If you want it, here it is, come and get it

Last night, like most summer nights, Mrs. P and I settled down in front of our TV to watch a Phillies game. The Fightin' Phils were playing the beleaguered Miami Marlins in Miami, coming off a series win against the league leading Brewers up in Milwaukee. The always unpredictable Phillies kicked off the game with an early lead on a Bryce Harper RBI single. 

In the top of the fourth inning, hirsute outfielder Brandon Marsh cranked a two-run shot to right centerfield making the score 4-1 in favor of the Phillies. The next batter, newly-acquired centerfielder Harrison Bader, took a 1-1 pitch from Marlins reliever Lake Bachar and sent it 410 feet into the left field upper deck of LoanDepot Park. The Marlins, who have not been doing particularly well this season, only managed to draw a little over 15,000 spectators to a stadium that holds over 37,000. Needless to say, each section boasted more empty seats than ones with fans in them (if there are, indeed, any Marlins fans). But, as with any ball - fair or foul - that finds its way into the stands, a small crowd gathered quickly around the spot where the ball landed. There was a bit of a scramble as a knot of fans reached and grabbed — until one lucky fellow in a red Phillies t-shirt emerged from the melee with the homerun ball held tightly in his fist. He made his way back to his seat (one section over from "Ground Zero") and presented the ball to his son, also decked out in Phillies red and sporting a large baseball mitt on his left hand. A few other folks, seated on either side of the man and his son — also in Phillies colors — lauded the boy with congratulatory shoulder pats. Dad gave the boy a warm "father-son" hug. Everyone was happy for this kid.

Well, almost everyone.

Just as Dad was basking in a moment of satisfying familial bonding, this angry woman from one section over came to voice her outrage. Apparently, she was one of the people in hot pursuit of the Harrison Bader homerun ball. (She can be spotted and identified by her distinctive hairdo in the crowd photo above.) She shrilly interrupted a serene "father-son" moment with harsh words, flailing arms and a vindictive attitude. (I'm guessing a Delco transplant or just in South Florida for a visit.) She startled the man and evoked a look of horror from the boy. Even without sound, her little game of "Outraged Charades" could be clearly understood. She was obviously of the belief that the ball was rightfully hers. After all, she held a ticket for a seat in Section 135, entitling her (if she interpreted the agreement printed on the back of her ticket correctly) to "all baseballs that land anywhere in a fifteen foot radius of her seat." The woman pressed closer to the man, scowling and pointing to accentuate her case. Exasperated and defeated (and just wanting this woman to leave), he relented. He pulled the ball out of his son's protective glove and handed it over to the woman. She snapped it out of his hand and she stomped away. Her exit was accompanied by a rousing chorus of "boos" from the surrounding crowd.

Now, I don't know if you've ever been to a baseball game and I don't know if you've ever had a ball land near you, but there are a few things you should know. First, a hit baseball comes off a player's bat as though it was fired out of a cannon. If you feel that you are in the ball's trajectory, your first inclination is to duck or otherwise get out of the way for fear it may — very well — take your head off. Second, there are unwritten rules among fans regarding any ball that finds its way into the seating area. And those rules are... there are no rules. It's every man (or woman) for themselves. No matter who grabbed or touched or saw the ball first. No matter where your seat is in proximity to the ball's landing point. No matter how many games you've been to or how long you've been a baseball fan. Whoever walks away from those reaching for the ball... gets the ball. The end. No further discussion. One exception, as per the same unwritten baseball etiquette, is: if you are an adult, give the ball to a kid, for chrissakes!

Did you understand all that? Because Two-Tone Tessie sure as hell didn't get the memo. Her relentless badgering of this poor man was... was... embarrassing, uncomfortable and went against everything baseball and human decency has taught us. For the remainder of the game, she sat in her seat, gripping the five-ounce, leather-covered, 216 red-stitched hunk of cork, and got "booed" and jeered and heckled by everyone within earshot. At one point, she even stood up and gave the crowd "the finger" with the same hand in which she held the spoils of her triumph.

Meanwhile, someone in the Marlins organization got wind of the situation. They sent a team representative up to the boy's seat and presented him with a big bag filled with baseball and Marlins promotional merchandise. The elation on his face when the team rep handed over the bag revealed the return of a good mood to the boy and his family.

But, things didn't end there. The broadcasters rarely acknowledge anything of this nature during a game, but Ruben Amaro Jr, a former Phillies player turned broadcaster, expressed his displeasure with the whole affair — live on the air — in between his non-stop (and usually irritating) analysis of the game in progress. The immediacy of social media was instantly ablaze with viral video and acerbic commentary, along with on-the-spot video of the incident  shot from different vantage points. Commenters on various social media platforms weighed in (as commenters do), saying that the dad should have never given up the ball. Others said they would have tossed the ball back on to the field and told the woman: 'You want the ball? Go get it." Some clever internet user even referred to her as "Cruella De Phil."

The entire situation found its way to the Phillies. After the game — a gratifying 9-3 whupping of the Marlins — arrangements were made for the boy (later identified as "Lincoln" and just a few days shy of his birthday) and his family to meet Phillies centerfielder Harrison Bader. Bader, a recent acquisition from the Minnesota Twins, has already endeared himself to Philadelphia baseball fans with his infectious energy, quirky "crabwalk" when positioning himself under fly balls and his blond curls poking out from under his cap. Bader, still in his game uniform, met Lincoln and his clan in the cement depths of the stadium. He shook the boy's hand and inscribed a bat for him, saying, "Sorry you didn't get a ball, but I have a signed bat for you. Is that okay?" Lincoln's smile let Bader know it was more than okay. (Later commenters speculated that the woman would lay claim to the bat as well.) With the revolving door that has been the Phillies offense in centerfield, I think Harrison Bader may have just landed that permanent position. 

