October 27th

October 27th.  It's NOT my birthday. It's the day PRIOR to my birthday. But in my time on this earth it has a fairly major significance. Especially since this year it falls on a Sunday as it did 33 years ago.

On this date in 1986 the New York Mets won their second World Series championship.  I was in New York City at the time and attended the ticker tape parade on the 28th. I attended that parade and had my photo taken on top of the World Trade Center on my 25th birthday. What a present that was! 

One would think that would be a great experience and it certainly was. But I got lucky again only five years later.  On this date in 1991 I was ON THE FIELD when the World Series ended as the Minnesota Twins won game 7 against the Atlanta Braves. How a baseball fanatic like myself could not be awed by such things is beyond comprehension.

On October 26, 1991 I was behind the wall next to the Braves bullpen in the bottom of the ninth. Kirby Puckett led off that half inning and I was standing in front of the large pin which held that portion of the wall in place.  When the ball was hit I knew from the sound that it was a home run. I pulled the pin up and headed out onto the field to assist the in-house law enforcement officials in making sure that no one ran onto the field. I paused, for one frightening moment as I crossed the foul line, thinking "what if it doesn't clear the wall?"  I was the first person on the field, not knowing if anyone else had followed me. I could be the "lone fool" on the field.  But, alas, it cleared and the place went crazy. I took my position on the third base bag until the grounds crew came out for it as the players celebrated in the dugout in front of me.

But that only made it necessary for game 7 to be played the next night. I started the night by working at the press gate. By the eighth inning of game 7 I was back in my position, behind the wall next to the Braves 'pen. (This was because we all agreed to stand in the same places as we had late in game 6. Baseball players, and fans for that matter, are quite superstitious at times). 

The game was tied at 0-0 through 8. I couldn't actually watch the Braves at bats, simply relying on crowd reaction and organist Ronnie Newman to keep me apprised of defensive outs. I turned and watched the Twins when they batted, however.  In the ninth they had a chance to win, but the rally ended on a Paul Sorrento strikeout.  Once again I turned away from the action while Jack Morris turned away the Braves in the top of the tenth.  

The bottom of the tenth started with Dan Gladden turning a single into a double, much to the surprise of myself who watched the play develop and thought it was a mistake.  But the high bounce of the turf came into play and the inning was off to a great start.  The inning progressed to the point where the bases were loaded for pinch hitter Gene Larkin. Larkin hit the first pitch into the alley, over the shallow outfield, and Gladden scored the only run of the game. I pulled the pin yet again and made my sprint onto the field as the decibel level rose to  an incredible level.  I had decided to forego ear plugs as to not miss any of the sounds from that evening.  

As I ran onto the field and got to the stripe which marks the beginning of the outfield, I raised my head just in time to barely miss running over Braves' second baseman Mark Lemke, who was walking off slowly with his head down. How much of an insult would it have been had I blind-sided him after his team had just lost one of the greatest World Series ever played?

I made my way to third base as the Metrodome was "up for grabs".  The players burst out onto the field as we ran past each other in opposite directions.  It was an incredibly surreal moment which I will never forget. It was 11:01 pm, CENTRAL time. I was born in Connecticut which meant it was now the 28th. I remember thinking, "what a great birthday gift this is....again!"

It was a misty evening/morning that night and a few hours later, after having a fairly large quantity of champagne poured over my head, I was in the concourse awaiting the first of the players to make their way up the stairs. The first player out was Gene Larkin. "How's it feel real, Gene?", I said to him. "Rod, NOTHING feels real right now!", was his response.  

I remember driving home. I had a Hyundai Excel and I had the sunroof and the front windows open. With Queen's "We are the Champions" on virtually every station I hit the crosstown around 5:45 a.m.  I arrived at home around 6:05.  The paper was in front of my garage and I recall picking it up to make sure that I was indeed not dreaming.  I wasn't.

Some people never see their team win a championship. I've been lucky to have seen TWO of mine win championships plus been involved in a third. The New York Rangers in 1994 and the New York Mets in 1969 and 1986. 

I've been a lucky sports fan, to be honest.  

Minnesota Vikings.......are you listening????

I'm just sayin'.

A Love Lost, A Love Found........

A Love Lost, A Love Found.......

Love is a strange thing. Any of you who have experienced it know what I'm talking about. It's not always about another person. It can also pertain to an inanimate object. Some objects aren't as inanimate as others. This is a story about one of those objects. 

I started playing over-35 baseball in the summer of 2012. I hadn't played in a competitive baseball league in over 30 years. I had forgotten how fast the ball moves when one is standing in the batter's box. I was so hyped when I started our season opener. We were playing at Memorial Park in the town of Prior Lake, Minnesota. I'd last been there as a legion baseball coach in 1996. I anticipated having my name announced in the lineup on the public address system, being in uniform, being in the dugout with my new teammates, standing on the foul line for the national anthem. They are all things which made game 1 of my 51st year incredibly memorable. 

My team took batting practice just before the introductions. The batting cage was located behind our dugout. I was thrilled by the fact that one of my teammates was a guy whom I had coached when he was in high school, some TWENTY-TWO YEARS EARLIER. 

I made my way to the plate for my first at bat and proceeded to strike out. It mattered little. I was back playing the game I loved. I played at first base and even though we lost it was a fantastic night.

Two days later we were scheduled to have practice. I began to repack my equipment bag when I realized that I was missing one of my gloves. Now for those of you who aren't knowledgeable on such things, baseball gloves come in many different types. There are "fielders gloves" which are worn by 7 of the 9 defensive players on the field. The catcher and first basemen wear gloves known as "mitts", which give them an advantage on picking the ball up on a short hop off the ground.  

I played first base in the opening game, so my fielder's glove was not used that night. I realized that the last place I had seen the glove was at the field before the first game. I called the opposing team's coach to ask if anyone had turned the glove into lost and found, but no luck. I had to resign myself to the fact that my "gamer' was now gone from my possession. 

My "gamer" had probably been my primary glove for at least a decade. It felt almost like an extension of my own hand at times. I was still primarily a third baseman for the vast majority of that time and a pretty good one defensively at that. I used to refer my "gamer" glove as "the place where base hits go to die." I loved that glove. With it I felt like most balls hit my way could be fielded and turned into outs.

Now came the hunt for a new glove. I found one quickly and worked to get it "broken in" as soon as possible. I played through the remainder of my baseball and softball seasons with my new glove. Ironically, my softball team won two summer league championships and a fall league championship in the ensuing 15 months. But I still lamented the loss of my "gamer."

Players get attached to their "gamers". When it's not there to be used players can sometimes feel uncomfortable. I see players do things like actually spit into the palm of their glove. I could NEVER do this. I don't even know why THEY do it. I've never inquired and I don't want to know, because no reason could be good enough to justify it. I may be a bit of a germaphobe. But I will admit to touching the manufacturer's logo patch to my bottom lip before nearly every pitch when in the "ready" position just prior to the pitch. It's part of the focusing process before the pitch is thrown. 

