[sic]

10:11 p.m. 2-1 in favor of the Cards. Bottom of the ninth. One out. Bases empty. Three balls and two strikes to Matt Kemp. Then the sky opened up and two minutes after this shot was snapped umpires said no more and out came the tarps.

Not only have I never been to a Dodger game before by bike. But I’ve never been to one where it rained, much less delayed the game.

Dare I admit that my friend Michael and I bailed out of our seats and took refuge under the eaves. And not long after the umpires ordered the field cleared we ordered ourselves out of the stadium to our bikes and homeward.

I can’t believe it’s less than a month shy of two freakin’ years ago when I last did this, but that’s not stopping me from entering into a golf tournament that’ll be taking place at this championship course as part of an industry convention I’ll be attending this September in Savannah, Ga.

I’ve got four months to go find some semblance of game — but make no mistake about me harboring any delusions of grandeur. By “semblance of a game” I mean one that only sucks versus one that ultra-superdooper sucks.

At the gathering of last weekend’s Watts Happening II Ride, friend, Blogdowntowner and fellow IAAL•MAF’er Eric Richardson told me just enough about the Los Angeles Baseball League tryouts he’s planning on attending this coming Sunday morning at L.A. Valley College to get me thinking I’m a-gonna go as well.

I know: sillysauce. Especially since Eric has high school baseball experience to draw from, and is something like 20 years younger than I am. But still: there’s something about the thought of playing BASE BALL (said the way deep and reverent way James Earl Jones does “Bull Durham”) that just gets me going.

But if I do (and it’s still a bit of an “if”), first I gotta hit the batting cages one evening this week — the nearest of which I believe is the Batcade on Victory near Olive in Burbank. There used to be a place on Colorado out in Glendale but I think it’s loooong gone. The only other one I’m familiar with is at the Sherman Oaks Castle miniature golf place on Sepulveda Boulevard.

But before that I have to locate my baseball bat that’s sat in a variety of closets since the last time I played in an adult baseball league, which would be the summer of 1994… with my wholly unremarkable season cut mercifully short by my motorcycle accident that July.

I do not lie when I call the season unremarkable. I think the only reason I got bumped up from the free agent pool (a league’s equivalent of wannabes and wallflowers) to a team  was because I exhibited some type of lumbering hustle on the field to make up for a lack of skill and experience that perhaps someone in authority found endearing. It also helped during my batting tryout when I hit a couple deep flies and then flat out lucked into connecting solidly with a 60 mph (at best) toss from a pitching machine that I put over the right field fence at the Pierce College ballfield, which made someone mistake me for someone who could actually hit — or at least do so consistently. Seven or eight games into the season I think I got on base three times. Four counting one walk. Hey, a walk’s as good as a hit!

My cleats and mitt aren’t quite so old or dormant as the bat, I last used those playing softball in 1996 or ‘97. But I don’t know exactly where they’re stored either.  And I know for a fact that my baseball pants are long gone, finally falling victim to a clothing purge of a couple years ago. And my throwing arm? Let’s just say if anyone’s got a spare southpaw model lying around — or hell even just a decent left rotator cuff — I’ll take it. I retired mine around the same time I sent those pants to Goodwill, not by choice but rather necessity.

But still, with all that going against me I’m still thinking I’m going to dust off my love of the game and get out there and potentially humiliate myself. Eric and I are of the same mind in regards to the open tryouts: they don’t cost nothin’.

Except maybe a little self respect.

L.A. Blogfather and L.A. Times Blogmaster Tony Pierce has a picture I presume he took posted to his Busblog of Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, who in the frame I presume is in the midst of getting an assist with his new L.A. Times blog that Tony helped land — and all of which is awesome.

Tony’s proximity to the NBA’s All Time Leading Scorer and one of my All Time Leading Heroes reminded me of the night back in 1991 that I ended up over at the tennis courts off of Whitsett by the L.A. River playing tennis with Wilt Chamberlain.

The backstory is this. Before it was seen fit to destroy the fabled Racquet Centre that stood at the corner of Ventura and Vineland, I met a fellow by the name of Allan, via the regular men’s doubles drop-in tennis nights hosted there. Basically for $10 or so you got to play 2-3 hours of tennis with a variety of partners and opponents, and on one night I ended up across the net from Allan who was a very capable player. At the end of our set he apparently thought the same of me and asked if I’d like to play singles with him one of these nights. I said sure. We exchanged numbers and soon enough we were getting together once or twice a week either at the Racquet Centre or the courts on Whitsett and playing.

Starting off Allan consistently defeated me. But as we kept on eventually I raised the level of my play and the matches got much closer, with me winning more games and even the occasional set. Now the thing about Allan was that for as good a player as he was he wasn’t as good a sport. I’d bet he went through three maybe four racquets in the course of our matches. And by “went through” I mean destroyed, as in purposefully broken. He’d miss an easy lob and next thing he’d be cursing heartily and flinging his stick either into the ground or against the fence. Repeatedly. Sometimes he’d spare its life and continue. Other times he’d just whack the thing until it cracked. And whenever that happened he’d calmly walk over to his bag, extract the next victim and continue as if nothing had happened.

