Classic card of the week

Jay Buhner, 1989 Topps



During the heyday of my card-collecting, few things set off the alarm of excitement in my heart more than seeing a distinguished logo on a baseball card—a “Rated Rookie” insignia, a “The More You Know”-type colorful “Future Stars” banner bursting across the center of the card, or, as in this case, a Rookie All-Star trophy goblet logo. To see one of these things meant that you might have something special on your hands. “Something special” being a card that may, in a few decades or so, be worth enough money to cash in and pay off a tiny fraction of a bloated student loan so the creditors will get off your back for two seconds. Or to like, pass down to your son or some crap like that.



Anyway, as you can see here, Jay Buhner drank his beverage of choice—Buhner Juice: a potent long-standing family recipe of orange juice mixed with pretzel stand and school play intermission refreshment-famed “orange drink,” and vodka—from the Topps All-Star Rookie trophy goblet, a luxury he was afforded after blasting 10 ding-dongs in only 192 at-bats with the Mariners in 1988. Jay Buhner as a baseball revelation was cause for great joy in Seattle; great lament in New York.



Now, I know what you’re thinking: Sure, Jay Buhner liked to play baseball. But what I really want to know is—what sports did Jay Buhner enjoy watching, so that I can be like Jay Buhner and watch similar sports?







Jay’s favorite spectator sports are pro basketball and baseball.



Jay Buhner: I’ll watch a pro basketball game or two. None of that college crap! With the two-handed bounce pass … pfftt. Gimmie a break. Long live the Supersonics!



Jay Buhner’s wife’s friend’s husband, Jim, who Jay Buhner just met: I have a basketball in my garage. Wanna shoot around?



Buhner: Dammit, Jim—I said I’ll watch a game or two. I gotta play stupid baseball 162 times a season all over the freakin’ place and I’m sick of it! Can I be a spectator here for like two seconds?! Sheesh. Now put on the game and hand me my Buhner Juice.



Jim: Sure, here. What else do you like to watch?



Buhner: I like to watch baseball. And "Saved by the Bell: The College Years." That's all the college entertainment I need.



Players who had the greatest influence on his career were Willie Stargell and Bucky Dent.



I have no comment here, other than to say that, while thinking of a comment, I Wiki’d Bucky Dent to see if he like, coached Jay Buhner or something, because, ya’ know: why else would someone name Bucky Dent as an influence other than because of his famous home run, which wasn’t so much an influence as it was a thing that happened? And I came across this. See if you can follow:



Dent was born 25 November 1951, in Savannah, Georgia, to Dennis O'Dey and Russell "Shorty" Stanford.



Bucky Dent was born to two dudes. Got it.



He went home from the hospital with his mother's brother and his wife, James Earl and Sarah Dent. He and his half-brother were raised by the Dents, and they changed his last name to theirs, but his mother would not allow them to legally adopt him.



Recommended easier way to say this: "Aunt and uncle." Also, is his mother “Dennis” or “Shorty?”



He and his half-brother thought of the Dents as their parents, and until he was ten years old, Dent believed his biological mother was his aunt. Later in life, she mentioned the name of his father, whom Dent tracked down and developed a relationship with.



Happy 10th birthday, Bucky! Hope you like the cake. Also, I am not your actual mother. No biggie. For your 18th birthday I may “mention” the name of man you might be interested in developing a relationship with. Okay, make a wish!



Sorry for the tangent there. Probably more apropos for a Bucky Dent card, but what can I say—he is a great influence on my blogging. As is Wikipedia.



Anyhoo, Jay Buhner went on to have a very nice career, hitting over 300 home runs and having the marketability of a shaved head and goatee that garnered him immense popularity in and around Seattle. Scientists believe that had the Yankees never traded him, they—the Yankees, not the scientists—would have won 12 consecutive World Series. So there’s that. Jay Buhner remains in Washington, a most intimidating spectator.

Like Plax, but pink

Not to bring up this again, but ... this.

Classic card of the week

Mike Greenwell, 1989 Sports Illustrated for Kids

Here is another of my Sports Illustrated for Kids perforated baseball cards which I tore out of the magazine and which is worth at least $700. What makes it so expensive is the beautiful blue-green splotchy design, which resembles a line of low-end kitchen countertops.



Mike joined the Red Sox’ regular starting lineup in June 1987, and he still hit 19 homers and drove in 89 runs that season.

“Despite playing baseball, Mike Greenwell acquired good baseball statistics.”

In 1988, he batted .325 with 22 homers and 119 RBIs for the American League East division champs. He also led the league by driving in 23 game-winning runs.

Greenwell finished second in the ’88 AL MVP voting to Jose Canseco, who became baseball’s first 40-40 man that year and who recently pitched “6 strong innings to knock of funky Fielders lineup,” whatever that means. By keeping generally quiet and doing the opposite of everything Jose Canseco has done since 1988, Mike Greenwell has won the ’88 AL MVP of America’s heart.

How many more RBIs did Mike have in 1988 than he had in 1987?

Don’t patronize me, Sports Illustrated for Kids. I subscribe to your magazine of words and data—if I can send in a renewal check, I can do simple mathematics. Jerks. Also, it's "RBI," not "Runs Batted Ins."

Amazingly, SI for Kids offers little in the way of useful information. Where, oh where, can we turn for that?

Greenwell owns a 890-acre (3.6 km2)

I thoroughly enjoy how Wikipedia consistently posts alternate measurements for things, as if this is necessary for a person coming to Wikipedia for information. What the heck is an acre and how am I supposed to know how much land former Red Sox player Mike Greenwell owns in measurements I can understand??!!! (yelled in a British accent)

ranch in Alva, Florida, on which he grows fruits and vegetables. He runs an amusement park in Cape Coral, Florida called "Mike Greenwell's",

Mike Greenwell: I don’t care what ya’ll call the dang amusement park! I got fruit to harvest! Just make sure the people know it’s mine.

which opened in February 1992. He also coached both of his sons, Bo and Garrett … Upon his retirement from baseball, Greenwell began driving late-model stock cars.

That is such a cliché it barely warrants mentioning.

In May 2006 he made his Craftsman Truck Series debut at Mansfield Motorsports Speedway for Green Light Racing, starting 20th and finishing 26th. In 2010, Greenwell had given up racing.

Mike Greenwell: Former almost MVP, vegetable farmer, carnie, coach, father, late-model stock car driver, retired late-model stock car driver, not necessarily in that order, but kind of. Too bad he wasn’t a prankster.

