A Chestful of Weiners

I'll be brief.  This game shouldn't have been played and not just because it sucked but because the umps didn't care about the 30,000 people who bought tickets to see a game, eat dollar dogs, and watch fireworks.  In the end, a few thousand jackasses remained.  Anthony and I were two of those jackasses but not for the same reason.

Thanks to some crappy ill-conceived traffic patterns in downtown Cleveland (you will not turn left ever), we didn't park the car until about 6:55.  The sky which had cleared after the last down pour was now an ominous deep dark blue.  Intelligently we brush off the dude selling rain ponchos as we were almost at East 9th.  As we crossed East 9th the rain began with a few drops.  By the time we crossed the street, it was pouring and by the time we made it to the gate, it was raining sideways.  Soaked in front and relatively dry in back, we decide to head up to our seats.  The only problem with that idea is that the ramps aren't covered.  Our backs are now as wet as our fronts.  We would remain in a constant state of moisture for the next 6 hours!

Laden with beer, we walk the upper level concourse and whereupon I hear the first stupidest comment ever (there would be so many more), "Clearly it's clearing up over there."  Not.  We order a couple of dollar dogs and as expected, they make the small white buns look like they'd fit a foot long.  As we eat, I notice a crowd next to me.  I am not sure at what point he felt like he needed to worry about the "while supplies last" disclaimer but "clearly" he took it seriously.

Get three dogs ready.  My mistake.  Four dogs....

Finally we play and inning and a half but Kluber looks good so the heavens open and we move to a second rain delay.  A very lengthy rain delay.  After about an hour, the majority of fans begin to leave.  I mean with rain like this, what are the chances?  If you'd have guessed 100% because the umpires hate Indians fans, you'd be spot on!  The fans that remained would not forget.

It rains some more.  Dollar dogs become "2 for 1 Dollar Dogs" and that strange ginger ballpark MC dude gets desperate to entertain the fans.  Not that we need entertaining because there are two games on the big screen, one of which is the Tigers at Orioles.  His idea of entertainment is to go interview his fucking brother who created the "2 for 1" graphic.  I am not sure what was more appalling, that he has a brother or that he thought we fucking cared.  A bit later he returned from some cozy warm spot with Brandy the Rigid calendar model (who I noted did not have a piece of hair out of place) to show us the weather.  With the kids gone, I was able to shout a hearty "FU".

As the breeze picks up, the shivers set in and we procure two large garbage bags from the staff which we use as rain ponchos.

I don't think it's nice, you laughin'

That damned garbage bag was a life saver but by now, I am pruned.  After some hours, Tito walks the field with the umps and we figure, this is it.  But no, the dry as a bone ginger freak pops on the screen to tell us the game will begin at 12:10 so we mosey down to the familiar comforts of Section 138, Row L, Seats 3 and 4 as I figured no one in our group would be stupid enough to stay.  They weren't.

I won't discuss the game.  I will just say that if you're wondering who would have been crazy enough to stay and you're thinking that it was probably douchey Rays fans and frat boys, you'd be correct.  There was one bright spot.  A young man with a piercing demented spirit wail kept us laughing despite the idiocy surrounding us.  Patience wearing thin, we leave at 2:30 after sitting through the 7th inning (seriously, fuck the damned stretch!).  Anthony trashes his poncho, then regrets the decision.  I retain my beloved poncho and it's now familiar ecosystem to the last!

Hillbilly Weekend

What is a four game home and home series versus the Cincinnati Reds?  Oh yeah...Battle of Ohio.  Bring it on!

After dropping the first two in the Queen City (really?) on the tail end of a miserable road trip, I didn't know what to expect except that I wouldn't have to see Chris Perez on the mound.  That being a positive, when the "Nut Job" asked me if I wanted to go on Wednesday, I said "Oh hell yeah".  On a sad note, despite numerous citywide sightings, I've yet to see Samuel L.  Nor has he iMessaged me or asked his iPhone to find my iPhone or asked Siri to look me up (I'm Krononymous dude!).  WTF?

