Tragedy.

I know too many people who could have been there and (at least) one person who was (she's ok); my thoughts go out to all the people who were in Copley Square and the Boston Marathon. 

A reminder to all amongst the chaos of today.  In times of tragedy we all try, in our own way, to help and some of us think to donate blood. This is a glorious idea, but please remember that people need blood 24/7/365.  Thank you.

Due to the generosity of our donors we don't need blood at this time. Please schedule for a future donation redcrossblood.org #marathon
— RedCrossEasternMA (@RedCrossEastMA) April 15, 2013

Dispatch From Dollar Hot Dog Night.

       As I have for most of the last decade, I got my brother tickets to a baseball game for his birthday.  Last year, he turned 42, so it seemed quite appropriate to take in Jackie Robinson Day in Philly to watch our beloved Mets (slowly implode and lose).  This year, while perusing the Mets/Phillies dates early in the year, I was presented with three choices of premium: T-Shirt Night, Schedule Night, or Dollar Hot Dog Night.  That is a pretty easy decision; I mean, what the hell am I gonna do with a magnetic Phillies schedule and I certainly have no use (other than cleaning up after the dog) for a Phillies T-Shirt.  But two, shall we say, robust gentlemen at dollar hot dog night?  Now you're talkin'!

Plus, I decided not to skimp on the seats, either, getting 14th row behind the Mets' dugout.  Seeing as my brother was nice enough to get me this beauty for Christmas, it was the least I could do.  This wonderful view would be the high point of the evening, baseball wise.

Dillon Gee set the Phillies down 1-2-3 on eight pitches in the bottom of the 1st, so it seemed like this was gonna be a nice tight pitchers duel between him and Cliff Lee (Gee vs. Lee!).  Sadly, it was not to be.  Lee held up his end of the bargain, but Gee pitched a little batting practice in the second inning, giving up four runs - and he was lucky it wasn't more.  Fortunately, we had Dollar Hot Dogs to drown our sorrows:

That is a pile of six hot dogs purchased in a major league stadium.  Normally, that requires a home equity loan, but not on this glorious night. Much to my surprise, there was no limit to the number you could buy and they were real hot dogs, not discount crap ones.  Fatty McGee here was in heaven.

My brother was impressed by this initial haul and after we polished them off in quick order, he said "That was great, want some more?" and I was like "damn right!"  So I got up to go get more.  Suddenly, my brother chimes in, "hey! I'm gonna come with you, I want to see this gigantic pile of hot dogs..."  This decision would come back to haunt us.  In 20+ years and 100's of ballgames, we had never, ever gone to the concessions stand at the same time.  While standing on this line with an endless sea of Phillies fans, Dillon Gee gave up not one, not two, but three home runs...all in the span of eight pitches (sound familiar?).  As the frenzy died down around us, I looked at my brother and calmly said "We are never fucking going to the concession stand at the same time ever again." He could only nod his head in agreement. 

The game was now 7-0 and, the way Lee was pitching, clearly out of hand.  When this happens, you have to find other ways to pass the time at a ball game.  Aside from stuffing myself with dollar dogs, I found two sure fire ways to amuse myself at this massacre.  #1 Bird Watching:

And I don't mean Marlon Byrd.  My eyes quickly found this redheaded punk rock girl in a Kirk Nieuwenhuis jersey.  She was sitting with a dude in a Carlos Ruiz jersey.  I should have rescued her and whisked her away to be with a real fan.  Twenty year old Max would have not thought twice about doing this.  Man, am I getting old.

#2 Antagonizing the locals:

The dude in the very lowest right hand corner had a Dave Cash Phillies jersey on (and kudos to him for being the only Phillies fan I have seen in the last few years with a throwback/vintage jersey other than Mike Schmidt).  After Jimmy Rollins made a terrible play on a ball, I made a few cracks about how he is wash up, how he had a rag arm, how undeserving of his MVP award he was, etc. etc.  Dave Cash dude immediately stood up to defend him and we got into it pretty good.  The mood sort of hung in the air for an inning until Ruben Tejada booted a grounder and I also made a crack about how he has 6 errors in like 7 games.  We then had a laugh about the whole thing.  Overall, I enjoyed his moxie.  Also keeping up the cliche of Philly fans was the girl who was drunk, passed out, and throwing up by the 4th(!) inning.  Stay Classy, Philadelphia. 