“The Gator”
Greenwell received his nickname during spring training in Winter Haven. He had captured an alligator, taped its mouth shut, and put it in Ellis Burks's locker.

Mike Greenwell: Ellis Burks is our teammate. Let us prank him!

Todd Benzinger: Indeed!

Greenwell: Any ideas?

Benzinger: We could order pizzas to his house, and he will be surprised because he’ll be like, “Whaaaaat? I didn’t order pizzas!” and he’ll have to pay for the pizza and eat it!

Greenwell: Okay, okay, not bad. But how about this—I capture an alligator and then tape its mouth shut and leave it in his locker!

Benzinger: Wow. Ummm, okay. Well, uh … what kind of tape are you going to use?

Greenwell: I don’t know—haven’t thought it through yet. I mean, not Scotch, if that’s your concern.

Benzinger: Okay, how about this: You do that, and I’ll do the pizza thing, and we’ll see which one he likes better.

Greenwell: Okay. But I have a feeling they’ll be calling you, “Pizza” for decades. Are you willing to take that risk?

Benzinger: I’m willing. Let’s do this!

Did you know?
There were two roller coasters at Mike Greenwell's amusement park. The Florida Board of Safety shut down one. How many roller coasters were left?

When Arizona hands you scorpions, make lemon juice or something

Note: This column appears in the 7/14 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/15 issue of the Peoria Times

Many thought it wasn’t possible, but here is how you go to the same store four times in the span of about two hours.

We had just returned home from an extended holiday weekend, and there was no food in the house, so I went to the grocery store. When I got there, I realized I had forgotten my wallet. The good news was that it was only 118-degrees outside with 90-percent post-monsoon humidity, so getting back into the car I just finished driving for seven straight hours because I am an idiot was a very appealing and exciting thing for me to do. This was my first trip.

I got my wallet and went back to the store. I did my usual thing that I do at the grocery store, where I walk around confused and buy things and forget stuff. I was almost done when my wife called to see where I was. She was wondering if I could come home asap—she had just been stung by a scorpion.

Had she not sounded so relatively calm and composed, I probably would have reacted even more panicked. As it was, I rushed my cart to the front of the store, located a girl who was bagging groceries, and said something along the lines of, “My wife was just stung by a scorpion. Here’s my cart.” She looked at me with the concern of someone who had just told her, “Today is Tuesday,” and said, “Are you coming back?” I yelled, “I don’t knooooowwww …” as I ran out of the store. This was my second trip.

This was a nice welcome back to Arizona—insufferable heat and scorpions, the latter of which we thought we had rid ourselves of. Freakin’ scorpions. My wife, thank God, was okay. She was well and brave enough, actually, to be upset with me for leaving all the stuff at the store. Chivalry is overrated when it’s time for dinner. I was going back, but because encountering one scorpion makes it seem like you’re under attack, I brought my daughter with me.

They left my cart in the floral refrigerator. After making a scene while exiting just minutes earlier, no one seemed overly concerned about my situation until the cashier looked at my daughter and said, “Is she the one who got stung?” I was like, really? If she just got stung by a scorpion do you think I’d be here buying fish sticks right now? Man. This was my third trip.

My in-laws were concerned, obviously. While video chatting with them shortly after I returned from the store, my father-in-law urged my wife to drink a shot of lemon juice mixed with garlic and honey to ease the pain. The lemon juice with honey and garlic combination is my father-in-law’s cure-all for everything. He has it in his cereal every morning, just in case. If he ever saw a leper, he would douse them with this combination and say, “Don’t worry—you’ll feel better soon.” We didn’t have any lemons, and my wife felt bad that I had already been to the store three times. She asked my father-in-law if the lemons were necessary, and he became increasingly upset at the idea of compromising his cure-all as a result of laziness.

I went back to the store to get lemons. This was my fourth trip. The cure-all made my wife feel better. She is a trooper. I canceled our bug guy and called a new one. It’s good to be back.


This works, too, ironically.

Classic card of the week

Wade Boggs, 1989 Score “1988 Highlight” series

I always thought this Todd Worrell was my most “that’s what she said” card. And it still may be. But the back-of-the-card-tidbit title alone on this Wade Boggs beauty gives Worrell a run for its suggestive money.



WADE WHACKS ‘EM

Yes. That is one way of putting it. Elaborate, please.

Wade, who has been called a hitting metronome,

By whom? Who has called Wade Boggs a “hitting metronome?” If I ever heard anyone describe Wade Boggs as a hitting metronome, my first immediate thought would be, “‘Metronome?’" Not because I don’t know what the word means, or what that statement implies, but because a) why? and b) I’m not certain anybody ever said that, and so I think you, Score, are lying. Wikipedia defines a metronome as “any device that produces regular, metrical ticks (beats, clicks) — settable in beats per minute.” They add, “Boggsian. Like Wade Boggs, the baseball player, in the way it produces metrical ticks.”

did something with his bat

Because we are in TWSS territory, I am hoping that this will be about the great and consistent manner by which Wade Boggs hit baseballs with his bat, as opposed to something else that I do not care to discover.

in 1988 that no other player in the 20th Century has ever done.

“Metronome sets 20th century bat-related mark,” was the headline of the Boston Herald one day in the fall of ’88.

He banged out 200 hits

Bill, Score editor: Dick, you bang out that Boggs card yet?

Dick, Score writer: Almost, Bill. Actually, had a question for you: Would you say that Boggs whacks balls, or bangs ‘em?

Bill: Hmmm, good question. I’ve seen him do both. Why don’t you use “whacks” as a lede and “bangs” in the middle …

Dick: Good call.

for the sixth consecutive season, an unprecedented feat, and only topped by Wee Willie

That’s what she said.

Keeler’s eight in a row way back in the 1890s.

Listen, we can talk all day about 19th and 20th century metronomes, but the long and short of it is this, as the title suggests—Wade whacks ‘em. “’Em” being balls. Hard.

Did you know?
I am not proud of all this. Nevertheless.

Four years later, potential unrealized, but happiness sustained

Note: This column appears in the 6/30 issue of The Glendale Star and the 7/1 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife and I moved here to Arizona four years ago this very week. Since then, the following things have happened:

We were forced to refinance. We purchased our home, unbeknownst to us at the time, at the height of the real estate market. It is not classy, apparently, to talk about how much one spent on his home, so let’s just say we paid enough, at like a 26.3 percent interest rate. When the bottom fell out of the national real estate market and Arizona fell further down than most, our payments remained the same but our home dropped in value exponentially and suddenly we had no neighbors, construction halted, and we were surrounded by empty homes and vacant lots until renters began to move in and their dogs would relieve themselves on our property, which continues to this day.

