THE PEANUT GALLERY: Puddle Jumping

Sometimes you have to change the script. Throw a wrench into the routine. That's what Peanut and I did last Tuesday. Tuesday is my day to pick her up from the bus stop. (It's also Peanut Gallery day here on DKL. And what do you know? Here we all are.)  Last week, it was pouring rain at pickup time. Normally, Peanut and I would use our bonus time on Tuesday afternoons practicing tee-ball in the backyard.

Due to the rainout, there would be no tee-ball today. To make up for it, I changed the script. " Why don't we go home and change into our rain boots and rain jackets," I suggested. "And we can go jump in puddles."

And that's just what we did:

Boots

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Model Tee

If I could do it all over again, I would play little league baseball. You would think a guy like me with a love of the game like mine would have played throughout his childhood. But my parents owned a swimming pool business and baseball season was their busy season. I don't blame them, but if I could go back I'd tell them the put the kid in for at least one season.

So we're breaking new ground with Peanut playing t-ball. As a result, every little thing she does on that field is magic. Especially this:

Lord Helmet.

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The Boys of Summer

The Yankees were playing the Mets earlier this season. Unlike most fans of either team, I do not enjoy the annual "Subway Series." Why? Because it's a no-win situation for the Yankees. What I mean is, when they do win, it's no big deal because that's what's expected. When they don't, it IS a big deal because they're expected to win. (Cry me a river, I know. I'm currently accepting donations to my new charity, Spoiled Yankees Fans Non-Anonymous.)

The third game of the Yankee Stadium half of the series entered the bottom of the ninth inning tied. The Yankees had already won the first two games. I rarely if ever watch an entire Yankees game. (Who has the time or the patience?) But I made an exception for this one.

Peanut, her love of the game or lack thereof already well documented, was getting antsy. She kept asking to watch - what else - Doc McStuffins. I told her she could after the game. My Director deemed this an equitable solution. Soon thereafter, Russell Martin hit a home run to win the game for the Yankees, sending the Stadium into euphoria and Peanut into McStuffinsville:

Touch 'em all, Russell. (photo from here.)

In my excitement, I proclaimed to Peanut:

"That's why we root for the Yankees. Because they're the best."

I admit, that was arrogant. But don't worry, My Director quickly cut me down to size:

"Then why do we root for the Jets?"

I had no answer. This is why, despite what you might infer from how I acted in the brief story I told above, I am not your typical arrogant Yankees fan. Since I am also a hard-luck, broken-hearted, never-say-die Jets fan, I know I am blessed with my baseball allegiance. This is also probably why I have shared so many Yankees stories over the years. (That and their connection with my dad.)

Please take some time to catch up on some DKL you may have missed. I have been doing this on summer Mondays, telling a new story and then following it with a list of links to previous posts about that topic. This week's subject, you may have guessed, is baseball. Enjoy:

As I mentioned above, we thought Peanut's newfound baseball ability would translate into a love of the game. It didn't, as I recently explained in The Peanut Gallery: Play Ball"

When Mariano Rivera went down with a season-ending injury earlier this year, I was very upset. I thought it meant his career was over and I'd lost one more connection to my dad. But then I learned that Legends Never Die.

My dad's favorite player was Mickey Mantle. And for that reason, his name and number are a part of Baseball Immortality in my house.

One of my favorite Yankee Stadium memories is of one non-Yankee's performance. It's Why I Root For Josh Hamilton.

While my dad loved Mantle, he HATED Bernie Williams. It was so irrational it was funny. I made sure it didn't come up when I had a Brush with a Legend

I made sure Peanut was witness to history when Derek Jeter reached 3,000 career hits. She was not impressed or amused with his Puttin' on the Hits

I crossed off an item from my bucket list when I got to watch the Yankees win the World Series in person. My Director helped make this Once in a Lifetime experience happen.

One of my favorite memories of baby Peanut is taking her to her first and only game in the old Yankee Stadium, before they tore it down. It was very hot that day so I called it "I'll Stop the World and Melt with You."