Fast forward to some three years after I lost my "gamer". I'm playing in a tournament about 150 miles from my home in the town of Alexandria. During the pre game, moments before one of the games, I was walking through the dugout and looked down on the bench. That's when I saw it. Yes, it was my "gamer." 

What are the odds of this happening? I wondered who was currently using this piece of leather. I didn't wish to confront the player who had brought it with him. I picked it up and looked into the pocket, thinking that I never thought it would be on my left hand again. I took it off and set it on the bench before the new owner saw me wearing it. I made the quick decision that I wouldn't ask the new owner how he had come to acquire my old friend. I felt okay with the fact that it was still being used at all, rather than lying around gathering dust. The glove's new owner was actually the starting pitcher for my team in that game, so I saw it in action during that game. 

I came away from the experience with a sense of being lucky enough to even SEE the glove again. The odds were incredibly high. The team I was playing on that night was a hybrid team made up of players from two different teams. The new owner plays for a team located 30 miles from my own team. I just happened to be on THAT team for THAT game.

So, my former "gamer" is now someone else's "gamer". Destined to keep recording outs for another few years.  

I used its predecessor for a few years. Never quite getting the feel that I was "at one" with it, but somehow it coincided with three championships which will always make me thankful for its partnership with me.

By the end of the decade the time had come to purchase one more first baseman's glove to probably use until my playing days are through. So I ordered a customized Rawlings model in royal blue- the primary color of my softball team and of my New York Mets. The accent colors are pink in remembrance of my mother who passed away at the age of 65 from breast cancer. The second color is orange in honor of my wife Bryn who was my biggest fan until she lost her battle with COPD in 2022.  She saw me use it a bunch of times after i got it. But the plan is for it to be my "gamer" until I can no longer "pick it" on the field. It....has become my next true love....on the baseball field.

.....I'm just sayin'.

The Rapid Game

At my house it's simply referred to by three simple words: The Rapid Game. 

No other title is necessary. Here's why:

On Saturday July 2, 1994 I participated in one of the greatest baseball games of my life. I was the head coach of the Burnsville Cobras, representing Burnsville, Minnesota's American Legion Post 1700.  

We were on the team's annual journey to the Elks' Firecracker Tournament in Rapid City, South Dakota. It was my third trip, having made the haul westward in 1992 and 1993 as an assistant coach. This being my first as head coach involved working out the logistics of vehicles to be used and what parents were going along as well as accommodations for the team. Not being the parent of any of my players would allow me to be as heavy-handed as necessary.  Or at least as heavy-handed as I would be with this group.  

The weather, as it usually is in Rapid City in July, was oppressively hot.  Temperatures in the 90's every day were the norm. I focused, even before the trip started, on the game scheduled for July 2nd against the defending National Champions, our hosts from Post 22.  They had gone 70-5 in 1993 and they had a trophy in their souvenir stand that was taller than at least two of my players.  The concept that they had gone 70-5 amazed me, to be sure.  They were something like 35-7 by the time we played them. We certainly had our work cut out for us, without a doubt. As a matter of fact, their leadoff hitter was a kid named Mark Ellis, who went on to a 12-year major league career.

We hadn't played all that impressively in the tournament's early games and we bottomed-out on July 1st, the day before, when we were no-hit by El Segundo, CA.  The ride back to the College Inn was incredibly quiet, to say the least that afternoon. We knew what we had in front of us the following evening. I took the team to dinner at the Shakey's pizza and told them to relax for the evening. I put the kibash on any outdoor activity during the day on Saturday as I wanted everyone to save their strength for the game that night at 7:30.

The day was another scorcher and I felt good about my decision to keep the team sequestered for the day.  Of course my players decided that the way to pass the time was playing hacky-sack in the hallways and dyeing each other's hair.  (Never let groups of teenage boys loose in the hair color section of a grocery store 12 hours from home.) We left the hotel and made our way to Floyd Fitzgerald Stadium. I had first seen this little ballpark from a bluff overlooking the field back in 1991. My wife and I had driven the Black Hills for a vacation for the first time.  There's a charming little concrete dinosaur park up on a hill which overlooks the stadium. At the time we wondered "who plays in that cool-looking ballpark down there?" And before you knew it, I was coaching there only 14 months later. It's a beautiful little ballpark. If you have the chance to see a game there, I highly recommend it. 

I had prepared for this game more than I had for any game in my life as a coach. I had stopped to see Post 22 play the night before to get an idea of what we would be up against on Saturday night. I kept no notes on paper, only mental ones. I figured that I could accomplish just as much that way and not force myself to keep track of a piece of paper which I would probably lose anyway.  

Before the game we participated in a little pregame thing called "Shadowball". "Shadowball" originated in the Negro Baseball Leagues in the first half of the 20th century.  Essentially it is pantomime. We take infield/outfield practice with an invisible ball!  I go out with a fungo bat like usual to the home plate area. Then we just go through the motions. Every player makes an incredible play, catches the ball, throws at amazing speed/distance and our opponents watch in amazement. Pantomime at its finest. I busted this out prior to the game because it loosened the team up and we got to do it in front of the largest group we would ever have a chance to display it before. It was flawless. The crowd was mesmerized as I don't believe ANY of them had seen or were even AWARE of such a thing. This was South Dakota, after all.

I was totally nervous at the time pre-game introductions came around. I had supplied the roster to the p.a. announcer with phonetic spellings so that the pronunciations for my guys would be done correctly. We were a little disjointed in the intros as my second-place hitter, Jeremy Stock, was racing back from taking care of some pregame nerves in the closest restroom. He hit the field as the fourth-place hitter was being introduced, but he got into his correct spot on the foul line. He introduced my pitcher as "T.J. Moore", when the roster I had supplied clearly read "J.J. Moore. Now, after the ninth batter was introduced the announcer should've said, ".....and the rest of the Burnsville Cobras.  The Cobras are coached by number 39, Rod Collins."  But as I predicted in my head, I got no "pub" and my name was omitted from the announcements.

Now, someone would have to pay.

We didn't score in our first at bat and Post 22 got a runner on in the bottom the inning.  J.J. Moore had the runner picked off first but his throw hit the runner in the batting helmet and caromed away towards the bullpen down the right field line. He advanced to third and later scored on an infield out.

