Two months ago, I discovered a trove of old home videos, mostly from the early to mid-1990s, on half-hour-long VHS-C tapes. Anyone remember those? If not, I envy you, but anyway, I’ve been quite busy lately converting them digitally, cataloging all the highlights, and cringing at my younger self. This is relevant to ballhawking because six of the videos were filmed at major league baseball games, including this one at Fulton County Stadium — the former home of the Atlanta Braves — on the final day of the 1992 regular season. If I had the skills, I’d edit the footage into a tight little segment and post it online. Perhaps I’ll learn how to do it someday, but for now I’ve taken a bunch of grainy screen shots and pieced the day back together.
It started with a late-morning drive to the stadium:
I was 15 years old. This was the fifth stadium I’d been to, and I’d snagged a lifetime total of 145 baseballs — not bad, I suppose, but looking back on it now, I had no idea what I was doing.
I was *so* looking forward to batting practice, but of course it was drizzling:
I walked up alongside the line, and with my camera still running, I zoomed in through the gates:
Given the fact that I grew up attending games at two stadiums (Shea and old Yankee) with solid gates that prevented fans from peeking inside, I always loved doing it on the road.
I should mention that I was at this game with my dad, Stu, my half-sister, Martha, and her then-girlfriend, Sandra. Here’s a closeup of my dad holding his ticket:
Our seats were on the lower level in left field. They cost nine dollars apiece. Sigh.
Here’s what it looked like as I entered the stadium:
Less than a minute later, I headed through a tunnel for my first look at the field:
No batting practice:
But the place was beautiful! (That’s probably what I was thinking at the time, but looking back on it now, ew.)
Here’s what the stands looked like on my left:
No standing room.
Lots of dead space behind the outfield walls.
What a nightmare of a stadium.
There was very little action early on. For a while, the best I could do was hang out along the right field foul line and try to get a ball thrown to me by the Braves:
In case you couldn’t tell, that’s me up above, looking at the camera. And hey, did you notice that I wasn’t wearing any Braves gear? I was totally unprepared, and that was just the beginning. Soon after failing to get anything in that spot, I noticed a ball sitting in a gap in foul territory. It’s hard to describe, but basically there was a random patch of dead space ten feet below me. Old stadiums were weird like that. I remember there being at least a dozen fans packed against the railing, peering down at the ball, waiting for someone to wander out and retrieve it and toss it up. If I had my glove trick, I would’ve snagged the ball easily, but I didn’t invent that device until the following season.
Thankfully I had a Padres cap, and shortly before game time, I used it to get a ball thrown to me by someone you definitely haven’t heard of: Guillermo Velasquez. He was playing catch in shallow left field, and I was in foul territory, and a light mist was falling, and there wasn’t any competition. Did I ask him in Spanish for the ball? Did I even know how to ask for a ball in Spanish back then? I have no idea. All I can tell you that it was one of those old National League balls with William D. White‘s signature. This is not the actual ball I snagged that day, but the logo looked like this.
Here’s a view from my seat at game time:
Look who was warming up:
That was future Hall of Famer Tom Glavine. At the time, he was wrapping up his second of three consecutive 20-win seasons.
Here’s an awkward shot of me holding my baseball:
I was self-conscious about being fat and zitty and therefore didn’t really want to be filmed, but what could I do? My dad had briefly taken control of the camera, so he captured what he deemed important, including Martha (with the goofy grin) and Sandra (giving the peace sign):
If Martha looks familiar, that’s because I’ve blogged about her many times, most recently when we were in St. Martin last month. Remember? She was also with me for MLB’s Opening Series at the Tokyo Dome in 2012, and we’ve traveled together several other times.
Before returning the camera to me, my dad filmed this:
He always felt a special connection to Warren Spahn; way back in 1939, he was a ballboy for a minor league team that Spahn played for. How’s THAT for a random/ancient connection?
Glavine retired the Padres in order in the top of the 1st inning. Tony Fernandez led off with a routine fly ball to right field. Kurt Stillwell followed with groundout to short, and then Darrin Jackson was called out on strikes:
Before the bottom of the 1st got underway, I filmed my new favorite player — Guillermo Velasquez — warming up in left field:
After having seen fans doing the Tomahawk Chop countless times on TV, it was fun to see actual (well, foam) tomahawks in person:
In the bottom of the 1st, Otis Nixon led off with a single to left field, advanced to second on a sacrifice bunt by Jeff Blauser, and scored on Terry Pendleton’s 199th hit of the season — a single to center. David Justice followed with a two-run homer, giving the Braves a quick 3-0 lead:
I decided to take a little walk. I headed through the concourse . . .
. . . and got a glimpse of the field from the 3rd base side:
I wanted to be closer to the action, and to my surprise, it was easy. This wasn’t Shea Stadium, where all the mean old ushers, it seemed, were out to get me, or Yankee Stadium, where the robotic guards fiercely protected the dugout seats. This was Atlanta, baby! I could go wherever the hell I wanted! Check it out:
There was a cross-aisle that made it easy to move around:
In the screen shot above, that’s a vendor walking in front of me — snazzy uniform, huh?
After an inning or two, I headed back to left field and rejoined my family. We were all amused by this guy sitting nearby, who was fast asleep:
My dad did the Tomahawk Chop:
Martha showed me her hot dog:
This was my dad’s reaction:
When Pendleton came to bat in the bottom of the 5th, he was still one hit short of a milestone:
I really wanted to see him get No. 200, but he grounded out:
He batted again in the 8th inning . . . and grounded out again. One inning later, Vinny Castilla (who then had just 20 career at-bats) replaced him and ended up getting an at-bat in the 10th. Can you believe that?! Pendleton could’ve had another shot at 200 hits — a plateau he never ended up reaching in the major leagues — but missed his final chance.
Late in the game, I couldn’t help but notice this guy:
The screen shot above doesn’t capture his true essence. He was wandering into every section and hollering at the players and revving up his fellow fans. Here’s a better look at his sign:
Uncle Willy, huh? Well, guess what? It turns out he was somewhat well known and also spent a lot of time at Yankee Stadium. Check this out.
The Padres ended up winning, 4-3, in 12 innings on an RBI single by Paul Faries. Randy Myers got the win, Pedro Borbon Jr. took the loss, and the game only lasted 3 hours and 15 minutes.
Back in the car, Martha said, “Thank GOD you got a ball so we don’t have to listen to you KVETCH!!” Then she added, “Can I see it?” and snatched it out of my glove:
I love her.
My dad was a bit more dignified. Here he is tipping his cap to say goodbye:
As for me . . .
Rather than posting a screen shot that looks like all the others, I’ll show you what it looked like on my laptop as I cataloged all the highlights last night:
Now, I wonder which video I should watch next . . .
Ever since I started ballhawking, I’ve been storing baseballs in my old childhood bedroom at my parents’ place. My folks were never happy about the amount of space that my collection took up, but I convinced them to let me keep it there. What didn’t fit (or rather, what wasn’t allowed to remain) in the bedroom got sent downstairs to their DISASTER of a basement storage locker. Here’s what it looked like several years ago:
Here’s another old photo of the locker:
The big green bins (pictured above in the back left corner) hold 600 balls apiece. The smaller barrels each hold 400.
Sometimes, when the media comes over to interview me about my collection, I’ll move a few barrels upstairs. That’s why the following photo makes it look like there’s space . . .
. . . but it probably only stayed that way for a day or two. For the last few years, the locker has been FILLED with barrels holding more than 5,000 balls, and yes, I know this is officially a First World Problem, but I’ve been stressed lately about storage space.
This past weekend, I took a little road trip to the Bronx:
No, I didn’t visit Yankee Stadium, but it just so happened that my route took me right past it. My destination was a lumber yard, and I brought a special friend with me:
His name is David. That’s him in the photo above, and as you can see, the wood took up all the space in our station wagon — and then some.
Here’s what it looked like inside the car:
I drove *very* carefully back to the Upper West Side. Then I dropped off David with the wood at my mom’s building, returned the car to the garage, and grabbed us some lunch. When I finally made it back to the building, I was surprised to see that David had moved all the barrels out of the locker:
The locker was empty, except for a few planks of wood that he’d placed in there:
I should mention that David is super-handy. He used to work as an elevator mechanic. Now he repairs trains for the MTA. There’s truly nothing that he can’t build or fix. Several weeks earlier, I had told him that I wanted an L-shaped storage unit built into the locker. More specifically, I wanted it to have a little platform so that if there’s ever a flood in the basement, the barrels will be elevated several inches off the floor. I also wanted it to have a sturdy countertop that could support a second layer of barrels.
While David took some measurements, I dumped my final batch of balls from the 2014 season into a brand new barrel:
Storing baseballs in barrels doesn’t allow me to be nearly as organized as I’d like. The best I can do is keep the commemorative balls on top:
FYI, I keep the best one of each commemorative ball in a separate place, neatly displayed. The commemorative balls in the barrels are all extras.
David, meanwhile, was cutting wood . . .
. . . and drilling it together with screws . . .
. . . and starting to put things in place:
The project was taking much longer than we’d expected, and for a while, I wondered if it was even going to work. But it HAD to work. I needed this more than you can imagine.
Here’s another photo of David going at it:
Eventually my mom showed up to say hello and check in on our progress.
After several hours, the countertop was finally in place:
At some point late in the evening, David told me to start getting the barrels ready to be moved into the locker. I interpreted that to mean: “Take the lids off all the barrels to see which balls are in them and if there’s any extra space to squeeze in a few more.” Some barrels were filled with standard Selig balls, while others brimmed with commemoratives:
I know I’ve snagged 67 different commemorative balls (here are 64 of them in one photo), but I don’t know how many total balls I’ve gotten with commemorative logos.
Anyway, here’s David putting the finishing touches on the storage unit . . .
. . . and here he is sitting on it to prove its strength:
That didn’t actually prove anything. He only weighs about 150 pounds — slightly more than each barrel.
In the photo above, did you notice the barrels tucked underneath the counter? Here are the rest put in place (including a little stack of empty ones):
That’s right — ALL the barrels that used to completely fill up the locker are pictured above. And look how much space is remaining! There are still three barrels upstairs in my old bedroom (plus another 720 balls in the drawers), but now I could fit all of them in the basement, if I had to.
