Sitting close to the action on Saturday night at Citifield (“I’m Still Calling it Shea,” read a t-shit), Emily and I were surrounded by Mets fans. We didn’t wear any colors. “We’re undercover,” my wife said to me. And so we were. I kept score (a scorecard costs five bucks; they go for twice as much in the Bronx) but had a mitt on my left hand in case a line drive came our way. No such luck.

The Yanks held a 1-0 lead into the sixth. The wife excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. (She was in the bathroom when Aaron Boone hit that dinger in ’03 and ever since I send her in when absolutely necessary.) Mark Teixeira doubled on Tim Redding’s 99th pitch of the night, and his next three pitches were hit as well: single (Alex Rodriguez), double (Robinson Cano), and home run (Jorge Posada).

AJ Burnett, meanwhile, allowed just one hit and three walks while striking out ten in seven innings of work. He mowed ’em down, as you’d expected against the Mets’ depleted line-up.

There was no blood orange sky but it was cool, pleasant night. Most of the Mets fans in our section had cleared out by the eighth inning. Em and I could have danced all night as the song goes. So we soaked it all in and went home heppy kets.

Final Score: Yanks 5, Mets 0.

Greetings from the Bahamas, my peoples.

So Em and I got hitched yesterday and it all went swimmingly. We are staying at a resort by the water and were all set-up to have our ceremony, just the two of us, on a pier over-looking the ocean. 1:30 p.m. was our launch time. Em went off to get her hair and make-up done just after 11:00 while I stayed in our room and finished ironing my shirt and getting myself prepped. And yo, wouldn’t you know it, but by 11:30 the skies opened-up and it started to rain like mad. And it didn’t stop.

I turned on the Weather Channel, and kept going out onto our terrace to look at the sky. Gray and raining, the palm trees rustling in the wind. Man, I was bugging thinking about Emily bugging (and she, in turn, was bugging about me bugging about her bugging). We came all the way down here to Paradise and it’s freakin’ raining, you’ve got to be kidding me. But then I thought of my cousin Eric who would have embraced the rain, the sense that Mother Nature was doing her thing, and it was all good, and that calmed me some. Then I thought, “Hey, I’m totally happy, I look great, and I’m marrying the love of my life, screw the weather.”

The rain tapered off some by a quarter to one when Em called. She sounded calm. I asked if we were going to change the location to inside and she said “No, not yet.” I went off to meet the minister, A. Dewitt Hutcherson, a tall-strapping man who looked vaguely like Michael Irvin. We were going to be the 9,796th wedding he’d performed in his career.

The rain had stopped and the humidity hit with the quickness. As we walked to the pier, believe it or not, the sun came out. Ten minutes later, my bride joined us, and it was completely sunny. The ceremony was short and sweet and lovely. We took pictures for a long while against the brilliant blue-green backdrop of the ocean and we were very happy.

Then, after eating the cake and drinking some champagne, we finally got back to our room. Em went to the bathroom to fix herself up and I quickly checked the ESPN ticker for the score of the game (incorrigible, I know, but come on, I had to distract myself for a minute). Yanks were down 6-2. Oh, well, I thought. No big deal.

We then consumated our love for each other while the Bombers roared back in the ninth. When we checked the scores later and saw that the Yanks had won, we couldn’t believe what we were seeing. They didn’t have any details, but when caught the highlights on Sportscenter, and…holy my god! Talk about Kismet. That was the icing on the gravy to what was already an amazing day. All those two-out, bottom of the ninth hits? Man, I was nervous just watching the clips. And our boy Alex Rodriguez hitting another huge home run? Dag, man, what a wonderful thing.

I realize that the Boston series is a thing onto itself (hopefully, the Yanks can take one out of three), but no matter what transpires this weekend, Em and I will always have the memory of A Rod coming through on the most meaningful day of our lives. It’s a small thing, but a beautiful thing.

Hope everyone is doing well. I’ll get atcha when I return next week.

Last fall, when Emily and I got a cat, a friend at work told me that she once had a cat that she loved very much. She said that once it died she never got another one. It was simply too painful for her to get a pet knowing that she would likely out-live it. I had animals around my house when I was growing up–cats and dogs–but I haven’t owned one as an adult. But in no time, I’ve grown attached to our charming little cat, Tashi. I had to board her at the vet’s late last week before I trooped up to Vermonth to meet-up with Emily at her folks’ place for the weekend. I asked to see the vet where Tashi would be staying and was shown to the basement where the boarding animals stay. Dude, I had to hold back the tears, and when I got home, I burst-out bawling like a baby.