Previous subjects of my summer retrospective series: My Director, Christmas, our trip to Disney, the swagger wagon, and favorite songs.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Play Ball

A couple of years ago, I bought Peanut a tee ball set. It wasn't something she asked for. I just thought it would be fun to smack the ball around the backyard, and to ingrain in her a love, or at least an appreciation, for the national pastime. (And the Yankees.) I had no intention of training her to be a baseball or softball prodigy, and then living vicariously through her. Besides, Peanut's game attire erased any delusions I may have had of her earning a sports scholarship:

3 year-old Peanut, batting in her tutu

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What I Really Want for Father's Day

"Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope." -Bill Cosby

"What do you want for Father's Day?" It's an age-old question. Ah, but to answer is to solve one of life's great riddles. I remember my dad being impossible to shop for. The man had no hobbies, no wardrobe, no discernible interests. He worked, ate, and watched television. That's it. Luckily, the DVD eventually came along and I inundated him with his favorite movies from yesteryear whenever a special occasion arose.

Unlike my dad, I'm a pretty easy guy to please. (Rawr.) Enough people have recently asked me for Father's Day gift ideas for blog posts or stories they're working on. But I can't speak for any other dad except me. And to be honest, I don't really want or need anything, which I guess makes me more like my dad than I originally thought.

Well, let's start with what not to get me:

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Legends Never Die

"I'm coming back. Write it down in big letters. I'm not going out like this," - Mariano Rivera 


Before I heard the words above, I spent my day in stunned disbelief. I was nauseous. There was a perpetual pit in my stomach. It wasn't because someone in Peanut's class has lice and now I'd had that always-itchy feeling. It wasn't that I'm running a half-marathon in less than 48 hours. No. It was because I couldn't get the images of Mariano Rivera crumbling to the ground on the warning track in Kansas City last night out of my mind:

Image from here

Image from here

I know it's only sports. But one of the few reasons I watch anymore is a connection to my dad. When I watch baseball or football, I remember sitting in our family room rooting for the Yankees or Jets with him. That's probably why I take it more seriously than it deserves. Not because he did, but because it's still a way to keep him alive. I can watch a game sometimes and get lost in the memories of him without anyone else in the room even knowing I've gone somewhere else.

There are certain things about my dad that are permanently etched into my memory. Among them: His musk of sweat, coffee, and cigarettes. The sound of his slippers shuffling across the kitchen tile as I laid in bed at night. His shouting, "Gotta go to Mo!" and then loudly clapping his hands once every time Mariano Rivera entered a game for the Yankees. That last one was even more prominent in my mind today, as it appeared Rivera, the greatest relief pitcher in the history of baseball, had suffered a career-ending injury while shagging fly balls in the outfield during batting practice yesterday.

Turns out, Rivera vows to pitch again at age 43. Turns out, heroes may grow older but legends never die. (That's from The Sandlot.) Rivera had hinted before this season that it would be his last. So it was easy for me to lament what I thought was an unceremonious end for a once-in-a-lifetime player. And as a Yankees fan who shared that bond with his dad, it broke my heart.

Make no mistake, my dad was a sports fan. He watched every game in any sport possible. But I never really saw him get excited. He was always a cynic, questioning whether sports were headed in the wrong direction because of ticket prices, salaries, and egos. So when he liked an athlete, I mean genuinely rooted for and admired a guy, it meant something.

He rooted for and admired Rivera. I remember choosing to watch most of the 1998 World Series with him in our family room instead of out with friends. (Before that, the only Yankees championship I remember was in 1996 and I was in college at the time.) The eighth inning would end and he'd shout, "Gotta go to Mo!" To this day, I say that myself every time Rivera comes into a game. A lot of people do, I know. But I say it because of my dad. I never really heard him talk glowingly about an athlete the way he talked about Mariano Rivera. (Except for Mickey Mantle, of course.)

Image from here

I do and say so much because of my dad. He continues to be my dad, my parent, more than nine years after his death. And every time a piece of our history fades away I feel a piece of him fades away with it: the destruction of the real Yankee Stadium and of the old Giants Stadium, the passing of players he enjoyed, the inevitable moves out of homes he once knew and into ones he never will. I lose a little piece of him every time.

