the glory, yeah yeah...

it was there in front of our face all this time and we just didn't even see it. the perfect name for any NFL-bound spawn of CWiii and myself: La'Charles. thank you, LaTroy Hawkins, for the inspiration. no thank you, however, for being such a stunningly predictable Yanks middle reliever. that is to say, mostly useless.

anyhow. we went to our first Yanks game of the season this weekend...sitting in the center field bleachers three rows from melkert, twenty feet from the bullpen(i waved to the hut like a ten year old, sadly he did not wave back.)

our fellow bleacher creatures spent a good portion of the game loudly ridiculing devil rays centerfielder B.J. Upton. here's a bit of advice: you shouldn't ever encourage your child to allow themselves to be called B.J. i feel like that should be fairly obvious. and if there is even the SLIGHTEST chance that your son will play centerfield for a MLB team other than the NYY in the AL who will subsequently play against the NYY and, heaven forbid, also will play in the outfield and will therefore find himself standing 20 feet in front of creatures from the Yankee Stadium bleachers, then for christ's sake, YOU MAKE SURE that he doesn't call himself B.J.

naturally, they started by pointing out the unfortunate condition of his sharing a nickname with a popular form of oral sex. this "discussion," carried on in shouts across many rows of bleacher seats between complete strangers served as a sort of glue that would bind the shit-talking efforts of many extremely loud Yankee fans, who then powered up like Voltron and moved on from there. my favorites were the simple, yet elegant "HEY B.J! YOU SUCK!" the baseness of it all seemed to move him to new levels of anger. i think that is possibly the trump card carried by yankee fans, especially at the stadium: we don't require our shit talk be rooted in anything other than utter contempt for the state of non-yankeeness. even when B.J. made a spectacular diving catch to rob Derek Jeter of a first inning single, the bleachers remained steadfast. no eyes were batted, no cages rattled. for B.J. Upton, in our estimation, still just sucked.

ah, the bleachers.

here's a shot of ol' B.J. shooting us the death glare. this was taken pretty late in the game... a lot had been said at this point.

the game was great. we got to see the hut pitch for the first time live and in person... of course he blew through six batters like it wasn't, as they say, no thing. have i told you lately that i love the hut? well i do.
not waving back...

i realized, while watching the yankees pregame warmups, that when you are a yankee fan, sitting in yankee stadium in the twenty or so minutes that precede the first pitch, it feels at that moment like there is simply no way the yankees can lose. all the realities fall away and you are swept up in the glory of the stadium, watching a rod and jeter run their warmups

or seeing ol' jorge get all suited up...

it just seems overwhelmingly like greatness is just moments away... and of course it is, but so is a lot of other stuff too. it's just amazing how in that little moment, everything can seem so grand and powerful. i love yankee stadium. jeter assures us that the ghosts can cross the street... but as i glance warily at that new monstrosity going up across river avenue, i remain unconvinced, and unenthusiastic, to say the least...

i think that charles has gotten rather sick of hearing my indignant accounts of some rumor or another that i have picked up about the new stadium; although from what i hear... basically the average yankee joe is not going to be, well, the focus of the attention, if you know what i mean. charles himself told me that there is supposedly going to be a martini bar. A MARTINI BAR?!?! in a baseball stadium? what the hell is wrong with people? i hope a-rod crushes a foul ball right into their martini bar and kills some hedge fund douche who doesn't even know what sport he is watching. HELP!

oh, i forgot... i almost had a chance to actually, literally, take one for the team: kyle farnsworth, who absolutely has to be the most dubiously employed individual on earth, started to warm up in the bullpen (right next to the hut, which elicited genuine terror among my fellow bleacher creatures- if kyle farnsworth's extreme suckitude is contagious, we don't wanna find out!) sparking in me a sudden impetus to jump the concrete wall separating me from the yankee bullpen and jump wwf-style on to farnsworth's upper body, during which i would snap his pitching arm, or at the very least, his wrist, so as to neutralize the threat of his pitching anytime in the near future for the new york yankees. the folks sitting behind me were all for it, and offered to bail me out of jail later that evening. see? everybody hates kyle farnsworth.

anyhow, i didn't do it. i didn't want little La'Charles to have a jailbird for a mommy, although that would give Outside The Lines something to do a story about someday... they love that stuff!

so the yanks won. which was also awesome, cause we haven't been doing too much of that lately, and in addition to the hut, we got to see Mo, aka sandman, put the thing to bed...

there he is, crossing left field to the ominous opening strains of "enter sandman," getting ready to help the light exit, night enter... end scene.

good times! i look forward to many more this season, as i make my final tour of yankee stadium as i have known and loved it. and then, after the final game of the season, as i take up my protest by chaining myself to the yankee dugout.

you think i'm kidding. La'Charles, get ready for Outside The Lines...