The final score of the game was Phillies 8 Mets 3.  And it wasn't that close.  More importantly, in the battle of the titans, I eked out a victory over my bro: 6 hot dogs to 5.  And honestly, I could have eaten many more but my brother threw in the towel after five.  I had a good nine or ten in me, if I had to.

It's Time.

Take me out to the ball game

Take me out with the crowd

Buy me some peanuts

and Cracker Jack

I don't care if I never get back.

Let me root, root, root for the home team

If they don't win, it's a shame.

For it's one

two

three strikes, you're out!

At the old ball game.

He Is Risen.

       I figured Easter was as good a day as any to announce to you all that, no, I am not dead and that, yes, I will be back to blogging again during the baseball season.

It was a long winter full of issues both mental and physical that no one wants to hear about.  But I know what you people do want to hear about...baseball cards!  Since tomorrow is opening day and the spring weather is in the air, I think it is the perfect day to resurrect this fine blog. I have a huge backlog of trades and purchases and some fun features waiting in the wings so without anymore  false starts, whining,or empty promises, stay tuned and let's get back to the divine calling of looking at men playing a kids game on colorful cardboard nine at a time.

Football Week 20: Championships.

       I find three of the teams in this Championship final four despicable, each one more than the next.  I hate the Ravens because of the Colts betrayal and Ray Lewis.  I hate the 49ers generally because of their dominance of the 1980's and specifically because they knocked my Saints out of the playoffs last year in ridiculous fashion (it is sad that the Saints will go down as the only team to ever lose to Alex Smith in the playoffs).  The Falcons are, well, the Falcons...sworn enemy of the Saints; watching them win the Super Bowl in our home stadium would be like watching Hitler take the oath of office on the Wailing Wall. So with that bit of overwrought hyperbole out of the way, all that means is that I am halfheartedly rooting for the Patriots and to be honest, I am not too keen on watching Tom Brady and Bill Belichick lift another Lombardi Trophy either. So most of the joy has gone out of my football watching.  In fact, if there were any good movies to go see, I would probably ditch these games all together and go out.

I am going to take this opportunity to tell the tale of my fanhood of a certain Brett Favre.

I was on the Brett Favre bandwagon early.  Before he became a retiring dick-texting attention whore, he was a Vicodin addict.  This was way back in the early 90's when he just got the job as starting quarterback for the Packers.  Favre was not on my radar until he came out and admitted he had a problem with painkillers and checked himself into rehab.  He may not have been the first, but he was the first sports star I could remember who went to rehab on his own, rather than only after being caught and/or being arrested.  I respected that highly, having had a little issue with drugs and alcohol myself. 

So I became a Favre collector.  He was a great quarterback and sympathetic figure until... and that is the kicker.  There was a point where if Brett Favre had either retired or just switched teams honestly, we all wouldn't hate Brett Favre.  But, alas he didn't follow this path.  In 2007, he forced a trade to the Jets (a team I hate) after he had retired after years of threatening to retire.  Then he went to the Vikings and every year became a retirement deathwatch.  He became an insufferable ass.  Plus, on ESPN, before there was Tim Tebow, there was Brett Favre.  I think we have all forgotten that.

By the time the 2009 season had rolled around, I had long disavowed any rooting interest in Brett Favre.  My Favre jersey was way way in the back of my closet, waiting to be used as a painting coverall, and my Favre player collection had been pared way way down.  Then came the most joyous moment in my football watching life...

The New Orleans Saints had made it to the NFC Championship game and, being season ticket holders to the team, I drove down in one 21 hour shot to watch the game.  Not only did the Saints win in glorious fashion, they put a final "fuck you" on to the career of Brett Favre, as he threw the crushing interception that led to the tying points that sent the game into overtime.  Plus, the Saints beat the ever living hell out of him all game.  It was a very satisfying victory indeed.  I wish today's games could be as good, but I do hope there are some moments that lead to a feeling of satisfaction as thrilling for some team.