In case you can’t tell, the long part of the L-shaped counter can hold five barrels, and the short part against the back wall can hold two more . . . on each level. That’s 14 total barrels’ worth of space, plus I now have room on the floor. For the first time in years, there’s legitimate space for my collection to grow, and let me tell you, it’s a great feeling. Here I am with David at the end of our 12-hour day:
Finally, for dramatic purposes, here are the “before” and “after” photos side by side. Behold the difference!
In the “before” photo, do you see all those boxes on the left? Those are mostly filled with baseball cards, which are now tucked away at the back of several closets upstairs.
I realize this isn’t the most exciting blog entry, and in fact it might be downright boring for some people. For me, though, maximizing the space in the basement will make a huge difference in my life, and I wanted to document the change.
Several years ago, when MLBlogs switched over to WordPress, a bunch of my blog entries were lost, including this one. (Here’s proof.) Thankfully I had saved all the photos, along with the text from my original entry, so this was fairly easy to recreate. Enjoy!
I had a BIG day ahead of me at Kauffman Stadium . . .
. . . and it was made even better by the fact that Jona was with me. Here she is, caught slightly off-guard in my Diamondbacks cap:
I was going to be filmed during batting practice by FSN — the Royals’ TV network — so I made my way to the TV truck and took a few photos of the outside of the ballpark:
Needs landscaping. But it’s still a glorious facility.
I made it to the truck and met up with a guy named Kevin, who was going to be producing my baseball-snagging TV segment. He and I had emailed and talked a few times over the past few weeks, but we still needed to discuss some last-minute details.
Here’s a look at the inside of the truck . . .
. . . and here I am (red arrow pointing to me) with Kevin, looking at a shot of the field and establishing the plan:
I’d brought copies of both of my books (How to Snag Major League Baseballs and Watching Baseball Smarter) so that Kevin could have a cameraman get a shot of them. I figured the books would be filmed right there in the truck, so I was surprised to see this:
Gravely dirt surrounding the books?
Here I am with Kevin outside the truck:
See that tent on the right? I hung out there for about half an hour, drank a much-needed bottled water (that had been buried under ice in a gigantic cooler) and talked to a bunch of people from the TV crew. One guy brought me back inside the truck and gave me a five-minute explanation of how all the equipment works, for example . . . how the network can provide a slow-motion replay RIGHT after the play happens live. It was fascinating. I’ve probably watched tens of thousands of baseball games on TV, and I never knew the details of how they’re produced.
Jona took off the D’backs cap. I put on my Royals shirt. Here we are near the left field gate:
See that little black thing between my chin and the Royals logo? That’s a microphone. I had a battery pack clipped to my belt in the back, and the wire ran up the inside of my shirt. Kevin had said that he’d have a camera on me at all times during BP, often from afar, and that he’d be able to pick up everything I said. (We joked about that scene in “Naked Gun” where Leslie Nielsen goes to the bathroom and doesn’t realize his mike is on.)
The line to get in was LONG:
That’s because there was a Zack Greinke T-shirt giveaway (ugh) and there ended up being 10,000 more fans at this game than usual.
The newly renovated outfield area was exquisite. Here’s a look at the field from the concourse . . .
. . . and here I am, practically all by myself, after running inside:
(In case it’s not obvious, I’m the one at the back of the section with the black backpack.)
See the fountains on the left? More on that in a bit.
It didn’t take long before I snagged my first ball of the day. Someone on the Royals hit one that rolled to the wall in straight-away left field, and I was able to reel it in with my glove trick. First I had to knock the ball a bit closer, and in the following photo, you can see me just starting to fling the glove out:
Here I am leaning out as far as possible to snag it:
See the guy standing just behind me and to the left, pointing a camera down at me? His name is Fred. He was there with his two kids. They’ve been reading this blog for a while, and they’d gotten in touch to let me know they were going to be there. More on them in a bit.
I snagged a second ball off the warning track with my glove trick and then pulled up a third ball from the gap in front of the batter’s eye. Here’s an artsy photo of my successful attempt at Ball No. 3, taken by Jona. It’s kinda hard to see the ball because of the sunlight, so I drew a red arrow pointing to it:
The stadium had opened at 4:30pm, and for the first hour of BP, everyone was confined to the outfield — more specifically, the area between the bullpens. That was fine, though, because there was SO much room to run. Check out the fantastically wide walkway at the back of the “Pepsi Party Porch” in right field:
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a single homer that landed there all day. The balls just weren’t carrying. It was frustrating as hell.
One beautiful thing about the outfield setup at The New K is that the walkway extends all the way around the outfield, right behind the batter’s eye, so it’s easy to move back and forth between right field and left field. As a result, I positioned myself differently for lefties and righties and did a whole lot of running in the process:
Now, about those fountains, here’s the best photo of them (for ballhawking purposes) that you’ll ever see:
Can you imagine how many balls land in the water?!
If only there were some way to fish them out.
Oh wait . . . there is!
Check it out:
Ha-HAAAAAA!!! Yes, that’s right, I was prepared. The day before I flew to Kansas City, I was with my family at a lake about an hour north of NYC, so I came up with an invention and practiced in the water.
Here’s a photo (taken at the lake) of the contraption:
It’s basically a collapsible colander — you know, like, a pasta/vegetable strainer.
Look how it opens up:
And look how well it worked:
Yeah, I practiced with a tennis ball. So?
My only concern was sneaking the device past security at the stadium. Most places frown upon fans bringing anything with metal inside, but as it turned out, no one noticed or cared. Remember, this is Kansas City. There’s no one named Wilpon or Steinbrenner running the show.
Anyway, back to dry land . . .
I went down to the lower level of the Porch in right field (it’s all standing-room-only; anyone can go there at anytime, even during the game), and it was way too crowded as you can see below:
At that point, the Royals were wrapping up BP, so I began the process of changing into my D’backs gear. I say “process” because I had to unclip the microphone before I took off my Royals shirt. Here I am futzing with it:
Then, of course, once I had the D’backs shirt on, I had to put the mike back in place:
Even after the D’backs starting hitting, there was still a depressing lack of longballs, so I focused on using the glove trick. Here I am reeling in my fifth ball of the day:
Remember the guy named Fred that I mentioned earlier? He took the following photo, which shows me jumping and catching a ball tossed by Chris Young:
Another ball landed in the water. I ran over and frantically set up my device and went in for the kill . . .
. . . but the ball sank before I could get it. NOOOO!!!
The balls only seem to float for about 30 to 60 seconds. Keep that in mind in case you ever find yourself making a water attempt of your own.
In the four-part photo above, did you notice that there was a camera pointed at me? A cameraman had finally made his way out and caught up with me. His name was Mickey, and at one point, he had to take me aside (behind the batter’s eye) and make me stop running for a minute so he could hook me up with a second microphone:
Then he followed me around everywhere for the rest of BP:
Jona got a fun photo of me right after I snagged my next ball. It was a homer that flew over the batter’s eye and bounced up onto the bushy embankment behind it. There were a couple of other guys (neither of whom had gloves) who saw the ball bounce up there and thought they had it, but they reacted too slowly, and I came running out of nowhere and raced up the hill and grabbed it. They weren’t mad at all. They seemed to be amused and impressed, and I think you’ll agree when you see their reactions. Check it out:
A couple of minutes later, I scooped another ball out of the water:
Here I am just after reeling it in:
Yeah, I was pretty happy, and by the way, the photo above might look grainy, but that’s just the result of mist from the fountains.
One problem with the left field seating is that there are only four rows, so it gets crowded fast (especially during the first hour when everyone HAS to stay in the outfield) and the walkway behind the seats is narrow, so it gets pretty packed at times. See what I mean?
I think I ran about five miles inside the stadium. I wish I’d counted the number of times I ran back and forth from right field to left. I kept doing it throughout the game, as well as during BP.
I had eight balls at that point, and I was hoping to reach double digits. (That’s always my goal, and actually, at this point in my ballhawking career, I almost feel like something has to go wrong for me NOT to reach double digits. I don’t mean that to be cocky. It’s just that I’m averaging about eight balls a game, includes games without BP, so yeah, as long as a stadium opens at least two hours early and there’s BP, I really should snag at least 10.)
I used the glove trick again in the left field bullpen, and in the following photo, you can see Mickey with white earphones, listening to me and pointing the camera my way:
Then I used the trick AGAIN along the left field foul line. The four-part photo below, starting on the top left and going clockwise, shows me:
1) Starting to fling my glove out to knock the ball closer.
2) With the glove just past the ball as Jon Rauch and Scott Schoeneweis look on.
3) With the glove back up, briefly, so I can set up the rubber band and Sharpie.
4) About to snag my 10th ball of the day. The arrow on the left is pointing to the kid that I ended up giving the ball to, and the arrow on the right is pointing to the cameraman:
After BP ended, I had a fan reach in front of me and snatch a ball that a D’backs coach had tossed up (fair enough), and then I changed back into my Royals gear. The battery in my microphone had died, so Mickey had to unhook it and give me a new one:
Then I gave him a close-up demo of the glove trick:
I was done being filmed after that, so I had time to pose for a few photos and sign a couple of baseballs for Fred’s kids:
(I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: writing on a ball is not easy. There’s no place to rest your hand. If you have an old ball lying around, try signing it. You’ll see what I mean.)
As far as posing for photos, here are five that were taken throughout the day with people who’ve been reading this blog:
1) Kent (holding up a copy of Watching Baseball Smarter which I signed for him)
2) Fred and his kids (Colin, age 9, and Laurel, age 11)
3) Bob Buck
5) Brenda (she actually brought food into the stadium for me and fed me . . . wow! . . . and she had a copy of my book, too, but it’s hard to see because of the sun)
Just before the game started, several D’backs infielders played catch in front of the dugout, and I got Ryan Roberts to toss me the ball when they were done. You can see the ball on its way to me in the following photo:
Once the game started, I happened to notice this in the center field gap:
I never got any closer to them than that.
During the game, I hung out on the walkway in LF for right-handed batters . . .
