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

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