freeze frame

For eighteen seasons, Mrs. Pincus and I were proud Phillies season ticket holders. Well, maybe we weren't proud for every one of those seasons, but, you get what I'm saying. We first purchased our tickets — four seats in the lofty 500 level of Philadelphia's notorious Veterans Stadium — to qualify to buy two tickets to the 1996 All-Star Game that was scheduled to be held in our fair city in the mid-season break in July.  In 1996, if you recall, the Phillies were terrible. Just three years removed from a World Series appearance, they were now a bedraggled crew of over-the-hill under-achievers. Despite the pitching prowess of dominating southpaw Terry Mulholland and future asshole Curt Schilling, the Fightin's put up abysmal numbers, closing the season just five shy of losing 100 games. We had to literally beg friends and family to join us to occupy our fourth seat. We whittled it down to three seats the following season.

Our plan was especially prepared with families in mind. It was a 13-game plan, every Sunday home game. The April games were cold. The August games were broiling. But, all in all, it was a memorable piece of family bonding for me, my wife and our young son. We all grew to have a love of all things baseball. We visited other ball parks in other cities. We knew the goings-on with other teams. We could rattle off the current standings at any point during the season. My wife could explain the infield fly rule, fer crissakes! When the Phillies moved into their new digs at beautiful (and I do mean "beautiful") Citizens Bank Park, and started to get good again, we were right there with them. We got to know — and became close with —  the group of folks whose seats were surrounding ours. Even when our son decided he wanted his summer Sunday afternoons unencumbered by endless foul tips and Seventh Inning Stretches, Mrs. P and I continued to renew our Sunday plan with just two seats. And we did that right up until the end of the 2013 season, when we quietly opted not to purchase tickets for 2014. The last five years were the most exciting of our entire run... and for a reason that you would not expect.

As any true baseball fan can tell you, baseball is boring. Sure it has its exciting moments — the grand slam, the walk-off home run, the elusive triple play*, the no-hitter** — but, for the most part, not much happens in between. In June of 2009, a benign discussion at work yielded a brilliant idea. During a lull in the workday, some co-workers and I were discussing people wearing Phillies jerseys to Phillies games. I always thought it was weird, along the lines of wearing a t-shirt of the band you are seeing in concert.. Everyone knows why you're there! You're there for the same reason everyone is there. You're a fan! Do you really need to label yourself? I found myself in the minority, everyone in agreement that wearing a jersey of the home team shows support. Okay. I get it. It's just not for me. Then, someone brought up whose name is appropriate to put on the back of a jersey. Well, obviously, your favorite player's name would get the honors... I mean, as long as we're showing support. We all agreed that putting your own name was just flat out wrong! A total violation of the hallowed rules of baseball. An unforgivable infraction that must be dealt with... publicly. And so, my alter-ego was born.

The very next Sunday, I became "Photographer N." I was a silent, stealthy whistleblower exposing those who dare rank themselves among baseball's greatest — the Ruths, the Mayses, the Gehrigs — by displaying their own moniker across their shoulders while bypassing the earned respect and applied diligence. I am a firm believer that anyone over the age of twelve looks silly wearing a baseball jersey to a game — but that's my pet peeve and I know I am in the minority, But, an adult shelling out $200 for an officially-licensed Major League Baseball jersey and ruining it by getting their own name on the back — that's just stupid. Does some out-of-shape accountant sitting in the upper deck with his personalized jersey tucked into his dress pants really think he's gonna get a "call up" if the Phillies' bullpen runs out of relief pitchers? Well, it was my self-proclaimed duty to expose these guys for all the world to see.

With my digital camera battery fully charged, Mrs. Pincus and I arrived at the ballpark early and nonchalantly strolled through the crowds on the main concourse. I kept a keen eye open to my surroundings, hoping to spot someone — anyone — with their own name on a Phillies jersey. I was not disappointed. As a matter of fact, I was pleased — if not a bit disturbed — by just how many people had no problem displaying their innermost baseball fantasies to their fellow Phillies fans. Among the "Utley"s and the "Howard"s and the "Halladay"s, I saw numerous non-Phillie names in big red letters unjustly stitched across those red pinstripes. I got as close to the offenders as I could and snapped a picture, preserving the evidence for later display. On my first day of this project, I got five pictures. After we arrived home from the game, I started a new WordPress blog called "Who Does He Play For?" Every week, I would add to the collection of "jersey offenders." I posted the photos I gathered that day and captioned them with words of good-natured ribbing (well, "good-natured" unless you were the subject). Some days, I came home with a collection of pictures that numbered in the high twenties. As the weeks passed, I started receiving pictures from other Phillies fans, thanks to an anonymous email address posted on the blog's masthead. My blog was even acknowledged by a sportswriter from the Philadelphia Daily News and was mentioned in an online publication devoted to sports uniforms.

This blog had taken on a life of its own, as well as injecting new excitement into the boring routine of going to a Phillies game. Don't get me wrong. We enjoyed our Sunday outings, but, as I mentioned, baseball is not a particularly exciting sport. However, we were making our own excitement. But it didn't come without risk. When I spotted an "offending jersey," I would take off into the crowd, leaving poor Mrs. Pincus (now using the counterpart alias "Mrs. Photographer N") in the dust, worrying if some drunk guy with his own name on his jersey would catch me taking his picture and beat the crap out of me. Would she stumble across my bloodied and battered body a few hundred feet up the concourse with my camera stuffed in my mouth, mob hit-style? Nope. She never did. I was careful. Plus, I came to see that most people are oblivious to their surroundings. With the flash on my camera turned off, I have gotten within inches of a subject and remained undetected. As a courtesy to the folks who deserved no courtesy, I blurred any visible faces in every photograph, including innocent bystanders.

