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.
The day started with a short drive and an even shorter boat ride to a place called Yellow Beach. It was beautiful . . .
. . . and relaxing:
I took a walk down the beach with Martha and Amy . . .
. . . and played Scrabble with my mom:
We had several happy interruptions during the game. First, Martha showed us a couple of sea urchin shells that she found while snorkeling:
A little while later, she led us here . . .
. . . to see a bunch of large iguanas fighting over french fries:
(Thanks, jackass tourists, for doing your part to ruin the ecosystem.)
Scrabble was interrupted yet again for lunch, which was brought to our beach chairs. I had the “exotic crab salad” with chips, guacamole, watermelon, and pineapple:
In other news, Martha and Amy like beer:
Here’s how the Scrabble game ended:
See the word REPULSES along the bottom? My mom got 149 points for it because it was a “triple-triple.” (At the time, we miscounted and determined that it was worth 160 points, but hey, it’s still impressive.) That’s what you call it when you hit two triple word scores on one move; the score gets tripled and then re-tripled, and then of course you get the 50-point bonus for using all seven tiles.
At around 2:30pm, we lined up on this dock for the boat ride back to the mainland:
Here are the four of us on the boat — Martha, Amy, my mom, and me:
Our next stop was Orient Bay Beach . . .
. . . which looked like this:
According to Martha, this was THE beach in terms of the number of people and variety of activities.
For $10, I got a “watersports” wristband . . .
. . . which gave me all-day access to this trampoline:
That’s me in the photo above, and I’m sorry to report that that’s as high as I managed to jump — not because I’m lame but because of physics. I grew up with a large trampoline on Shelter Island, so believe me, I can get plenty of air under normal circumstances, but out in the ocean? Not so much. You see, when I pushed down in an attempt to jump, the whole damn thing sunk a few inches into the water, so in effect, there was nothing to push off of. It really sucked.
After checking in with my family . . .
. . . I wandered to the far end of the beach, where there just happened to be a “clothing optional” area. I don’t have any pics for you because (a) photographing other people was against the rules and (b) you squeamish homophobes couldn’t handle it. Several hours after returning from the beach, I offered to tweet a naked photo of myself, and the responses were disappointing — see here and here. That said, here’s a photo I took from the nude beach, looking back into the normal/boring area:
Did you notice the sign on the left? Womp.
At around 5pm, we drove back through Grand Case (which is adorable) to our condo:
Here’s a group selfie in the elevator:
Here I am blogging on the terrace:
Here’s what we had for dinner:
More soon . . .
As the photo below indicates, our first full day in St. Martin was rather uneventful:
That’s not a complaint. It’s exactly what we all needed. We enjoyed getting a slow start and fiddling on our laptops for a bit.
While my mom and Martha discussed the plan . . .
. . . I scrounged up a few small items for breakfast, including this:
Prune yogurt! Yum! (Seriously.)
What did we do all day? We hung out on the beach near our condo. Here’s my mom:
Here are Amy and Martha:
One of the highlights of the day was drinking this:
See what I mean about things being uneventful? That drink — my first with alcohol since Ben & Jen’s wedding 32 days ago — contained banana, coconut, and Baileys.
Here I am at lunch:
Here’s what I ate for lunch — tuna curry with coconut sauce:
In the late afternoon, I escaped the sun by heading up into the condo. This was the scene down below:
Here’s something else I saw from the balcony:
I’d seen those things on TV, but never in person. They’re called flyboards, and I’m hoping to try one before the week is through.
This was the view at sunset:
For dinner, we went to a nice-ish restaurant down the street. Here’s what I ate:
On the left is “lobster soup with lobster dices and vegetable julienne.” On the right is “pork tenderloin, honey orange sauce, glazed shallots with tonka bean, and potatoes au gratin.”
That was my day.
Sometimes it’s fun to do nothing.
