an annoyance. But, again, they're not the last ones benefiting from the Baltimore's traffic patterns.

This morning I was surprised to see this same corner occupied by a new kind of recalcitrant: a politician.

During the morning rush hour, a middle-aged guy in a dress shirt and a tie stood on the corner and waved to commuters. He was campaigning for District Attorney. His shirt sleeves were casually rolled up and he was holding a large sign bearing his name. The sign was very large. He may as well have been wearing a sandwich board.

People paid him no attention. No honks of support. No friendly cheers. No one rolling down their windows to ask about his plan to stop panhandlers or catch the light pole thieves.

Meanwhile, I can't help but wonder what happened to "Stinky." How did Mr. Polyester get to take over the corner? Did he show up really early? Did he submit an application for a city permit to reserve that corner a week in advance? Or did he simply pay "Stinky" twenty bucks to go away?

It was a nice change to see someone a bit less scary standing next to my car this morning as I waited for the light to change. I was, however, just as reticent to make any eye contact with the guy. I wonder how much of an impact that campaign stunt actually had. It probably would have been more productive as a campaign fundraiser. Heck, he already had the cardboard sign. All he's missing is a good limp.

Don't Play with Your Art

Have you been to the Smithsonian and seen some of your old toys behind glass? There's even a National Toy Hall of Fame in Rochester, New York where you can vote for your favorites.

Well, here are some guys that really do get their toys put on exhibit. I guess my parents spent too much time encouraging me to get a real job. Meanwhile, look what these artists can do.

Check it out, Mom, I'm making a living with:

• Legos


• Dominos


• Etch-a-Sketch