We were still hitless going to the fourth inning. This wouldn't have been a huge problem except for the fact that we were now hitless in our last 10 innings. Our second batter of the fourth inning, my center fielder, Randy Johnson was at the plate.  At some point during his at bat the home plate umpire lost track of the count. Let me repeat that. HE LOST TRACK OF THE COUNT! Now, I knew what the count was and so did some of our fans in the stands. But the scoreboard operator had it wrong too. I called time and asked the home plate umpire. I even asked the base umpire. I knew prior to asking that base umpires don't always keep track of the count. They aren't really required to do so. So when HE didn't know EITHER I was upset but not surprised. The batter made an out anyhow, so it didn't bother me very long. This episode appears about nine minutes into the video.

So it was a tight game at 1-0 as the pitcher's duel was on.  J.J. was throwing bbs and so was their pitcher for them. We headed to the top of the 7th and final inning still trailing by a 1-0 score. I gathered the team around and I had written down a limerick penned by myself which would not be suitable for publication here.  I read the limerick and it was received well by the team and got the them totally fired up.  We put all of our hands in and yelled, "Cobras!" at the tops of our lungs.  I took off for the third base coaching box firm in the knowledge that this next 5-10 minutes were going to be our best of the season, win or lose.  

Shortstop Jeremy Stock grounded to short for the first out. The next hitter, Randy Johnson,  got the count to 1-1. On the next pitch the batter swung and I thought I'd heard two distinct sounds. I apparently did as the batter reached on the rare catcher's interference rule. The catcher's glove had come into contact with the bat during the swing. My designated hitter, Mike Cernoch, was up next and he hit a single to center to put two runners on. Now the gears start working furiously in my head. I call for my first pinch runner, Ryan Zelenka, and insert him in at first. My next batter is my catcher, Tim Chapman. "Chappie", who can hit well but was the only player on my team whom I could beat in a foot race.  

Chappie hits a fly ball to the right fielder, Nate Barnes, a kid who I know is good because he was just recently drafted by the Chicago White Sox, and my runner has roamed so far away that he will probably be doubled-up and the game will end.  But Barnes got ahead of himself as he tried to make that double-play too quickly. He dropped the fly ball, thus loading the bases with one out. I called for another pinch runner because there was no way in the world I could let him run for himself at this juncture of the game.

My first baseman, Chris Lee was due up next. My heart is beating quickly in anticipation of what would happen next. I instructed Randy that we were going to tag up on a fly ball and tie this game.

On the very first pitch Chris strokes the ball toward the left field alley. I knew that the tying run would score after the ball is caught on the fly. But I quickly realized that the ball was carrying much farther than I first thought. It falls between the fielders and over their heads. I am waving my runners so hard with my arm in a windmill fashion that I probably am close to tearing my right rotator cuff. Two runs score and the third runner got into a rundown. The rundown gets botched and the third run scores. I get greedy here and sent Chris, who has already run 270 feet and is now just past third base, homeward.  A rundown ensues and ends with him being called out at home. I was bummed but my thoughts immediately moved to the fact that we were now ahead 3-1! I briefly argued that the runner had not been tagged prior to touching home plate, but it was for naught.  

I will forever remember running back to the coaching box, stopping, tipping my head back and screaming, "I LOVE THIS GAME!" as loudly as I could. It was as close to pure joy as I may have ever experienced in my life. I watched my team celebrating in the dugout with a huge grin on my face. I needed to calm down to get back to the reality that the game was not yet over.

The bottom of the 7th it was intense to the max. The first two batters grounded out and I let myself plan my actions for the end of the game. I had a relief pitcher throwing in the bullpen, just in case. I called Steve Olson and the catcher back to the dugout as I did not want them to miss out on the celebration which I had confidence would be occurring in just a few moments. I had originally thought about going the way of Herb Brooks from the 1980 Olympics- just step back and watch from a distance, soaking it all in. That thought lasted all of about 15 seconds because the third batter hit a grounder to the pitcher and, as the video shows, I was probably the 6th person on the dogpile at the mound. It was a great moment for this team!  Our fans were hootin' and hollering for all they were worth.  

We get back to the hotel where someone had gotten some balloons and began filling them with water and then heaving them at each other. I left my room in what was originally going to be a police-like moment where I would put this behavior to an end. Well, that didn't happen as planned. Before I knew it, I was up to my neck in water balloons. I received a call in my room from the front desk. I went down and was mildly scolded by the front desk. I apologized and promised to have the partying come to an end.

To show how much the local news didn't want to discuss the game, the only highlight of the game was of a foul ball which each team's batboy ran after.  Theirs beat our batboy, Leif,  to it and our's slugged their's in the arm as he ran back to our dugout. They had 7 innings of great footage to use and that was all they showed.  What a bunch of sore losers. Speaking of sore losers, fast forward  to our 1995 return trip back the same Firecracker tournament.  The organizers felt like "fixing our wagon" as they scheduled us to play THREE games on one day, the first of which had a first pitch time of 8 a.m.! I do not believe this to have been by accident.  I just don't.

On my way back upstairs I had a quiet moment to reflect on the game and it's a good thing that I had a wet face as it was easier to hide the few tears of joy which I shed after a game which meant so much to this group, myself included. My wife Bryn could see that I was shedding tears and told me how proud she was to have been there. 

The following morning I tried to buy every copy of the local paper that I could, but I only wrangled four.  We reveled in our win for a few more hours at breakfast and took off for the stadium, firm in the knowledge that no matter what happened in the rest of our games we'd won the one game we wanted most.  

I owe a great debt to the players on that team. Unfortunately, the young man who was responsible for the game-winning hit, Chris Lee, lost his life in motor vehicle accident only 5 years later.

Chris told me that after he had been called out the home plate umpire told him "there are too many people here for me to call you safe". So if you think that hometown umpires don't exist, you'd better get a grip on yourself, because they DO exist.  He must've had confidence in our ability to close it out in the 7th inning.

I spoke at Chris Lee's funeral and told the story of how he had been responsible for driving in the run that won the most incredible game of my coaching career. There wasn't a dry eye in the church when I was done telling the story. 

Only a month after our victory we held the team banquet at a restaurant called Benchwarmer Bob's. At the beginning of my speech I had the pleasure of introducing my mother who was visiting from Florida to all in attendance.  She got a bigger round of applause than I did, and it was so justified.  It was one of my life's greatest moments.  To be able to introduce her meant so very much to me because she is as much of a person who avoids the spotlight as I am.  She later told me how proud she was of me and how much my team and my players' parents felt about her son.

Sadly, only 5 weeks after the banquet I lost my mother Rose to complications from breast cancer.  She'd fought it for over three years but she was tired of the battle and she let me know that on our last day together, September 30th.  She left this world far too soon, at the age of 65.  

It's so hard to believe that 29 years have now passed since the playing of The Rapid Game. My players players have now all reached the age of 40 and have sons and daughters who are the approximate age that they were when the game itself was played on that warm Saturday night in the Black Hills of South Dakota.