The behavior was always ridiculous but whereas it would genuinely unnerve me in the beginning, I eventually grew to accept that this was just an inevitable part of a game with him — especially when I started winning. The one thing I could never get around were the bad calls he’d make. If things weren’t going well for him, inevitably he’d call a fair first serve long or a deep volley out that was in. I’d put up with the first couple but eventually I’d call bullshit and he’d tell me to fuck off and we’d argue until he’d show how big he was by allowing us to replay the point. What a guy.

Why he had these flagrant (and expensive!) tantrums was a mystery. But even more of a curiosity was who he was or what he did. Always sporting the best fake-bake tan that money could by coupled to a long, wet-look tightly curled perm that seemed straight outta the ’70s, he finished the fashion statement with a slew of gold chains around his neck perhaps to match the gold-trimmed gold Mercedes convertible coupe he drove. He never talked about what he did, nor did I really ask. The only info I got of him was that he had a kid or kids, knew plenty of rich folk and did a lot of partying with them at a lot of swank westside bars and clubs.

So one night I’d just biked back to Sherman Oaks from the Racquet Centre after the end of drop-in session. Allan hadn’t been there that evening. A few minutes after I got home the phone rings and its him and all he tells me is that their fourth has dropped out at the last minute and would I be interested in joining them for some late-night doubles at the Whitsett courts. I look at the clock and it’s after 9 p.m. but I say what the hell and bike over there.

When I arrive I make my way past empty courts toward the sound of Allan cussing and upon my arrival at the courtside gate, I see him off in the corner beating himself and his racquet up for some botched play. A few feet from him is some guy who later I find out owns a $12-million mansion up on Mulholland. And when I look to the other side of the court I see none other than 400-foot-tall Wilt Fucking Chamberlain standing at the net and smiling at Allan’s antics.

(more…)

Gorgeous tulips on Main Street.
(click to quadruplify)

Disneyland was magically delicious. Sure it was wet and gray, but it was a wonderful experience. It took us an unheard of straight-shot 30 minutes to go from our Silver Lake garage to their Anaheim garage (a monstrocity that did not exist when I was last there more than a fifth of a century ago), and while the line-up at the inbound tram portended of larger-than-expected crowds, once we made our way into the park (with our online-purchased tix) and got a bite to eat in Tomorrowland we were on our way to the amusements in the following order and with waits of no more than 25 minutes: Space Mountain (as seen at right) via a post-ride crappy snap of the monitor showing Susan and I in the front car racing enthusiastically around the galaxy; click to biggify), Star Tours, Matterhorn, the Frontierland firing range, Thunder Mountain, Pirates of the Carribean, Haunted Mansion, Indiana Jones, and The Enchanted Tiki Room. Gladly, Small World was closed for renovations. Sadly, so was the Jungle Cruise.

After some souvenir shopping we somewhat forlornly said our farewells to the magical kingdom and by the time we were back in the truck and on the northbound 5 Freeway it was time for the Superbowl’s opening kickoff and the Giants opening drive for a field goal as sent via Sirius radio.

Disneyland photoset is here on Flickr. Susan’s is here.

We got home with the Patsies leading 7-3 and watched the rest of the incredible (and unfathomably low-scoring) game from behind buffalo wings and Susan’s homemade guac and bottles of Fat Tire ale (napping during halftime with… Tom Pettyzzzzzzzzzz?) until that fantastic moment when The Kid somehow avoided that sack and went sandlot-style in heaving the pig in a big all-or-nothing arc that came down on receiver David Tyree who somehow circus-caught the sumbitch with his brain bucket and Eli was saying I CAN HAZ DESTINY?

Nailbiting notwithstanding, I had a funny feeling New England’s preordained perfect season was doomed. And by funny feeling I mean ecstatic and elated. And by doomed I mean LOOOOOOSEEEEEERZ! And that Pats Coach Billygoat? Totally bad time management — and by that I mean classless soreloserface buffoon — leaving the sideline to congratz Coach Coughlin and exit the stage with 00:01 on the clock instead of backing his ass up to the sideline and letting the last obligatory and academic Giants play be run.

But it was quickly forgotten in the on-camera emotions of Giants receiver Plaxico Buress and the smiles of Michael Strahan, Coach Coughlin, and most of all Eli “The Man” Manning. Congrats to all the Giants — extraspecially the DEFENSE for playing such a monumental part in going out and taking what few wanted them to have or thought they could get.