Many things we liked, including people, are gone. Four years ago, a great part of our excitement in moving was the chance to live near several good friends who had already settled in the Valley. Many of those friends, for reasons both economic and personal, have moved back from whence they came. So glad you guys are here! Peace, I’m out! Even dining establishments have abandoned us. Though difficult to find food that approaches our east coast standards, we did manage to locate a few gems … which are now, with almost zero exceptions, gone. There used to be a really good Greek pita place near our house. One day I went there to pick up some falafels, and when I walked in I found myself inside a T-Mobile store. I walked out with no falafels, but a new phone, which I did not need, but used to order a terrible pizza. The T-Mobile store is now gone.

Arizona became more famous for its questionable politics than its weather. When we first moved here, our friends and family back east would eagerly ask us how hot it was during the summer, and then avoid asking us how awesome it was during the winter. Now we get emails asking if we’ve ever seen John McCain shaking his fist angrily at a car going 30 mph in a 25, or if we saw the hilarious expose of some recent-passed Arizona legislation on The Daily Show. We were able to return fire during Weinergate, but still.

Sports and entertainment are flailing. Whenever guests visit during the winter months, the one thing we always try to do—and this is totally true; not just for the purposes of this column—is take them to Westgate and a Coyotes game. As it stands now, the Coyotes have one skate out the Valley door and Westgate is bankrupt. It’s hard to believe that a desert ice hockey team couldn’t withstand its own annual economic losses, despite a city’s best efforts, and immediately after I openly declared myself a fan, yet it may in fact happen. And while Westgate may not see a change, it may want to alter its approach—Scottsdale 2.0 was a good idea, but I’m not so sure many people in this area, in lieu of a hockey game, will go to “Men's Ultimate Grooming.” Anyway, I’m not sure where we’ll take our guests this winter. Maybe Kohls and then Chili’s?

All of this begs the question: Do we regret our decision? Not in the least. Arizona—the West Valley in particular—has been an amazing blessing for us for so many reasons, despite the aforementioned misfortunes. With regards to those misfortunes, I still believe things will turn around. Who knows—maybe our ice hockey team will survive, and we’ll get a bobsled team, too. Maybe we’ll make new friends, who own an awesome restaurant. Maybe Jan Brewer will post progressive ideas on Twitter. Either way, we’re in it for the long haul, and happy to be here.

Classic card of the week

Bo Jackson

Crack, the horrible and deadly addictive drug, was introduced to the streets in the 1980s by—according to noted historian Kanye West—Ronald Reagan, who “cooked up” the drug and planted it in the streets because … I’m not sure what his motive was there, actually.

Anyway, in the 80s there were two sides to the crack issue: those who liked and enjoyed crack, and those who opposed crack. As a means of adding brevity and friendly competitiveness to an otherwise extremely violent and heart-wrenching situation, MTV, in what would ultimately become the first of its popular Rock n’ Jock Series, in which people like Dan Cortese could hit a 10-point basketball shot, decided to host a baseball game.

Through which spectrum the nation as a whole viewed the crack issue would be decided by this baseball game. On one side was the “Turn Your Back on Crack” team, led by actual baseball AND football player Bo Jackson, who once single-handedly defeated a bumblebee. They had blue hats and uniforms. Their motto was, “No Caine,” in which the “0” in “No” was struck-through, which kinda made it seem like were against not having cocaine, but most people, I think, got the intended message. There were no other team members.

On the other side was “Team Crack,” a team of crack addicts. They were led by Jimmy, a.k.a. “Jim-Jam,” who event organizers found asleep in the stadium parking lot the morning of the game. Their uniforms were jeans and their motto was, “Gimmie Some Crack!” No one from Team Crack showed up for the game, including Jim-Jam, who never returned to the field after excusing himself to go use a payphone.

In an effort to be sensitive to the issue at hand, there were no first and third base lines, so all balls were in play. That's what she said. As a safety precaution, all fans were asked to sit in the upper decks, as games with a “crack” theme did not traditionally end well.

Fortunately for America, Turn Your Back on Crack won the game 26-4, thanks in large part to Bo Jackson’s “blonk-a-donk” hit in the fifth inning, which was a ball that bounced off of three seats in the stands and which, by Rock n’ Jock rules, earned his team 20 “blonker points.”

And with that, it was decided: Crack was bad, and people, especially kids, if offered crack, should turn their back on the drug. Said Jackson after the game, into a microphone held by Michael Rappaport while “YMCA” played in the background, “Remember, there’s nothing we can’t accomplish by literally looking the other way!”

Then he broke his bat over his thigh to thunderous applause. It was then that Jim-Jam returned, looking for his left sneaker and asking if anyone had a few bucks for the bus.

Rebuttal

I just really like that word. I also have one, here.

Classic card of the week

Doug Drabek, 1991 Fleer Ultra

The trinity of attaining pitching excellence is as follows, in order of importance: 1) smile, 2) pitch, and 3) hit without looking like a total doofus. And as Meatloaf once said, specifically with regards to Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Doug Drabek—many people don’t know that—two out of three ain’t bad.

Let us begin:



The last time the Pittsburgh Pirates had a pitcher lead the league in victories, Doug Drabek wasn’t even born.

Because a specific date doesn’t always tickle my fancy, I enjoy relating the length of time by which something happened to the age/nonexistence of a different person. For example, if you were to say, “On December 7, 1941, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,” I would be like, “???” But if you were to say, “When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, Bill Cosby was four years-old,” I’d be like, “Okay—I get that.”

Also, taking note that this is a 1991 baseball card, a more accurate way for this sentence to read would be: "The last time the Pittsburgh Pirates had a pitcher lead the league in victories, Doug Drabek was that pitcher." Now that, my friends, is a lede. But I digress.

Bob Friend led the NL in victories in 1958 with 22.

If you retain no other baseball statistic in your entire life, remember this one. It is on the test to get into heaven.

Also, the last Pittsburgh 20 game winner was John Candelaria (20-5) in 1977, when Drabek was all of 15-years-old.