Life is full of moments that we wish we could re-live again and moments which we wish we hadn't lived through in the first place. In a 90-day period I had one of each, one more long-lasting than the other. But that's what makes life what it is- the daily chance to be the part of something so great that you carry it with you until the day you leave this earth. On Saturday, the 2nd day of July in 1994 I was given one of those days and I am eternally grateful to all of those who shared it with me.

I hope that all of you have at least one of those days in your past as well. They sometimes remind us that some things in this world are worth living for. Imagine if everyone in the world was able to carry that feeling of accomplishment and euphoria through our daily lives. How different would our lives, relationships and outlooks on each other be?

I'm just sayin'.

Patrick Roy and Me

The Minnesota Wild Hockey Club opened their inaugural season in the fall of 2000.  Minnesota was granted a new NHL franchise and they began play some 6 1/2 years after the Minnesota North Stars left for Texas. (See "Minnesota North Stars" post for details).

I had been at many of the franchise's early memorable moments.  I was in attendance when the team's logo and nickname were announced.  It was a pretty badly-kept secret as to what the nickname was going to be.  So when the name "Wild" was announced, I was silent.  There was great applause from the masses but I held out hope that somehow more intelligent minds had chosen a name which was not a collective noun.

The team was a typical expansion team in that it they were horrible at times, but actually won more often than expansion teams of the past.  They improved to a record 13 games over .500 in 2002-2003.  In their first-ever playoff series they drew the Colorado Avalanche, who were only one full season removed from winning their second Stanley Cup championship.  They  still had some incredible players including Joe Sakic, Rob Blake, Peter Forsberg and future Hall of Famer Patrick Roy, possibly the greatest goaltender in hockey history.

After 5 games of the Colorado Avalanche series, (Avalanche, yet another collective noun nickname and a franchise once known as the Quebec Nordiques) the Wild trailed three games to two, not having won a game at home in the series to that point.  They had won 25 of the 41 games they played at their capitol-city home, the fabulous Xcel Energy Center.

Game six was played in St. Paul on April 21st. This posed a mild time crunch for myself.  At the time I was an operations manager for Globe Aviation.a contractor who did security screening for sports team charters at the commuter airport located between the two terminals of the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. I had worked a regular shift at the airport in the morning and attended the game later that evening. I knew, even before the game began, that I would need to be at the Signature Air terminal in order to screen and board the Colorado players before they boarded their aircraft for the trip to Denver.  So I knew that I was going to be busy post game, whenever that was.

Playoff hockey is an amazing thing.  One of the incredible things about it is the fact that once the game starts, there exists the possibility that this game could go on for a long, long time.  During the regular season games are decided by either a 5-minute overtime or a shootout if the overtime has not yet decided a winner.  But in the playoffs the overtime periods are standard 20-minute time frames and no shootout is used.  I've seen games on television that have lasted as long as 3+ overtimes.  So the potential for that type of game is there.

The Wild led 2-0 with about 8 minutes to play, but the Avalanche snapped off two goals in less than a two-minute time span to tie the game.  The game moved on to overtime.  How long could this game go on?  It could end in the first minute or it could last until after midnight for all we knew.  The start of period four was fast-paced as most first overtime periods usually are. The logic being "let's win this thing now before our opponents know what hit 'em".

My seats at the Xcel Energy Center are in the front row on the end which the Wild shoot at twice during a three-period game.  This is sometimes known as the "2x-attack zone." But this would be the first game where they would shoot at the far end of the ice for the second time.

The fast-paced play led to a steal in the neutral zone by my favorite player,  Wes Walz, who found Richard Park on his right wing and Park then took a slapshot from near the boards on goalie Patrick Roy.  At 4:22 of the first overtime period the puck eluded Roy and the arena erupted with a cacophony which I had not heard Gene Larkin singled home Dan Gladden to end the 1991 World Series.  So I begin celebrating along with 18,000 other red, white and green-clad fanatics.  But I had to reel myself in rather quickly as I snap back to the reality, remembering that I needed to get to the commuter terminal in advance of the Colorado Losers.  And so, the race was on!

I quickly composed myself and head to my car.  I negotiate through traffic in a timely manner and make my way to the commuter terminal.  I make sure to take off my autographed Wes Walz jersey and head into the terminal and greet my employees.  We handed out the wands, set up the stanchions and readied ourselves for the arrival of the team bus.

The team bus pulls up and the players exit and head into the large screening room. About 10 minutes pass and the fourth or fifth player who ends up squarely in front of me is future HOFer and possibly the greatest goaltender in the history of the NHL, Patrick Roy.  While I'm screening him I realize that only one hour earlier I saw him get beaten by a Richard Park slapshot.  I never spoke to him during the screening and he was fairly cool through the process, to be honest.  If anyone deserved to have a chip on his shoulder it would've been him.

I did give him the look of a fan who knew that there was still one more game to be played the next night in Denver.  So I made sure that I passed along bad vibes to Mr. Roy that he would take back to the Mile High City.

The next night the game again went to overtime. But the overtime of game 7 only lasted 3 minutes and 25 seconds, when Andrew Brunette went 5-hole on Mr. Roy and his glorious career came to an end.  It would be the final game of his illustrious career. 

The Wild next went on to defeat the Vancouver Canucks in seven games in the semifinals before being swept by the Anaheim Ducks in the conference finals. A series in which they scored exactly ONE GOAL IN FOUR GAMES.  But the playoff run was a great deal of fun and will probably never be duplicated as far as the surprise aspect was concerned. 

So, that's my Patrick Roy story.  I laid down a silent curse to him that actually carried to the next night and put his career to rest.  

That's my story and I'm stickin' to it.

I'm just sayin'.

Minnesota North Stars

Some 30 years ago this month the Minnesota North Stars played their final home game. That game was played on April 13, 1993 at the Metropolitan Sports Center in Bloomington, Minnesota. The locals knew it as the Met Center. The Chicago Blackhawks were the opponents that night. It had been months since we North Star fans had known for certain that the team would be moving to Dallas following the end of the season. They dropped a 3-2 decision that night and then closed out the season with a loss in Detroit two nights later by a 5-3 score.

It is hard to believe that so many years have passed. I recall vividly that season, especially the second half of the year.  It was an incredibly sad time for North Stars fans to go to the arena knowing that our emotional investment was soon going to be equivalent of a bag of broken Koho hockey sticks and a pop-up toaster. it was on a Saturday night March 13th against the Montreal Canadiens, an original franchise in the National Hockey League, where, late in the game, the North Stars were trying to  tie the game against the powerful team from the Eastern Conference. Montreal would go on to win the Stanley Cup in a few months. It was a totally spontaneous moment and just before a face-off, coming-out of a tv timeout, at the far end from myself to the right of the opposing goalie the crowd rose as one and applauded for a good 2-3 solid minutes.  It was as though all of us had come to the true realization that the end of the 25-year old franchise was not only inevitable but only a few short weeks away.  As sad as it was, it gave me chills at the time.  I saw people standing and openly sobbing.  I didn't feel as though I deserved to shed a tear as I had only been in Minnesota for 5 years.  These are people who had been there since the NHL expanded in 1967 and the team ended up merging with the Cleveland Barons in 1979 order to save the franchise from going away altogether a few years earlier.