© Philly Goat

As for the woman who finally got her ball? Well, social media has promised to find out her name and make her famous in a way she would rather not gain fame. Local Philadelphia news outlets have flooded the internet with the sordid tale. National media like Newsweek and TMZ have also spread the story. And local t-shirt studio Philly Goat has already immortalized her and the incident has already taken its rightful place in Philadelphia sports history...  alongside throwing snowballs at Santa Claus and making death threats to Mitch Williams.

Go Phils. Go Birds. Yo.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

you're no good

My son and went to our first Phillies game of the 2025 season. I love going to beautiful Citizens Bank Park. It's a great facility. It's easy to get to and (relatively) easy to get out of the parking lot when the game is over. In between, there's a lot to see, a lot to eat and a lot to do, besides the baseball game, which — for most attendees — is the main attraction.

This particular Saturday afternoon game began with Photo Day, an annual event during which fans get a face-to-face encounter with their hometown favorite players, coaches, broadcasters, mascots (the renowned Phillie Phanatic and his mom, Phoebe) and even the ball girls — Megan, Ashely, Ashely, Ashely, Caitlyn, Ashely, Megan, Ashely, Caitlyn, Meagan and,,,, who am I forgetting?... oh right! ....Ashely. Several hours before the scheduled first pitch, fans are invited down the the playing field to stand on cordoned-off plastic platforms (so as not to scuff up the pristinely-trimmed grass), while the team representatives mingle within the safe confines of a thin rope barricade, waving, fist-bumping and even posing for individual pictures to the delight of the faithful. My son and I ventured down with the crowd and — all in all — it was a fun experience. We met some players (who all look like kids), got some pictures and just had a lot of fun.

Then, as the skies darkened with the threat of rain, we found our seats — on the second level Section 243, right in front of the giant scoreboard — and waited for the game to start. 

We should have hoped harder for rain. Right off the bat (no pun intended), the Milwaukee Brewers scored four runs, thanks, in part, to former Phillie Rhys Hoskins. It was all downhill from there. The Phillies lost 17-7, a dubious feat not achieved by the Phils since 1947. It was a brutal, ugly affair and, as a 60+ year Phillies fan who has seen his share of Phillies disappointments, it was still hard to watch.

In the eighth inning, with a good portion of the seats in Citizens Bank Park now vacated, a fellow staggered down the aisle that divided Sections 242 and 243. He teetered back and forth as he leaned precariously over the edge of the balcony and screamed, "YOU SUCK!" in a strained yelp that stretched the range of his vocal cords. The object of his succinct derision was Milwaukee left fielder Isaac Collins, who was patrolling the grassy area right in front of us, but on the lower ground level. For the entire inning, for as long as it took Phillies offense to rack up three outs, this guy screamed and hollered and shrieked and wailed some of the meanest and degrading insults at Collins. He yelled about his fielding ability (or lack thereof). He yelled about not belonging in the big leagues, adding that he wasn't even good enough for a Triple A minor league squad. He even yelled when Collins took his cap off to wipe his forehead, advising him to "PUT YOUR CAP BACK ON! IT ISN'T HELPING!"... whatever that meant. When Trea Turner popped out for the final Phillies' out of the eighth inning, the yelling guy ambled back up the steps, gripping a can of Surfside in one hand and fumbling with the bannister with the other. He muttered, "Collins is a BIG NERD!" to no one in particular and he navigated the steep stairs. Once he disappeared from sight, the few folks who remained in our once-packed section, looked around to silently acknowledge the absurdly of this guy and his relentless heckling. I broke the ice, commenting aloud (as one does at a ballgame) that this guy was yelling at a player several hundred feet away, in a outdoor stadium filled with ambient noise and loud music... not to mention that the home team was down by fifteen runs. 

The top of ninth inning saw Phillies' utility man Weston Wilson try his hand at pitching, handily handing the Brew Crew three outs while only giving up a single along the way. When the Brewers' players took to the field to defend their lead and allow the home team one slim opportunity to even up the score, the yelling guy also retuned to his post at the foot of our section. Before play started, the yelling guy addressed my son and me. "You're gonna help me yell at Collins, right guys?," he asked, swigging his Surfside while he waited for an answer. "Sure, we will," we replied with a laugh. "I hate this fuckin' guy.," he said, "He stinks! He shouldn't even be in the Majors!" Without waiting for further comment from us, he turned his head toward the field and screamed, "YOU SUCK, IKE COLLINS!"  Considering how much Isaac Collins is, apparently, hated by the yelling guy, he has given him a palsy-walsy nickname that I cannot confirm has ever been previously applied to the 27-year old outfielder.

The Philles kicked off their half of the ninth inning with a promising flurry of hits and runs, although they came up a dozen runs too short. However, our yelling friend made up for it in spades. For the duration of the bottom of the ninth, the yelling guy's voice cracked repeatedly as he hurled insult after repeated insult at Isaac Collins. Collins, however, appeared unfettered — a reaction that only angered the yelling guy more. His voice grew hoarse, but his mission remained strong. The yelling guy's commentary noted every move Collins made — every shift of his weight, every scratch of his ass, every adjustment of his cap and of his cup, every tug on the laces of his glove. Nothing was spared. The yelling guy yelled and he wouldn't be done yelling until Isaac Collins was out of the Brewers' line-up and on a bus headed back to Maple Grove, Minnesota (population 70,000), never to darken the doors of a Major League Baseball dugout for the rest of the yelling guy's alcohol-sotted life.

With the disappointing final score displayed on multiple scoreboards around the perimeter of the ballpark, fans began gathering their belongings with plans to head for the exits. The yelling guy offered up an open palm for a celebratory "high five," which I uncharacteristically — and reluctantly — completed. As far as "celebratory," may I remind you that the Phillies lost by an embarrassing ten runs.