. . . and I stayed on the upper porch in right field for all the lefties. I’m not in the following photo, which shows the RF walkway, but it’s still cool, so here it is:
Several ushers in left field (where I had scooped two balls out of the water earlier) had told me that they’d NEVER seen a fan do that before. I find this hard to believe. The New K has been open for more than two months; I expected to run into a few regular ballhawks with water-retrieval devices. I expected some serious competition, if even just from one or two other guys, but nope, I was all alone out there to do my thing. It’s really a shame that there weren’t any homers hit during the game because I would’ve had a great chance to snag them.
This was the view from my actual seat:
I didn’t sit in it much. In fact, I think I only sat in it to take that photo.
After the game, I changed back into my D’backs gear (for what felt like the 8 millionth time) and raced over to the bullpen.
Chad Qualls spotted my reddish shirt amidst a sea of blue and threw me a ball without my even asking. Then, about 30 seconds later, I pointed out a ball lying off to the side and got coach Jeff Motuzas to toss it up, but of course he tossed it short and it bounced back down. He was already gone by that point (didn’t even linger two seconds to see if I’d catch it), but I was lucky to get hooked up by a security guard who’d seen the whole thing unfold. (Well, he must not’ve seen the ball I got from Qualls.)
Jona got a photo just as I caught that last one:
Here I am with Jona (photo by Fred) after the game:
Two more things . . .
1) The Royals won the game, 5-0, behind a complete game, four-hit, 132-pitch effort from Gil Meche. It was impressive, but of course it killed me. Where are the slugfests when I need ’em?
2) The footage that was filmed of me during BP is going to air today, June 17th, during the Royals’ pre-game show on FSN. Also today . . . I’m going to be interviewed live on the pre-game show at around 6:30pm (local time), and then I’m going to be interviewed again *live* during the game itself. It was supposed to happen in the broadcast booth, but just my luck — today the announcers are gonna be doing the game from the Party Porch, so I won’t get to wander around the press box and cause trouble. At first I was told that my interview would be taking place for half an inning during the fourth inning, but I just heard from Kevin that it’s gonna happen in the top of the third. Great. I already know how it’s gonna go down: Zack Greinke (who’s pitching tonight) is gonna mow down the D’backs on seven pitches, and I’ll be gone before I can blink. Maybe, just maybe, since I’m going to (hopefully) be talking about my charity work, karma will be on my side and Greinke will have his worst inning ever, and the D’backs will bat around . . . twice . . . and there’ll be lots of pitching changes and pick-off throws and conferences on the mound, and hey, why not throw in a rain delay while we’re at it? Maybe I’ll get to talk on the air for like an hour. (I’m such an optimist. Sometimes.)
Okay, I gotta go . . .
• 233 balls in 29 games this season = 8.03 balls per game.
• 598 consecutive games with at least one ball
• 164 consecutive games outside of New York with at least one ball
• 105 lifetime games with at least 10 balls
• 45 lifetime games outside of New York with at least 10 balls
• 4,053 total balls
• 110 donors (click here to make a pledge or just to get more info)
• $24.16 pledged per ball
• $314.08 raised at this game
• $5,629.28 raised this season for Pitch In For Baseball
One more thing . . .
Earlier today, I got an email from Fred with some photos, including this one of his kids with the balls I signed:
With all the talk these days about Rob Manfred taking over for Bud Selig as the new commissioner of Major League Baseball, I decided to look back at an old blog entry and reminisce about my visit to the commissioner’s office in 2009. Well, guess what? The entry was gone. Dead. Deleted from existence. And I was horrified. It went missing when MLBlogs switched over to WordPress several years ago. A bunch of my other entries suffered a similar fate, but thankfully I’ve been able to revive some of them. Anyway, here you go — the stories and photos from one of my favorite baseball experiences ever. Enjoy!
A few weeks ago, I called the Office of the Commissioner of Major League Baseball and asked to speak to someone who could give me info on commemorative baseballs. (For those who don’t know, I’m working on a new book about baseballs.) I really didn’t expect to get anywhere. I’d called MLB’s headquarters several times in the past and always got transferred to various people’s voice-mails — and then never heard back. This time, however, things were different. My book might’ve had something to do with it, or maybe it was just because there’s a new crop of really cool people at MLB, but regardless . . . three days ago I got to go TO the actual Office of the Commissioner to ask my questions in person. No, I didn’t meet with Bud Selig himself. He was in Milwaukee, and the office is located in New York City. Instead I had a 90-minute meeting with Howard Smith, the Senior Vice President of Licensing for Major League Baseball. One of my first questions for him was, “Who actually decides if there will be a commemorative ball for a particular game or event?”
His response: “I do.”
As you might imagine, I was pretty excited to be talking to THE man, and as it turned out, he enjoyed talking to me; during the 11 years that he’s worked for MLB, he hasn’t exactly met a whole lot of people who are as enthusiastic about commemorative balls as me.
I asked Mr. Smith dozens of questions, many of which had been left as comments on this entry. (Thank you all for the ideas and suggestions.) We also looked at 27 different balls that I’d brought from my own personal collection. We talked about “juiced ball” theories as well as the Rawlings factory in Costa Rica. We discussed the cost of manufacturing commemorative balls in addition to the process of designing the logos in the first place. He was incredibly friendly and generous, not just with his time, but also with some of the stuff he had sitting around his office. You know those “gold balls” that are used in the Home Run Derby? He gave me one of those. And have you ever seen the 2001 World Series ball that features an American flag where the MLB logo normally appears? He gave me one of those too. He said it was made immediately after the 9/11 attacks and that the flag overlapped the logo to show that our country was bigger than the game of baseball. This ball never saw game action. (The standard 2001 World Series ball looked like this.) Instead it was designed to be the ball that President Bush threw for the ceremonial first pitch.
I happened to be wearing my black umpires cap, and Mr. Smith asked me about it. I explained that since I don’t have a favorite team and since I’m absolutely crazy about Major League Baseball in general, I love wearing stuff that *just* has the MLB logo.
“Clothing like that is really hard to find,” I complained. “Everything has a team logo.”
“What’s your hat size?” he asked.
“Seven and a quarter,” I told him.
He picked up the phone and called his secretary. Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and I was handed this:
This is the cap that umpires wore on July 4th and September 11th.
Two of Mr. Smith’s assistants — guys from the Business Public Relations department — sat in on the meeting. They too were friendly and fun, and we all had a bunch of laughs. When I asked about Bud Selig’s involvement with commemorative balls, Mr. Smith said, “He doesn’t deal with such minutiae.”
“Minutiae?!” I shouted. “I take offense to that!” and we all cracked up. It was that kind of meeting. No pressure. No attitude. I was thrilled to be getting such amazing info for my book, and I was equally thrilled just to BE there; the Office of the Commissioner is not open to the public. Even if you’re the biggest baseball fan in the world, you can’t just waltz in there unannounced. You’d never be let past security in the lobby in the first place. The office occupies four floors of a fancy (and VERY secure) office building at 245 Park Avenue, which is just a few blocks from Grand Central Station. So yeah, just by breathing MLB’s air, I felt special (that is honestly not sarcasm), but as it turned out I got to do a lot more than simply breathe. After the meeting (which had only been scheduled to last an hour), I was given a lengthy tour *and* I was given permission to take photos and share them on my blog.
You ready to see them?
Here goes . . .
This is the main/reception area on the 31st floor:
Did you notice the World Series trophy in the case on the left? Did you notice the baseball diamond on the floor?
Here’s a closer look at one section of the wooden walls. As you can see . . .
. . . there’s a list of every World Series winner in baseball history. The section of the wall on the far end features a year-by-year list of every Hall of Fame inductee.
Just beyond the glass doors at one end of the reception area, there’s a lounge with a Negro Leagues theme. One wall has a gigantic photo of the championship team from 1935:
The opposite wall showcases several teams’ uniforms from that era:
As I was led through various corridors, I kept feeling more and more giddy at the sight of baseball stuff in random places . . . like the xerox room:
I headed down some stairs and passed a World Baseball Classic display:
This is what it looks like on the 30th floor:
Every team’s current home uniform is on display. Here’s a closer look at the half-dozen from the NL Central:
Speaking of divisions, did you notice the baseballs on the wall just past the receptionists’ desk two photos above? Here’s a closer look:
There’s one column of balls for each of MLB’s six divisions; each division is arranged according to the standings, with the first-place teams on top.
There are lots of different lounges and meeting rooms on the 30th floor. Here’s one of them, and as you can see, there’s a display of game-used bases:
Here’s a closeup of a base from the 2008 World Series:
Here’s the room where press conferences are held:
I was taken up to the 34th floor after that. There was baseball stuff EVERYwhere, even in the area right outside the elevators:
That’s a display/map of the Minor Leagues.
I took the next photo with my back to the map. It shows more of the elevator area, along with the entrance to the 34th-floor offices:
This is what the reception area looks like up there:
Those are real/vintage magazines on display. The small white one on the left is a copy of “Baseball Magazine” with a very young (and slim) Babe Ruth on the cover.
The back wall of the reception area features silhouettes of baseball’s all-time greats:
The one on the right is Stan Musial. How many of the others can you identify? (If you look closely, you might be able to read the name of the player next to Musial.)
There’s a corridor on the 34th floor with one of those cool displays that appears to be different depending on which way you’re looking at it. This is what it looks like from the right . . .
. . . and this is what it looks like from the left:
There were certain things that I wasn’t allowed to photograph. The lunchroom, for example, was full of employees, so I had to put my camera away when I stepped inside. Therefore, you’ll have to settle for a description of the coolest part: baseball card table tops. What I mean is . . . each table where people were sitting and eating had the standard, food-resistant, plastic coating, but underneath it, there was a collage with hundreds of baseball cards, both new and old.
(Deep breath . . . )
Here’s another corridor:
Those are replicas of various outfield walls. Do you see the dark green section at the end? Here’s a closer look:
By the time my tour came to an end, I’d been at The Office for two and a half hours. There’s a lot more that I’d like to say, but I was asked not to mention certain things. There’s a lot more that I’m allowed to mention, but I’m too tired and busy to blog about it. And of course there’s a lot of stuff that I’m going to save for the book.
The book isn’t scheduled to be published until March 2011, but I’m already compiling a list of people who want to be reminded (via email) when it comes out. If you’d like to be on that list, leave a comment or send me an email.