The first hockey jersey I ever owned was a Minnesota North Stars road green jersey. Hockey purists refer to jerseys as "sweaters". This was circa 1974.  My mother bought it for me at Bob's Sports in my hometown of Stamford, Connecticut.  Now, I know that my mom knew that I was a Ranger fan, so when I asked her why she'd purchased the jersey with the big gold N on the front, she said, "They were out of Ranger jerseys and I liked this one".  How did she know I was going to end up cheering for them some 15 years later?  My mom had ESP. I, on the other hand, have ESPN.

The team owner in 1993, a former shopping mall developer,  who's name I will not even mention in this blog because it does not bear repeating, had totally duped us in his carpetbagging behavior.  He came to town from Calgary where he was one of the original owners of the Flames, following THEIR move to Calgary from Atlanta. He quickly made friends by basically buying us off. He did things like offer season ticket holders, like myself, three tickets for the price of two. An amazing value for the locals in "The State of Hockey". He also brought us things like cheerleaders.  Yes, cheerleaders, known as the Electric Stars. I'm sure that his focus group (located between his ears and his pants as it turned out) thought that what we needed more of at Met Center was women in spandex shorts and pom poms.  Now don't get me wrong. I enjoy that stuff, in the element in which it was intended; NFL sidelines and my local Hooter's Restaurant. But, I said many times, that if we had to endure cheerleaders they needed to be able to skate between periods, like the Gopher cheerleaders at University of Minnesota hockey games. He even gave away two round-trip tickets to various destinations during each home game provided by locally-owned Sun Country Airlines.

He reported that the reason he needed to move the franchise was that the market was too saturated with the Twins, Vikings, Timberwolves and the University of Minnesota Gopher hockey program. This from a person who once said, "Only an idiot could lose money on hockey in Minnesota." I guess he was that idiot. 

But the bottom line was that while he wanted to make a deal locally, he was eventually forced to leave town with the team because his wife, one Kelly Green, (Kelly Green. How cute of a name is that?) found out that his other focus group (located in his pants) was a little too "touchy-feely" around the office. This wasn't going to fly with her and she basically told her husband to get out of the house or leave Minnesota altogether. Others will tell you that the local sports commission is to blame. I have to put some responsibility in the hands of commissioner Gary Bettman. Bettman gets booed here in the cities WHENEVER he shows up, like when he was here for the Winter Classic on New Years Day evening last January 1st. Either way, they are equally to blame, in my opinion.

The final North Stars home game was probably the saddest sporting event I have ever attended. There was a lot of security on duty that night, mostly to deter fans from unbolting seats and walking out with them. But fans here are far to docile for that kind of behavior. Heck, we had a celebration after the 1991 playoffs to show our gratitude for them reaching the finals against Pittsburgh, losing in six games.

I now totally understand how it feels when a team moves away. I feel for the fans of the Montreal Expos, Hartford Whalers, Seattle Supersonics, and other teams which have moved. The NHL tried to appease us by sending us "neutral site" games played at the Target Center in downtown Minneapolis as well as a minor league team known as the Minnesota Moose. Because the IHL figured that we would watch virtually ANYTHING on ice where there were sticks and a puck. On some nights at the St. Paul Civic Center and later the Target Center, "anything" was exactly what we saw.

I don't wish any populous the experience of losing a franchise but there always seem to be a few which are on the brink of just that. The Houston Aeros moved to Des Moines a few seasons ago. The owner was once again more interested in money than the fans who supported the team for many years. The Houston Rockets of the NBA wanted to raise the rent by an amazing 500%. So to them I say that "I feel your pain." The last NHL team to relocate was when the Thrashers, Atlanta's second failed attempt at hockey, moved to Winnipeg to become the second version of the Jets in 2011. The original Winnipeg Jets moved to Phoenix in 1996 after turning down an opportunity to move to, you guessed it, Minneapolis.

I rather enjoy wearing my North Stars jersey that I wore at Met Center, as well as the "copy" which has the same look but not the same feel as my original. The Wild even have a version of their jersey known as the Reverse Retro, which had a limited run two years ago and a reverse version of that was worn this season at select games. It has the Wild logo with the North Star colors. 

I've been a season-ticket holder since Day 1 of the Wild franchise, but I STILL don't like the name of the franchise. 

The playoffs start next week. Let's hope we can at least get out of the first round before the players get back on the golf course. 

Thanks, Norm. You colossal douchebag. 

....I'm just sayin'.

P.S. NORM. STILL. SUCKS!

Jackie Robinson and me

Jackie Robinson passed away 50 years ago today in the northern portion of my hometown of Stamford, Connecticut. 

Robinson means so much to minorities like myself in general in this country that it is virtually impossible to measure the impact he has made. His appearance with the Dodgers predates Brown vs. Board of Education and Rosa Parks.  From the days when we were labeled "colored" or Negroes, or "black' or "African American" (pick your term) Robinson has to be considered the person most responsible for acceptance into a society which purposely excluded a group of people simply based on the color of the skin that person was born with.  A hard concept for young people to grasp today, to be sure.  His mark on American society cannot be measured on any normal scale. 

In April of 2013 a motion picture was released called "42".  When I picked up a DVD copy of it I saw someone on a social media post say that it was "okay" and that "you won't learn anything that you didn't already know".  Well, that may be true for some people, but I bet that many people, especially those who may have been  under the age of 25, may actually have learned something that they hadn't known previously.  Such as seeing a restroom door with the words "WHITE ONLY" painted on it.  Or a stadium entrance marked "COLORED" over the walkway.

My Jackie Robinson experience is vivid.  I can still see it in my mind's eye, as if it happened yesterday.

It was September of 1972. I was born and raised in Stamford, Connecticut and Jackie and wife Rachel Robinson lived in the northern part of town. Not far from where I would someday attend high school.  It was probably around 7:30 p.m. and my dear mother and I were waiting for my older sister to emerge from the A&P grocery store in the nearby town of Riverside.  While we waited, and as the sun was quickly setting, we watched a grey-haired man with a cane emerge from the store and make his way to his parked car.  He was roughly 30 feet in front of our 1971 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight when he slowly stepped off the curb.

I recall thinking that I should know who the man was but was drawing a blank as most 10 year-olds like myself at the time are wont to do.