Over the past few years, I’ve gone on several trips with my mom (Naomi) and half-sister (Martha). In 2011 we went to Barbados. In 2012 we went to Japan. In 2013 our destination was Hawaii. Last year we checked out Saint Lucia. And now we’re in St. Martin. Good timing, too. Look how cold it was in New York City:
During the four-hour flight, we witnessed some bizarre behavior. There was a 70-ish-year-old woman “seated” two rows in front of me, who must’ve gotten out of her seat 30 times and walked up and down the aisle. At first she appeared to be lost and confused, and indeed, on several occasions she needed help finding her seat. Sometimes she started talking/interacting with whatever random person she happened to be standing closest to. The worst of it was when she calmly bent down toward a man who was watching a movie — a total stranger — and pulled his glasses right off his face! As you might expect, he was shocked, as was everyone else who witnessed it. She wasn’t malicious. It was probably just a case of Alzheimer’s or dementia, so mainly it was just sad. And her lips were cartoonishly puffy from a collagen injection.
Anyway, enough about that. After having worn two pairs of long underwear nearly every day for the past two weeks, it was SO NICE to look out the window at the end of the flight and see this:
Of course, being outside was even better:
There was a fourth person on our trip: Martha’s girlfriend, Amy — pictured below, driving to the condo we’d rented for the week:
On the way, we passed funky little buildings like this . . .
. . . and enjoyed some scenery like this:
Here’s my mom in the condo:
The set-up is pretty cool. We have the top two floors of a three-story building, and the elevator opens up right into our living room. Meanwhile, the view on the back terrace is spectacular:
It wasn’t long before we headed back out to do a couple of mundane tasks, one of which was grocery shopping:
We also found an electronics store and bought some European plug adapters for our laptops; we’re staying on the French side of the island (in a town called Grand Case).
Have you ever seen a 3D printer? I hadn’t until Martha pointed one out in the store:
Look at the Yoda bust that it had produced:
I don’t see the purpose of that technology in my life, but I’m damn impressed.
At around 7pm, we took a little stroll . . .
. . . and picked a random restaurant for dinner.
Now, it seems that whenever I visit someplace special and *don’t* post food pics, several people complain. Thus, I’m delighted to inform you that I started with lobster ravioli with coconut milk sauce, curry, and citronella:
For my main course, I had roasted Chilean sea bass, cabbage fondue with bacon and chorizo, and butter sauce:
(Yes, it was good.)
Here are the four of us:
For those who don’t know, Martha is wearing the gray shirt, and Amy is dressed in pink.
We all shared two desserts:
On the left is a chocolate cake with nutella ice cream. On the right is a banana tart, vanilla ice cream, chocolate and caramel sauce, and malted milk balls. Phew!
For weeks leading up to this trip, I’ve been eating carefully and exercising more . . . and on the very first night, before any of us had even gone to the beach, it all fell apart.
I’m on vacation.
I can do whatever the hell I want.
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!
What a day . . .
It rained all morning and continued into the early afternoon. Then the sun came out at 3pm, so my friend Sean and I decided to go. (He’s the guy from 9/6/05 at Camden Yards and 9/22/05 at Shea Stadium.) We got to Shea and saw from the subway platform that the field was set up for BP. We bought our tickets, waited in line outside Gate C, and ran insude when the stadium opened at 4:40pm.
No BP. Just the Japanese media:
Half an hour later, I saw a Mets player walk out of the bullpen and start playing catch with someone in the right field corner:
It was Heath Bell. He waved to me. I waved back. It was nice to be recognized, but I usually don’t get baseballs from guys who know me. Therefore my first thought was something along the lines of, “Dammit, why couldn’t it have been anyone else?”
Sean gave me my space and went to left field. (What a nice friend.) I waited a minute and then yelled, “Heath! You and I should be throwing instead!”
“You don’t have a glove!” he called back.
I unzipped my backpack and pulled out my glove and shouted, “Ohhhhhh!” as if to say, “You feel busted.”
“Tuck in your shirt!” he snapped.
Okay, fine, he wanted me to look like a ballplayer, so I scrambled to tuck in my big, floppy, long-sleeved shirt. I put my glove back on, and he threw the next one right to me. I wasn’t expecting it – not that quickly, anyway. He was about 75 feet away, and I threw it back. Perfect throw. Not much velocity, though. My arm wasn’t warmed up. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t bounce it or launch it over his head. He threw the next one back to his partner on the field. The other guy wasn’t a player or even a trainer. I think he was the Mets’ Japanese translator.