Several years ago, when MLBlogs switched over to WordPress, a bunch of my blog entries were lost, including this one — a 5,400-word account of my first appearance on “The Tonight Show.” Thankfully I had saved all the photos, and the text was still archived on a third-party website, so this was fairly easy to recreate. Enjoy!
My two-day trip to California got off to a dubious start. Not only was the “limo” driver outside the airport in Burbank holding a sign on which my last name was misspelled, but there wasn’t even a limo. I had to ride to the hotel in an SUV.
I probably shouldn’t be complaining. After all, “The Tonight Show” paid for both me and my girlfriend, Jona, to fly out, put us up at the Universal Sheraton, provided the car service, gave me a $60 per diem, and also told me I’d be getting a small honorarium. Not a bad deal.
I had two contacts at the show. One of them — a “talent coordinator” named Bryan — called me while I was en route to the hotel. He asked how the flight was and told me that he and my other contact — a producer named Steve — would be meeting me for breakfast the next morning in the hotel lobby at 8:30. He almost said it with an ominous tone, and I thought I was in trouble or that I was going to be told that my segment had been canceled. I was so paranoid at that point. I’d almost gotten on Letterman a few years earlier, and when that fell through, I figured I’d never get an opportunity like that again. Now here I was 24 hours from being taped for “The Tonight Show,” and I just wanted things to go smoothly. I wasn’t THAT worried about my own performance. I was mainly concerned about all the factors I couldn’t control. What if Obama decided to drop by the studio and say hello to Leno? What if there was an earthquake? When my dad was on Oprah about a decade ago, his segment was interrupted by a breaking-news story about a plane crash.
Speaking of Obama, Jona and I watched the presidential debate in our room, then met up with my half-brother Joe and his fiancé for dinner. We went to CityWalk. It was tacky and fun. We picked a restaurant called the Daily Grill, and I ate a surprisingly good Cobb salad. I really wanted the fried chicken but didn’t want to get bloated right before being on national television. Whenever my weight fluctuates and I gain a couple of pounds, it goes straight to my face. What’s up with that? Why can’t it go to my left calf or some other worthless body part?
Jona and I went to bed at around 11pm (which felt like 2am) and woke up a little over seven hours later. Don’t you hate waking up before the alarm goes off? That’s what happened. I was so worried about sleeping through breakfast that I sprung awake before it was fully light outside. Not good. This was THE day, and I’d been hoping to get as much sleep as possible.
I went downstairs at 8:27am. There were a few people milling about the lobby, but they looked more like tourists than NBC bigwigs. I wandered outside and saw a big guy standing around who looked a bit like Lenny Kravitz. Was THAT one of the guys I was supposed to be meeting? Nah. He looked like he should be on camera, not behind it, but sure enough, he looked over and said, “Zack?”
It was Bryan.
Steve showed up a few minutes later, and we all walked inside the lobby and headed down a curved, carpeted staircase to a fancy restaurant. We each got the $20 buffet — their treat, of course. I didn’t get to eat as much as I wanted (which was a good thing) because Steve and Bryan only had an hour, and they had me talking nonstop. I told them about my involvement with Scrabble and Arkanoid, and I mentioned my other dorky pursuits, but they wanted to stick to baseball. That’s what the segment was going to be about, so that’s what we discussed. Steve asked me a bunch of questions, and I told a bunch of stories, and he gave me an idea of some of the things that “Jay” would probably be asking me. I suggested demonstrating the glove trick on-air, then pulled it out of my backpack and actually showed them how it worked, right there in the restaurant.
“Sorry,” I said, “hope I’m not making a scene.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Steve. “This is L.A. No one cares.”
The trick worked on the first try (which it usually does), and they loved it. Steve started thinking about how to incorporate it into my seven-minute segment, and we talked about how he might have me climb up on Jay’s desk and do the trick from there.
That was pretty much it for breakfast. It was 9:30am. I had five hours to kill before a car would be taking me and Jona to the studio, so we went to a place called The Grove, which is basically an outdoor mall. The highlight for Jona was going to a natural food market called Erewhon and getting raw milk. Jona is a health freak, and I mean that in a good way, but sometimes she makes dietary choices that I just can’t be a part of. This was one of them. Raw milk is supposedly much healthier than regular/pasteurized milk, but there IS a chance that there could be bacteria in it — but if you eat lots of organic food (as Jona does), you’ll be so healthy and have such a strong immune system that you’ll be able to fight off these natural forms of bacteria. (Isn’t this interesting?) Raw milk, you see, is illegal in New York. It’s illegal in most places, in fact, but in California, if you know where to look, you can find it. So here we were. And THIS is how I spent my time getting ready for my appearance on “The Tonight Show.” It would’ve been the perfect distraction if Jona hadn’t been asking me every eight minutes if I was nervous.
I really wasn’t that nervous. I’d been interviewed about my baseball collection hundreds of times, so what was the big deal now? The only pressure I felt was due to the fact that if my segment sucked, it would be archived online forever for the whole world to see, so I was thinking more longterm about it all.
After Jona got her milk, we visited the gigantic Barnes & Noble so I could sign all their copies of Watching Baseball Smarter. How many copies did they have?
And it was all the way upstairs in the sports section on the bottom shelf with the spine facing out. I was not too happy about that. Seriously, how is it possible that a book that was about to be shown on the goddamn Tonight Show — the eighth best selling sports book in America the year before — could be so buried and forgotten by such a major bookseller? It is HARD to be a writer. Think about all the authors who don’t get to be on TV with their books. I’m lucky because I have a hobby that people in the media like to talk about, so I keep getting free plugs, and yet I still struggle to have my book seen. It would’ve been nice to walk into the store and see a few stacks of the book sitting on a table with a big sign that said, “As seen on ‘The Tonight Show’ on October 8, 2008″ or something along those lines. Really, is that asking too much? I know there are a lot of books out there, and that every author thinks that his/her book deserves to be on a table in the front of every store, but c’mon.
Jona and I made it back to the hotel by 1pm. I made a few phone calls, answered some emails, and changed into my outfit. THE outfit. I’d picked out the top half — my black baseball cap and gray MLB shirt — and Jona had picked out the bottom: gray acid-wash jeans and a cute pair of shoes from Sketchers. I never would’ve considered wearing those shoes. In fact, I didn’t even own them until Jona took me shopping and bought them for me two days earlier. I thought they were hideous when I first saw them on the shelf, but she made me try them on, and I actually liked them. They were sporty but not too sporty. Not too colorful. Not too big or too plain. I felt good about the outfit. That had been one of the biggest sources of stress for a few days, during which time I received numerous requests and offers from people who wanted me to wear their companies’ stuff on the show. Yeah right. I didn’t want to turn my segment into a commercial, and I wouldn’t even have been allowed to do so. Steve had told me that I couldn’t wear ANYthing with a logo on it. When I mentioned the MLB logo I was hoping to wear, he said that would be okay since it fell in line with the subject matter.
The “limo” was there right on time, and off we went. Jona had made her own interesting fashion choice: a turquoise button-down shirt with a blue and white polka dot tie. I thought she was joking when she first described it. Was she going for the clown look? (Some people ARE into that, you know.) I really thought she’d lost it, but she insisted it’d be cute. (It was.) This was L.A., she reminded me (well, technically Burbank), and she wanted to look nice for Jay. I was told that we’d get to meet him before the taping of the show, and that surprised me. When I was on “The Rosie O’Donnell Show” in 1999, I didn’t get to see Rosie until the cameras were rolling; when I complained about it to my dad after the fact, he told me that that’s nothing unusual — that hosts rarely interact with their guests beforehand because it diminishes the spontaneity on the air.
Ten minutes later we were at the edge of the NBC complex:
We passed through the security tollbooth, then rounded a few corners, and eventually saw this:
See the blue car in the photo above? That was Jay’s car. Here’s a closer look . . .
. . . and let me say now that I got permission to use all these photos on my blog.
A security guard greeted us and led us to Bryan, who led us to another security guard, who gave a backstage pass to Jona, who was SOOOO excited as we were led to the green room. I was excited too — being on TV hasn’t gotten old yet — but I’d been through it before so it was cool to see her reacting to everything. It’s like when you show your favorite movie to a friend who’s never seen it; you kind of get to experience it yourself from scratch because you imagine how they’re experiencing it. You know? Same thing here.
We walked through a generic-looking hallway and reached the green room. MY green room. This was the sign on the door:
They’d spelled my name right! Woo-hoo!!
Here I am (slightly blurry) standing at the door:
In the photo above, you can kinda see the food and drinks that were provided. There were two trays, one with fruit and another with veggies. There was also tea and coffee, as well as a fridge with bottles of juice and water. I could’ve requested a beer, I was later told, but I avoided all this stuff and just ate a chicken salad sandwich I’d brought. I didn’t want to ingest caffeine and/or sugar and get all jittery. My energy was fine. My mental state was fine. I didn’t want to throw it off in any way.
Here’s a look at the green room:
Do you see the little white thing sitting on the end of the shiny counter? That was a gift bag. Here’s a closer look:
There was a box inside, and yes, the logo on it was upside down:
When I took the top off, this is what I saw:
Here’s a closer look:
Even better than the watch was the envelope taped to the side of the bag. It contained the following card:
It was great to have a personalized note from Jay, and I got to return the favor when one of his many assistants poked his head into my room and asked me to sign his guest book. So I did. Right across from James Taylor:
Bryan had left me and Jona alone in the green room for a few minutes. Then Steve showed up to talk about the segment. He had a list of questions that Jay was going to ask–
“Oh, and here’s Jay right now,” he said.
“OH!!” blurted Jona as I looked up, and Jay Leno was indeed standing right in front of me. He was wearing an all-blue denim outfit and LOTS of makeup. He said a quick hello, shook our hands, said he’d see us later, and was gone in five seconds. It would’ve been nice if he’d hung out a bit longer, but I still appreciated the fact that he’d even stopped by.
Steve went over the segment with me. I asked questions about what I should say, not because I wanted him to put words in my mouth, but to get an idea of how long he wanted my answers to be. I expected every second of the segment to be scripted (as was the case on “Rosie” and “The Early Show“), but Steve just told me to have fun with it and say whatever I wanted, and he encouraged me to just be myself. I didn’t need to be told that, but it was still nice to hear.
