Moving my balls
If you’ve been to my apartment (or seen this blog entry about it), you know that I don’t have any baseball stuff on display. I just don’t feel the need. (And I hate clutter. And the kind of women that I like never seem to like baseball. But that’s another story for my next book, which no one wants me to write.)
Each spring and summer, I accumulate lots of baseballs at my place, and at some point each winter, I haul them over to my mom’s place. (Her apartment is bigger, and she has a storage unit in the basement.) Last night was the night, and my friend Ben Weil was kind enough to help me.
Here’s a photo of all the balls ready to go:
I snagged 640 baseballs this past season, but there are far fewer in the photo above. That’s because I used 75 of them (which I’m still planning to donate to Pitch In For Baseball) for the helicopter stunt, and I gave away another 200 or so to kids.
Anyway, Ben helped me take the balls downstairs to the lobby. Then, while he went and got his car, this happened:
That’s my doorman Carlos. He’s the best.
Here’s Ben with his car. As you can see, the trunk is full of baseballs:
After that, we drove to my mom’s place and brought the balls downstairs to the basement. It’s kind of creepy down there, but hey, in Manhattan, you have to take advantage of whatever space you can find. Here I am (wearing a D’backs shirt in honor of Heath Bell):
To thank Ben for his help, I brought him back to my place and gave him a bunch of old ticket stubs that he’s been looking for. Here he is combing through them:
More specifically, he’s trying to collect at least one ticket from every game in which Mike Piazza hit a home run. (Ben, wanna post your list in the comments? Maybe someone out there will see it and come through.)