I never heard of Issac Collins before this game. Granted, have not been familiar with the Milwaukee Brewers roster since the days of Paul Molitor and Robin Yount. A little research showed that Issac Collins was drafted by the Colorado Rockies in 2019. He played in several levels of the Rockies' farm system. He spent the 2023 season in the Brewers' minor leagues, landing there in a Rule 5 draft (look it up, it's kind of complicated), eventually making the big league roster at the end of the 2024 season. From the look of his stats, he just an average back-up fielder and an average hitter at the plate. It seems his biggest accomplishment is raising the ire of a drunken fan on an overcast Saturday in Philadelphia.

And he probably doesn't even know he achieved that.

www.joshpicusiscrying.com

la vie en rose

This post appeared in a slightly different form on my illustration blog on October 11, 2024.

I remember watching baseball with my mom and dad, both pretty avid baseball fans. It was a Philadelphia Phillies game and they were playing the Cincinnati Reds, who, at the time, were the powerhouse known as “The Big Red Machine.” When Pete Rose stepped up to the plate for the Reds, my mom — never one to mince words — said, “I hate that arrogant son of a bitch. I wish he was on our team.” A few years later, my mom got her wish. Pete Rose became a member of the Philadelphia Phillies and  helped them win their first World Series.

There is no denying Pete Rose’s contribution and impact on baseball. He was a great player. If he drew a walk at an at-bat, he would run — run! — to first base. He wouldn’t let anything — or anyone — block his attempt to score a run. Oakland A’s catcher Ray Fosse could certainly attest to that. He holds the all-time career hits record with 4,256. That’s nearly two thousand more hits than Dodgers’ Freddie Freeman, who has the record among active players. Freeman has been playing in the majors for 15 years, so Pete’s record will, most likely, never be broken. In addition to his hit record, Pete also hold the record for games played, at-bats and singles. He was a 17-time All-Star, won three batting titles, three World Series championships, one Most Valuable Player Award, two Gold Glove Awards and was named Rookie of the Year in 1963. 

But, Pete Rose was an asshole. 

As manager of the Cincinnati Reds, investigations revealed that Pete had placed illegal bets on various sports, including baseball — specifically Cincinnati Reds games. On August 24, 1989, Pete voluntarily accepted a permanent place on baseball’s ineligible list. He accepted that there was a factual reason for the ban. In return, Major League Baseball agreed to make no formal finding with regard to the gambling allegations. Over the years, Pete has campaigned and tried to appeal for reinstatement, but Major League Baseball has stood firm on their decision. A fixture at baseball autograph shows, Pete would inscribe a baseball with anything fans asked for a price. In later years, he took to writing "I'm sorry I bet on baseball" along with his signature.

While married to his first wife, Pete, the father of two children, fathered another child as the result of an extra-marital affair. In 2016, allegations of a mid-1970s relationship Pete had with a minor came to light. Pete, then in his 30s, was accused of statutory rape. An upcoming ceremony in Philadelphia, honoring his accomplishments during his time on the Phillies, was canceled in the aftermath. The case was settled out-of-court.

In 2022, Pete was given the opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of Phillies fans. Well, some Phillies fans anyway. Most followers of baseball — particularly those from Cincinnati and Philadelphia — readily look past Pete's off-the-field antics. The focus is mainly on Pete's accomplishments with a bat, a ball and his physicality. 

Pete was invited to Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park in 2022 to help commemorate the Phils’ 1980 World Series win. Pete — in true “Pete” fashion — made inappropriate and dismissive comments to a female reporter, referring to her as "babe" in the process. Later in the day, he was invited into the Phillies’ broadcast booth, where he graphically discussed former Phillie-turned-announcer John Kruk's well-publicized battle with testicular cancer and further elaborated by comparing the sizes of the genitals of various members of the animal kingdom. He also said "shit" on the air. Oh, by the way, there was a baseball game going on.

 

In September 2024, Pete Rose unexpectedly passed away at the age of 83. His death brought about a rehashing of the "Should Pete Rose be in the Baseball Hall of Fame" debate. On any number of online baseball platforms, folks wrongly stated that since he was dead, his "lifetime" ban from baseball should end and he should be voted in. In reality, Pete's ban was a "permanent" ban, not "lifetime." Permanent overrides lifetime. However, just this week, current baseball commissioner Rob Manfred lifted Pete's ban, thus making him eligible for induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame, at long last. Because of the way the voting process is set up, Pete's inclusion hinges on the Veterans Committee. Without getting into a long and boring explanation of how the Veterans Committee decisions are made, Pete will be eligible for consideration in 2027. Until then, the discussion of Pete’s perceived “right of inclusion” in the Baseball Hall of Fame will be discussed countless times by sportswriters, announcers and guys in bars.

Where does Josh Pincus — a long-time baseball fan who resides in Philadelphia — stand on this? I don't care. I really do not care. While I have been to the Baseball Hall of Fame a number of times to experience the history, lore and romanticism of the game, I feel the actual Hall of Fame gallery is bullshit. Like all Halls of Fame (and let's lump in awards shows like the Oscars and Grammys, while we're at it), inclusion is based on opinion. And opinions are meaningless. They are rarely based on fact. They are mostly based on popularity, sentimentality, guilt and other non-facts. Someone on some committee somewhere could be holding a longtime grudge against a particular player, brushing his accomplishments aside because he once didn't hold a door open for him. By the same token, the same guy on the same committee could have a soft spot for a particular player because he once gave his grandson a baseball. Who knows? Look, there is no denying Pete Rose's on-field statistics. There is also no denying Pete Rose's off-field demeanor.

Pete Rose was a great baseball player. Pete Rose was also a great asshole.