Seeing a hero I shared with my dad crumble and possibly fade away made me sad. But knowing Rivera will be back, and knowing him I assume he'll be back at full strength, makes me very happy. It keeps that bond, that memory, alive. I've never taken for granted that I am witnessing greatness every time I watch Rivera take the mound, whether on television or in person. That I am blessed to be alive to see someone who is the very best ever at what they do. The same greatness my dad recognized and admired. Now I get to see it for one more season.

Legends never die. Not that easily, at least. Ya gotta go to Mo.

Speaking of legends, if you want to read the post about my dad's admiration of Mickey Mantle, click here. 

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Baseball Immortality

"Heroes get remembered. But legends never die." -from The Sandlot

It was an ordinary Sunday morning. I stumbled downstairs after sleeping in, as college students are known to do, especially in the summer. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table doing the crossword puzzle, as was his Sunday morning ritual. I struggled to spit out a mumbled "Morning, dad," with as much effort as it took to walk downstairs. He turned his head and looked up at me. The moment I saw the look on his face, I stopped. Now I was awake. In that instant I could tell something was wrong. My first clue was that for as long as I've known him this man has never taken his eyes off the crossword until he was done. The second was the look of sadness on his face.

Then he broke the news to me. "Mickey Mantle died," he said with a gravelly half-whisper and a furrowed brow, choking back an emotion that was obviously foreign to a man who is made of granite. That's all he needed to say. It was August 13, 1995.

courtesy: sportsillustrated.cnn.com

I was 20 years old and I knew. I knew Mantle was his hero growing up. The Yankee he idolized and went to see at the original Yankee Stadium. He'd regale me with stories of sneaking into the bleachers with his friends or taking my mom to games. Or the few times the Yanks played at Roosevelt Field in Jersey City, my parents' hometown. My dad loved to describe how the monuments to former Yankees greats were in the field of play in center field in the old Stadium. And how sometimes when the ball was hit far enough it would bounce among them, among the tributes to Ruth and Gehrig. And in all of his stories about all of those games, Mantle did something memorable. Something remarkable. A goliath home run to win the game. A stolen base with blazing speed. A circus catch that saved a run.

"He was the greatest player I've ever seen," my dad would tell me. "Would have been the greatest ever to play the game if he never got hurt." A big "if." There was, of course, all of the drinking too.

Still, seeing my dad's reaction gave me a deeper connection to The Mick. One I barely had. I was sad when the tales of his drinking and his need of a liver transplant came out. Sad that people were making fun of him, because I knew my dad adored him. Still, I admired Mantle for facing his demons, albeit too late.

A few years ago, in the concourse of the brand new Yankee Stadium, I was shopping in the clubhouse store. I wanted a new team shirt with a player's name on the back. Problem is, I'm sort of a jinx. Anytime I buy a jersey with the name of my new favorite Jet or Yankee, something bad happens to him: Chad Pennington blows out his shoulder, Brett Favre crashes and burns, not to mention Joba Chamberlain's string of injuries that are so unfortunate and bizarre you'd think I had a voodoo doll. (The latest being a compound fracture of his ankle from jumping on a trampoline.)

Despite my obvious curse, I was thinking about purchasing a shirt with the name and number of backup catcher Francisco Cervelli. He was on a bit of a hot streak at the time and had quickly become a bit of a fan favorite. Plus, he's Italian. Like from Italy Italian. "Should I get Cervelli?" I asked my friend. "I don't think you should do that to the kid," he deadpanned. "His career just started." He was right. Cervilli was so young with so much ahead of him. "I could get a Mantle one. There's no cursing him. The guy's dead."

I went back and forth in my head for a few minutes, carrying both shirts until my friend finally gave me a dose of reality. "I'm going to pretend you're not really deciding between Cervelli and Mantle. Because that's ridiculous."