I mean, 15 isn’t all that young, really. Wasn’t Freddy Adu 15 when he won the World Cup? I would have said something like, “John Candelaria was the last Pirates 20-game winner in 1977,” or, better yet, I wouldn’t have mentioned John Candelaria at all. In fact, if I were in charge, the entire back of this card would be two sentences which would read, “Doug Drabek won 22 games in 1990, which is cool, if you like wins, which mean close to nothing for a pitcher. Infinitely more important was his 1.06 WHIP, although he struck out one hundred fewer batters than innings pitched, so basically, he pitched like he does every year, only his teammates hit better, and speaking of hitting …” Then I would cover the rest of the empty space with these:









Did you know?
Doug’s son, Kyle Drabek, currently pitches for the Toronto Blue Jays. He was part of the trade that brought Kyle Drabek to the Blue Jays, as the Drabeks recall it.

Vampire weekend

Last weekend my wife and I attended a vampire-themed adult birthday party. As I am wont to do when it comes to readying myself for a vampire party, I waited until the last minute to consider what I would do for a vampire costume.

My original idea was to wear two popped-collared polo shirts, khakis, and cons and go as Vampire Weekend. But I decided against that because I didn’t know anybody going to the party and I feared the outfit would go over like a lead balloon.

Me: Hi, I’m Mike.

Person Dressed as Vampire: Hi, I’m Mark. Looks at me up and down, awkward silence…

Me: I’m Vampire Weekend.

Person Dressed as Vampire: What’s that?

Me: Oh, they’re a band, kind of like, intentionally preppy, but actually pretty awesome …

Person Dressed as Vampire: Is it a one-person band with no instruments?

Me: No, there’s a few guys in the band, but uhhh, I don’t have any friends here, so …

Person Dressed as Vampire: Oh, okay. Cool. I’m Dracula. Dracula is a vampire.

Repeat conversation 28 times throughout night.

I was trying to avoid dressing as a standard vampire because my wife had purchased vampire capes at Party City for each of us, and I wanted to return one because I thought it was way too expensive for a vampire cape purchased in May. Vampire capes purchased in May at Party City should cost three dollars. We talked about me wearing and then returning it, but I knew that I would definitely, without question, spill something on it, rendering me unable to return it, which would cause a fight later. Believe me—it wouldn’t be the first time my wife got upset because I spilled something on a vampire cape we were hoping to return to the store at a later date.

I then had the idea—only because I wanted to wear shorts—to go as Eddie Munster. There was much discussion as to whether or not Eddie Munster was even a vampire. My wife said that his dad was Frankenstein, but his grandfather—or was it uncle? I don’t know—was a vampire. We were too short on time to Google it, so I yelled downstairs to my parents to ask.

Yes, my parents had just gotten into town, visiting us from New Jersey. Two hours after their arrival, we left them at the house to go to a vampire party. But not before I loud-whispered to them, because our daughter was sleeping, from upstairs, asking, “Mom, dad, pssstttt! Was Eddie Munster a vampire?” My mom’s response was, “What about the mustard?” and my dad just laughed. They did not have an answer.

So I went as Eddie Munster. No one really questioned it, at least to my face, and I was happy, and my legs were cool, and I had lots of fun. Most of the vampire costumes were pretty awesome. In fact, almost every female there including my wife was wearing the same exact Party City cape, which was a nice ice breaker. There was also a couple there dressed as The Joker and a court jester. The offshoot theme was the Twilight series, so I am assuming that the Twilight movies, which I have never seen, feature The Joker and a court jester, especially since the court jester won "best vampire costume." I, however, won the award for "tallest Eddie Munster," which was not an actual award until I asked our wonderful host if it could be, and she allowed it.

On Monday my wife wrote on my facebook wall that Eddie Munster was a werewolf or something. I deduced from the commercials that there is at least one werewolf in Twilight, so I was okay, according to the two-degrees of Eddie Munster theory.

Come eat free onion rings and make me feel better about myself

Note: This column appears in the 5/12 issue of The Glendale Star and the 5/13 issue of the Peoria Times

On Friday May 20, from 3 to 5 p.m., I will be at Firebirds Restaurant in Peoria signing copies of my new and only book, So, Do You Like … Stuff? I have absolutely no idea what this is going to be like.

My biggest fear, of course, is that no one will show up. To combat this, I have kindly asked all three of my friends who live in Arizona to come and support me. My plan, if no one else shows, is to pretend that I do not know these people, sign their books, pose for pictures (with the forthcoming captions describing them as “fans”), and then demand that they go home, change clothes, and come back. My only fear, of course, is that they won’t show up.

Luckily, my parents are almost certain to be there. They are traveling all the way from New Jersey, not so much for this as to, as my dad said, “check out more of Phoenix … do they have a zoo or something?” but still. It is certain to be a very emotional event for them. When I was a sophomore in high school, I was almost suspended from school because I, in an effort to make my friends laugh, walked into a nearby liquor store, picked up two bottles of something and danced like an idiot in the direction of the store clerk, put the bottles back then ran away, at which point the cops picked me up. It was the best ride home ever! Undoubtedly my parents wondered if I’d ever amount to something, and now they will proudly watch me sign copies of my book—one chapter is about clogging the toilet—for several friends who I am pretending are strangers.

Also, many of the subjects of my weekly columns will be there. For example, a stray shopping cart, some giant flying tacos, and several local dentists, pending approval by Firebirds. And who knows? Maybe a certain one-year old who I write about way too often will be in attendance screaming with joy, or anger, or for no reason whatsoever. She gives hi-fives now, so that should kill an hour or so.

Actually, speaking of her … Shortly after we adopted our daughter last summer and I wrote about it, we traveled back east for a mini vacation. When I returned to work, a pile of mail sat on my desk, as expected. As I sifted through the pile, however, I pulled out a few heartfelt, congratulatory cards from several loyal readers. Besides the overwhelming gratitude I felt towards those wonderful people who took the time to acknowledge such a life-altering event, it was a seminal moment for me personally, as it made me say—wow, people are actually reading my column.

So, if you are indeed one of the confirmed several people who enjoy, tolerate, or just indifferently read the column, please stop by Firebirds next Friday. I want to thank you. I want to thank you mostly by selling you my book, but also with a handshake, or maybe a hug if it’s deemed appropriate. You’re not a pervert, are you? We’ll see, I guess.

Bring your copy of So, Do You Like … Stuff? or buy one there. I will write or even draw almost anything you want inside the book. I’ll be set up near the bar area, where happy hour prices will be in effect. Appetizers will be complimentary. Also, please bring a change of clothes, and maybe a wig, just in case.