And he's dead. So really.... what does it matter?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cry me a river

This will probably be my last baseball-related blog post until next season. So enjoy it... or skip it.... it's up to you.

I used to have season tickets for the Phillies. Had them for eighteen seasons. Every year, on the first game of the season, Mrs. Pincus and I would amble down to our seats, usually bundled up to stave off the early April weather. We would greet and catch-up with our fellow Phillies season ticket holders in our section, the ones we would see every year and lose touch with during the winter months. Then, I would announce that the first person who says "This year, the Phillies are going all the way!" — well, I'm going to take a swing at them.

Phillies fans are adorable. Every year, they think "this is THE year" and every year they are met with the same disappointment that transpired the previous season. And the season before that. And the season before that. The joy of being a Phillies fan is the false sense of hope presented for two months during a season that lasts seven months. The team gets hot, the bats are swinging, balls are flying over the fence, the pitching staff is striking opposing batters out left and right.... until it stops. And it always stops. The team stumbles in the post season playoffs, somehow forgets how to play baseball and scratches their collective heads in bewilderment. This year, the Phillies were pathetic in three of the four post-season games they played. As the great baseball/philosopher Yogi Berra once said: "It's deja vu all over again."

In my worthless opinion, I think the reason for the Phillies customary decline is fairly obvious. Money. Yep.  M-O-N-E-Y. The payroll for the active Phillies roster for the 2024 season was 264.2 million dollars. That is the seventh highest in Major League Baseball. The top three batters in the Phillies lineup, the ones on whom the team relies to produce runs, are Kyle Schwarber, who earned 19 million dollars, Trea Turner, who earned 27 million dollars, and Bryce Harper, who earned 26 million dollars. What sort of incentive do these guys have? Not "motivation." "Motivation" is the initial contract. "Incentive" is the promise of a big monetary windfall if the player performs well. This is not an "incentive!" Schwarber hit a massive homerun in Game 1 of the NLDS and then his bat went silent for his remaining plate appearances. Turner, for his 26 million dollar payout, didn't accomplish an extra-base hit in 15 at-bats. Harper did manage a home run in the post-season, but he also struck out five times. You see, the players get the money whether they hit a zillion homeruns or strike out on every appearance at the plate.

In July, the Phillies acquired relief pitcher Carlos Estevez to bolster their bullpen. Estevez was stellar on the Los Angeles Angels early in the 2024 season. But, the Angels were terrible and Estevez's pitching talents would be better served elsewhere — and that "elsewhere" was Philadelphia. So, for a salary of 2+ million dollars, Carlos Estevez was..... fair. In Game 4 of the NLDS, Estevez gave up a 6th inning grand slam to New York Mets shortstop Francisco Lindor, essentially hammering the final nail in the coffin of the Phillies post-season dreams. But, as the Mets planned their strategy against National League opponent The LA Dodgers, Carlos Estevez still got a 2 million dollar deposit in his bank account.

After losing the final game of the NLDS series, a dejected Bryce Harper, the Phillies unofficial team leader, spoke to the press in subdued tones about disappointment and dashed hopes and blah blah blah blah. I didn't want to hear it. I am sick of hearing overpaid athletes whining and complaining and blaming while getting salaries that are downright obscene. I love baseball. I love watching baseball and I love going to baseball games. But the price of a ticket averages around 50 bucks. Parking cost 25 dollars and the prices of food at the ballpark are ridiculous. 

Will this stop me from going to games? Probably not. Will I still get excited when the Phillies show some promise? I suppose I will. Is there a solution to my little, stupid, privleged, white guy dilemma? No. No, there is not.

Yogi Berra's quote is still ringing in my ears. It has been for years.

Pitchers and catchers report for Spring Training on February 20, 2025... and, yes, I'm a sucker.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

trash (pick it up)

Remember Randi? She was my wife's friend of many, many years. They were nearly inseparable. As a matter of fact, I met Randi the same night I met Mrs. Pincus. Randi was the Maid of Honor at our wedding. She was my son's godmother. Now that he's 37, I suppose he has no use for a godmother anymore, but ...no matter... Randi is no longer in our lives.

Randi was single for most of the time I knew her. But she was desperate — desperate, I tell you — to find a husband. She finally found a guy and married him, but the situation was closer to the "Adios Johnny Bravo!" episode of The Brady Bunch in that this guy "fit the suit." He was a dumb guy and Randi sort of coerced him into marriage.

When I say he was "dumb," I really mean he may have been the dumbest human being I ever met in my entire life. I mean "dumb as dirt" dumb. "Dumb as a bag of doorknobs" dumb. "Dumb as a box of rocks" dumb. I mean D-U-M-B dumb. Years ago, we all decided to take a trip to Yankee Stadium in New York. It was Mrs. P, our son, Randi, Fred (Randi's eventual husband), his seven-year old daughter and me. We all piled into my wife's minivan and headed north from Philadelphia. This was a time before GPS and cellphones were still a novelty. Fred decided to take charge. He declared that, being from North Jersey and allegedly familiar with the area, he would navigate our journey and get us directly to Yankee Stadium's doorstep. We pulled out or our driveway as Fred pulled his cellphone from his pocket and dialed.

"Yeah," he began his conversation to the unheard party on the other end, "we're on our way to...uh... you know." He paused while the person on the other end said something. Fred gazed lazily out the window and listened. "Yeah," he repeated, "to... you know. Up to the....uh.... you know." This "back-and-forth went on for several minutes and never — never — were the words "Yankee Stadium" spoken. Finally, Fred hit the "Call End" button and announced, "Yeah, so my friend says 'Get on the New Jersey Turnpike and ask at the toll booth.'" That was his "exclusive insider" plan to get us to New York. My wife glanced back at me in the rearview mirror and I shrugged my shoulders. I reiterate. Fred was dumb.