He was right. It's Mickey freaking Mantle versus a backup catcher who may not last four seasons in the  majors. Moments later I was forking over my Visa and paying way too much money for a T-shirt just because it had a Yankees insignia on the front and a legendary name on the back. A name my dad cheered and revered. 

My dad's hero is a legend. An immortal. When I'm walking around during the summer with his hero's name and number 7 on my back, I'm immortalizing both of them. I think my dad would like that. 

I have many more great Yankees stories to share:

My favorite memory with my dad involves the Yankees (and a player he absolutely hated.)

Peanut's less-than-enthusiastic response to Derek Jeter's 3,000th hit.

How I jumped at the once-in-a-lifetime chance to see them win the World Series in person.

And I'll never forget Peanut's first Yankees game.

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Why I Root For Josh Hamilton

“The Lord won’t bring up things in the past you’ve asked forgiveness for because He has forgiven those, moved forward. But Satan will remind you of those” -Josh Hamilton


Every once in a while, not very often, you witness something that inspires you. And you come to witness this inspiring event somewhat serendipitously.

I was offered a free ticket to the Home Run Derby at Yankee Stadium. This was 2008, the last year of the "old" Stadium. Normally, I'm the kind of person who likes to go home after work, have a nice dinner,  relax on the couch, and let the magic of the DVR wash over me. I wouldn't even watch the Derby on the tube because it starts too late and takes too long. But this was different. This was the only time it would be held at Yankee Stadium. Ever. That's some pretty serious history.

The ceremonies before and even during the contest were once-in-a-lifetime experiences themselves. Reggie Jackson throwing the ceremonial first pitch to Derek Jeter. Even my brother-in-law, the most ardent Yankee hater I know, said he got chills watching it. This event was the beginning of the end of Yankee Stadium, the farewell party long before they pack up the boxes.

The Derby itself was pretty mundane at first. A few players showed flashes. Some floundered. Then, the last of the eight contestants stepped into the left hand batter's box. The same batter's box occupied over the years by such greats as Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Bobby Murcer, Don Mattingly, and Paul O'Neill... each of them heroes to his generation of Yankees fans, and beyond.

2008 Derby from news-and-stars.blogspot.com

But this player, though, wasn't wearing that recognizable interlocking "NY" emblem on his cap. No pinstripes on his uniform. He is a member of the Texas Rangers, and now he is a legend in Stadium lore.

One by one, Josh Hamilton, a young outfielder whose promise was nearly derailed due to his battles with addiction, lofted majestic blasts into the Bronx night. Moon shots into the bleachers. Screamers into the box seats in right field. Bombs into the upper deck. A bullet that bounced off the mezzanine. At one point, he slugged 13 in a row. Thirteen straight swings resulted in balls that left the park. In fact, two of his home runs almost literally left the park, a feat only the great Mantle came close to accomplishing. I sat there unable to speak, unable to move. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. In all, the man swung 38 times, and 28 of them resulted in a home run. Awesome. Ridiculous. Impossible.

In a Yankee Stadium event devoid of Yankees, we were looking for a hero. Someone to embrace. And as Hamilton sent a screeching line drive the opposite way that dunked just short of the left field seats, ending his turn, the fans gave an ovation worthy of the performance. "HAM-IL-TON, HAM-IL-TON." Over and over, we chanted his name in appreciation of what he had just treated us to, and in recognition of what he has overcome to do it.

That July night in 2008, Josh Hamilton was given the same treatment reserved for Yankees legends. For fan favorites. This is New York. You have to do something special and memorable to impress the people here. Hamilton did it. He inspired me and almost 60,000 others. I'm glad he seized his moment and ran with it, for him. And I'm certainly glad I got off the couch, and was there to witness it.

2010 ALCS from nydailynews.com

I've rooted for Josh Hamilton ever since that night. He killed the Yankees in the 2010 American League Championship Series, an MVP performance that carried the Rangers to their first ever World Series. And for the first time I can remember, the irrational fan in me didn't hate the star player on the team that had beaten my team.
Today, I was sad when I heard the news of his relapse. I don't know much if anything about addiction. Nor do I pretend to understand the second-to-second struggles faced by those with addiction.

