Lynch and I were up on the roof enjoying an ice, cold bohemian-style beer; courtesy of the hardest screw that ever walked a turn at Shawshank State Prison.
Shoot, sorry! Got carried away. I mean we were drinking a warm Coors Light after our first softball win. We had 10 run ruled a team and walked off Randall's Island with our heads held high. A feat that is very rare when entering or exiting the former NYC landfill. Home to about 30 softball fields, abandoned factories and a mental hospital, there's not much to be happy about on the island. With the infrequent bus schedules, frequent crackheads and isolation from Manhattan, you sometimes feel as if you'll never get off Randall's ever again.
I've had a similar below conversation with Lynch while sitting in the dugout during a tough loss.
But, we made it off the island and everyone was excited. Lynch and I were reviewing our base hits and staring into the foreboding Spa-Ha night.
Then we heard it.
Boom, Boom, Boom!
We figured it was just a car backfiring and continued analyzing our victory. Then we heard screams. People scattered back and forth across the street about a block north of our apartment. Shots fired in Spanish Harlem!
About 10 cop cars rolled up with detectives and yellow caution tape. The deli owner below us (who honestly probably was the one who committed the murder) was being questioned at the scene of the crime.
We're not sure why there was a shooting or what the ultimate verdict was but c'mon Spanish Harlem. Stop the shooting. Stop the looting.
I was out on my lunch break today, passing by The Palace Hotel (across the street from the true palace of New York City: Lou Hammond & Associates).
Anyway, outside The fake Palace, a small crowd had gathered behind a set of ropes. With about 15 minutes left in my lunch break, I decided to investigate the situation.
I walked over and asked what all the fuss was about.
I didn't actually say "What's all the fuss about?" That would've been just strange. I did it in a much more casual and cool demeanor. As if I didn't really care. As if it couldn't be that important.
"Hey, what's the deal over here?"
Then I noticed the nerds. Five or six teenagers, a couple mid-20 year olds and one 30 year old wearing an LA Dodger yamaka. They all were sporting some type of Dodger gear and holding booklets with hundreds of baseball cards. They clutched pens in their hands, waiting with bated breath for Matt Kemp, James Loney, Mike McDougal or even the Spanish language broadcaster.
They were fanatics from the f all the way to the s. I'd never seen such joy and excitement from a group of young men. Not since the Paris Hilton sex tape or KFC's introduction of the Double Down Sandwich. They giggled and snickered back and forth at my question.
"The Dodgers are staying at this hotel for the weekend. Duh! They're coming out right now to board the bus to Citi Field!"
I felt like an idiot. How could I not know this!!??
"Oh yeah," I responded. "That's right." F-ing nerds, I thought to myself.
And then I got behind them in line.
Not really to get an autograph (although I wished I'd brought a pen with me. Thought about just giving one of the dorks an atomic wedgie until he coughed his writing utensil up).
The thing was, I was really interested in scoping out the situation and seeing these fanatics in action. I was also hoping to catch a glimpse of Hong Chih-Kuo.
Well, the 10 minutes I spent out by The Palace really made my Friday. Every time someone walked out the front doors, the nerds would scramble through their cards, trying to put a face to the image. A few times they ran up to regular guests just checking out of the hotel or taking an afternoon stroll down 51st Street. And once one nerd chased after somebody, all the rest would follow suit. Bombarding normal pedestrians with Lance Cormier cards and stabbing arms with pens.
It also seemed like these nerds knew each other on a first name basis. Some were 40 years old, others seemed around 20 and still others were definitely teens. But they seemed like they'd known each other for years and traveled in packs to these gigs.
"Hey Jimmy, you got that Chad Billingsly rookie card?"
"No. Traded it to Tom. Got a Kershaw in exchange. Steal!!"
"Nice dice!" (high fives all around)
The guy standing next to me described it well. He also carried a book of cards but stood back from the rest of the nerds. A vet in the stalking other grown men game. He could get a better view from the back of the line and snipe his prey from afar.
"They just follow each other around...like ducks. Like little bugs. What're those things called? They jump off those cliffs? Dem flemmies?"
He was exactly right. But I think he was referring to the Lemmings.
Honestly, there were a couple moments when I thought about going in the back door of the hotel, throwing on a pair of shades and walking out the front door to sign a few autographs. These guys were literally chasing everyone down. Think I deserved a few autographs after my busy morning. I'd made a couple clutch magazine scans and polished off two monthly reports.
Aside from the jokes and dorky nature these guys embodied, it was refreshing to see people who still have an undying passion for a game that has been through tough times in the past 10 years. It's love for a team and group of guys that really don't care much about you. An unrequited admiration that comes back strong every summer no matter what happened the season past. I mean, look at me. I'm still as much a Mets fan as I was back in 1999 or 2002 or 2004 or 2006 or 2007 or 2008. Maybe even more so. Although ticket prices are high than ever, players are paid ridiculous salaries and Shea Stadium has been demolished, it is a game that has survived and will hopefully be around forever.
"Baseball reminds us of all that once was good and could be again."