Loss has been foremost on my mind recently. My dad had a heart attack one month ago and he died the following day. I miss him dearly.

I’ve been thinking about ol’ Bernie Williams this weekend, about how much I’m going to miss him–that is to say, if he’s really gone. It’s not so much his production, or lack thereof, that I’ll miss, but him. Of course, I don’t know him personally, but I’ve watched the majority of his big league games and have grown accustomed to his face, his swing, his mannerisms, his gestures. It isn’t the big things but the nuances, the details.

I love the continuity baseball offers. Each year, guys get too old and retire, while new guys come up and offer us something new to admire. If you’ve been a fan for a long time–as most of us have been–you see the professional life and death of many players. Sometimes, it is soothing to see a familiar face just because they are familiar, and nothing else. I thought of this last week when I read that Steve Trachsel was signed by the Orioles. I find his games almost intolerable to watch, he pitches so damn slowly. Otherwise I have no particular feelings about him. But I am used to him. Knowing that there is a chance that, months from now, in the middle of summer, he’ll be involved in one of those agonizing Yankee-Oriole, four-hour-plus slugfests, is strangely comforting.

It is a bit chillier in Manhattan than it was five years ago to the day. Otherwise, it is a brilliantly sunny day, eerily reminiscent of that fateful morning that altered the city and the country forever. I rode the IRT to work this morning and there was the usual commotion, but there were also some hints of somberness too–a business woman in a black suit, a strapping Jewish kid with a black yarmulke, a gray-haired liberal with a black t-shirt that read, “What Really Happened?” Today is certainly a day to remember those who lost their lives in-and-around 9.11 as well as an opportunity to appreciate the good things we’ve got in our lives.

I sure have plenty to appreciate, that’s for sure. On Saturday, Emily and I took a ride up to Westchester to spend the afternoon with my mom and my step-father. While Em and Tom busied themselves with a project in the back yard, mom and I made a batch of madeleines, the shell-shaped cookies made famous by Proust in “Remberance of Things Past.” They are wonderful tea-time cookies, and must be eaten almost immediately. Even an hour or two after they’ve come out of the oven, they begin to change in nature, going from a light, sponge cake to a heavier, greasier cookie. It’s not even that they are my favorites, I just like the idea of them–the immediacy of it all. And you just can’t have them without a strong cup of tea for dunking.

Here they are fresh out of the oven. That’s my ma, adding some confectionate sugar, the final touch (dig, her beloved Tintin swatch).

And here is the final product, along with a simple plum tart and a strong cup of Earl Grey tea.

A small, good thing, if there ever was one.

A heppy ket.

(more…)

Have you ever heard the term “passing?” Until recently, I had not. The way I heard it used, “passing” refers to a situation where you decide not to address something that might offend you. For instance, you are in a conversation with some people–at work let’s say–and somebody says something bigoted. It bothers you but you choose, for whatever reason, not to confront it. You change the subject or ignore it altogether. That’s called passing.

Most of us encounter these kinds of situations all the time. Two days ago at the ball game, I found myself unable to “pass.” I was watching the Yankee game with my cousin and two guys I played high school ball with–one of whom is a good friend. The two jocks started talking about women and baseball and the gist of the discussion was, “Let’s make fun of women because they don’t have a clue when it comes to sports.” I just knew where the conversation was going and it instantly made me uncomfortable, not only because my girlfriend is a devoted fan but because sitting in front of us was a woman who is more knowledgable about the game than most men could ever hope to be.

I caught myself and thought, “Aha, so this is a ‘passing’ sitation.” At first I didn’t know how I was going to respond. One instinct was to join them. I had an ideal story. Earlier in the day, my cousin Eric and I were playing stickball on 5th street between first and second avenues. We were pressed for time and only had about ten minutes left to play when a sexy young thing walked towards us. She had been watching us play for a few minutes when she approached me and said, “Can I play?” She was friendly and exceedingly cute. How do you say “no” to that? If I were single, I’d have turned into Charlie Lau and not only let her play with us but I’d teach her how to hit, anything, in the process. But not only am I not single, I don’t have wandering eyes like that and am not that tempted to flirt with hot young East Village women. So I told her that it was nice of her to ask but that we only had a few more minutes left and we wanted to finish our game. “But if you ever see us playing down here again, feel free to stop by and you can join us then.” I was as friendly as possible and it felt good not to compromise the moment Eric and I were sharing. She looked surprised–not quite comprehending how we could turn such an offer down–and quietly walked away.