Early on in last night’s Clippers win over the Atlanta Hawks at Staples Center, from our sweet seats in Box B-55 thanks to Susan’s boss (click to doublify):

The last professional basketball game I attended was a Laker game at the Forum, November 5, 1991. Coincidentally they were playing the Clippers. In another far more dramatic coincidence that game also turned out to be the last one Magic Johnson suited up for (but didn’t play). The following day he announced he was HIV positive.

Caution: sports post ahead.

The last few Mondays have been weird in that I am no longer found on the couch in front of the TV watching the duration of Monday Night Football. That may seem like no big deal, but I’m talking about a show that’s easily been on of my favorite never-miss television programs for most of my adult life. At least it was until ABC moved the landmark program to ESPN, which is now in its second season of ruining it.

The last time I watched a full broadcast was the Cowboys/Bills game when Dallas managed to somehow pull a 25-24 victory out at the last minute. Exciting stuff. But since then I’ve tuned in only to tune out shortly thereafter, put off by the forgetable booth announcing team as a whole almost as much as I am by ESPN icons Stuart Scott and Chris Berman who’ve both become stock parodies of themselves.

How did my love wane so quickly? Well for one, the show simply lost a lot of its tradition and cachet when it left the network for cable. ESPN may be a sports powerhouse, but “Monday Night Football on ESPN” just doesn’t pack the same historical punch as “Monday Night Football on ABC,” which I began watching as a kid with Frank Gifford, Howard Cosell and Dandy Don Meredith.

Second, it didn’t bring the booth team of Al Michaels and John Madden with it. That duo lateraled to NBC where they steere that ship’s  “Sunday Night Football in America,” which coincidentally  is rapidly becoming the new Monday Night Football.

Third, with the exception of the unexpected excitement of the above-mentioned Cowboys/Bills battle, the games have mostly been the suck. I mean, Patriots/Bengals? Yawn. Giants/Falcons? Feh. Ravens/Steelers? Pffft. Whose idea is it that these are marquee match-ups? And then this past Mondays 49ers/Seahawks dance? Please. It’s embarrassing to see a television franchise being put out to pasture so painfully.

It’s as if ABC and ESPN really don’t give a crap. That they’re taking some sort of perverse joy in felling a champion. I got home this past Monday night and turned on the San Francisco/Seattle game just as it went to halftime. After Berman’s “fastest three minutes” shtick and Stuart Scott showing how badass he is with his left brow cocked and loaded about a foot above his eye, then we’re treated to an endless interview with NASCAR teammates Jimmie Smith and Jeff Gordon speaking from some studio in cliches about how they’re competitors but friends too with the utmost in respect for one another and combined have one goal and that’s to do the best they can for the team irregardless of who crosses the finish line first and blahbity blah blah blahbity blah blahzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

NASCAR!? Seriously ESPN, you barely will give three minutes to an NFL weekend wrap-up but you’ll let these two perpetual left-turners blab on and on and on and on about themselves and the cars they drive? You’re trying to make me turn it off, aren’t you!?
And in answer, with Gordon in mid-drone about needing to put together a good race in order to top his bestest buddy Jimmie I switched off to the infinitely enjoyable HGTV.  Never to return? I wouldn’t be surprised.

Pardon me while I take a moment celebrate my Raiders. Last week Oakland finally snapped what had become an 11-game losing streak by beating the Cleveland Browns 26-24. This week they topped Miami 35-17 for their first back-to-back victories since I don’t know when. They looked like an actual football team! Receiver Jerry Porter actually played like he cared what people thought!

Granted the Browns and the Dolphins aren’t top-shelf opponentry but two wins is two wins.

Yeah, baby!

Thanks to my friend Michael, Susan and I got to go with him to see the Dodgers beat the Washington Nationals 4-3 tonight from some mighty fine field seats: Section 11, Row L, Seats 1, 2 and 3 to be exact. It was very exciting stuff with Jeff Kent getting his 362nd career homerun (moving him ahead of Joe DiMaggio on the all-time list)  and their ace closer Takashi Saito (above) coming in for the top of the ninth to put the Nats down 1-2-3 and preserve the victory for his 36th save off the season.

It was my first time being in attendance at a Dodger win in I can’t remember how many years.

Look what I found on an old buried computer disk (click to quadruplify):

It’s not just every day or just anyone who gets to sit in the Dodgers dugout with Congressman Xavier Becerra and his three wonderful daughters. But before you go thinking I was some political insider or something even more dubious, rest assured my only claims to fame was that I was friends at the time with a fellow L.A. Zoo docent named Laure McNulty who was full-time nanny to Becerra’s girls and since the trio of tots spent a lot of time at the zoo that summer I got to know them and subsequently their high-powered dad and mom well enough to have the honor of accepting their invitation to be the guests of the Dodgers for the June 21, 2002, game, which included pre-game field (and obviously dugout) access before settling in to a luxury suite on the first base side.

It was a dream come true and I’d thought this image, snapped by Laure was long gone.