My "Who Does He Play For?" blog kept me busy with nearly 1500 posts over five years, including posts during the off-season (because there is no rest for the weary). But, at the end of the 2013, after 18 seasons spanning two ballparks, Mrs. P and I decided not to renew our ticket plan. I hung up my camera and "Photographer N." faded into the crowd, remaining unidentified until the confession you are now reading.

Mrs. P (or should I say "Mrs. Photographer N") and I went to a Phillies game just last week. I am saddened to say that the tradition continues among the fans. Luckily, I brought my camera and I snapped one for old times' sake.

Although the blog is no longer active, it is still available to peruse (HERE) as an archive until the internet takes it down. Enjoy. I know I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* saw one

** saw one

let me play among the stars

It was a few days before Memorial Day 1977 and my friends and I were looking for something to do. We had a three-day weekend ahead of us and, since the school year was winding down, we didn't have much homework (those of us that actually did homework, that is.) Three of us were just hanging around in Scott's room, on the second floor of his parent's Northeast Philadelphia split-level home, trying to figure out what could kill some time on an otherwise boring Wednesday night. Someone began thumbing through a newspaper and suggested we go to a movie. We had already seen Annie Hall, released just a few weeks earlier. We passed on Charles Bronson's White Buffalo and the dumb premise of the would-be thriller The Car.

"How about this one?" asked Scott, pointing to a quarter-page ad for something called Star Wars. I wasn't much into science-fiction. I watched a few episodes of Star Trek years ago without much interest. Scott campaigned for Star Wars and Alan agreed. I think they were just tired of hanging around and doing nothing. So we went.

We knew nothing about what we were about to see. We heard no advanced press, no pre-release buzz, no nothing. We were just three sixteen-year-olds going to a movie. We bought our tickets at the box office (23 years before the likes of Fandango and any sort of service charges and convenience charges). We paid $2.25 for our tickets. We probably bought popcorn and soda and still got change for a five. I don't remember any long lines or any crowds, for that matter. We entered the theater and had our pick of seats. We had no idea what to expect.

The lights soon dimmed and, after several teasers for upcoming feature films (Smokey and the Bandit would be coming out that weekend), the now-familiar and iconic preface scrolled into the screen. Everyone in the theater read it to themselves, a low murmur filling the air as some audience members were unable to whisper or keep their mouths shut. For the next 121 minutes, as the screen lit up with colorful flashes, booming explosions and other special effects, the audience was captivated.

Except me. I didn't get it.

When it was all over, the crowd erupted in wild applause (something I still find odd for a filmed performance). Some felt compelled to punctuate the clapping with hoots and whistles. The extensive closing credits filled the screen as the audience filed out, busily chattering about different scenes and different characters. Some repeated memorable lines. (How many times I would hear "Laugh it up, fuzzball." and "I'd rather kiss a Wookie." in the coming weeks!) Others re-enacted and analyzed key scenes to the best of their recollection.

Except me. I didn't get it.

Even Scott and Alan got caught up in the excitement. They were already talking about seeing it again. I scratched my head. Did I miss something? Did some hidden meaning pass me by? I just watched the same movie they did. It was basically a cowboy and Indian picture with lasers and aliens. Not too profound and certainly not earth-shattering. I think maybe my teenage mind was too old for such childish frivolity. I was more interested in girls and concerts and girls.

As the summer progressed, the buzz for Star Wars increased. My next-door neighbor — four years my junior — saw Star Wars 25 times throughout the course of the summer. He had little action figures of the characters from the movie and he recreated scenes on his front porch for his own amusement — until the next time he saw the film.

But, I just didn't get it. A few years later, I saw The Empire Strikes Back, hoping it would somehow strike a chord with me and it would all suddenly click. It didn't. In 1983, I saw Return of the Jedi, giving this whole Star Wars thing one last chance. By this time, I was 22, far too old to be moved by evil overlords and Jedi knights in shining armor. And still, nothing. No connection was made. Frankly, I found the trilogy boring and forgettable. I know. I know. I am in the definite minority.

When the second wave of Star Wars mania broke, it came complete with built-in recognition and shrewd marketing. Star Wars - Episode 1: The Phantom Menace was released in 1999 when my son was 12, the prime target market. He, of course, loved the film. He had a slew of Star Wars-related toys and played with them often. He enjoyed the original trilogy in re-release and then the subsequent releases in the so-called "prequel saga." He was, like most fans, critical of certain sequences and certain characters (the annoying Jar Jar Binks comes to mind), but, he still considers himself a fan. He loves the Star Wars attractions at Disneyland and Walt Disney World and, while not a regular viewer (he's 28 now), has an appreciation for the Star Wars cartoon series and their place in the Star Wars canon.

Now, on the eve of the heralded release of the next phase of the Star Wars legend — The Force Awakens — the excitement builds. The Internet and all outlets of social media (something that didn't exist in the first go-round) are a-flutter with speculation, prognostication and anticipation. Disney, the multimedia entertainment powerhouse that purchased the rights to all things Star Wars in 2012, stands to rake in a ton of money from the new movie. Fittingly, they unleashed a meticulously planned marketing assault that began just moments after the ink dried on their contract with George Lucas. The previews are already garnering positive reviews and at least two more films are already planned. There are upcoming modifications to Disney's theme parks to incorporate both the growing and long-time interest in the Star Wars universe. Everyone is excited and delighted and enthusiastic.

Except me. I still don't get it.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com