I'm just a fan of the guy. I'm not someone who idolizes athletes, especially since I know how so many of them behave off the field. But here's a guy who's admitted his mistakes, and is very publicly trying to fix them. For that, I salute him. I root for him. And wish him the best moving forward.

Good fortune, and the cooperation of My amazing Director, also brought me to Yankee Stadium on another historic night. Read about it here.

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Puttin' on the Hits

"I just didn't want to hit a slow roller to third base and have it be replayed forever." -Derek Jeter, on hitting a home run for his 3,000th hit.

It's not often you get to witness history. I was fortunate enough to be there two years ago when the Yankees won their 27th World Series. I happened to be in the right place at the right time when someone had a free ticket to offer. (Click here to read about it.)

If you can't be there (and with the cost of taking your family to a ballgame these days who can?), then watching it on television is the next best thing.

This is the situation I found myself in as Derek Jeter sat two hits shy of 3,000 for his career.

He stood on the precipice of baseball immortality (only 27 other players in history have ever reached 3,000 hits). And I realized one thing: The peanut was monopolizing the only television in the house while watching a movie. "Meet the Robinsons," in fact.

My wife and I were lounging by the pool at my parents' house. I had checked my blackberry and saw that Jeter had singled in his first at bat. So I told my wife, "We're going to have to interrupt her when Jeter comes up again. He's one hit away."

"Then you'd better start laying the groundwork now," she wisely answered.

I opened the sliding glass door and entered the family room with a pit of dread bubbling in my stomach. The same feeling I might get when I was a boy and I knew I had misbehaved and my father was sitting right there in his recliner.

Only this time, I was dreading a confrontation with my 4 year-old daughter.

"Sweetie, in a few minutes I'm going to pause the movie so we can watch the Yankees for a little bit."

"But I don't want toooo," she whined, almost on the verge of tears. A morning in the pool had taken a lot out of her.
"Not right now. In a few minutes. And it'll be real quick. Then you can watch your movie again."

"Noooooo," she offered feebly.

I went back outside, hit refresh on my blackberry, and saw the Yankees were due up again. And Jeter was hitting second that inning.

I gave it a minute, went inside, and ripped off the proverbial Band-Aid.

"I'm going to put the Yankees game on now, sweetie. I want you to watch too because something big might happen here."

She protested, but there was no stopping me. And as Brett Gardner was called out just barely as he dove head first to beat out a ground ball to second, I entered Yankee fan mode. Hands cupped over my mouth and nose. Then clasping them on top of my head. Rocking back and forth as I stood in place.

No longer were the peanut's pleas relevant. We were watching this no matter what. I opened the sliding glass door and yelled to my wife, "Hon, Jeter's up." and she knew.

She came in. And we watched. As a family. The peanut on the couch. My wife sitting on the floor next to her. I standing behind them in hopeful anticipation.

He fouled off a few pitches. One he hit straight back, meaning he barely missed it. The count went full. "He's facing one of the best pitchers in the league here," I offered to my otherwise ambivalent audience of two. I was referring to Tampa's David Price.

#3,000 (image courtesy of yankeesdaily.com)

Then: the pitch. A curveball that didn't quite curve enough. Jeter, not a home run hitter, blasted it into the left centerfield seats for number 3,000. Awesome. Captain Clutch does it again. Only the second player ever to hit a home run on his 3,000th hit.
I yelled, "He hit a home run!" (Very original). "Woooooo! He did it!"

I was fighting back tears as I looked over at the peanut, only to see her holding her blanket in front of her face saying, "I'm NOT going to watch."


About five minutes later, after we watched the celebration and the excitement had worn off, I knelt down to my daughter.

I told her, "I'm glad we got to watch that together. Thank you for letting us watch. You don't know it now, but that was a big deal and you'll tell your children about it some day."

To which she answered, "Daddy, may you please put Meet the Robinsons back on now?"