After Mrs. P and Randi's friendship dissolved, we completely lost touch with Randi and her life. Through mutual acquaintances, we heard that she and Fred had divorced. Randi moved around, remarried and totally changed personalities. (You can read all about it HERE.) We never did hear anything further about Fred.

Until one day many years later....

Our home phone rang and Mrs. P answered. It was a fellow who identified himself as the owner of a local business called Billows Electric Supply, an industrial supply operation with several locations throughout southern New Jersey. The man asked for "Susan Pincus" by name, as though he was reading from something. My wife, still a bit suspicious, confirmed her own identity to the man and asked what this call was in reference to. After all, we had no business whatsoever with an industrial electric supply company. Next, he asked if she knew someone named "Fred Slottman." That was the last name Mrs. P ever expected to hear again — especially from a strange voice on the other end of a mysterious early morning telephone call.

"Yes," she replied," I know Fred Slottman."

"Well," the man said, the tone of his voice dropping slightly, "I believe that Mr. Slottman is dead." That was a weird thing to hear from the owner of an electrical supply company.

He went on to explain that, on this particular morning, when he arrived at his place of business, his dumpster was overflowing with items that had no business being in his dumpster. It appeared that, during the night, someone had unlawfully deposited an abundance (he may have even used the word "shitload") of personal items into his dumpster. There was the remnants of a bed frame, a smattering of clothing, boxes of assorted household items and a ton of miscellaneous paperwork — receipts, warranties, canceled checks and a personal telephone book. He said that it was from this book that he got our phone number.

My wife listened — dumbfounded by what she was hearing. The story began to piece itself together. Fred had died and someone who was in possession of his personal items was looking for a place to dump them without having to pay to have them hauled away. Mr. Billows Electric Supply shows up for work, sees a bunch of crap in his dumpster, starts fishing around for clues and finds a phone book. He starts calling the numbers listed within.

Suddenly, something struck my wife's "inner detective." She interrupted Mr. Billows Electric. "Hang on a second," she said, "You made it all the way to the Ps in the phone book?"

"Yes," he confessed, "We tried all the other numbers starting with A. You're the first person that answered."

There are fifteen letters that precede P in the alphabet. Either Fred didn't know a whole lot of people or everyone in Fred's phone book whose name begins with A through O were avoiding the phone or.... well, I could come up with a dozen more "if" scenarios that still wouldn't make any of this make sense.

Mrs. P told Mr. Billows Electric that she hadn't been in touch with anyone remotely connected to Fred Slottman for many years. She expressed her inability to offer any further assistance and ended the conversation.

She sat with the phone in her hand for a short time and silent shook her head to herself.

And laughed.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

llévame al juego de beisbol

My son acquired two tickets from a co-worker to the Phillies game this week. He asked if I wanted to join him and, of course, I said "Of course!"

I have been going to baseball games since I was a little kid. Though I was not always a baseball fan, I loved the whole experience. I grew into a baseball fan as I got older. But as a young child, my father, who was sort of an executive in the main office of a local chain of supermarkets, would get tickets from various product vendors for his family to sit in the special "field boxes" of the then brand new Veterans Stadium. The Pincuses would go — sometimes even on  a school night — and be ushered all the way down to a sequestered block of seats just a thin cyclone fence away from the field of play. It was exciting to hear the THUD! of the ball hitting the first baseman's glove just a few feet away. Once — in a game against the San Francisco Giants — Chris Spier, the Giants' three-time All-Star shortstop — relayed a routine catch to first baseman Willie McCovey... except he tossed the ball about three feet over the head of the 6-foot-four-inch McCovey.... right to little Josh. In an involuntary reflex, I ducked out of the path of the speeding ball, as my dad quipped, "He was throwing that right to you!"

As a teenager, I worked as a soda vendor at Veterans Stadium. It was a great job for a teenager. My main concern was hustling for a buck. I was less concerned with how — or even who — the Phillies were playing on any particular day. That summer, I made a lot of money (well, a lot for a sixteen-year-old) and still never considered myself a baseball fan. Yet, I went to a lot of baseball games, still surrounded by that unmistakable atmosphere.

It wasn't until the 1996 All Star Game — to be hosted in Philadelphia — that I was really "bitten" by the "baseball bug." The Pincus family purchased a Phillies season ticket plan in order to secure two tickets to the All Star Game. Our plan consisted of four seats for each Sunday home game — a total of thirteen games. Since there were only three of us Pincuses, we would have to do a lot of convincing and cajoling to get someone else to come along and fill that fourth seat. It was a tough task, as the Phillies were particularly lousy at that the time and watching them slog through a typical trouncing was especially tedious. But we went... and suffered. It was a fun experience and our young son got a real kick out of it.

In 2004, the Phillies moved into their new digs — beautiful Citizens Bank Park. By this time, the team had transformed into a real contender. In just four more years, they would go on to win the World Series. We watched from our seats in Section 137 and cheered the Fightin's on. We kept our season tickets for 18 seasons, sometimes going to additional games outside of our plan.

After letting my attention wane for a few years, I recently began following baseball again. Going to a Phillies game is still a fun experience, but the most recent game — the one I went to with my son on Tuesday night against the Houston Astros — was a different experience. It was unlike any of the previous gazillion games I attended over the past 50 or so years.

"What did you say?"