Heath moved back farther and farther until he was long-tossing. Then, after a few minutes, he began moving closer and eventually finished with a few short throws. Finally he tossed me the ball again. I threw it back. He threw it back. I threw it back, and so on. I tried to show off my knuckleball, but he put me to shame with his. He threw one that danced so much that I dropped it, causing him to fling up his arms in disgust because the ball had fallen onto that hard-to-reach, sloped, grassy area between the seats and the field.
“Don’t worry,” I said when he walked over. “I can get it. You’ve seen the trick with my glove, right?”
He shook his head.
“Oh, man,” I said, pulling out my rubber band and sharpie, “check it out.” I stretched the band over the glove and propped it open with the marker, and then I paused to give an explanation.
“I can see what you’re doing,” he said.
“Alright alright, here goes . . . ”
I lowered the glove over the ball and jiggled it around for a few seconds. The grass was thick, and I wanted to make sure that the band had stretched all the way over the ball. I raised the glove slowly for dramatic effect, and the ball was stuck inside. He loved it! He turned to the few other fans, who had made their way out to the right field corner, and said, “This guy is a professional.”
I thought he was going to let me keep the ball at that point, but instead he backed up onto the outfield grass and held up his glove, so I threw it back.
It was tough to play catch from the stands. Not only was I eight feet above the field and throwing downward at an awkward angle, but there were steps and railings and seats all around me.
I moved a few sections over where the wall wasn’t as high, and we continued to play catch. One of Heath’s throws was too low and clipped the back of the seat. The ball ricocheted far to my left, and I had to climb over several railings to get there. He waited patiently.
“Give me your camera,” said a voice from behind.
It was Sean! He saw me playing catch from the other side of the stadium and ran over (I love having athletic friends) to take pictures. I pointed at my backpack, which was sitting on an orange seat 30 feet away. He went over and found the camera and came back.
“Get behind me!” I said. “Then you can get me with Heath in the background!”
Sean rolled his eyes. He already had it all figured out — and he went to work.
The set . . .
The wind-up . . .
The pitch . . .
Heath was calling balls and strikes from his crouch. I ran the count to 3-2 (on some questionable calls) and ended up bouncing a curveball. Bah!
Several fans crowded around and asked me how I got to play catch with him. Meanwhile, a pack of security guards marched out of the bullpen to see what was going on and realized there wasn’t anything they could get mad about, so they left. It was great. Heath and I played catch for about 10 minutes, and at the end of it, he let me keep the ball.
When he came over to sign autographs for everyone, I asked if he’d ever seen the photo of me buried in baseballs in a bathtub. He shook his head, so I pulled out my wallet (where I keep a copy) and handed it over.
“That’s less than one-third of my collection,” I told him.
He had lots of questions.
“What do you do with them?”
“Where do you keep them?”
“Do you live with your parents?”
“Do you work?”
He must not have believed me because he started looking at my credit cards and counting my money:
“Take whatever you need,” I said, but he left it all there and handed it back. And that was it. I shook his hand and thanked him, and he headed off to the bullpen.
I was so happy that I didn’t even care what happened for the rest of the day, but of course I still headed out to left field when the Rockies started BP at 5:25pm.
Sean was out there. He’d already gotten a ball:
Before long, I got one from a Rockies pitcher who was hiding his jersey under his warm-up jacket. I’m pretty sure it was Scott Dohmann, but it was hard to tell. With the exception of a handful of guys, the Rockies are seriously a bunch of no-names. Anyway, the ball had some bizarre writing on the sweet spot, and I still have no idea what it means.
FYI, I wrote the “2730” on it because it was the 2,730th ball of my collection, but all the other writing was there when I snagged it.
My next goal was to get *one* more ball to keep a certain streak alive; I’d been to 50 consecutive games at which I’d snagged at least three.
