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

back in your own back yard

We had another of our famous (well, famous throughout our neighborhood, anyway) yard sales. A Pincus yard sale is a complicated undertaking. Mrs. Pincus, who was born under the zodialogical sign of the "cash register," has retail in her blood. She methodically, and with great conviction, gathers and catalogues and organizes a plethora of.... um..... items that have been accumulated in our house since the last yard sale. She supplements household cast-offs with a selection of stock from her eBay store (No, she won't sell your items. Don't even ask.) A week or so before our scheduled yard sale, our living room and dining room look like a mini Amazon warehouse, with various piles of boxes and crates and stacks of things in somewhat neat rows, waiting to be placed in a prominent spot on our lawn or driveway when the weekend arrives... and hoping to occupy that space for a short while, until a nominal amount of cash makes this stuff someone else's problem.... er.... dream come true.

During the gathering process, Mrs. P posts ads in our local community's Facebook page, as well as local pages on the notorious Craigs List, specifically in the "Philadelphia Suburbs" yard sale section. We also hang signs all over the neighborhood.... and I do mean all over! Pre-sale, our front lawn displays large signs alerting folks of the coming sale. As soon as the first ad is posted, as soon as the first sign is tacked to a utility pole, the questions begin....

Come and get 'em!

Mrs. P got a Facebook message from one interested party. "Can you text me the addresses of all of the families that are participating in your 'Multi-Family' yard sale? I'd like to put them into my GPS." My wife politely replied: "Some people are not comfortable with having their address displayed and were content with just my address in the ad. If you come on Saturday, you will see other people on my block set up at their respective homes." This person was not content with that answer and pressed on with "Well, how many are on your block?" My wife politely responded to that question, too. Later in the day, another question arrived via Facebook, asking — specifically — about the types of records that would be available. Mrs. P replied, explaining that their are a variety of genres and artists represented. A follow-up from the questioner wanted a list of those artists, as well as a list of album titles... just to see if it was worth his while to drive all way the over from Glenside, which is a community less that five minutes from our house. I suggested that she tell this guy that we have a dozen Beatles "butcher covers" and tell him that they all sold for a dollar when he arrives. This is the reason that I don't answer "yard sale" related questions.

Yes, I know what you mean.

Another woman asked if we had one of those things that goes over a cabinet door to dry towels. My wife — again very politely — replied that we do not. The woman continued, explaining what the apparatus was and what she intended to use it for. "I have a lot of padded drying mats and I need a few of those things to drying my mats on." My wife — again, politely — explained that we do not have this item. She continued to tell of how she washes her kitchen utensils, pots, pans and dishes by hand and sets them out on these pads to dry. Now she needs something to hang the mats of so they can dry. For the third time, Mrs. P — politely — stated that we do not have this item she is seeking. (They are readily available, in a variety of configurations, from Amazon starting at $7.99)

Three bucks!

With the front of our house looking like the marketplace in Raiders of the Lost Ark (sans the big guy with the scimitar), the questions continued. People asked for specific items, as though they were browsing the internet, and we were their Google search. While the majority of people were happy and satisfied with our selection and prices (honestly, the stuff was marked really cheap!), apparently some things were not cheap enough for some people. A woman with a small child inquired about the $3.00 price of a brand-new, boxed inflatable swim ring. The woman did not want to pay three bucks for something that truly sells for twice that amount on Amazon or at a Five Below. Her accompanying child was none too pleased by the decision and she stomped off and continued to stomp along, arms crossed defiantly across her chest, as the woman perused some of the offerings at our neighbor's front lawns.

After a long day of wheeling and dealing, the crowds were thinning and the sun was no longer high in the sky. We began to slowly gather up the stuff that was strewn across our front lawn, still making ourselves available to any stragglers. We re-boxed and re-packed our unsold merchandise and relegated it to our back porch, where it will stay until our next yard sale. That stuff will, no doubt be joined by more items that we feel we no longer need.

Old Accomodating Eyes
is back.