My son and I arrived at the ball park early. We grabbed a quick sandwich from one of the concession stands for dinner and found our seats at the top of Section 132. We settled in as the other seats began to fill in as game time approached. The four seats directly behind us were soon occupied by four young men — three in Phillies jerseys and one daring to sport a rival Astros jersey among a sea of the most notoriously rabid and viscous fans in baseball. I overheard the young men chit-chatting before the game and I noticed that were were speaking in Spanish. Exclusively. It was melodic and I could understand how it was rightly labeled among the world's "romance" languages. At 6:40 on the dot, Phillies pitcher Aaron Nola unleashed a cutter to Jose Altuve and the game was under way. Suddenly, the four guys behind us erupted in baseball "trash talk." I think. They began cheering — like most excited fans — except they were cheering in Spanish. Now, I have not had a Spanish language lesson since my freshman year of high school... and even then I was failing desperately in comprehension. Needless to say, I understand very, very little Spanish. However, just from the inflection in the voices of our seatmates, one easily could tell if they were cheering the Phillies or taunting the Astros. Within the fluid stream of non-stop chatter, I understood certain players' names. Nestled between several Spanish words, a clearly enunciated "Kyle Schwarber" or "Alec Bohm" or "Brother Marsh" (the familial nickname of quirky hirsute Phillies outfielder Brandon Marsh) would ring out — clear as a bell. The rest of it was... was.... well, for lack of a better word... foreign. But it was compelling. I found myself refraining from my usual, game-time shouting to concentrate on the rhythmic, almost poetic chants coming from behind. Within the barrage of words, I understood the venomous "chinga tu madre" hurled at Yordan Alvarez when he singled to center in the top of the eighth inning. After all, when you're learning a foreign language, you learn the bad words first. Throughout the game — inning after inning — the vocal inflections from these guys alternated between joyful and seething. I was there for it and it was spectacular!

At one point, the woman sitting next to me (one of my son's co-workers) smiled and gestured to the fellows behind us. "This is.... amazing!," she said. Now, I am not a fan of the word "amazing" being used willy-nilly to describe decidedly unamazing things, but — to be honest — she wasn't that far off. The entire game took on a whole new exciting vibe. Sure the Philles scoring five runs and keeping the Astros completely off the board was a contributing factor, but. the "second audio track" was a surprising and welcome addition I didn't know I was missing. 

I'm thinking of activating the SAP option on my TV when I watch Phillies games at home.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

try a little kindness

Contrary to popular belief, I am a nice guy. Sure there are some people who will disagree with that statement, but, they are wrong. I am a nice guy. And I'll prove it.

On a recent Friday night, Mrs. Pincus and I, along with our son and his girlfriend, went to a Phillies game. Recently, our onetime baseball-loving family has embraced the "national pastime" after a few years of waning interest. We went to a few games last year and now we have found ourselves buying tickets and attending more games this season. (Our son's girlfriend hasn't quite adopted the Pincus family's affinity for baseball, but she does admit to liking the "vibe" that the ballpark exudes.) 

This season, the Phillies are off to a bang-up start (I don't know how this will read in August of this year, but we shall see...), so tickets are in high demand. Also, on this particular night, there was a give-away of bobblehead figures depicting Phillies youthful second baseman Bryson Stott. The figure was a pretty good likeness, although I am fairly sure that Stott's head is more in proportion to his body, unlike.... say.... Kyle Schwarber. Making a late decision on attending this game, we had to settle for seats high up in the right field stands where the aisles are steep and narrow and handrails are suspiciously scarce. As a former season ticket holder (for eighteen years), we have been spoiled by having reserved seats just fifteen rows from the field that provided a spectacular view of the action.. Up in section 320, the baseball game is just a rumor. You have to rely on crowd reactions to follow progress of the game. Cheers from the lower levels indicate a run has scored. Boos usually mean the Phillies did something wrong.

We rode a steep escalator to the 300 level and climbed even steeper stairs to our seats. At the top of Citizens Bank Park, the seats are arranged on very steep cement tiers and the cantilever angles place your knees at the back of the head of the person in front of you. Folks walking up the narrow aisles to get to seats in the rows above us utilize empty end-of-the-row seats — or even someone's knees — to steady themselves in lieu of missing handrails. 

Prior to the game start time, anxious and excited fans filed into the the ball park. As per usual, they stopped to load up on food and snacks before making their way to their seats. We were no different, stopping off at the only vegetarian concession stand and grabbling some overpriced meatless hot dogs. We got to our seats and chatted while we waited for the game to begin.

Ten or so minutes before the first pitch, a man and a woman emerged from the concourse access just below our seats to look for their seats. The man, decked out in full Phillies regalia, was carrying a cardboard tray laden with an abundance of typical ballpark fare. There were hot dogs, beer, chips and a cup overflowing with Chickie's & Pete's Crab Fries, a local favorite. Popular at the ballpark and throughout the Delaware Valley, Crab Fries are crinkle-cut French fires liberally coated in Old Bay seasoning. The man held the tray of food as level as he could as he slowly navigated the inclined steps with the deftness of a tightrope walker. He wife scooted on ahead, leaving the man to take on full responsibility of delivery of the refreshments. As the steps got steeper, the man's pace got slower and more deliberate. He struggled to climb the steps and keep the tray and its contents in tact. He had his head down and a look of distress crossed his face. Bowing forward, he seemed to peer over the top of his glasses that were perched low on the tip of his nose. As he came up to where I was sitting he stopped and leaned in to me. 

With a quaver in his voice, he said, "Would you be so kind as to push my glasses up further on my nose?" The tone of his request reflected the same helpless plea in his eyes.

I smiled. "Of course!," I replied and I daintily grabbed the corners of his glasses, sliding them up the bridge of his nose and easing them gently into position even with his eyes. When the task was completed, he smiled and thanked me. Then he proceeded on his journey to find his wife and their ticketed seats.

The Phillies won the game that night. Courtesy and kindness won, too.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

oh say can you see

On Tuesday, I went to my first general admission concert since the world went into seclusion from the onslaught of the COVID-19 pandemic. I went to a show in July, but this was at a reserved seating venue, where staying in your seat (or at least by your seat to do a little awkward dancing) was strictly enforced by the staff of flashlight-wielding, credential-wearing martinets employed to patrol the aisles and keep order. 