A few minutes later, a very tall player wearing No. 23 began playing catch in left field. I pulled out my roster and did a quick search. It was Ryan Speier. I
wasn’t sure if I’d even heard of him, but he didn’t need to know that. I waited until he finished throwing and then yelled his name. He turned around, spotted my Rockies cap, and flung his GLOVE to me from 40 feet away. I could not believe my eyes. The whole situation unfolded in slow-motion. I’d seen him take off the glove . . . and swing his right arm back . . . and under-hand this bundle of leather toward me in a high arc over several fans and half a dozen rows of seats. Was this a joke?! Was I dreaming? Was he going to walk over and tell me to give it back? I’ve attended more than 600 major league games, and I had never gotten a glove. I’d never even considered the possibility of getting one.
A minute later, I was still in shock:
The other fans were pretty stunned too, and several folks came over to have a look. It was gorgeous. Rawlings. Gold Glove Series. Black leather with red labels and a red “Speier” stitched onto the outside of the thumb:
Then I realized why he’d given it away. A few of the leather laces had torn, leaving a large hole in the pocket:
“You could get it re-strung!” Someone shouted.
Re-strung?! Why would I want to do that? I want to leave it exactly as I got it. It’s perfect.
At that point, I *really* didn’t care what happened for the rest of the day.
Sean decided (and I agreed) that it was stupid for us to be competing with each other in the same section, so he headed upstairs to the Loge Level:
He ended up getting two more baseballs up there. One was thrown by Todd Greene, and the other was a homer that rattled around in the mostly-empty seats.
As for me, I got my third ball from Garrett Atkins. He was taking fungos at shortstop. I was 10 rows back along the 3rd base line. He probably threw it from 120 feet away. It was my record-tying 300th ball of the season, and it kept my streak alive.
Two minutes after returning to the left field corner, I spotted a ball sitting on the infield dirt between 3rd base and shortstop. I knew that someone would eventually walk over and pick it up and toss it into the crowd, so I ran over, hoping it would happen sooner than later. It did. Clint Barmes approached the ball and gave me a sidearm flip as soon as I shouted his name. There it was. Ball No. 301 of the season — a new record. (It’s an ugly ball, pictured here on the right, scuffed and beat up and discolored, which makes me love it even more.)
I went back to the left field corner and got my fifth ball of the day from . . . someone. I think it was an outfielder, and I think it was Brad Hawpe, but there was no way to tell. That’s a shame, but at least it wasn’t the record-breaker. Whenever I catch an important ball, I try to make sure that I know the source.
Todd Helton was walking from left field to the dugout. I really wanted a ball from him, so I kept pace by climbing over railings and running through the aisle. There were two baseballs sitting near the protective screen behind 3rd base, so I cut down the stairs to get there before he did. As he approached, I called out and asked him as politely as I’ve ever asked for a ball. He paused just long enough to say, “It’s not free ball day,” and then he kept walking. Nice.
I didn’t get anything at the Rockies’ dugout after BP, but that was okay because another good thing happened there instead. I ran into a woman named Diane Firstman, who not only is a friend of mine from the Scrabble world, but she’s the one who’d recently mentioned me on her “Diamonds Are For Humor” MLBlog. She was there with her friend Kevin McCarthy — the guy she’d written about whose company has season tickets in the front row. They invited me to sit with them during the game. I said I was there with a friend. They told me to get him, and they lent me their tickets so I could sneak him back into the field level. (Once BP ends, security starts checking tickets; poor Sean had gotten stuck in the Loge when BP abruptly ended five minutes early.)
Sean and I ended up sitting there all night, but before the game started, I ran out to the left field foul line and got my sixth ball from Rockies second baseman Luis Gonzalez (not to be confused with the Arizona Diamondbacks left fielder with the same name). I also got three players to sign my ticket:
From left to right, those are the autographs of Clint Barmes (who oughta be ashamed of himself for writing like that), Ryan Shealy (who’s enormous), and Ryan Speier (my new favorite player of all time). I got to talk to Speier for a minute, during which I thanked him for the glove and asked why he didn’t re-string it.