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I'll Stop the World and Melt With You

How did we spend the first 90+ degree day of 2008? At the beach? By the pool? Sipping iced tea inside with the air conditioner blasting? Those are all excellent options, but not the answer to the question. No, we chose to spend it with more than 50,000 of our closest friends, at 161st Street and River Avenue in the Bronx. That's right, we took Peanut, our 15 month-old who can't sit still for more than six seconds and has started to throw inconsolable tantrums when she doesn't get her way, to a Yankees game in the boiling heat.

Batter Up!

We can't control the weather, so that wasn't going to stop us. And being that we had already purchased the overpriced tickets during this "Final Season" at Yankee Stadium, there was no going back. (I love the Yankees, but they're bleeding their fans dry with how expensive it is to see a ballgame.)

Play Ball!

There are certain watershed moments in the life of a new dad. You have the moment your child is born, followed quickly by the moment you first hold her. Then there are the little moments: the smiles, hugs, first steps.

But I will always remember the look on my daughter's face the first time she made her way up that tunnel and absorbed the glory and majesty of Yankee Stadium. Seeing it in HD is awesome, but still doesn't hold a candle to the real thing. They don't call it the Cathedral of Baseball for nothing. I've been there probably hundreds of times now, and I still get goose bumps when I see that bright green Kentucky bluegrass contrasted against that royal blue outfield wall. And when I saw Peanut's wide eyes and toothy smile as she gazed upon that vaguely familiar setting that routinely serves as a muted backdrop on the 42-inch LCD television screen in our living room, I knew that she knew she was someplace special. That moment will stay with me forever.

It is a rite of passage: bringing your child to his or her first ballgame. Mine was in 1987. The ageless and armless Tommy John was on the mound for the Yankees against Oakland. Reggie Jackson was playing for the A's that year and it was his last game at the Stadium. We kept chanting "Reg-gie Reg-gie" because Jackson was not in the starting lineup. They kept showing a shot of him, sitting on the bench in the dugout, on the big screen on the scoreboard. Alas, they never put Reggie in the game. But Don Mattingly did score the winning run in the 10th inning, and shortly thereafter, Frank Sinatra started singing "New York, New York." That night I fell in love for the first time. I was in love with Yankee Stadium.

I was 12 years old, which is a lifetime (in parent years) away from 15 months. But Peanut was probably better behaved during her first game than I was during mine. Forget the peanuts and cracker jacks. This kid was happy with goldfish and sippy cups. Not only did the roar of the crowd not phase her, she joined in. When the Yankees did something well, she would look around at the raucous crowd, realize what was happening, smile, and then start clapping and laughing herself. It was almost as if she thought everyone was applauding for her. Simply amazing. The heat, the crowd, the performance of the team on the field, nothing cold spoil her good time.

When it got too hot, we went to the Yankees Clubhouse Store. What better place to hang out than somewhere to buy things for me? As I chased her through one of the window displays, I wondered to myself, "How many times have I caused a scene inside this Stadium, with my obnoxious mouth and/or my drunken shenanigans?" Now I was causing a scene in a different way. Scurrying after my daughter through the store, while fans and employees looked on in amusement as the Yankees rallied on the TV screens hung above us.

The Yankees scored 12 runs that day. I was in my seat for four of them. Didn't matter. I was in my seat for that timeless gag, the 'spoon game.' That's where Peanut, for an inning and a half, took a spoon out of her mouth and put it in mine, then took it out of mine, and put it in hers. Back and forth, like the tally on the scoreboard.

The Yankees staged another trademark 9th inning rally, beating Kansas City. But since Peanut's inevitable meltdown occured in the 8th, we were on the subway and halfway to midtown when it happened. This was a day of firsts. My daughter's first Yankees game, and the first time I ever left one before the final out - or the winning run - was recorded. Fatherhood has a way of giving you a whole new perspective on the things you've loved your whole life. Baseball's never been so much fun, and yet so unimportant.

Farewell, old ballpark. While I'll be sure to visit again before the Final Season is over, I just wanted to say, "thanks for the memories." Great and small.

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