Classic card of the week

Mauro Gozzo, 1990 Score

Mauro Gozzo. Let’s gizzo:



Mauro, who is nicknamed “Goose,”

This is a true story. One time I was playing a baseball-themed board game, and one of the categories featured scrambled letters, and with those letters you had to figure out the actual player’s name. When I drew that category, my letters read: “ G O O Z E G O S Z O.” I was stumped, and as a joke I guessed “Pat Tabler.” I made up that story.

presented the Indians his credentials for a spot in their bullpen in 1991
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Goose Gozzo, dressed in an Armani suit that features a detailed stitched calligraphy of a goose head on the back of the sport coat, walks into the front offices of the Cleveland Indians. An executive rises to meet him …

Executive: Mauro, welcome. Come in, have a seat. Sanka?

Goose: No thank you.

Executive: It’s decaf … ?

Goose: I don’t want to waste my time or yours. May I present to you my credentials for inclusion in your pitching bullpen during this, the year of nineteen-ninety-one.

Goose hands the executive a manilla folder. In the folder is a single sheet of paper. The executive pulls the paper from the folder and gently puts on his reading glasses.

Executive: All this paper reads is, “Put me in your bullpen … or else!”

Goose: Turn it over.

The executive turns over the piece of paper, which reveals a drawing, in crayon, of a decapitated goose. There is lots of red crayon blood.

Executive: Okay, I’m confused. You’re “Goose,” so are you saying if we don’t put you in the bullpen, you’re going to kill yourself?

Goose: Darn it. No … it’s supposed to mean that if you don’t put me the bullpen, I’m going to kill a goose and leave the head in your bed, so as to convince you to put me in the bullpen.

Executive: Ooooohhh, I get it! You can see how I got confused though, right?

Goose: Yeah. I was going to draw you decapitated, ya’ know, but I didn’t know what you looked like until I walked in here before.

Executive: No, no, I like this better. Really. Anyway, uh … yeah, whatever. You can pitch the seventh inning and uh, during blowouts, okay?

Goose: Deal. Can I get that Sanka now?

He caused quite a stir at the end of ’89 when he came up from Syracuse and won the first four major league games he appeared in – three as a starter and one in relief.

The stir that Mauro “Goose” Gozzo caused in Toronto and all throughout America by winning his first four major league appearances equaled, as deduced by a Canadian mathematician: Fernando Mania times 100 + Michael Jackson “Thriller” premiere – all of that times 0.

Did you know?
Mauro Gozzo is the only Goose not in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

City fighting waste with waste, #winning

Note: This column appears in the 4/28 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/29 issue of the Peoria Times

Recently, the City of Glendale expanded its recycling program. Unfortunately, this expansion did not include plastic grocery bags, which cannot be recycled because, according to Debbie Coy, Glendale Recycling Coordinator, they “gum up the machinery.” Not cool, bags.

My wife and I try to do our part in the ongoing fight against plastic bags. For one thing, we have several reusable shopping bags. Granted, we almost always forget to bring them to the store, but the point is—we have them. We also reuse the plastic bags we acquire as garbage bags in our tiny garbage can. Because these bags often have holes in them, I typically go through a roll of paper towels cleaning up the coffee grinds and miscellaneous liquids the bags leak when I go to dispose of them. Such is the nature of saving nature.

Unfortunately, cities like Glendale and Peoria cannot rely solely upon the commitment of environmentally conscious, vegetarian, hippie citizens such as my wife and I. And every time I see a plastic Safeway bag stuck to a cactus, my heart aches. Luckily, West Valley cities like Glendale are actively joining the fight, and not just with an awareness walk.

According to the Arizona Republic, Glendale is reusing plastic bags at city parks. For dog poop.

Now, I know what you’re saying: What about those fancy poop bags? Local citizen Heather Gabaldon, for one, was quoted as saying, “You don’t need the fancy poop bags.” I think many of us would agree with Heather, especially the City of Glendale, which “typically spent $2,000 annually for dog waste bags.”

Taxpayers can rest assured that in the future, a much smaller fraction of our tax dollars will be spent on fancy dog waste bags. And while $2,000 may seem like a lot of money, bags ain’t free, except at the grocery store, which is why this idea is so genius. Who better than our local grocer to foot the bill for our dog waste cleanup efforts?

Some have argued, why not eliminate plastic bags altogether or at least purchase machinery that doesn’t “gum up” so easily? Well, San Francisco is the only city that has successfully banned plastic bags in grocery stores, but other cities that have attempted to do so have met resistance. The issue of plastic bags does not, unfortunately, transcend politics, and Republicans and Democrats alike fear we may regress as a society to the point where we are carrying individual items of stores by hand and cleaning up dog poop with shovels like they did in the 1940s.

According to Coy, plastic bags take about 1,000 years to break down. With the help of this program, the bags will still take 1,000 years to break down in landfills, but they will have poop in them. So … yeah. Plus, dog waste itself is biodegradable and a natural fertilizer, and we don’t want that messing up the planet.

Of course, I kid. This is a great idea. In fact, I reuse plastic grocery bags for my own dog’s waste. Well-versed in this process, I should reiterate my earlier point—watch out for holes. (Those fancy poop bags are so expensive because they’re built much sturdier.) If you get any on your hands, I recommend an hour-long, hot shower, which always feels good after a long day of saving the planet.


Ooh, la, la ... so fancy! But, are you sure that won't gum up my toilet?

Classic card of the week

Tommy Gregg, 1991 Score

They say you should never trust a guy with two first names. And I should know, because I am one of those guys. I don’t even trust myself sometimes, and I am often forced to hire an independent arbitrator to review my own internal decisions. My untrustworthy parents chose to perpetuate this reality by not bestowing on me a last name as a first name—my choice: Clutterbuck Kenny—in order to balance things out, and so I am forced to wallow in a virtual force field of untrustworthiness. Just do yourself a favor and don’t believe anything I say. Except the following rambling account of nonsense, which is all true.

Luckily, Tommy Gregg is exempt from this popular mantra because it is canceled out by a separate mantra that states, “Never trust a guy named ‘Gregg.’” Also, Mr. Gregg’s full name is William Thomas Gregg, which is not only presidential (all presidents and people who sound like presidents should be trusted unconditionally), but also translates to the name, Bill Tom Gregg, which is the whitest name for a white person in the history of names. And as the old Native American saying goes, “If you can’t trust a white guy, then who can you trust?”

But besides all that, Tommy Gregg could, in fact, be trusted, especially during that most crucial of times when trust is personified—the clutch.



When Tommy wasn’t playing the outfield or platooning at first base with Francisco Cabrera in ’90,

He was at home in his wife beater eating hot pockets and watching Muppet Babies. I cannot imagine another way for this long-winded lede to conclude.

he was coming off the bench as one of the National League’s premier pinch-hitters.