Anyhow, I was pleased with how I handled the situation–tactfully but with conviction. Now, I could use this story as a way to join the “He Man Woman Hater’s Club” brewing behind me. Screw women, this is our sport, kind of a thing. I turned around to the guys and instead of directly confronting their chauvanism, or joining it, I started talking to them about Emily and how much of a baseball fan she’s become. I told them that sometimes Em will ask me what I think is a ridiculously stupid question but other times she’ll come up with something simple and logical that I just can’t answer. For instance, say the Yankees are at home and have a runner on first. If the opposing pitcher throws over to first more than once the crowd–any home crowd–will start to boo. One day Emily asked, “Why are they booing?” I stuttered and finally had to look at her and tell her I hadn’t the foggiest idea why. “Because…that’s just the way it is,” was the best I could come up with.

My friend Adam was amused by the story and told me I was so right. The conversation shifted and that was that. But it got me thinking about the different, often refreshing sensibilities women bring to a male-dominated world like baseball. Nancy Smith, the woman sitting in front of us, had an opportunity to meet several of the Yankees last summer and she told me that she had a pleasant ten minute conversation with Mariano Rivera. “He’s a very nice man,” she reported. What did they talk about? Where he lives when he’s up here, how much his kids love the winter and the snow. You know, regular stuff. Things that most guys would never think of talking about if they were to ever to meet a baseball player.

I’d be asking him all sorts of questions about baseball, about pitching. I’d never think to talk to him about such mundane things as the weather. The irony is Nancy probably put Rivera more at ease, and had a more intimate, natural conversation with him than I would have in the same situation. She might enjoy being around him as much as any male fan, but even if she was geeked about it, there was probably nothing urgent beneath the surface, no agenda. She didn’t “want” a piece of him, she just wanted to chat.

Nancy’s story reminded me of something Jane Gross, a former sports writer, once told Roger Angell (from the story “Sharing the Beat,” which can be found in Angell’s “Late Innings” collection):

“I think women reports have a lot of advantages [over male reporters], starting with the advantage of the players’ natural chivalry. We women are interested in different things from the men writers, so we ask different questions. When Bob McAdoo gets traded from the Knicks, my first thought is, How is his wife, Brenda, going to finish law school this year? And that may be what’s most on his mind.

Not better, not worse, just different. Sure, there are times when Emily asks a question that has my snotty-ass rolling my eyes. Other times, she’ll just floor me with her insights–whether simple or profound. I deliberately use my love of baseball as a way to relate to other men. But some of the greatest fans I know are women. And that’s a beautiful thing, bro.

When I’m watching the ballgame at home with Emily–the ‘lil perfessor–she loves throwing questions my way. At times I have to bite my tongue and contain my smug, male superiority–“God, what a chick thing to say,” I’ll think, rolling my eyes. Then of course, Emily will also come out with things that leave me completely stumped. So the other night, as we watched Johnny Damon make several catches against the wall, she asked about the origins of the warning track. How did it get its name? When was it invented?

Mr. Wizard didn’t have an answer. So I asked around some, and still don’t have a definitive answer. Bill James suggested that they were possibly invented as a response to Pete Reiser, the Brooklyn Dodger outfielder who was famous for running into outfield fences and getting knocked out. Late ’50s, early ’60s was his guess. Steve Treder thinks it could have been a bit earlier but agrees that it was probably designed at the same time other player-safety innovations were created–batting helmets and padded walls. (By the way, I just learned in David Maraniss’ forthcoming book on Roberto Clemente that none other than Branch Rickey came up with the plastic/fiber-glass batting helmet–was there anything that Rickey wasn’t invovled in?) Here is Rich Lederer’s take:

Warning tracks, as we now know them, were fairly standard by the 1950s. I’m not aware of any ballpark without a warning track by the 1960s. Are you?

The first warning track dates back much earlier though. Yankee Stadium had what was known as a running track dating back to the 1920s. It was used as just that: a running track (used for foot races) but it served a dual purpose as a warning track for baseball games, too. I just don’t know if it was a coincidence or not. That said, I have black and white photos in baseball books that backs up this claim.

So, anyone else have any ideas? Paging Mr. Markusen. Hey, my girl’s just got to know.