"Do you know who that man is?", my mother asked.  I didn't think she knew and that was the reason for the question. "No... I don't" I replied. "That's Jackie Robinson", she told me.  I immediately sat up straighter in my seat.  I didn't feel compelled to jump out of the car as I respected his privacy and I would've been far too nervous to utter a word to him if I had done so. What would I have said, anyway?  I was but 10 years old and not very educated on the legacy which he had bestowed upon this country. I just watched him make his way in front of me, in mild awe that he was so close. The years had worn him down and was already blind in one eye along with having been diagnosed with diabetes. He moved like someone who was closer to 83 years of age not the 53 years he'd lived to that point. Maybe I thought that I may have another opportunity to meet him in the future, as he did live in my hometown.  

He made his final public appearance a few weeks later on October 15, 1972 when he threw out the first pitch before game 3 of the World Series in Cincinnati. He passed away just 9 days later in my hometown, four days before my 11th birthday.

I didn't meet him. I didn't speak to him. But my memory of that evening in September 1972 is one of the best memories of my life because of the people involved in it. My mother, who was totally in a class by herself and Jackie Robinson, who, given his contribution not only to baseball but to this great country, opened his own school of classes to so many people- myself included. It was a seminal moment which linked, quite possibly, the two most important people of my entire existence.

Life is a string of moments. Most of them are mundane, common and without any real significance over the long term. But every once in awhile you find yourself involved in one which stays with you for the remainder of your days on this earth. May you all have as some of these moments as I have. Thanks for letting me share this one with you.

I'm just sayin'.

Going Home Again (Part 2)

In my last post, I wrote about  my upcoming weekend trip to Target Field to see the New York Mets play the Minnesota Twins.

On Friday evening I got to Target Field where the gametime temperature was 34 degrees.  This really isn't baseball weather.  But apparently the Mets didn't seem to mind as they proceeded to score 5 runs in their first at bat.  They scored ANOTHER 5 runs in the second frame and led 10-2 after two innings of play.  So maybe they were just used to the cold.

But prior to the start of the game I made my way through the gates and up to my seating level.  I was warmly greeted by two former co-workers not long after reaching the club seating level.  I started to get the feeling that this may not be as bad of an experience as I had first thought.

 I saw a number of people who have remained with the team as ushers and whom I supervised over a decade ago.  It was so great to see these people.  They all greeted me warmly and told me that I still looked the same as I did then.

I had people come by and visit me after they had heard that I was in the ballpark, some contacting me via text.

It was a great experience both days.  The Mets won twice over the local nine and a great many Mets fans stopped to chat about our team as they wore the orange and blue, just like I was.

I had a great tour on Saturday of the ballpark that I helped push for when I toiled at 501 Chicago Avenue.  Target Field is an amazing place.  It is incredibly well thought-out as far as functionality  and aesthetics. A beautiful place to be sure.  Target Field is the 16th stadium of the 30 current ballparks that I have visited.

The third game of the series was postponed today due to inclement weather, aka winter hasn't ended yet.  The rescheduled date is Monday August 19th.  I look forward to this trip as much as I did this one.  But I will certainly feel more at ease the next time and know that I really COULD go back home again.

I realized today that the biggest thing that worried me about returning to the home of the Twins is that I had been forgotten.  I couldn't quite place my finger on it, but I believe that to be the actual truth more than anything else.

My weekend was a great one and I am very thankful to everyone who made it so

Thomas Wolfe wasn't exactly right.

At least not this time.

I'm just sayin'

Going Home Again (Part 1)

Those of you who know me know that I love baseball.

Those of you who know me ALSO know that I love the New York Mets.

Tomorrow, the New York travel to Minneapolis to play the Minnesota Twins in the first game of a three-game series.

I'm excited.  And a little scared too.

I used to be in the employ of the Minnesota Twins.  I started out as an usher in 1989 when they played at the Metrodome.  I was an usher and later an usher's supervisor through the 1995 season.  It was a great deal of fun and I got PAID to do something that I would've done for free.  ThenI got a break.  I had the opportunity to take a position in the front office of the ballclub.  I had hoped to have a different position in the organization but the fact that I got one at all was waaaay cool.

On February 26 1996 I became a full-time employee.  I had a great time at it.  I envisioned that this would be the last organization I would ever work for.  I thought that I would be there for 31 years or so and then I would consider retirement.  During some seasons I spent more time at the ballpark than I did at my own home.

But that didn't happen.  I left the organization on January 10, 2002.  Other than the day that my mother passed away, it was the worst day of my entire life.

I watched no baseball during the 2002 season.  I avoided baseball to any extent.  I didn't watch SportsCenter on ESPN for 9 solid months. I watched a lot of NASCAR and Wild hockey.  I couldn't even think about the games.  I swore that I wouldn't go back to any Twins games.  I was there during the 1991 season which ended in a World Championship. To be on the field as that series ended was an incredible experience.  By the time I reached front office status the team had turned into a laughingstock and the bloom was quickly off the rose.  We drew some very small crowds and those crowds saw some pretty bad baseball.  But by century's end things were starting to look up.

The 2002 season found the Twins in the postseason for the first time in a decade.  I succumbed to the temptation and bought a ticket to game one of the American League Championship Series against Anaheim.  It was a last-minute decision and I enjoyed the game as much as I could.  But after that I decided that I wouldn't darken the gate at 501 Chicago Avenue until the team of my youth, the New York Mets, came to town.

That was a different ballpark and a different address.  Each year, when the following season's schedule is released I would take a fast glance at the Mets' schedule to see if they wold be playing in Minneapolis the next year.  Keep in mind that seeing Mets road games is fairly easy, given my occupation in working for an airline.  I saw Mets games in four different cities in 2011.

So when I discovered that the Metropolitans would be playing less than 15 miles from my home I got excited.  I made a posting on facebook so that some of my friends would know that I would see them in about 7 months.  I have not seen some of these people since my last game in September 2001.  I have missed a great many of them, front office personnel, ticket takers and ushers whom I enjoyed working with a great deal.

But this weekend I will get to close the circle.  I look forward to it with great anticipation and mild anxiety.  It's gonna be cold, as the brain wizards at Major League Baseball have obviously forgotten that the Twins play in an outdoor stadium now, and they play in South Manitoba.  So games in April make little to no sense.

But no matter what happens it will be a memorable experience.  I will have gloves on and probably a heavy coat and ear muffs.  But I will be at a baseball game.  The Mets will be on the field and I, the biggest Met fan in Minnesota, will be in attendance.

Thomas Wolfe said "you can't go home again".  But tomorrow that changes for a few days.

But the curse will continue.

I'm just sayin'

The Easter Story

The Easter story

Not THAT Easter story. But an Easter story nonetheless.