“I have like three others,” he said.
I got my picture taken with him (which came out horribly) and ended the conversation with my second major league handshake of the day. I think that might be a new record for me as well.
When the game started, I was in the perfect spot to get a ball tossed to me by the Rockies as they jogged off the field every inning. Of course the view wasn’t bad either:
Sure enough, after Cliff Floyd grounded out to Gonzalez to end the bottom of the 1st, Shealy (playing 1st base) tossed me the ball on his way in. That was my seventh of the day.
Several innings later, Diane got a ball from Barmes. Little kids were getting balls left and right. It was amazing how many balls were being tossed into the crowd. I rarely sit behind the dugout and always forget that there’s constant action there. Still, I didn’t think I’d get anything else for the rest of the night because the munchkins had taken over.
I was wrong.
Before the bottom of the 8th inning got underway, 1st base coach Dave Collins (who stole 395 bases during his major league career) tossed me the infield warm-up ball. Then, when the Rockies came off the field three outs later, Shealy tossed me another. Tom Glavine had chopped it off the plate to my favorite player.
Unlike the nonsense I had to endure three days earlier in Philadelphia, no one at Shea got mad at me for getting three balls during the game . . . except Kevin . . . although I think he was joking. What did Sean think? Nothing. He had to leave early and missed out.
Two other fans got into a heated debate over a ball. Two fathers. Father #1 (who had front row seats) had gotten two balls. Father #2 (who was sitting six rows back and kept running down to the front) had barely missed out on the second. Father #2 was yelling and cursing until father #1 handed him one of the balls. Father #2 then apologized for all the mean things he’d said and marched off triumphantly to present the ball (which he didn’t deserve) to his young son. I told father #1 he should’ve kept them both. He shrugged. We agreed that father #2 was an idiot who should’ve just gone to the souvenir stand instead.
Meanwhile, a lucky fan in the Mezzanine (third deck) caught TWO foul balls during the game, and everyone cheered their heads off. Is one ball enough? Is two balls too many? What about nine? Everyone’s got an opinion, and that’s fine. I just don’t like it when that opinion is forced upon anyone else.
Glavine ended up winning his 275th career game with a brilliant 2-hit, 11-strikeout performance. Mike Piazza blasted his 397th career home run. David Wright went deep twice and picked up his 100th RBI of the season. Jose Reyes set a Mets record for most at-bats in a season. He’s now up to 684.
Final score: Mets 11, Rockies 0.
• 306 balls in 41 games this season = 7.5 balls per game
• 425 consecutive games with at least one ball
Here’s some more off-season randomness for you — a video filmed by my friends Ben Weil and Jen Buffa, who are currently on their honeymoon in Australia. (In case you missed it, my last entry was all about their wedding.) The whole video is four minutes, and you should start watching at the 1:33 mark. It’s so bizarre and awesome and creepy that when I first watched it, I was speechless. Check it out:
Ben and Jen told me that they when saw the Bobblehead, they wondered, ever so briefly, if I had something to do with it being manufactured or being on display in that store. The answer is no, and when I asked if *they* had planted it there or pulled some other trick, they assured me they hadn’t.
WHAT THE HECK?!
Ben asked an employee in the store how it got there. Evidently it was made in South Korea. But why? And how? During the 2011 season, there was a full-length documentary about me in South Korea, so am I secretly famous there? Did some random South Korean businessman Google me and find that dweeby graduation photo on my website and decide that it would be a good idea to use THAT, out of all the photographs in the world, to produce a sample Bobblehead doll . . . for a display case in a store in a mall in Chinatown in Sydney, Australia? How many other Bobbleheads are there of me floating around? This is so damn weird! But it’s also kind of the best thing ever. And I just had to share it.
Ben and Jen sent the link to the video on Skype and watched me while I was watching it, but little did they know, I grabbed a few screen shots of them, ha-HAAA!! Here’s one . . .
. . . and here’s another, which cracks me up:
See them double-face-palming in the upper right corner? NOW do you see why I love them so much? Is three-way marriage legal?