You know what wasn’t nice to hear, at least at first? That the glove trick had been scrapped from my segment. There simply wasn’t time, or at least the producers felt it wasn’t worth making time for. But then again, maybe this was a good thing. By not showing the glove trick, I was protecting it as a secret. (Of course, I’ve explained how to use the trick here on my blog, and I also gave a tutorial on it in my first book, but you know what I mean.)
Steve led me and Jona out onto the set and gave me brief instructions as we went, such as where to enter and where to walk. He reminded me to shake hands with Dana Carvey (who would remain on the stage during my segment) and had me sit down IN the actual seat next to Jay’s desk. He told me NOT to belt out my words as if I were on Broadway, but rather just to talk like I normally would because I’d be miked up and everyone would be able to hear me just fine.
I noticed that Jona wasn’t even looking at me. Her eyes were wandering all over the room, trying to take it all in.
Steve led us back to the green room and left us alone for a few minutes.
Carvey walked by and disappeared into the next room. Gilbert Godfried walked by wearing full (and cartoonishly ugly) drag. Ho hum, just another day in Hollywood.
Bryan dropped by and asked Jona if she wanted to stay in the green room during the show or sit in the studio audience. She wisely picked the audience, and he led her off.
I was all alone with about 25 minutes until the taping would begin. My segment wasn’t going to start for another 45 minutes after that, so I had quite a bit of time to ponder my life and the state of the universe.
Jay walked in. He was wearing a suit and tie. He LOOKED like Jay Leno. Very cool. Just the two of us. He asked me if I was ready and told me we were gonna have fun and said it was a great story. He had a clipboard with a list of questions that he was planning to ask — the same list that Steve had been carrying 10 minutes earlier — and he looked at it and told me how he was going to start.
“Mind if I take a look at it?” I asked.
He didn’t mind at all, so I stood right next to him and peeked at it and we talked a bit longer about how the segment was going to play out.
I told him I’d heard that he was going to hold up both of my books during the intro, and he assured me that he would. I said that if there was ONE thing that I wanted to get into the segment, it would be my new book — Watching Baseball Smarter.
“We’ll get it in there,” he said. “Don’t worry.”
That made me feel great, and it took all the pressure off. I didn’t care if he mentioned How to Snag Major League Baseballs. I didn’t care about plugging Watch With Zack or the Argosy Book Store. I just wanted him to SAY the words “Watching Baseball Smarter” on the air and hold up the copy that my publicist had FedExed to Steve several days earlier. Like I said before, I didn’t want to turn my segment into a commercial; the only way I intended to sell myself was by being fun.
Jay left my room, and I was left alone once again.
I ate a cool, thin piece of pineapple.
Kevin Eubanks walked by, saw me standing in the doorway with a few baseballs in my hand, and shouted, “Go Phillies!”
“Phillies?!” I said with a hint of amusement. “I grew up as a Mets fan. Get out of my face!”
He walked all the way down the hall and shouted “Go Phillies!” again.
“Yeah, keep walking!” I yelled, and he looked back and smiled.
I always assumed Eubanks was tall. He has a tall personality, doesn’t he? But he’s not tall. He’s a few inches shorter than me, and I’m 5-foot-11.
I got some makeup — just a little powder so I wouldn’t be shiny — and went back to my room for the start of the show. Steve walked in and adjusted the volume on the TV. We watched Jay’s opening routine while talking more about my segment. It was weird to hear the audience’s laughter coming from just down the hall AND to hear it on TV at the same time.
Steve left me alone again, and I started sweating — not a lot, but just enough that I worried I might end up with sweaty armpits if I didn’t do something about it, so I grabbed a towel and started dabbing myself. I wasn’t really nervous, just amped up.
Jay did a hilarious segment that mocked the presidential debate, then did another segment with Godfried (who was pretending to be the wife of the world’s fattest man), and then Carvey was on. He was funny. VERY high-energy. Tough act to follow. My armpits were still sweaty, though thankfully my shirt wasn’t sweat-stained. It was pretty crazy to think that in just a few minutes, I’d be sitting right where Carvey was — that *I* was going to be part of a show that I’d been watching on and off for years.
Steve came back, saw me holding the towel under my shirt, and told me that the first time Dara Torres was on the show, she was “pittin’ out” in the green room as well. He then left me on my own and told me he’d come back for me during the commercial break just before my segment. Carvey stayed on for a second segment, and when I heard the band start playing, I knew it was my time.
Steve came and got me and asked if I was ready.
“No,” I said. “I’ve actually changed my mind about being on the show.”
He led me down the hallway, reminded me to be myself, and told me there was now an extra minute for my segment, so instead of seven minutes, I was gonna be on for eight. Cool.
He left me with the stage manager. She was going to tell me when to walk out. The band was still playing. I knew I had a minute or so before I’d be out there. I could see a sliver of the audience and looked for Jona. I had no idea where she was sitting, and I didn’t see her.
I wasn’t nervous. My heart wasn’t beating any faster than if I’d been watching the show on TV. I know that might sound crazy, but it’s true. It almost creeped me out. I was aware of how UN-nervous I was and wondered if there was something wrong with me — if I was trying to trick myself into thinking I wasn’t nervous — but no, I truly wasn’t nervous. Five minutes earlier, when I’d been watching Carvey on that little monitor in the green room, I’d told myself that there was nothing to be nervous about . . . that this segment wasn’t even being aired live . . . that I wasn’t being seen by millions of people . . . that I was only being seen by the few hundred people in the studio audience . . . and that I wasn’t talking to them . . . that I only had to think about having a conversation with one man . . . and that it was a conversation I’d had countless times in the past . . . so really, what was the big deal?
The band stopped playing, and I heard Jay start introducing me. He mentioned Watching Baseball Smarter, and out I went. I just tried to have fun at that point.
Here’s a screen shot from the segment:
Is the segment archived anywhere online? I have no idea, so let me know if you can find it, and I’ll add a link. For those who did manage to watch it, you might be interested to know that the four balls I brought out were:
I got to show the first two, and I would’ve shown the others but we ran out of time. What can I say? I tend to be rather verbose when people get me talking about catching baseballs.
Two other things of note:
1) I’d been trying to figure out how to sit in the chair. It seems like celebrities are always crossing their legs when they’re interviewed on talk shows, but that’s not my style. BUT . . . I didn’t want to sit there awkwardly as if I didn’t know what to do with my limbs. So I decided to rest one arm on the chair and sit slightly tilted toward Jay. The tilt also worked well to hide the baseballs early in the segment, so yeah, although I might’ve looked all loose and casual, which I suppose I was, it was all carefully planned. Ha!
2) You might’ve noticed that I left a comment on my previous entry in which I said I was going to give everyone on the blog a collective/secret shout-out by taking a sip of water as my segment went to a commercial break. Well, I *did* take a sip, but it never made it onto TV because instead of fading out, the producers slipped in the Beltran footage, which was great, but it bumped the shout-out.
Speaking of the commercial break, I spent it sitting on the stage and talking to the guys. Carvey started by asking me, “So where DO you position yourself to catch all these balls? Over HERE for righties and over THERE for lefties?” I answered him briefly and then Jay told me I was great. I told him he made it easy for me by being so nice. Carvey agreed I was great (“very smooth,” I think he said) and asked me if it was my first time on the show. I said it was and asked him how many times he’d been on. “Forty or fifty,” he said, and we talked more about nervousness. He said it’s tough doing comedy because he feels like he HAS to be funny, and with that feeling comes a lot of pressure. Jay asked me about my family’s book store. I told him it was called “Argosy” and said it was right near Bloomingdales. He said he knew about it, and I believed him, given the fact that lots of A-list celebrities have been there over the years. That’s when Steve walked up onto the stage and told me that during the following musical performance by Marc Broussard, Jay was going to get up and walk over near the band and I was supposed to walk over with him and Carvey.
After the performance, Jay walked right down in front of the band, and Carvey started heading that way as well. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to walk all the way down there, and apparently I was, so Carvey waved me over, which was cool, but I knew it probably looked like I was a total amateur. Then the two of them teamed up to film a few teasers for the show. We were all standing around and shaking hands for half a minute after that. I heard Broussard tell Carvey that he was a huge fan. I told Carvey that I have a friend who looks so much like him that people mention it at least once a week. “I’m sorry,” he said. Jay thanked me for coming on the show, and I thanked him for having me.
Then I was led over to Jay’s desk and had my picture taken with him by a professional photographer. Steve had told me early in the day that that would happen after the show, probably so I wouldn’t feel the need to harass Jay to take a photo with me in the green room. Jona made it down to the stage, and she jumped in with us for another photo.
It was then that I noticed a fellow ballhawk named John Witt in the audience. He was being led out of the building, and I was being ushered back to the green room, so we quickly shouted at each other and planned to meet outside.
Just before I was about to leave, I had Jona take a pic of me with Steve and Bryan. Here we are:
Steve then walked me back into the studio and grabbed a sign for me off one of the low-hanging rafters — a bonus/parting souvenir. Here it is (next to the watch to give you perspective):
Jona’s cousin Joey was in the audience, but he hadn’t gotten to sit with her. We didn’t even know whether or not he’d made it in until after the show. I was also looking for my friend Leigh Barratt (aka “padreleigh”) but didn’t see him and didn’t know whether he’d made it. It was all very rushed and chaotic. I wanted to linger and take it all in, but I was led outside and the “limo” was waiting for me. I told the driver that I wanted to catch up with a few friends before he took me back to the hotel, and he was fine with that. I called John. Jona called Joey. We found out where they were, and John suggested that we all meet across the street at a gas station.
I’d never met John before — not in person, that is. We’d talked on the phone for 40 minutes before I left for Burbank, and we’d emailed on and off for years, but this was it. Finally:
We’ve snagged over 7,000 balls combined. You’d never know it by looking at us, right?
John had grabbed a stack of tickets for the show. He had me sign about half a dozen of them (so he could try selling them on eBay) and gave a few to me. I wonder if Carvey saved stuff like that after his first appearance on the show.
Jona caught up with Joey . . .
