As you are aware, this was supposed to happen back in 2020 but...COVID, you know. Now no variant will keep me from enjoying this. For the first time in years, I am interested again in the All Star Game. Truth be told, I've lost interest in the whole shebang as I've gotten older. It has, of course, expanded in its scope over the course of several days.
The Futures game which is essentially a minor league All-Star game. Yawn.
The celebrity softball game which features a lot of people I have never heard of. Yawn. Compare this to the old Dodgers Hollywood Stars games when the team were managed by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Don Rickles.
The All Star fanfest. Okay, I've been to one when Baltimore hosted the game about twenty years ago. It's a lot of fun. I'm already wondering where they will stage this next year.
The Homerun Derby. I know people love this night. I don't. Pass again.
These days, I really don't even have an interest in the All Star Game itself. I realized that, in years past, I only watched the telecast on the pre-show. I dig the pomp and circumstance of it all. The introduction of the line-ups and rosters. The first ball ceremony. The National Anthem. After that?
Yawn.
It wasn't always so.
I flashback to my first year as a true baseball nut. Ironically, Shea Stadium was in its infancy. And hosting that year's All Star Game. As a new devotee of the sport and the New York Mets, this game became my focus of life. Oh, I wasn't going to be there. But, I was living and dying with the hoopla in the weeks before the game.
I was excited that my very own Ron Hunt, second base man for the Mets, was going to be in the starting lineup for the National League side and I was fiercely behind that team, as I would be for many years.
I had yet to go to Shea Stadium myself, but I had already started to learn how to score a baseball game. I carefully used a ruler to make lines on a piece of paper as I crafted my own scoresheet.
Weeks before, I planned my timing and lunch for that day. The game would be in the afternoon. I would be ready in plenty of time. No one was to bother me.
Except...
About a week before, I got grim news from my mother.
"Do you remember that your class party is next Tuesday afternoon?"
WHAT?????!!!!
The past year's teacher, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian (that's how she signed all the report cards), had decided to hold a year-end party for us all at her home in Pelham Manor, New York. My mom and several other of the class mothers were also invited. I was assured that it was a really nice thing for the teacher to do.
YEAH, WELL!!!
I couldn't understand this. All year, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian had been a complete ball buster. A good but demanding teacher. And, frankly, by the end of June, I was totally done with her emotionally. Why wasn't she emotionally done with us?
I attempted the usual "I'm not going" histrionics, but find me one child that was ever successful with that play. I was sunk. And, so too was my very first attendance (albeit via television) at the All Star Game.
The day of the party was typically New York hazy, hot, and humid. Mrs. Lillian C. Ian had outdone herself with the back yard set-up. Tons of games and plenty of food plus all my classmates were there, including my now Facebook pals Cheryl and Diane.
How could this be a horrible day?
Well, I had smuggled in a lifeline. If I couldn't watch the All Star Game, I could listen.
In my shorts pocket was my dad's transistor radio.
The only problem was that there were only isolated spots in that backyard where I could get reception. If I moved either five inches to the right or to the left, I would lose touch with civilization and Shea Stadium.
Eventually, I got tired of all the strategic maneuvering and was totally wrapped up in stuffing my face and playing with my friends. When I remembered to turn the game on again, I was treated to the post-game wrap-up.
"And Johnny Callison's dramatic ninth inning homer propels the National League to a 7-4 victory...."
Grrrrrrrr.
It would be years later when I would actually get to see an All Star Game in person. This year it was being held on a steamy New York night at Yankee Stadium. The type of summer evening where you had to remove your sweaty clothes with a spatula.
I didn't care. My college roommate and I had tickets for the game. We'd travel down to the ball park via the renowned D train which is how Fordham University students always connected to the rest of the world.
Our plan for the big day was easy. We'd meet at school, walk up to the Fordham Road subway station, and then take the fifteen minute ride to baseball heaven.
Oh, yeah, and we decided to have dinner before hand at the Beefsteak Charlie's on Fordham Road. Always a great deal for college kids. Great steaks. And all the beer, wine, and sangria you can drink.
Uh-huh.
Neither of us were big boozers in that day, but sangria, masquerading as a potent version of Kool Aid, was always tasty. We opted for a couple of pitchers of that.
And, predictably, it went down smoothly. Too smoothly.
The combination of an empty stomach, a very uncomfortable weather day, and the wonderful tasting fruit "punch" made a lethal weapon.
Within 45 minutes, we were both completely blotto.
Shitfaced.
Drunk.
To this very day, I have no recollection of about three hours of my life. I have no memory of what I ate for dinner. Or the subway ride to Yankee Stadium. Or the first five innings of the game.
When I suddenly "came to," I was there in the House That Ruth Had Built and Then Renovated. My scorebook was in my lap. I had filled in the first five innings. I had obviously been there. But I had no idea how.
I recently dug up that infamous scorebook. I could not make any sense of anything I had written for the first five innings. By this time, I was an expert scorekeeper. Not on this night.
There would be yet another All Star Game that I would attend in person. In Baltimore right after they opened Camden Yards. Ironically, part of that trip's entourage was the same college roommate I had gotten plastered with. We avoided the sangria this time around. But, once again, it was another East Coast boiler and a challenge for us all.
That year, the Home Run Derby was held in the afternoon. We had seats in the upper deck behind home plate.
In the sun.
The hot, hot sun.
There are now tan lines on my arms that have never faded. All because of that day. Sans sun block.
But, the good news is that we could remember everything we saw. On that afternoon, there wasn't enough Diet Coke in the entire state of Maryland to quench my thirst.