It was early April in 2001 and I was very much enjoying my time working in the front office of the Minnesota Twins Baseball Club. We in the operations department were on the fence about whether or not we should have an appearance by the Easter Bunny at the game the upcoming Sunday.

As I recall it, we didn't come to a decision at the weekly meeting that Monday, but come Thursday afternoon we had decided to go ahead with the plan. Given the fact that we were less than 72 hours away from the event, we needed two main ingredients:  A costume and a patsy. Er....I mean, costume wearer. There wasn't a whole lot of discussion about who would be in the "starring role". Having worn an actual original Chewbacca costume the previous August on a day when it when the temperature outside was over 100 degrees, my fate was already predetermined. (That's a whole DIFFERENT post right there. See my blog entitled "Wookie of the Year). So one of my co-workers and I took the short trip from the Metrodome, down Chicago Avenue to a costume shop and inquired about what costumes they might have left for rental at this late date. Bunny costumes are in short supply on the Thursday before Easter. I checked the aisles of the costume shop. The pickens were mighty slim, to say the least. I finally found a bunny costume that would fit and went my merry way back to my offices at the Metrodome.

Some 72 hours later it was Easter Sunday morning and I was in my office "getting my rabbit on".  The shoe covers are best when used with white shoes sized 10 (size 43 for those of you across the pond) or smaller. I, unfortunately, wear a size 12 (45 for you Brits). So it became necessary to secure the shoe covers with safety pins.  The costume, as you may be able to see from the photos posted on my facebook page today, is kinda........"form-fitting."

Complete with a pink tail the size of a softball, I readied myself for the adventure ahead of me. Just prior to putting on the head I took a look at it.  The bunny's got kind of a maniacal look on his face, like something out of a Wes Craven film. I asked for assistance from the Mountain Dew Funatics, known for assisting T.C. Bear in the distribution of t-shirts and goodwill during home games. I secured the head to my body and noticed that there was a small switch on the top of the head. This turned out to be a toggle switch which operated a mini fan in the top of the bunny's head.  I could hear it pretty clearly in the quiet of the locker room. "Can you guys hear that buzzing noise?", I asked my assistants. Their reaction was, "What noise?" This told me that my worry about the hum of the small-scale rotors was for naught.

I took a deep breath and headed down the ramp where the Vikings usually enter stadium and onto the field. We were expecting about 20,000 fans that day, which would've been a good showing considering our recent winning percentage and the fact that we hadn't qualified for the postseason since we'd won a world championship in 1991. 

I went down the left field line and met up with the one and only T.C. Bear. I followed him toward the stands where we signed many autographs. As I walked toward the home plate area I passed the Twins dugout. Now, somehow the word had leaked as to who was occupying the crazed-looking rabbit suit. I heard a player who will remain nameless (Jacque Jones) call out to me with the phrase, "Nice tail, Rod!"  For a moment, I figured that I already looked like a friend of Pennywise the Clown as it was, so stepping over to the dugout and choking-out our starting left fielder might be of a surprise to no one. But I thought that the viewing of such a traumatic experience for some of our younger fans would be long-lasting and cause many parents to answer questions they weren't prepared to answer from children already jacked-up from the consumption of a plethora of Easter confectionaries.

I knew that I would be throwing out the first pitch in a matter of minutes. But here's what's going through my mind. I'm wearing what can only be described as fuzzy oven mitts on my hands. They have no fingers. So throwing the first pitch could've proved to be a problem. I was already locked into throwing from the pitching rubber, some 60 feet, 6 inches away from home plate. No way I'm tossing from the turf at the front of the mound. i knew this would be the only time I would have this opportunity in my life.

Now, given the fingerless hand covers which I am wearing, I estimate that only one of three things will happen when I throw the Rawlings official Major League Baseball in just a few minutes. I will either grip the ball too tightly and throw it into the ground. I could grip it too lightly and have it slip out of my "paw" on the windup. Or I could get it just right and throw a strike on the corner to my catcher.

I was handed a ball by the pre-game coordinator and followed a 10-year old young man out to the mound who would be throwing a first pitch of his own. After he threw his pitch I hear the p.a. announcer say, "Okay, Easter! Your turn!" So I stepped up and looked in towards home plate, through the mouth of the maniacal rabbit at my catcher................T.C. Bear.

I went into the windup and threw a strike on the corner and here comes T.C.! We meet at the midway point and we hug each other enthusiastically. Over the buzzing in my head and the mild clapping from the crowd the bear yells at me. "You look so ridiculous!"  "Yes, I know!", I replied.

Now that's where the story would end....not so fast, Sparky.

I signed plenty of autographs and took dozens of pictures with people, kids and adults alike.  But I knew that one more major appearance awaited "Easter". The 7th inning stretch.

I met up with T.C. in the top of the 7th and we made our way to the top of section 125, just below the press box, for the singing of "The Baseball National Anthem", Take Me Out To The Ballgame. A song written by a man named Jack Newirth, even though Newirth had never actually seen a baseball game at the time he wrote it.  Also, the song as most people know it, is actually the chorus to a much longer song about a young woman named Katie Casey and a suitor who'd like to take her to see a show. But Katie likes baseball and..... the rest you can look up. But I digress.

T.C. and I begin moving to the song as the organist played for the crowd. We each swayed from side to side, but with only one problem. I can't see the video board and thus I can't see that we are moving in opposite directions on every other downbeat. I discovered this after seeing the video a few days later. A smiling bear and his maniacal-looking rabbit buddy. Both of us showing a mutual lack of rhythm. When my wife Bryn saw the video she thought it to be one of the funniest things she'd ever seen in her entire life. It nearly brought her to tears laughing each time we'd fire it. 2023 marked the first year without her here to view it with me and for that I am sad. It really IS pretty darn funny though.

Now THAT'S an Easter story.  Not THE Easter story, but MY Easter story.


I'm just sayin'.

Daylight Saving Time

Today's topic is daylight savings time.  I bring this up primarily because of an incident which occurred in March of 2007.

I was working at the ticket counter at the airport for AirTran Airways on the shift that begins at 4 a.m. (For those of you who haven't ever thought about it, there are people who START their work day at 4:00 am.  Who do you think has to check you in for the flight that leaves at 6:00?).  The morning had gone much like any other.  People showing up at the counter half asleep.  Some wearing pajama pants, NOT all of them in their teen years, unfortunately.  Others carrying pillows fresh from their own beds, all containing hair follicles and dried spittle and who knows what else.  Why you would take such a thing on the on the plane with you is beyond me. So you can acquire other peoples' hair follicles and dried spittle? But I digress. I carry a pillow from home on the road with me, but I pack it in my checked baggage.  Some passengers don't quite remember where they're going to.  When I ask, some reply "Minneapolis." Then they give me a puzzled look when I inform them that they are IN Minneapolis.  We see it all, really.