. . . and the three of us went out to dinner. They wanted to go to a nice place on Melrose (I forget the name) but I really wanted to get back to the hotel by 8:35pm — that’s when the show would be airing on the east coast — so we went to CityWalk, which was right next to the hotel, and suffered through a lousy meal at an Italian place called Buca di Beppo. Joey suggested that we go there, but since I’d insisted on CityWalk in the first place, I’ll take half the blame.
By the way, in case you’re wondering how I transported my precious baseballs, I wrapped each one separately with paper towels and rubber bands . . .
. . . and put them all in a plastic shopping bag . . . which I carried in my backpack . . . which NEVER left my side except when I had to put it through the X-ray machine at the airport, at which point Jona strategically kept an eye on it.
After dinner, Jona and I went to our room and watched some lame shows on NBC, hoping to see one of the teasers for “The Tonight Show,” but they never came on. Meanwhile I talked to my parents during Carvey’s segment and told them to call me after I was on, which they did, and they both said I was great, which was nice to hear because I hadn’t yet seen myself, and I had NO idea how I came off. I started getting a bunch of emails and phone calls and blog comments and friend-requests on MySpace. Crazy. Really . . . crazy. The nicest email I got from a stranger went as follows (and was typed in big blue letters):
Just wanted to say I saw you on Leno last night and you gave me a laugh and a smile which I really needed. You are so cute and just a pleasure to watch … I wish you had been on longer. Keep making people happy.
Sandy (61) in Lockport, Illinois
It was so weird to think that my appearance on TV was sweeping across the country as the show aired in different time zones — that millions of people would be seeing me before the night was through — and it got me thinking about fame. I realized (if this makes any sense) that I’m the most famous person that most people who know me know, and yet 99.9 percent of the people watching Leno that night probably thought “Who the f*ck is Zack Hample?!” when they saw my name at the start of the show. Oh well.
I was exhausted. I wanted to go to sleep. I truly didn’t care about seeing myself on TV, and I actually did fall asleep for a while. Jona woke me up just in time to see Jay holding up my books. And then I was on. I thought I did okay. I wish I’d spoken a bit slower, and of course I hated my voice (does ANYone other than Morgan Freeman enjoy hearing their own voice?), and I wished I’d talked less about batting practice and more about snagging balls during games, and I thought of a few extra jokes I could’ve made . . . but what can you do? At least it wasn’t a disaster, and eventually I fell back asleep.
The next morning, I took Jona to the buffet — eggs, cheese, bacon, sausage, potatoes, bagels, cream cheese, lox, donuts, croissants, danishes, blueberries, strawberries, blackberries, pineapple, granola, oatmeal . . . and that’s only what I had time to eat before we had to head back upstairs and pack and check out and leave for the airport.
Since I’ve been home, I’ve already done a few radio interviews (including one that will be a podcast on NPR) and been written about on a blog on the USA Today web site and spoken to someone at ESPN. It’s been crazy. It’s been a great ride. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t even know if anyone is actually reading this. I can’t believe how much I’ve written, but I wanted to get this all down to document it for myself, if nothing else. Hopefully, if you HAVE read all the way to this point, you’ve enjoyed it.
Several years ago, when MLBlogs switched over to WordPress, a bunch of my blog entries were lost, including this one. Thankfully I had saved all the photos, along with the text from my original entry, so this was fairly easy to recreate. Enjoy!
I started the day by giving a 30-minute speech about my baseball collection to 51 middle schoolers at the Lexington Montessori School. I demonstrated the glove trick, showed the USA Today article, passed around the three balls I’d snagged the night before, talked at length (upon request from the teachers) about the writing/editing process, gave a quick tour of my website (which was projected from a laptop onto the big white screen), and answered lots of questions:
Most of the questions were typical and innocent. Where do you keep all the balls? Did you ever get into a fight for a ball? Is Manny Ramirez your favorite player? And so on. But one of the questions took me by surprise. When I told the kids that I wear clothes that make me look young so the players will be more likely to throw balls to me, one of the boys blurted out, “What if you wore a dress?”
“Stay after school,” I told him. “We need to talk.”
At the very end of my presentation, one of the kids asked, “Can I have a baseball?”
I knew that if I gave him one, there would’ve been 50 other jealous kids and half a dozen frazzled teachers, so I politely turned down his request.
“Can I have your autograph?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, prompting every kid in the room to ask if THEY could have my autograph too. I said yes, they all ran and got scraps of paper, and the teachers ended up being frazzled after all because it was the end of the school day and the kids were supposed to be outside to meet their parents. The teachers cut me off after five minutes and made the kids leave. I followed them out and signed a few more autographs, including two on baseball gloves, one on a warm-up jacket, and another on a soccer ball:
THAT was a first.
There were still a bunch of kids who had to take off without my autograph, so my friend Ben (who teaches there) quickly wrote down their names and told them that I’d sign something for them before I left.
“Do you mind?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. I still had three hours before I needed to leave for Fenway Park, and I loved the fact that I could make a bunch of kids happy by doing something as simple as writing my name.
Ben and I went back upstairs and printed a dozen copies of the bathtub photo off my website, and I started signing them for the kids whose names he’d just written down. Then it occurred to us that the first bunch of kids who’d gotten me to sign would be jealous of the second bunch who got bathtub photos, so we went back to the computer and printed 39 more copies, and I signed them all, personalizing them to each kid as Ben checked their names off a master list to make sure we weren’t missing anyone.
At 4:30pm, Ben dropped me off at the ALEWIFE subway station. From there I took the red line to PARK STREET and transferred to the green line which took me to KENMORE. The conductor made some announcement about where to exit for “Fenway Pahhhk,” and I nearly laughed out loud. I looked around to see if anyone else had the same reaction. Nope. No giggles. No smirks. No eye contact, and I wondered if everyone in Boston talks like that.
I reached Fenway at around 5:20pm and worried that batting practice was already underway. I don’t think it was, of at least IF it was, no one was hitting sizable home runs to left field.
Once again, the mean garage guy was yelling and cursing at everyone who tried to go up on his precious roof, so I was forced to stay on the sidewalk. After half an hour of staring into the quickly darkening sky at an uncomfortably sharp angle . . .
. . . a ball bounced over the Green Monster and dropped straight down into the middle of Lansdowne Street. I ran forward to try to catch it before it smacked the pavement (while simultaneously trying not to get run over by any cars), but I was a second too late and the ball bounced directly over my head and into the bare hand of a guy who’d been standing directly behind me. I was beyond pissed, but I got a chance to redeem myself five minutes later when a home run clanged off the back railing behind the Monster Seats and skipped high in the air and sailed over my head into the fenced off alley. (Check out my Game 1 entry for pics of the alley.) Several fans hurried over to the seven-foot fence, and by the time they got there, I was already on the other side, racing down the hill, and when I got to the bottom, I had my first ball of the day. (No, it didn’t have a World Series logo.)
During the next half hour, there wasn’t a single ball that landed in the street or alley. Meanwhile several homers flew onto the garage roof, and eventually I noticed that there were a few fans up there hiding at the back, including one guy with a glove. I crept closer to the ramp that led to the roof and waited for the mean guy to look the other way, and as soon as he did, I made my move and raced up it. Before he had a chance to turn around, I was hiding in between the cars in the middle of the roof, using a black SUV as a shield. I turned around and looked at the fans behind me. There were six of them as well as two other garage employees who obviously didn’t care. Damn! It was just that one jerk at the bottom who’d prevented me from snagging several baseballs. PLUNK!!! A ball smacked the roof of a nearby car and bounced to one of the other guys.
“If a ball breaks a windshield,” he said, “we leave it in the car. That’s only fair.”
I had to figure everything out really fast. How far would the home runs travel? How would they bounce off the cars? How would I be able to chase the balls without being seen by the jerk down below? Should I stay back with everyone in the open area? Should I move forward and risk getting trapped between rows of cars? Some cars were parked very close to each other, leaving VERY little room to run in between. There were also big vans, SUVs, and trucks, all with mirrors and bumpers sticking out. It was an obstacle course like nothing I’d ever encountered, and I made some rookie mistakes as a result. Two minutes later, another home run started flying toward me, a bit short and to the left. I hung back like a nervous idiot, waiting for the ricochet, while another guy squeezed past me and snatched the ball as soon as it landed. I just wanted to get ONE ball on that roof, and luckily the home runs kept coming. Another ball clapped off the pavement, one row of cars to my left, and I couldn’t get there in time. Another ball landed on the ramp itself, and several landed in the alley, but I was too far over toward left-center. Finally, there was one that hit the roof of a car directly in front of me and disappeared from sight before I could get there. I ran to the spot, fully aware that half a dozen guys would soon be closing in from all sides, and I dropped down onto my stomach and looked to my left. Nothing. Crap! I looked to my right, and there it was, trickling away from me underneath an SUV. I stuck out my right arm but couldn’t quite reach it. The ball was six inches beyond the tips of my fingers as it stopped rolling, so I grabbed my glove and reached back under and barely managed to touch it. I reached farther with all my might, my right shoulder wedged underneath the edge of the vehicle, and I moved the ball closer. And closer. And finally, I was able to grab it with my bare hand. It probably only took a couple of seconds, but it felt like a fall semester. (No, this ball didn’t have a World Series logo either.)
For the rest of BP, I tried using the fans’ reactions at the back of the Monster Seats to figure out where the balls were heading. There were a few guys up there who seemed pretty alert. Generally, they’d start running for balls before the balls were in sight for me, so if they ran left, I’d do the same thing. It seemed like a good idea at first, but it ended up making me focus more on a smaller area rather than letting my eyes scan back and forth at the entire sky above the giant wall. Anyway, as it turned out, BP was almost done, and my rooftop adventure ended just as I was starting to get the hang of it.
I got food. I found a bathroom. I checked out Yawkey Way. Hundreds of fans were streaming past me into the stadium, and I was only a little bit jealous. Did THEY have a chance of catching a World Series home run? No, probably not. Did I? Oh yes, and just the thought of that made me giddy. At 8:20pm, I pulled out my walkman, tuned in to the local broadcast just in time to hear the starting lineups, and made my way back to Lansdowne. The street was packed . . .
. . . but the garage roof was not. In fact, there was only one other fan up there — the man with the glove who was there during BP. The mean garage guy was gone, and the coast was clear. I walked up the ramp to get into position and was immediately stopped by another employee.