But Tuesday's show was different. It was held at Philadelphia's beautiful World Café Live, a two-stage venue that I have been to many, many times since its opening in 2004. I've seen a wide variety of musical acts there, as well as special movie screenings and a fair share of dance parties sponsored by the radio station that employs my son (which is, by chance, housed in the same building). While a handful of shows at WCL offer reserved seating, most are general admission, allowing attendees to stake out a spot on the large open space in front of the stage or in the smaller area surrounding the bar at the rear of the venue. I have seen shows that were poorly attended, with sad little clumps of patrons gathered haphazardly on the floor. Conversely, I attended a free performance by 80s icons The Pretenders where the audience appeared to be doing their best approximation of a sardine can. 

To be honest, I would prefer a sparsely attended show. I don't like crowds. I don't like the way crowds behave. Large groups of people tend to think that concerts are interactive events where they are free to scream and try to engage the performers in one-on-one conversation. Others feel that the music is merely background noise for their very important conversations, often raising their voices above the volume of the PA system in order to tell their partners what they had for lunch that day. Then there are those who seem to think they are in a room all by themselves for a private recital with a band, regardless of how many or how few other people are there to see the same show. These folks roam freely, flailing their arms in joyful dance and regularly obscuring the view of the stage for a number of well-behaved concert-goers.

The Baseball Project - Scott McCaughey (bottom left),
 Linda Pitmon (center) Steve Wynn (bottom right),
Mike Mills (top left) and Peter Buck (top right).

On Tuesday, my son and I saw The Baseball Project, a so-called "supergroup" currently on a multi-city tour promoting their latest release Grand Salami Time, the quintet's first new album in nearly a decade. What? You've never heard of them? Well, the band is comprised of members of other bands. There's Steve Wynn, guitarist and leader of 80s indie rockers The Dream Syndicate. On drums is Steve's wife Linda Pitmon, who has kept a strong driving backbeat for The Filthy Friends as well as Alejandro Escovedo's band. Also on guitar is Scott McCaughey, who plays with his other bands The Minus 5 and Young Fresh Fellows. Scott has popped up on and contributed to recordings from everyone from Liz Phair to The Monkees. He was a studio and touring member of alt-rock darlings R.E.M. Rounding out the band are Mike Mills and Peter Buck, both former members of R.E.M. and proud inductees in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. These five musicians joined up over their common love of rock and roll and the National Pastime, producing four albums (and a couple of EPs) of baseball-centric tunes that are decidedly different from the standard novelty songs of the past like "I Like Mickey" and "Talkin' Baseball." I've seen The Baseball Project several times (including a show in — very fittingly — Cooperstown, New York, home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame). They are fine musicians and songwriters and always present a rollicking (and informative) evening of entertainment.

Following a quick dinner of tacos, my son and I entered the near-empty World Café Live around fifteen minutes before showtime. I secured a spot at the back of the main floor while my boy ran up to the bar to grab a beer. Returning quickly, he handed me a tall cold can of something called "Liquid Death," which, despite its foreboding name, turned out to be plain water. (I don't drink alcohol and he knows it.) He placed his beer on the line of tables immediately behind us. I chose this spot specifically so there was no chance of anyone standing behind us, thus eliminating the possibility of getting pushed forward by some overzealous fan "caught up in the moment... maaaaaan!" As showtime ticked closer, the venue began to welcome more guests, but, it was - by no means - anywhere near its capacity of 700. Not even close. I had high hopes of a well-behaved crowd who would optimistically keep their distance.

Buck.

The lights dimmed and the band members filed out to the stage, grabbing their instruments and acknowledging the crowd with waves and smiles. Linda, seated behind the drums, shouted off a traditional "1-2-3-4" and the band launched into "Erasable Man," a rocking ode to the legacy of Negro League powerhouse Josh Gibson. The crowd bobbed their collective heads and pumped their collective fists and made all the other patented actions executed at concerts by old, uncoordinated white guys. Of course, the darkened audience area was dotted with the glow of raised cellphones, snapping a few photographic souvenirs for perusing and showing-off at a later date. In my peripheral vison, I could see a hulking, white-haired gentleman cradling a small digital camera (not a cell phone) in his palms and aiming in the direction of Peter Buck. Buck was the only member of the band not outfitted with a microphone. He stood silently and nearly immobile for the entirety of the show, plucking his guitar of choice and staring down his bandmates. He rarely, if ever, turned his glance towards the audience. The white-haired gentleman to my left was on a mission to capture every move — or in this case non-move — that Buck made (or didn't make).

Now, don't move.

As the show progressed and The Baseball Project tore through their musical catalog, I noticed that the white-haired photographer was inching his way towards me with each new song. By the time "The Voice of Baseball" (a loving tribute to late Dodgers announcer Vin Scully) began, the white-haired gentleman was right in front of me. I mean right in front, the back of his head a mere inch or two from my nose. Without regard for anyone around him — specifically me — he focused his camera in his raised arms, blocking my once-clear view of the stage even more. Because I was close enough to him (by no fault of mine), I noticed the image in his camera's viewfinder never changed. It was centered on Peter Buck. Exclusively. He did not move to snap a photo of any other band member. He just took photo after similar photo of Peter Buck. And Peter Buck rarely changed position. He switched guitars a few times, removing and replacing an instrument in a nearby rack, only to return to the exact same position on stage left (his right), just behind the energetic Scott McCaughey, who bopped and swayed to the rhythm of each new tune. Nevertheless, the white-haired budding Ansel Adams continued to take what was essentially the same fucking picture while relentlessly encroaching on my personal space. I turned to my son, pointing at the oblivious white-haired gentleman and miming a shrug with my upturned, outstretched palms. My son laughed, leaned into me and said, "Did you miss going to concerts?"