Mrs. P casually began checking Facebook messages around 9:00 AM on Sunday morning. She received one sent through our local community's Facebook page. "Hi!," it began, "Yesterday was my daughter's graduation from college and we were unable to come to your yard sale. Do you have anything left? What kind of items do you have left? Would it be okay if I stop by to look or is the stuff all packed up?" I wondered if she phoned Elton John, explaining that she had an appointment to get her taxes filed on the night he performed at the Wells Fargo Center in Philadelphia on the final leg of his Farewell Tour... and would it be okay if she came down the next night and he could perform the show just for her? I wonder if Sir Elton would be accommodating?

There's a chance that we'll have a visitor to our back porch today.

www.jopshpincusiscrying.com

hang on to your ego

Many, many years ago — too many to count, I designed a poster for a local disc jockey who had seen my work from another local disc jockey. I never met this DJ, so we corresponded via email. She explained the theme of the event she was planning and what sort of graphics she had in mind. Back then, I was asking very little for freelance work. I had a good full-time job and I looked as "side work" as a fun distraction from my everyday grind of creating newspaper circulars (which was the major focus of my job at the time). We decided on a fair price... a very fair price, as a matter of fact. To be honest, I think I asked for fifty bucks. Maybe even forty.

I sent the DJ several designs and she replied with some changes and edits. I did what she requested and, after four or five proofs, she gave me her approval, with a promise to pay sometime after the event occurred. I was fine with that arrangement. The dance party for which I did the poster was April 8, 2010. That date passed. And passed. And passed. Needless to say, I did not get paid.

I emailed the DJ, gently reminding her of our monetary agreement. A sufficient period of time elapsed with no response. I emailed again. I was a bit firmer in the wording I chose, hoping she'd get the message. Nothing. Nothing at all. Weeks turned into months and still no payment, no contact, no nothing. I was persistent. It wasn't that I really needed the money, I was angered by someone not holding up their end of a deal. 

Somewhere around September, she finally replied. Her message was short and curt. She explained that attendance for the event wasn't what she had hoped and she could not afford to pay me. No apology, just a sentence (maybe two) outlining those two (in my opinion, unrelated) facts. Did she really think that was it? Did she use the same tactic with the electric company? The lighting in my home wasn't what I had hoped, therefore I will not be paying my bill this month. I immediately responded with an email expressing my anger, frustration and disappointment. I also made it clear that regardless of the success of her event, I was still entitled to received payment. How many people attended her event had nothing to do with me or our agreement. I received no response.

I still kept up a regular schedule of emails to this DJ as the year 2010 came to a close. In December, I saw her name pop up in an internet "chat room" (remember those?) when the subject of holiday plans was being discussed. She was saying that she purchased a six-pack of beer for a friend as a Christmas gift. I sent her a private message, identifying myself and berating her for buying gifts when she still has long outstanding financial obligations. She said she had been low on funds, couldn't afford to pay her bills, but needed to buy Christmas gifts. Then she called me an "asshole" and told me I just ruined her holiday. Then she abruptly left the chat room. Sometime in the spring of 2011, she sent me a check for five dollars, saying it was all she could afford and this was to settle her debt.

Nearly a decade later, Mrs. Pincus experienced a disputed charge by one of her many eBay customers. It seems this guy's credit card was compromised and he questioned every charge on his recent bill, including one for some items he bought from my wife. However, this guy was a previous customer. Mrs. P sent him a friendly email, identifying herself and the charge as legitimate. He apologized via email and promised to sent payment immediately using a different method.

You know where this is going.... right?

Well, weeks went by and no payment. Mrs. P — in the middle of fulfilling holiday orders, rushing to the post office and keeping up with a barrage of questions from potential buyers — regularly emailed this particular customer, still requesting payment. He does respond, albeit several days after the remainder are sent out. He explains something about working with his credit card company to "make this right." Sometimes he says he's been busy with work-related things, but payment will come immediately. (It doesn't.) Sometimes he doesn't answer. 

Mrs. P contacted eBay. They were no help, telling her that there was nothing they could do. It was all on the customer because of the nature of the issue. Mrs. P tried emailing again, nicely but firmly requesting payment. This time, his response included the statement: "I have been caring for my mother. I will get to it as soon as I can."

People don't understand that we all have issues. We all have problems. We all have mishagas in our lives. What makes you think that your problems are way more important than mine or anyone's problems?

Oh right. Ego.

I made it! Top of the World, Ma!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com