“You can’t stay here,” he said.
“How come that other guy can stay here?” I asked.
“He paid to park.”
“How about if *I* pay to park?”
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“I forgot it,” I said.
He gave me a strange look, and I explained that yes, I was willing to pay $35 dollars for the right to stand on his garage roof for the next three and a half hours.
I handed him a twenty and three fives, and he started walking off.
“Excuse me,” I said, “don’t I get some sort of ticket?”
“You don’t need a ticket,” he snapped. “I’ll remember you.”
“Yeah, but what if you’re not here? I’d really like a ticket just in case.”
He didn’t want to give me a ticket. It meant that he couldn’t pocket the money because there’d be a record of the transaction. But I insisted. And it’s a good thing I did because he ended up stepping away for a little while and his manager showed up and tried to kick me out.
I told the manager I’d paid to park.
“Where’s your ticket?” he asked.
“Right here,” I said, pulling it out of my wallet.
He walked off and didn’t say another word for the rest of the night.
A few other fans walked up the ramp in the early innings and were quickly turned away. Were THEY willing to pay to compete with me for balls? No way. The employees closed the gate at the bottom of the ramp, and I was overjoyed:
As for the other guy with the glove . . .
He started out as a bitter rival — at least in my mind — and ended up turning into a friend. He’d flown in from Texas and rented a car and parked at the back corner of the garage. He set up a small TV on the hood so he could watch the game, and he had a laptop with a wireless connection so he could follow college football:
He offered me drinks and snacks and a chair. We played catch and talked about the Red Sox and baseball and life. “It doesn’t get any more fun than this,” he said at one point. It was a mini-tailgate party, and several garage employees joined us. As tempting as it was to hang out with him all night, I kept my distance . . .
. . . and only wandered over during commercial breaks. I was there on a mission, and I wasn’t going to be distracted. HIS mission was simple. He was only interested in one player, and when that player wasn’t batting, he stayed seated with his back to the Monster and his laptop . . . on his lap. Incredible. Even my competition wasn’t competition.
Halfway through the game, the CBS news crew from Denver waved to me from the street, so I walked down the ramp and did another interview. What are you doing? Did you catch any balls today? Could you show us the balls? Are you having fun? How do you spell your name again? Did you really pay $35 to stand on the roof of a garage? Are you surprised that there aren’t more people trying to catch home runs?
“I can’t believe there’s no competition out here,” I told the camera. “There’s only one other guy with a glove–”
“–Just cuz I don’t have a glove doesn’t mean I’m not competition!” shouted a college-aged kid who was eavesdropping on the interview with a few buddies. “You better watch out!!”
He wasn’t kidding, and just like the “Fenway Pahhhk” incident on the train, it took a serious effort on my part not to laugh out loud.
After the interview (which lasted all of three minutes), some other guy standing nearby said enthusiastically, “Hey, now you’re famous!”
The game slowed down drastically once Schilling was taken out in the top of the 6th, and I had time to take a few pics (using my 10-second timer). During left-handed hitters’ at-bats, when I knew nothing was coming over the Monster, I got as comfortable as possible:
When light-hitting righties were at bat, I played closer to the foul pole and stood on the ramp:
At various other times, I wandered all over the roof and took random pics of the cars and stadium:
The game-time temperature was 48 degrees. By the seventh-inning stretch, it must’ve dropped to the low 40s or high 30s because I could see my breath, and my face was stinging. I jogged in place. I jumped up and down. I kept moving. Staying warm was just part of the challenge.
The game itself, unfortunately, was a low-scoring affair. The Rockies scored in the 1st. The Red Sox scored in the 4th and 5th, and that was it. Eleven total hits. One extra-base hit. No homers. Blah. Once again, my glorious opportunity to catch a World Series home run went down the drain, but I still had lots of fun, and I’m glad I made the trip. Final score: Red Sox 2, Rockies 1.
Were the Rockies going to win two of three in Denver and force a sixth game back in Boston? I knew it wasn’t likely, and I knew my season was likely done.
As Red Sox fans flooded the streets, I shouted, “Anyone wanna sell their ticket stub?!”
Everyone ignored me.
I shouted again and again and got the same result.
I decided to shout one more time, and some guy asked me how much I was willing to pay.
“Ten bucks?” I asked.
He kept walking.
I entered the KENMORE subway station and shouted again to the mob of people waiting to pass through the turnstiles (or whatever those weird things are). ONE guy offered me his ticket for five bucks. I got all excited, but of course but it wasn’t the fancy kind. It was one of those small/colorless box office stubs — and it was crinkled into oblivion.
“Thanks but no thanks,” I said.
He was annoyed.
I headed downstairs.
The first train that pulled in was insanely crowded. I was exhausted and had no business trying to squeeze aboard, but I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting for another train. I walked up to the wall of passengers at the open doors and shouted, “Can you people make room for a New Yorker who hates the Yankees?!”
Everyone laughed and pushed a bit farther inside, and I was in:
“Anyone wanna sell their ticket stub for twenty bucks?!” I asked.
“Right here!” shouted a guy buried in the crowd. “I’ll sell you mine!”
I reached for my wallet and another guy yelled, “I’ll sell mine for fifteen!”
“Fourteen!” shouted the first guy.
“Fourteen!” I repeated. “Anyone want to beat that?”
No one said a word, so I pulled out the money and passed it through the crowd. Five seconds later, someone passed a teeny strip of the ticket to me.
“What the HELL is THIS?!” I shouted.
“It’s the stub!” yelled the guy.
“Noooo!!! That’s just a saying!!! I want the whole ticket!!! I can’t believe you tore it!!!”
“You said you wanted the ticket STUB!”
“I want my money back!” I said, passing the ‘stub’ back to him.
“A deal’s a deal!” he yelled and passed the rest of the ticket toward me.
“This ticket is creased!!” I shouted. “You sold me a torn creased ticket!! What the f*ck?!”
“You wanted a ticket!” he yelled unapologetically and got off at the next stop.
I got off at PARK STREET ten minutes later, still shaking my head and debating what type of jinx to put on Red Sox Nation, when an older man tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a beautiful ticket.
“Here you go,” he said. “We got a couple of ’em last night.”
Not a bad way for my season to end.
• 316 balls in 41 games this season = 7.7 balls per game.
• 496 consecutive games with at least one ball
• 3 consecutive World Series games with at least one ball
• 3,277 total balls
This was the final day of the trip. Our flight back to New York was scheduled to take off at 4pm, leaving time for a final jaunt on the beach.
Here I am with my half-sister Martha:
I took that photo with a ten-second timer. Not bad, huh?
As we walked, I took a bunch of photos like this . . .
. . . and this . . .
. . . and this . . .
. . . and this:
Before I knew it, we had to pack up and jump in the car . . .
. . . and head to Princess Juliana International Airport:
Amy had a flight to Memphis on her own, so we said goodbye to her:
Our flight was an hour later, so I had lots of time to work on my blog:
Eventually my time in St. Martin was over:
Hopefully we can all travel someplace together next year. India is currently being discussed as a possibility, but I’m not sure if it’ll happen. Alternatively, I would love to visit Thailand, but Martha has already been there. Of course. Maybe Vietnam? Or maybe Key West? Or a cruise?
Whatever. All I can think about now is enjoying two more full months of relaxing bliss before Opening Day . . .
According to a sign at the restaurant where we ate breakfast, we were only 2,270 kilometers from home:
Of course, as a stupid American, I have no idea what a kilometer is, and I don’t really care.
I began my meal with a plate of scrambled eggs . . .
. . . and finished with the largest crepe of all time, filled with Nutella, banana, and coconut:
I needed all those calories to get me through our morning hike at Loterie Farm. Here’s what it looked like as we drove onto the grounds:
The hike began as more of a walk . . .
. . . but took us up into the hills . . .
. . . where the path became quite steep:
In the photo above, that’s my mom in the black hat. I can’t reveal her age because she’ll disown me, so let’s just say she gets on the bus for half-price. I’m pointing this out so you’ll appreciate how impressive it is that she plowed her way up the mountain. You know how some middle-aged folks act like senior citizens? My mom is the opposite. It’s beautiful.
Our hike took us to Paradise Peak (or, as the French call it, Pic Paradis). It’s the highest point on St. Martin, and the view is exquisite:
In the photo above, that’s me on the rock in the lower right corner. And guess what? That wasn’t even the highest point. After reaching that spot and spending too much time (according to my half-sister, Martha) having my picture taken, we still had to climb up the most challenging part of the trail:
It was like hiking up a staircase made of boulders, some of which were slightly loose. Thankfully we found a gentler path on the way back down, and when we made it to the bottom, we chugged ice-cold bottled waters in a relaxing open-air lounge:
Our next stop was on the Dutch side of the island. (FYI: the Dutch side is basically the party side. It’s crowded and touristy and tacky — the spot were people get off their cruise ships and lose money in casinos. The French side, where we stayed, is extremely mellow and charming.) Thanks to several folks who suggested it on Twitter and here on my blog, we went to Maho Beach, which is located right next to the airport:
Why would anyone want to go to a beach in a spot like that and risk their lives?
To check out the airplanes, of course:
In the photo above, that plane was turning around to face away from the beach in preparation for takeoff, and when it DID start revving up, the continued blast of air was so intense that it felt like a hurricane. Thankfully I turned away from the plane just in time to prevent my eyeballs from getting impaled with sand. Several people’s hats and various other beach items blew 100 feet away into the ocean, but no one got hurt.
Amy, Martha, and my mom enjoyed the spectacle:
We didn’t plan to stay long — just for 20 or 30 minutes to see a few planes taking off and landing.
There was a huge crowd at the restaurant at the end of the beach:
And then it happened. A plane started making its approach . . .
. . . and buzzed the beach:
Hot damn! I don’t consider myself a plane enthusiast, but it *was* pretty cool.
After watching a few more planes, we headed back to the beach near our condo. Martha, Amy, and my mom lay down and read:
I wandered toward one end of the beach . . .