Fifty or so minutes into the show, the band announced a quick break (that they identified as the end of the first game of the double-header). They would be returning for a second set and the house lights brightened in the meantime. Surprisingly — and even better — thankfully, the white-haired gentleman exited the venue and did not return for the second set. I suppose he captured every non-movement that Peter Buck didn't make to his satisfaction. Perhaps he was just one of the many devoted R.E.M. fans in attendance, still hanging on to the vivid memories of the band and trying to relive the Athens rockers' glory days. Perhaps he was gathering research and reference material for a proposed tribute to the R.E.M. guitarist in the form of a painting or even a sculpture. Perhaps he was a member of the extended Buck family, tasked to provide a pictorial chronicle of the celebrated cousin/brother/uncle on the second wave of his stellar career.

Or perhaps I was just happy that I could see the stage again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

feels like the first time

I keep finding him... or maybe he keeps finding me.

Perhaps you have encountered him, too.

You are in your car, waiting to enter a parking lot for a concert or a baseball game or some other large event that draws thousands of commuters to a parking facility provided by the venue to store your vehicle for a few hours. You've done this dozens of times. You drive up, pay the attendant who tosses some sort of official voucher on your dashboard and you pull away, off to seek a suitable spot to safely leave your car while you enjoy the evening's entertainment. Your interaction with the parking lot attendant — usually a young man or woman working their way through college or responsibly earning a few bucks to get their parents off their backs — is minimal, sometimes even wordless, unless you are the friendly type who greets everyone with  a rhetorical "Hey, how you doin' today?" (Unsurprisingly, I am not one of those.) But, invariably, I usually get in the entrance line behind that guy who is experiencing the "public parking lot adventure" for the very first time. It never fails! The queue line comes to a screeching and unnecessary halt while that guy in front of me begins a long and involved dialogue with the hapless (and usually disinterested) attendant. From my car-length vantage point, I can see this guy's hands expressively gesturing through his open driver's side window, I can't see a face, just the hand. And that hand is waving around as though performing an interpretive dance. Just when you think that this conversation will end, it continues. Way too long. "What," I think to myself (sometimes out loud), "could this guy possibly be asking or saying or explaining or complaining about? Pay your overpriced parking fee, you get your little ticket and you go!" But, no! It is obviously that guy's first time at a parking lot.

I know some people use them every day (sometimes several times a day), but I have not had the need to access an ATM in some time. As a matter of fact, it is so infrequent that I use an ATM, I have to seriously think about my password on each occasion. However, every time I have had the need to have some banking transactions via the convenience of an ATM, that guy is once again in front of me in line. He was issued his card and left, by the bank, to his own devices. No explanation was offered. No instructional pamphlet to read or video to watch. To be honest, how much teaching is really needed? ATMs are pretty intuitive. There is only one slot that could accommodate your card. The numerical buttons are nice and big. Hopefully, you have selected a fairly easy-to-remember four-digit access code and hopefully you have not forgotten what it is. The entire transaction should take just a few minutes (unless the machine keeps your card, which it has been known to do). Even then, after a few open-palm "bangs" on the ATM faceplate, your real beef is with the malevolent forces within the bank itself. But, that guy is having his first rendezvous with an ATM... and it is not going well. From a comfortable and socially-acceptable, privacy-aware distance, you can see that that guy has pressed waaay too many buttons after inserting his card. He appears to have canceled his transaction, only to start again, by inserting his card and, again, pressing double the amount of buttons this time around. He looks as though he is typing a report on a typewriter as opposed to merely entering a four digit number. As your patience wanes, that guy has begun the process of accessing the ATM no less that ten times. In between the fifth and sixth attempts, he turns around and, with mournful puppy-dog eyes, silently requests your help - only to shrug and return to the procedure. It is obviously that guy's first time at an ATM and here I am.... once again.

Recently, my wife and I accompanied her young cousin to his very first Major League Baseball game. As the game made its way to the late innings, Mrs. P thought it would be a nice idea to get him one of those "My First Baseball Game" certificates that all MLB stadiums offer. It's a cool memento and it's totally free, which is very nice in these days of six-dollar hot dogs and eighteen-dollar beers. A little research on the stadium's website revealed that the certificates are readily available at the Fan Services window which is located a short walk from  our seats. We hopped up at the bottom of the seventh inning, excused ourselves and made our way through the concourse to our destination. Navigating through the wandering crowd, we spotted the "Fan Services" sign jutting out from a wall just ahead. There was a woman at the window when we arrived. She must have been that guy's spouse. Keeping a respectful distance from her, we could see that she was waving her arms and gesturing to the poor young lady on the receiving side of the window. Mrs. That Guy went on and on and on, flailing her arms, stomping her feet and tapping the window to make her point. "What," I thought to myself, "could have possibly happened to this woman to warrant such an animated display? I don't believe she was pitching for the home team when back-to-back home runs were given up. I'm sure the manager didn't bench her for not running out an an infield hit. Eventually, she concluded her rant. The young lady behind the counter made a phone call and soon handed that woman something that made everything all better. Perhaps this was her first baseball game and her expectations were not satisfactorily met. And we were there to witness it.

Everything from self check-out at the supermarket to the simple operation of an automatic door to a traffic signal turning from red to green... I have been lucky enough to get a first-hand, eyewitness view of that guy's first time for everything. We always find each other. Most of the time, though, he's first.

Interestingly, when he is not first and I manage to get a seat in front of him, say at the movies or a concert or sporting event), he lets me know he is there. 

How?

He kicks my seat through the whole event.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com