Game 1: Bat Masterson on the mound gives up a solo shot home run to the single most annoying man on the planet.  Luckily we arrived a bit late so I didn't have to see it but I was a tad bit blinded by the radioactive afterglow that follows his dingers.  It's not just that he's a grown man and calls himself "Joey", it's his fanboys.  Well, it is the Queen City.

The Most Annoying Man on the Planet

Upon arriving at our seats, I was disappointed to see that Nut Job's biggest adversary was not in attendance.  Instead it was a couple who I considered to be mother and son.  I know only this, husband is a bit high strung and seems to be taking the game a bit too seriously.  To wit Nut Job responds, "You would too if that was your wife."  Bam!

As I gaze at the score board, I notice that one John Joseph "Jack" Hannahan IV is batting 9th and is the Reds Designated Hitter.  I confess that part of me wants to believe that it's a decent gesture but the logical side of me just thinks it's Dusty Baker being the dick that he is.  Jack goes 0-4 and I cheer him along to each and every out.  I love you Jack Hannahan but I have Mike Aviles now.  He doesn't have the dimples or jumble the junk but he does have a hotter bat...I also don't get to see it enough.

Despite TMAMP's homer, the night belongs to Pepaw.  It's a good thing Gramps can crush the ball, because dude runs about as fast as my mother.  We end the 6th with a 4 run lead.

Mecca Lecca Hi, Mecca Hiney Ho!

Cody Allen and Joe Smith relieve Bat to get us to the 9th and then Vinnie trots out to finish the game.  At this point, the dude next to me goes completely rigid (get your mind out of the gutter).  Dude is tense...he starts muttering "Thanks Tito.  Way to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory!  He can't pitch!  He sucks."  Now I am all for meltdowns but don't be ragging on Vinnie.  So I turn to the gent and offer some counseling.  I tell him to relax, Vinnie will be fine.  He just came off the DL and needs to get back into the swing...crack, oh shit!  Solo home run to lead off the inning.  I can tell I am going to have to dig deep into my bag of tricks.  Luckily Hanigan whiffs and then Jack is up.  I turn to him and say, "See, Jack's good for the second out" and on queue, he grounds to second.  I turn and make Angry Man clap.  I think he might slug me.  We all stand for the final out.  As Choo pops out to Reynolds I turn to Angry Man and say "Come on, hug" and I give him a hug.  I believe his mother-wife was hoping I'd take his miserable ass home with me.

Game 2: Way more Redsy!  Votto and Phillips shirts are all over the place.  It's hotter than hell (89 degrees at first pitch) so I had to go to the Indians store and buy some merc before the game.  I picked up a new cap for me and Mr. O and got Grace a Swisher shirt.  I told her we had a moment last game (See that last recap was so jam packed I didn't even have a chance to tell you that I was apparently the only person in Sections 136 and 138 paying attention when Swish lobbed a foul ball into the stands, as it dropped he looked at me and I looked at him and we made faces.  Really, it happened.) so it was her goal to have her one Swisher moment.  I will relieve you of anticipation by telling you that that never happened.

Damn but Kazmir pitched a heck of a game and after the bottom of the 4th, Reds Nation was gutted.  With the game solidly in hand, I had time to find some stellar folks in the crowd (I will note here that I was too hot to take snaps so Grace was my photojournalist.  She has yet to develop the knowledge that you really can take your time because Americans are so oblivious to the world around them that they never know you are taking mocking photos of them.).  What follows are my faves:

I'm special, so special.  I've got to have some of your attention, give it to me!

Rattboy: He was actually at Game 1 as well and in the same seats.  The flag waving occurred after the Reds scored their sad single run in the top of the 6th.

Do these jorts make my ass look flat?

80's Mom: I apologize for the fuzziness of the photo.  You can hardly see her perfectly coiffed 80's hair.  Each section was separately sprayed and blow dried.  Her side burns were unparalleled.  Her eyebrows looked like they were applied by Salvador Dali and her make up straight out of Dynasty.  The mom jorts with the 13 inch zipper were a lovely touch and a good look for a hot night.