So, I'd checked in the last passengers for the 6:05 flight and the counter was rather quiet.  Up to the counter comes a man and woman who seem surprised that the area is relatively clear of crowds.  

"Good morning", I say as they approach.  The husband says, "We're here for the flight to Atlanta at 6:05".  "Okay, let me see about rebooking you on a later flight", I respond. "A later flight?", says the husband in his best upspeak."  "Yes, that flight left about 7 minutes ago", I tell him. "It's 6:12.  Daylight saving time started today."

He stares at me, then looks quickly at his wife and then back at myself.  "Well, how come the airline didn't call me at the hotel to remind me?", is the question he posed to me.  "Probably because we didn't know your hotel or room number or maybe we just assumed that you had paid attention to the news or weather channels in the past week as they reminded everyone in the country that this was going to happen", was my reply.  I had never thought he would try to blame someone else for his lack of planning.

At this very moment was when his wife looked up at the terminal ceiling for the answer to the question in her OWN head, which was something on the line of, "Is this nice man going to think that we are BOTH idiots?"  She immediately turned her back to him and addressed me over her right shoulder.

"You're going to Ft. Lauderdale, right?" "Yes", she said quietly in a very apologetic tone.  "Okay, let's see what we can do", I said.  I logged in to the information screen and found that the next flight left at 10:15 and it had room on it, as did the connection flight to Lauderdale.  I will admit that I was hoping like anything that they wouldn't be able to get out until the 3 p.m. flight, or the noon flight at the earliest.  So I rebooked them on standby for the next flight, processed their bags and printed their temporary boarding passes.  I did not speak to the husband during the process of the transaction.  He seemed to have realized the utter stupidity of the statements he had made only moments earlier, so he thought that silence was probably his best option.

No doubt in HIS head was milling the thought that he knew that HE WILL NEVER, EVER LIVE THIS DOWN!

As the tardy couple walked away and toward the security checkpoint I had a warm feeling in my heart knowing that for this event to play out in front of me I had awaken at 2:30 a.m.  On this day it was worth it.

So go to school kids.  When it's time to "spring ahead", or "fall back", act like you're in a Nike ad and Just Do It.

I'm just sayin'.                                                                  

Spring Training

I'm currently watching a spring training game on MLB Network. If MLB Network had existed when I was growing up I may have NEVER left my bedroom for long periods of time. I think they do an amazing job there and their programming is great for a baseball junkie like myself. Outside of any show where the term "analytics" is used or any reference to "the Shredder" comes up, I would lock in the channel and "rip the know off". Yes kids, there were knobs on televisions at one time. 

But today's topic is spring training.

When I was growing up nearly all baseball teams trained in Florida. Now, there were only 24 teams at the time, but the vast majority of teams were based in the Sunshine State. I always knew that my team, the New York Mets, were going to be playing their home games in St. Petersburg. They shared their stadium and complex with the St. Louis Cardinals at that time.

During the month of March there was not much heard from Florida. I would check the daily boxscore in the New York Daily News, which looked like a full roster list on some days, given how many players made it into the game that day.  Once a week or so we would get the games on AM radio (Some of you youngsters, born post-1985, may not know what AM radio is. Google it. Or you could listen the song by Everclear of the same name) and hear the names of the players who would make the trip north to start the season.  On a rare Saturday there would be an actual telecast from Florida on WOR Channel 9. Oh happy day! Those were special Saturdays.

Spring training games always seemed to have a recreational feel to them.  Game programs cost 50 cents and would double as a portable fan on warmer days.  Coaches seated NEXT to the dugout, not in it.  Autographs being signed by players during the game.  Pitchers jogging on the warning track DURING the game. Fans wearing enough tanning lotion to make them resemble Butterball turkeys fresh from the oven and ready for cranberry sauce with  stuffing on the side. Players with numbers on their backs higher than 80.(Something you see a lot more of these days). Sometimes two players in the dugout wearing the SAME number.  And there always seemed to be that one vendor who could be heard throughout the park, usually selling cold beer.

I didn't attend my first spring game until 1980.  It was in Bradenton, at the spring home of the Pittsburgh Pirates. My grandmother lived about a half mile away from what was then known as McKechnie Field so I simply left my car at her place and walked there.  I remember during our yearly vacations from Connecticut in the '70s passing the park and hoping that I might see a game played there someday. Spring break for me at that time happened after teams had broken camp and the regular season had begun. And now that wish was going to come true. The stadium is right on 9th street. So close to the street that when you drive past it during a game you need to to be leery of the occasional foul ball struck over the 3rd base stands as it could cause a traffic hazard.

When I moved to Florida in the early '80s to attend college I would get hold of the spring training schedule when it was released which was much later than it is today. I would adjust my work schedule to allow me to catch a couple of games a week during the month of March. I topped myself once in the fact that I saw able to see two games on the same day in two different cities- Bradenton and St. Petersburg. Ah, the beauty of spring training.

The Baltimore Orioles currently play their spring home games at Ed Smith Stadium in Sarasota. Prior to that the Cincinnati Reds called this their spring home before moving out to Arizona. This is only important to me because during the late '80s I played adult league softball on that very site when it was known as the Ed Smith softball complex. I must have the ghosts of two or three stellar defensive plays haunting that stadium to this day.

Spring training in Arizona is very popular now, as it still is in Florida.  About half of all major league teams train in Arizona.  Complexes are much more sophisticated these days. Some teams even share complexes. Practice fields are located in close proximity to the stadium.  Unlike the Pirates, where their Pirate City complex is on the far east side of Bradenton and not near the stadium.  Game tickets cost a lot more now than they did years ago.  The players are both friendlier AND more arrogant than they used to be. But most things about spring training remain the same.  The ball is still the same size.  The bases are still 90 feet apart.  It still takes 9 innings to decide a winner, although you have an occasional tie. It's still 3 strikes and you're out.  60 feet 6 inches from home plate to the pitcher's mound and some games are still broadcast on AM radio (see paragraph 3).

Spring training reminds us that we somehow made it through yet another winter, hope for our teams spring eternal, and that we are at the dawning of yet another spring and summer of this great game. It may actually be more important this season. In 2020 a cardboard cutout of myself saw roughly 30 Mets games at Citi Field. This was because of something we all anticipated- a pandemic. In 2021 I saw 10 live games in 5  different ballparks. In the off-season we endured a 99-day lockout which will delay the opening of the season by a week. But here we are. Every team is tied for first place. Every team is also tied for last place. 

Rules changes, new faces on new teams. A new nickname for one team. But the game is back and baseball fanatics such as yours truly are in high anticipation of what lies ahead. 

But what's the BEST thing about spring training?

It makes me feel like a 10-year old.  And when one is in their 50s, (or now 60s), that's a cool feeling.

I'm just sayin'.