Far be it from me to poke holes in the writeups on the back of early 90’s Score baseball cards for the amusement of a very, very select few, but: wouldn’t he be coming off the bench to do exactly those things he could be found doing when he was not coming off the bench? This would sort of be like saying, “When the alternative metal band Mudvayne isn’t in the studio recording albums, they are coming out with albums.”

In one game,

Small sample size is a myth. Show me a game where Tommy Gregg did something good, and I’ll show you a Hall of Famer named Tommy Gregg.

his two-run pinch double in the ninth defeated the Reds 4-3,

The Reds miraculously recovered from these Tommy Gregg clutch shenanigans to win the World Series. Other than that though, Tommy Gregg won the battle and the war.

and in another

Another game? How many games does Tommy Gregg have to be awesome in to get a full-time gig? Three? Four? I mean really.

he smashed a bases-loaded triple.

Of course he smashed it. All of Tommy Gregg’s triples bounce violently off the top of the outfield wall and would have been home runs in any other park.

Tommy even had clutch hits when he was in the regular lineup.

If you don’t believe in clutch, this sentence reads, “Tommy even had hits when he was in the lineup,” to which I would reply, “WHAT ARE YOU FREAKIN SERIOUS AWESOME!!!!!!!!”

His three-run homer in the eighth inning beat the Expos 3-2 and he went 4-for-4 in another game.

The lesson: If you’re playing another game, just try and stop Tommy Gregg. Seriously, just try.

A gung-ho line-drive hitter

Indeed, Tommy Gregg hit line drives not only consistently, but also with great enthusiasm and with little regard for the outcome. Oftentimes, as the pitcher was in his windup, Tommy Gregg would grunt and scream loudly, “And here comes a line drive right back ATCHA! …” If he were forced to take the pitch for a ball, or swung and missed, or did anything short of hitting a screaming line drive, awkwardness ensued.

Did you know?
According to Wikipedia, Tommy Gregg holds private hitting lessons in a room in his house in Peachtree City, Georgia, which is the world's greatest recorded pick-up line, and eventually led to the popular line of t-shirts that read, "I hit a home run in Tommy Gregg's dining room."

Classic card of the week

Bobby Witt, 1990 Fleer

Part of the reason why I find the “Did you know” on the back of baseball cards so darn enjoyable is because it often strains to highlight the good, even if the player featured is/was not very good. For example, let’s say a hypothetical player—we’ll call him “Luis Castillo … son;” yes, “Luis Castilloson,” is not very good, but still plays baseball professionally. His “Did you know” can easily avoid this fact. Hypothetical example:

DID YOU KNOW? Luis was MVP of his seventh-grade Little League team … batted .301 during a seven-game stretch for the Cornsville Cornballers in ’96 … has three daughters with wife Jill … only 5th player in MLB history to hit a double with both shoelaces untied, 6/23/07 … counts eating steak among his various hobbies.

See? Easy. So it’s a bit surprising and confusing when a card, rather than draw from the well of arbitrary statistics and random personal accomplishments and interests, opts instead to focus on like, reality. Enter Bobby Witt:



DID YOU KNOW? Had highest ERA among starters …

And we’re off! By one statistical measure, I am viewing the card of the worst pitcher in baseball. Got it. Sweet! How much is this card worth? One hundred dollars? Probably.

Walked 100 or more batters for fourth straight year …

If I am person who, oddly yet feasibly, is learning about baseball only by collecting and studying baseball cards, and I am reading the back of this Bobby Witt card, I am thinking to myself, “Why do the Texas Rangers employ Bobby Witt to play baseball for them?” Then again, I suppose I could draw a similar conclusion by watching him actually pitch, but maybe this would reveal that he is a good chemistry guy with grit and heart and scrap and all those things can’t be captured with “statistics” like “Did you know?” words.

In 1987 tied ML record for most strikeouts in an inning with four …

And there’s my answer to why the Rangers love him—for quirky major league records! Not mentioned is that during this inning, Witt walked 12 batters and gave up six earned runs. Still, it was worth it.

Led AL in wild pitches in 1986 and tied for the lead in 1988 …

Wikipedia notes that many in Arlington began to call him “Witt ‘n Wild” as a play on the waterpark Wet ‘n Wild, which was located next to Arlington Stadium. I think I would have understood that reference even if the park wasn’t next to the stadium, but that the park was next to the stadium is pretty awesome, and actually improves that nickname by at least 60-percent.

All American at Oklahoma in 1985 … Member of 1984 U.S. Olympic baseball team …

Now c’mon—why you gotta go and mention things like that for? Geez, give the guy a break.

Struck out in only ML at bat.

That’s better. Hey, did you know this American League pitcher, who was a pitcher and not a hitter, struck out during his only at-bat? Ha, ha! What a loser! Honestly though—why is this even mentioned? It’s like someone is being malicious at this point.

Granted, this is not the most negative back-of-the-card tidbit ever produced. Not by a long shot. But still. I mean, sure—Bobby Witt had come control issues, obviously. But isn’t there something endearing about a guy who throws hard as heck but just can’t seem to harness it? I mean, not if he plays for your favorite team, but ya’ know … otherwise?

Anyway, I’m going to finish with a positive “Did you know?” This one’s for you, Bobby.

Did you know?
Struck out 160 in 143 IP in ‘87, which = bonkers … Nickname “Witt n’ Wild” rumored to highlight a nightlife that was envy of teammates … recovered from previous lone strikeout to hit a home run in 1997 … saved the rainforest, literally, by himself.

Classic card of the week

Derek Bell, 1996 Upper Deck "Strange But True" series

This is the third time we have approached the subject of Derek Bell around these here, and other, parts. What can I say? Operation Shutdown is an operation that is near and dear to my heart. And as if Operation Shutdown were not strange but true enough, there seems to be even more strange but true aspects of Derek Bell’s game, and his refusal to play it well and/or at all:



The title of this strange but true episode is, “To Catch a Thief.” Interesting to note that, according to Wikipedia and following Operation Shutdown, “Pittsburgh Post-Gazette” sports columnist Mark Madden summarized the incident with "Derek Bell becomes the ultimate Pirate: Lives on a boat and steals money." No other information on the Wiki page alludes to Bell living on a boat, but if he was indeed doing just that, then that is like, the best headline ever. Unrelated to accusations of stealing, Bell was eventually caught for drug possession. My knowledge of pirates begins and ends with Captain Jack Sparrow, but I think it’s safe to say that pirates use drugs, too. So there’s a lot of evidence here of Derek Bell being an actual pirate.