Seated in front of us, is drunk Uncle Mike with his nephew.  Drunk Uncle Mike and his brother (this kid's dad) were drunk on Lite beer.  They were also obsessed with the color of everyone's eyes.  Drunk Uncle Mike told everyone in the vicinity to give whatever they had to his nephew.  The hat on his head is courtesy of the guys behind us while the guys next to us were asked to give up their batting helmet ice cream cups.  At that point I told drunk Uncle Mike that the kid wanted a batting helmet with ice cream so go up there and get him one.  He did not.  Putz.

I can say that if I were to have had a child, it would have been a boy and he was at the game.  My son is about 10, fair and adorable, and wears a Kronwall 55 t-shirt.  Sniff.  What an exceptional child.

Off to the game with Anferny tonight.  Dollar dogs, fireworks, and upper deck behind home plate.  Herr Kluber is on the mound and I hope there are no chitlins around so I can call Longoria a bitch all night long.  Also stay tuned for KC in June.  I hear Stacey's ex-boyfriend is their new interim batting coach!  Only good things can happen here people.

OMG! It's A Blog Post?! Praise the Lord!

I don't even think I know how to do this anymore!  The Google keeps telling me I've logged off in another location and yet, here I am.  Wish me luck!

If you're wondering what could have possibly drawn me to the computer for an extended bit of typing, I'd have to be honest and tell you that is was Jesus.  Not Debbie's Jesus of course (Debbie being the professionally dressed Jehovah's Witness who haunts my bus stop at 7:00 in the a.m.).  Nor would I argue the "Sweet Jesus" although then you'd be getting a little warmer because you'd be thinking baseball!

Jesus Sucre!

(Wow!  Blogger let's you caption your photos now!)

My Jesus is the Jesus of the Jake (I know, it's the Prog or something now but that doesn't work for me so I am sticking with it.).  Jesus' first and only appearance to date came this past Tuesday.  The Tribe was scheduled to play the Phillies and Halladay was on the mound.  To my surprise, there were many Phillistines in the crowd, many of whom dusted off their Halladay hats, jerseys, and thongs.  One of which was so young it appeared to have left the womb to attend the game (really people, newborns?).

As Joanna and I took our seats, we were pleased to note that unlike Yankees or Red Sox devotees, Phillistines are old school and quite possible Papists!  Or maybe just Mennonite. Who really cares.

A Female Phillistine Donning Traditional Headgear

Our pilgrims were to have a rough night.  By the bottom of the first it was clear that any time the Heathens had a man on base, a home run was soon to follow.  Despair was met by hope (a solo shot home run) that was then met by futility and a call to the bull pen.  Through all of this Jesus stood tall, turning to the crowd to tell them that "he saw this" or "he called this"!  Like a beacon of shining white light, he gathered the meek and some would say "traitorous" masses of Section 138 and made their voices strong!

That's My Jesus

At least until Security came down to speak with him.  It was clear from my vantage point that betrayal was in the air but who was the Judas?  Who ran their sorry little ass up and whined to the crinkled and wizened Ancient One who stands watch over Section 138?  We will never know but I assured Joanna and our neighbors on the aisle that it must have been a Phillistine for who among us, Tribe fans, true believers (aka season ticket holders), heathens, would be so daft as to report this Messiah?

It was at this point that our true believers to the right showed their true colors and referred to Jesus as a "nut job".  And as they assured us, they know their "nut jobs".  For lo, on a night early in April, with the dreaded Yanks in town a "nut job" sat in my seat.  Wondering whether or not this would require a cleansing, I asked for a little more information.  Apparently, the "nut job" stood up and threw beer on to some Yankee fans behind him to wit, I replied "That was my brother!" (see below). 

Apparently the "Nut Job" is on the left.

Some back pedaling ensued.  I continued the assault on Judas Number 1 begging him to tell me why they offered up him up as a sacrifice to some tattooed, hillbilly, Southern Ohi-ah, Yankee trolls.  His response pathetic, I turned the tables and gave him the Judas Kiss:

"You and me.  We're fucking done, professionally man!"

So if you're sitting in our seats this year and you see a couple of middle aged Judases in the aisle seats to our right, smite them with the power of the Word!  Say, Young's Literal Translation of Psalm 140:10:

"They cause to fall on themselves burning coals, Into fire He doth cast them, Into deep pits -- they arise not."

Go ahead and add in a "Verily, I say unto thee" because that always sounds pretty cool.