. . . where something odd was poking up out of the sand:
At first I thought it was a tent, but it turned out to be a boat, tipped on its side and covered with graffiti. Here’s a closer look:
I walked past the boat and headed out onto the rocks:
It was *so* nice to be alone there. I enjoyed looking out at the water, letting my mind wander, and taking the occasional photo. Here’s the crevice filled with smaller stones:
Here’s a tree atop the hill:
On my way back, I played with the sand:
Eventually I handed off my camera to Amy and jumped in the water:
This was the scene at sunset:
It was our final night of the trip, so we splurged on a fancy dinner in perhaps the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. Here’s what it looked like inside:
Take a look at my appetizer and try to guess what it is:
It was seared tuna wrapped in bacon with “teriyaki whipped cream” and other oddities, and IT WAS GOOOOOOD. Everything at the restaurant was bizarre and delicious; Martha had an appetizer that contained goat cheese ice cream. I tried some, and it was great. Sometimes I eat total crap like this, but other times (especially when other people are paying), I enjoy pretentious high-end food.
This was my main course:
To quote the menu, it was “pasta with shrimp, candied garlic, and crispy chorizo,” and by the way, the orange swirl was a carrot puree.
At some point late in the meal, Martha started acting like a six-year-old, which brought out my inner five-year-old, which made us both hysterical. Here I am laughing so hard that I was crying:
I can’t blame our antics on sugar because we hadn’t yet ordered dessert. We ended up sharing a chocolate sampler plate:
I won’t bother listing every item in the photo above. Instead I’ll just tell you about the most unusual one. See the two spoons? Those contained chocolate mousse topped with Pop Rocks. Who the hell thinks of that?!
Finally, we each received a complimentary “tiramisu shot,” which had Kahlua and some other creamy thing and cocoa powder sprinkled on top:
Despite eating like a madman for the final two days of the trip, I lost a couple of pounds. How often does THAT happen on a vacation? It had never happened to me before. Back in 2005, I gained 10 pounds on a two-week trip to Paris and Israel, which, looking back, is disgusting. That was the old me. The new me is trying to exercise more and eat sensibly.
We spent the day at Bikini Beach, and this was my view for most of it:
One of the best things about being there was watching people walk past, starting with Martha (my half-sister) and Amy (her girlfriend):
Here’s a random couple making their way down the beach:
Here are three more couples:
Here’s a contender for the “Best Outfit Of The Day” award — and the best attitude too:
Here’s Amy getting a 20-minute aloe massage:
Martha got one too, and so did my mom. Later in the day, Martha and Amy were each massaged for an hour. I would’ve loved to get in on that action, but thought the money was better spent on flyboarding. Remember this photo I took on Day 2 of the trip? I *really* wanted to try it myself — and now the time had finally arrived.
Here I am with Alex, my flyboard instructor:
Amy had kindly offered to take photos of me flyboarding from the beach, but I wanted this experience to be as well documented as possible, so for an extra $20, Alex used a fancy camera to get some pics of me from the jet ski.
Here I am putting on a helmet:
The helmet was required so that I’d be less likely to die if I fell off the flyboard and landed headfirst on the jet ski. Alex made sure that didn’t happen by keeping his distance and giving me a limited thrust. I had assumed that I’d somehow control the power, but that was done from the jet ski. The power itself came from water pressure that was supplied through a long tube connected to the flyboard.
After receiving a zillion pointers about how to shift my weight, point my toes, and push down on the flyboard, I was ready to give it a shot. Here I am rising out of the water:
Here I am going a bit higher . . .
. . . before losing my balance and plunging into the ocean:
I figured I’d need a few minutes to get the hang of it and that I’d end up flying all over the place, but it was MUCH harder than I expected. Balancing was counterintuitive, and I can explain it. Try standing up (right now, on the floor) and keeping your body straight and leaning back an inch or two at a time. When you get to the point where you’re about to lose your balance, what happens? You instinctively puff your chest out a bit and arch your back, right? And you flex your toes up so they come off the floor . . . right? Well, on a flyboard, that’s all wrong and it’ll make you fall over backward even faster. What I was supposed to do was push down with my toes in order to tilt the board forward; whichever way the board is leaning will determine which way it goes. That might sound easy, but hell, try pushing down with your toes when you’re falling backward on the ground, and you’ll be on your ass before you know it. So yeah, basically, everything I’d learned from a lifetime of balancing was wrong.
This pretty much sums up my flyboard experience:
Here’s a decent photo of me back up in the air:
This was as high as I got:
By the time I finally started getting the hang of it, my session was done. It cost $70 for 15 minutes plus $20 for the photography — VERY expensive and rather frustrating overall but totally worth it.
Here’s a photo that Amy took at some point from the beach:
Of course she also got a photo of me falling:
In the early afternoon, we ordered lunch at our beach chairs:
I had a filet of red snapper with caesar salad:
Normally, the closer a restaurant is to the water, the worse the food is, but our meal was quite good.
After lunch, Martha took off on a jet ski . . .
. . . for an hourlong snorkeling excursion. She told me later that she came face to face with a three-foot barracuda, and she was excited about it! What a maniac.
Here’s an interesting character I saw in the mid-afternoon:
If I had to guess, I’d say he was using a metal detector. But really, what the hell is going on there?
Here are some other folks that caught my eye:
I’m not sure what to say about them other than . . . there really *is* someone for everyone.
Over the course of the day, I probably saw two dozen topless women, including Martha and Amy. When they first showed up topless at our beach chairs, I wasn’t there. (I had gone for a run, if you must know.) They were bummed because they’d been looking forward to surprising me, and get this — as they started getting dressed, my mom encouraged them to stay topless and go find me. Ha!
Yes, there are photos.
No, I’m not going to post them.
I don’t have any photos of what happened next, other than this:
In the photo above, my mom was giving me a funny look because we were about to take a leisurely stroll through the nude portion of the beach — my suggestion, of course. She’d never been to a nude beach before, so I thought it’d be a nice, educational experience. And by the way, in case you’re concerned that my family is weird . . . well, we ARE weird, but you should know that we kept our clothes/bathing suits on.
Overall my mom was *not* impressed. She called it “anti-sexual,” which I tried to explain is kind of the point, but she said she was actually repulsed by the whole thing and didn’t understand the appeal. That said, we did have a few laughs, the best of which came when I pointed out a bronzed, naked old man standing 50 feet in front of us. As we approached, I said, “Why don’t you go introduce yourself? He looks lovely, and you might make a nice connection.”
“I don’t think so,” she said with exaggerated disgust.
“Just walk up to him and say, ‘Excuse me, sir, do you know where the hot dog stand is?'”
“You’re looking at it,” joked my mom, imagining the man’s response.
Let’s take a closer look, shall we?
Since everyone is subject to ridicule on my blog, here’s a photo of my mom reacting to the coldness of the water:
Not that I’m a tough guy or anything, but I really didn’t think it was that cold.
Here’s one final look at the beach before we packed up and left in the late afternoon:
After spending some time back at the condo, the four of us headed out for an Italian dinner at a tiny nearby mall. Here we are:
We ate outdoors in a pretty courtyard:
For my appetizer, I had toasted bread topped with goat cheese, fresh roasted pepper, olives, and artichoke hearts with balsamic vinaigrette:
For my main course, I ordered this . . .
. . . and Amy ordered this . . .
. . . and I ended up with a perfect half-and-half portion of each:
In the photo above, the item on the left is sauteed gnocchi in pomodore sauce with Italian sausage, onions, and peppers. The item on the right is spaghetti with sauteed pancetta, garlic, egg, and creamy parmesan cheese sauce.
Wooooo, mama! It was VERY good. And for dessert, I had some tiramisu:
It was another super-relaxing day at the local beach:
After lounging around and doing absolutely nothing for an hour or two, I went for 20-minute jog from one end of the beach to the other. Amy had lent me some type of fancy smartphone watch, which told me the distance (1.65 miles) and my pace (slow, but whatever — YOU try jogging barefoot on a slanted beach with thick sand and waves rolling in up to your ankles).
A bit later, I took a half-mile walk with my mom. Here’s what it looked like at one point:
I was amused by this “Miami Heat” boat . . .
. . . and this 8-ball buoy:
Here’s a man and his dog:
Here’s my mom:
Here are Amy and Martha with their kayaking/snorkeling guide:
The guide told us that he grew up on the northern coast of France, where the weather is awful. He moved to St. Martin five years ago, works here full-time on the beach, and now has a wife and a little kid on the island — not a bad life.
While Amy and Martha did their thing, my mom and I escaped the mid-day sun inside the condo:
In the late afternoon, Martha challenged me to a game of Scrabble . . .
. . . which we never finished. I *hate* that. I’d rather lose by 200 points than end prematurely.
As the sun began to set, I went for another jog on the beach and did a few sprints because why not? Also, it’s never too early to start getting in shape for baseball season.
At 7pm we all walked down the main street . . .
. . . to a BBQ place called Sky’s The Limit, which came highly recommended from the locals. Here’s what I ate:
That’s a chicken and rib combo with cole slaw, spaghetti, potato salad, rice and beans, mac and cheese, and salad.
Speaking of cole slaw, here’s a whole lot of it on the floor:
Our waitress dropped a huge container of it, and before it was fully cleaned up (and the floor was still slick with mayonnaise residue), a customer slipped in it. One of the employees grabbed his arm and caught him just before he crashed to the floor. It was hilarious in a glad-that-wasn’t-me kinda way.
Martha requested that I get a photo of our waitress, whose name tag said “Lolipop”:
On our way back from dinner, we stopped in a little store called Sexy Fruits:
Whaddaya know?! There was something baseball-related:
Look what was inside the baseball:
I was tempted to buy it because, as Martha said, “That’s soooo YOU.” But eh. I have no place in my life for useless trinkets.
Here I am with my mom and Martha:
I didn’t buy the pink cowboy hat either, but it does look good on me, no?
The one thing I did buy (at a teeny grocery store down the street) was a “Chubby” bubble gum-flavored soda:
How can you NOT buy something like that? And by the way, did you notice Martha pointing at her chubby stomach in the background? And did you notice her St. Louis Cardinals t-shirt? She’s swell.
As for the soda, it was extremely sweet and artificial and bubble-gummy, and I loved it — but only enough to have two sips. Martha tried it and said, “It tastes like frosting,” and she was absolutely right.