*Tangent: Only because “To Catch a Thief” reminds me of something else … whenever I am flipping channels and “To Catch a Predator” is on, I have to watch it. Have to. I feel like this is wrong, but it is so horribly fascinating that I cannot look away. One thing I always wondered though—they like to draw in the predator with a plate of cookies. Somebody has to bake those cookies, right? Who is responsible for baking the “To Catch a Predator” cookies? Do you think this person brings up this fact at parties? Do you like the cookies? Great! Ya’ know, they’re the same ones I bake for ‘To Catch a Predator!’ Yeah, really! Wait—don’t spit them out!” End tangent*

On June 19, not only did Bell walk on ball five when the umpire miscounted,

I will never understand how this happens. I’m all for humans, but how long is it until computers are calling baseball games? It seems like umpires only exist to protect some perceived sanctity while sacrificing accuracy. You will never convince me that when they appeal to the first or third base umpire on a checked swing that the umpire is not completely guessing. He’s like, Meow, meow, meow, meow, meow, meow … wait, why is everyone looking at me? Ummm … think fast … {Dramatic fist pump} Yer outta here! For strike one! Yeah! Still got it. Whew. I better start paying attention though. What day is today?

but in his next at-bat, the Houston outfielder also reached base and was caught stealing twice in the inning due to an error.

First of all … what? You can’t get caught stealing twice, because if you get caught stealing once, you are required to return to the dugout. If an error was involved, you still were not “caught” stealing. Because of the error. If they are alluding to the fact that the “error” was an error on the umpire’s part in calling him safe with the replay proving otherwise, then a) wow, b) I reiterate my earlier sentiments re: umpires, and c) it’s still not getting “caught.”

Also, and I understand he probably figured he was playing with house money at this point, maybe Derek Bell should stop trying to steal bases. It’s quite possible, however, he was just living out the motto of the cartoon inset here, which reads, “If at first you don’t succeed, slide, slide again,” implying that even if there is a short brick wall in front of the base you are attempting to steal—in this case, “second base,” as the sign helpfully points out—you should simply slide headfirst into this wall repeatedly because … why not? Baseball! The manager in this cartoon reenactment is Dusty Baker.

Did you know?
Chris Hansen is doing important work, yes, but man is that dude smug.

The dying beep of a life-saving device

Note: This column appears in the 3/3 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/4 issue of the Peoria Times

Not long ago my wife called me from a friend’s house to help walk them through a pseudo-emergency. Our friend’s smoke alarm was losing battery power and was beeping intermittently, yet incessantly.

I received the call not because I am a manly man, or because I am adept at diffusing such devices. Quite the opposite with regards to both, actually. I do, however, have major experience with beeping alarms of all varieties. Nevermind that my solutions to these beeping problems have been, for the most part, temporary and/or wrong. I mean, they had to call someone.

My experience with beeping smoke alarms began when we still lived back east. Apparently, these devices lose battery power during extreme weather, so whenever the temperature outside dipped below a certain point and our heating system couldn’t keep up, the intermittent beeps would start. This always—always—happened around 3 a.m., and my wife would jump up worried the house was on fire and begin the evacuation process. I would assure her it was just the battery, and then I would change said battery on the smoke alarm, which wouldn’t work, so I would change it again, and then again.

Changing the battery, thinking it had worked, and then, after crawling back in bed, hearing a faint “beeeep” is one of the great thrills of home ownership. Eventually—after pulling several of these devices out of the ceiling in fits of frustration and stomping on them “Office Space” fax machine-style—I realized the beeps would continue for a while after the battery was changed. When would they stop? Who knew? Wednesday, maybe? It was our favorite game!

The West Valley, though not privy to extreme cold, still boasts complex and outdated smoke alarms that have the battery life of a rechargeable toothbrush. A few factors here make matters even worse. For starters, we now have like, 10 smoke alarms in the house, so when one is losing battery power and beeping, I have to go on a wild goose chase to discover which one it is. Meanwhile, our dog, who would fight an elephant but who is deathly afraid of these beeps, runs around the house barking in an attempt to get outside. Also, our ceilings are much higher here—my head is never more than six inches away from any ceiling in New Jersey—and so I have to chase the beep while carrying a broomstick (for the reset button; never works) and/or our 12-foot ladder.

As if that’s not enough … Unaware our smoke alarms doubled as carbon monoxide detectors, we purchased two separate carbon monoxide detectors for our home inspection when we became foster parents. They plug directly into an outlet and have a battery for back-up power. Somehow, these batteries still get drained. When they beep, my wife, worried carbon monoxide has leaked into the home, jumps up and yells, “We’re not going to die a slow death!” and begins the evacuation process.

The first time I encountered this problem, I simply pulled the carbon monoxide detector out of the outlet. This was the worst decision I have ever made in my entire life. It resulted in one, louder, sustained, ear-piercing beep, and I was convinced either the device or myself was going to spontaneously combust right then and there. I needed a screwdriver to remove the battery, and by the time I was able to accomplish this amidst the chaos and confusion, my ears were ringing and my wife and daughter were huddled in the middle of the street.

So yeah, I have experience. Based on that, I calmly informed my wife to tell our friend to change the battery 12 times and then rip the alarm off the ceiling and smash it to pieces. It was—I feel like I could end each one of my columns with this sentiment—a good thing I was there to help.


The pinnacle of technology.

Classic card of the week

Keith Atherton, 1989 Topps

Dearest baseball,

Where do I start? First, I love you. The way your seams feel in my hands makes me happy. I am smiling. Not on the outside, because I need to strike fear into my opponents by making them believe I will not hesitate to throw you at them. But on the inside.

You are a small little ball, but you have made my wildest dreams come true. Some people criticize your size. They say, “A baseball is too small! A ball that small will never achieve success in America! I can’t even see that ball it’s so small!” But if you were any bigger, I would not be able to throw you with such velocity and accuracy. You proved them all wrong, baseball. We proved them all wrong. I can see you just fine. With my glasses. When I am not wearing my glass, you look like a bloodstain on a blurry white rhombus.