The Futures game which is essentially a minor league All-Star game. Yawn.
The celebrity softball game which features a lot of people I have never heard of. Yawn. Compare this to the old Dodgers Hollywood Stars games when the team were managed by the likes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Don Rickles.
The All Star fanfest. Okay, I've been to one when Baltimore hosted the game about twenty years ago. It's a lot of fun. I'm already wondering where they will stage this next year.
The Homerun Derby. I know people love this night. I don't. Pass again.
These days, I really don't even have an interest in the All Star Game itself. I realized that, in years past, I only watched the telecast on the pre-show. I dig the pomp and circumstance of it all. The introduction of the line-ups and rosters. The first ball ceremony. The National Anthem. After that?
Yawn.
It wasn't always so.
I flashback to my first year as a true baseball nut. Ironically, Shea Stadium was in its infancy. And hosting that year's All Star Game. As a new devotee of the sport and the New York Mets, this game became my focus of life. Oh, I wasn't going to be there. But, I was living and dying with the hoopla in the weeks before the game.
I was excited that my very own Ron Hunt, second base man for the Mets, was going to be in the starting lineup for the National League side and I was fiercely behind that team, as I would be for many years.
I had yet to go to Shea Stadium myself, but I had already started to learn how to score a baseball game. I carefully used a ruler to make lines on a piece of paper as I crafted my own scoresheet.
Weeks before, I planned my timing and lunch for that day. The game would be in the afternoon. I would be ready in plenty of time. No one was to bother me.
Except...
About a week before, I got grim news from my mother.
"Do you remember that your class party is next Tuesday afternoon?"
WHAT?????!!!!
The past year's teacher, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian (that's how she signed all the report cards), had decided to hold a year-end party for us all at her home in Pelham Manor, New York. My mom and several other of the class mothers were also invited. I was assured that it was a really nice thing for the teacher to do.
YEAH, WELL!!!
I couldn't understand this. All year, Mrs. Lillian C. Ian had been a complete ball buster. A good but demanding teacher. And, frankly, by the end of June, I was totally done with her emotionally. Why wasn't she emotionally done with us?
I attempted the usual "I'm not going" histrionics, but find me one child that was ever successful with that play. I was sunk. And, so too was my very first attendance (albeit via television) at the All Star Game.
The day of the party was typically New York hazy, hot, and humid. Mrs. Lillian C. Ian had outdone herself with the back yard set-up. Tons of games and plenty of food plus all my classmates were there, including my now Facebook pals Cheryl and Diane.
How could this be a horrible day?
Well, I had smuggled in a lifeline. If I couldn't watch the All Star Game, I could listen.
In my shorts pocket was my dad's transistor radio.
The only problem was that there were only isolated spots in that backyard where I could get reception. If I moved either five inches to the right or to the left, I would lose touch with civilization and Shea Stadium.
Eventually, I got tired of all the strategic maneuvering and was totally wrapped up in stuffing my face and playing with my friends. When I remembered to turn the game on again, I was treated to the post-game wrap-up.
"And Johnny Callison's dramatic ninth inning homer propels the National League to a 7-4 victory...."
Grrrrrrrr.
It would be years later when I would actually get to see an All Star Game in person. This year it was being held on a steamy New York night at Yankee Stadium. The type of summer evening where you had to remove your sweaty clothes with a spatula.
I didn't care. My college roommate and I had tickets for the game. We'd travel down to the ball park via the renowned D train which is how Fordham University students always connected to the rest of the world.
Our plan for the big day was easy. We'd meet at school, walk up to the Fordham Road subway station, and then take the fifteen minute ride to baseball heaven.
Oh, yeah, and we decided to have dinner before hand at the Beefsteak Charlie's on Fordham Road. Always a great deal for college kids. Great steaks. And all the beer, wine, and sangria you can drink.
Uh-huh.
Neither of us were big boozers in that day, but sangria, masquerading as a potent version of Kool Aid, was always tasty. We opted for a couple of pitchers of that.
And, predictably, it went down smoothly. Too smoothly.
The combination of an empty stomach, a very uncomfortable weather day, and the wonderful tasting fruit "punch" made a lethal weapon.
Within 45 minutes, we were both completely blotto.
Shitfaced.
Drunk.
To this very day, I have no recollection of about three hours of my life. I have no memory of what I ate for dinner. Or the subway ride to Yankee Stadium. Or the first five innings of the game.
When I suddenly "came to," I was there in the House That Ruth Had Built and Then Renovated. My scorebook was in my lap. I had filled in the first five innings. I had obviously been there. But I had no idea how.
I recently dug up that infamous scorebook. I could not make any sense of anything I had written for the first five innings. By this time, I was an expert scorekeeper. Not on this night.
There would be yet another All Star Game that I would attend in person. In Baltimore right after they opened Camden Yards. Ironically, part of that trip's entourage was the same college roommate I had gotten plastered with. We avoided the sangria this time around. But, once again, it was another East Coast boiler and a challenge for us all.
That year, the Home Run Derby was held in the afternoon. We had seats in the upper deck behind home plate.
In the sun.
The hot, hot sun.
There are now tan lines on my arms that have never faded. All because of that day. Sans sun block.
But, the good news is that we could remember everything we saw. On that afternoon, there wasn't enough Diet Coke in the entire state of Maryland to quench my thirst.
The good news is that, in my season seats in 2022, I am only in the sun for the first hour of the game. But I will have a Coke Zero at my side.
Dinner last night: Double dip Ham French Dip at Phillippe's.
Dinner last night: Double dip Ham French Dip at Phillippe's.
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