Baseball, you have given me confidence to, among other things, grow a mustache. If it weren’t for you, I’d be working at daddy’s stupid firm. Just another Atherton son at Atherton & Sons. Daddy doesn’t allow facial hair there, because he said it’s “not professional.” Even Bill had to shave his goatee. They’re so white collar those guys—sometimes I don’t even think I’m related. But you, baseball, have afforded me the type of lunch-pail image I have always desired. You were born of fishermen and steel workers looking for additional work with limited pay. Now, I make a ridiculous amount of money throwing you around for what amounts to like, four hours a year. But sometimes I get dirty and sweaty doing so, and my mustache absorbs the sweat, and people like that. They respect that. You have made me who I am, baseball. You have made me … a man. I mean, my fingernails are really dirty right now. I don’t even care.

One day, somebody who has not mistaken me for a different player will ask me to sign you. I will refuse, so as not to diminish your worth. I wish you had hands, baseball, because I would ask you to sign me. Right on my heart, because that is where you have left an indelible mark.

I don’t know if I will ever see you again, because I don’t know if I will pitch today. I wanted to let you know how I feel, right here, right now. I hope you can hear me. If we meet again this afternoon, I want you to know this: If we face Kittle, I’m aiming for the ribs. So do your thing. Meet me on the other side.

All my love,

Keith

Classic card of the week

Dante Bichette, 1996 Upper Deck "You Crash the Game" series

Hey kids—would you like the crash the game? Yeah! Okay, cool! Here are the rules:

Rule No. 1: Try not to have a seizure while looking at this card, so you will be alive and healthy enough to crash the game. It is important to not attempt to read any of the violently reflective text here, which is cleverly disguised as information, but which will, in actuality, give you 0/-2 vision. Do not operate machinery or your bicycle for eight hours after viewing this card.

Rule No. 2: Be open-minded to a new definition of what it means to “crash” an event. Traditionally, to crash something is to show up uninvited and not really care. In this case, we are cordially inviting you to send us money, and the event we are inviting you to crash is not so much a game, but a process by which you send us a check. Don't get caught! Ha, ha. You’re 10—you have checks now, right? Yeah? Good. Let’s crash the game! Here are the real rules:



1) Collect your favorite MLB Superstar’s “You Crash the Game” card.

I got mine right here! Dante freakin’ Bichette, yo. Doesn’t get more superstarry than that. Show me another guy with a mullet wearing shin guards featured on a card that’s like a three-dimensional prism. You can’t. I don’t think.

2) Watch and see if the player on this card hits a Home Run in the series listed on the front of this card.

Uh … okay. I don’t get Rockies games here in not Colorado in 1996, so I’ll have to check the box scores. The front of the card says August 9-11. I’ll be waiting on the edge of my seat! Every morning! For the newspaper! This game is awesooooommmmmeeeeeee!!! Then what do I win? A moped? A chance to crash Dante Bichette’s son’s birthday party?

3) If he hits a Home Run, then mail this card along with a $1.75 check or money order

What’s a money order? I am 10.

payable to Upper Deck Company to: 1996 MLB Collector’s Choice Series

You lost me at “If.”

Two You Crash the Game Trade Card,

That address will not fit on an envelope.

P.O. Box 460774, St. Louis, MO 63146.

I will not do that. I have already forgotten about this contest. I am watching cartoons.

4) We’ll send you back a Super Premium You Crash the Game card of your Crash player.

Wait—do I get this card back? Because I kind of like it. Also, I took this card outside before and the sunlight it redirected caused my neighbor’s tree to catch on fire. I am literally scared to imagine what a “Super Premium” version of this card will do. And as much as I’d love to read the fine print below these directions, which surely explain in detail how you will screw me, a 10-year old, over, I have things to do. I’ll pass, thank you.

Did you know?
He didn’t hit one. Dante Bichette didn’t even play on 8/11/96. In a mild protest that turned violent, dozens of young Bichette fans crashed the field that day.

The King, tacos vie for our fleeting attention

Note: This column appears in the 2/3 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/4 issue of the Peoria Times

My favorite gimmicks occur at sporting events. For whatever reason, many venues and corporations believe that people who attend sporting events need a distraction from a distraction, and do not have the attention span to watch the actual game. They called a timeout? What am I going to do for the next two minutes of my life? Enter the t-shirt canon.

Case in point was our trip to the Coyotes game last weekend. Here is a franchise that endured several years of turmoil and the threat of relocation, and not only survived, but thrived, thanks in large part to the type of loyal fan base for which the sport of hockey is renowned. And hey—you know what would make that fan base’s game experience that much better? Elvis.

As we entered Jobing.com Arena and made our way to our seats, we found ourselves behind an Elvis impersonator along with the emcee for that evening’s crowd-pleasing gimmicks. As we waited for a break in play, I overheard—and by overheard I mean eavesdropped on—a portion of their conversation. The emcee explained to Elvis how the next bit would proceed, and he finished by telling the King, “And then yeah, after that, just do … ya’ know … whatever it is you do.”

I myself was curious as to what Elvis was going to do. The answer, as it turned out, was “not much.” Better yet, it was never once explained why Elvis was there in the first place. What was the connection between Elvis and the Phoenix Coyotes? I guess … who cares? It’s Elvis!

There he was, during every live bit, just standing there to the side. He did the air guitar once. As far as we deduced, he said literally one letter during the whole game. It happened during a fan trivia segment. The fan answered “C” to a multiple-choice Coyotes question, and the emcee then turned to Elvis and asked, “What does Elvis think?” Elvis leaned into the microphone for his one shining moment and said, “C.”

You would think he would have taken that chance to say something like, “I think it’s uh, ‘C.’ Thank you, a thank you very much.” He didn’t even use an Elvis voice to give his one-letter answer, instead opting for, as we later described it, his day-job voice. The whole thing was surreal. Surreally awesome.

We weren’t yet finished laughing about Elvis when they released the giant flying Taco Bell taco over the crowd, which, you may recall, drops down chalupa coupons and not tickets to future games, as I had once falsely assumed. My mom had her camera, which she had only used once during her week-long stay in AZ to take a picture of the moon. Obviously, she took a picture of the flying taco. Then she decided, “What the heck—let me get a picture with my son, too.” She handed her camera to my wife, who noticed that the flying taco had moved closer, and wanted to snap a better picture to save my mom the embarrassment of showing off to friends a distant picture of a flying taco. She snapped the pic, but the flash reflected off the glass boards and ruined it. Right then, the camera’s battery died. My mom returned home after a week in Arizona with a picture of the moon, and two pictures of a giant, flying taco, one of them indistinguishable.

We were foiled and distracted by two gimmicks, but we laughed the entire night. The game was good, too, it seemed.


When in doubt, "C." Now how about some hockey?