"A New York Treasure" --Village Voice
Tag: the wife

Hey Ma, What’s for Dinner?

 

The wife and I went to the Stadium this afternoon to watch Andy Pettitte pitch. On our way in we stopped by the site of the old park.

Ol’ Andy wasn’t awful though he gave up a couple of two-run homers and a few more hard hit balls. He got ahead of hitters for the most part and there were a handful of broken bat-sounding outs, as well. During his delivery, looked like he was lifting his left elbow higher in the air than I recall seeing before, too:

It’s hard to imagine Kevin Millwood pitching a better game all year. His fastball was clocked in the low ’90s, fast enough to keep the Yankee hitters off-balance as he spotted a slider and a change-up for strikes. The Bombers had the bases loaded twice but Derek Jeter hit into a double play (one of two on the day) to end one threat and Mark Teixeira whiffed to end the other.

“What a buzzkill,” said the wife.

We ate hot dogs and roasted in the sun and enjoyed the view from some fine seats we lucked into. It was a dud of a game for the Yanks–Clay Rapada allowed a few more runs to score in the top of the ninth and Nick Swisher got thrown at third trying to stretch a double into a triple to lead off the bottom of the ninth–the icing on the gravy.

Final Score: Mariners 6, Yanks 2.

We didn’t have much to cheer about. Still, one the train ride home, sticky, fatigued, and in need of a shower, the wife turned to me and said, “So who is playing on the Game of the Week tonight?”

And she meant it.

[Picture of Andy: Jim McIsaac/Getty Images, via It's a Long Season]

Perfect Day for the Bomb Squad

This past Thursday the wife and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary. We got married, just the two of us, in the Bahamas. After the ceremony and the pictures, we returned to our hotel room. It was a Thursday afternoon. The wife went into the bathroom to wash up and I clicked the TV on and saw on the ESPN ticker that the Yankees were losing to the Indians. I turned the TV off and after the wife and I consummated the marriage we later turned the TV back on and saw that the Yanks had won, and that Alex Rodriguez hit a game-ending grand slam.

This afternoon the wife and I went downtown to enjoy massages. I e-mailed a Red Sox pal of mine and predicted one thing–that Freddy Garcia would get his tits lit, which was precisely what happened. I saw that the Sox scored twice in the first on my phone just as we arrived at the spa. Bad enough there was troubling news about Michael Pineda before the game. Dammit. I turned the phone off and didn’t turn it back on until we left a good while later. Score was 9-5. Swisher had just hit a grand slam after the Yanks trailed 9-0. Predictable, I thought. Well, at least they are making it respectable.

Little did I know that the White Sox pitcher Phillip–Don’t Call Me Humbert–Humber was on his way to completing a perfect game against the Mariners in Seattle. The Yanks were down 9-1 in the 7th, with one out and Russell Martin on first when Fox cut away to the White Sox game. By the time Humber had his perfecto and was interviewed for TV and Fox returned to Boston, Swisher’s grand slam got the Yanks back in the game. Runners were on the corners and Mark Teixeira was at the plate. Joe Buck and Tim McCarver were excited. Tex already had a solo homer and now, batting left-handed, he popped a three-run dinger over the Green Monster. Most of the damage was not televised.

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The score stood at 9-8 when the wife and I got to the restaurant for dinner. The game was on the TV at the bar and so I stayed at the bar, with the wife’s blessing–she sat in our booth following on the phone–as we waited for our food. That’s where I saw the Yanks take the lead. And then some. The Bombers scored 7 in the 7th and 7 more in the 8th on their way to a ball-busting win that will not soon be forgotten. Games like this, even in April, are memorable. It was a rousing win for the Yanks and a punch-in-the-face loss for the Sox, “rock bottom,” according to Bobby Valentine.

Final Score: Yanks 15, Sox 9.

I couldn’t think of a sweeter anniversary gift from the so-called Baseball Gods.

Thank you. And the wife thanks you, too.

 

 [Photo Credit: Corey Sipkin/N.Y. Daily News]

‘Tis the Season

 

Hey yo, check out the wife’s note card site: Blue Pear Prints.

Just in time for the holiday sale.

Don’t sleep.

 

New York Minute

It was in December of 1999 when I started looking at the clock every day at 11:11. It happened in the morning and at night, at home and at work. Happened three, four days in a row, and then nothing for a day or two and then again for a week: 11:11. It continued into the new year, not every day but sometimes for a couple of weeks at time . And if it wasn’t 11:11 on the nose, it was 11:09 or 11:12.

This went on for months. I didn’t know what to make of it so I just decided to take the moment for myself whenever I saw it was 11:11.

A couple of years later I started dating Emily who eventually became my wife.

Today is her birthday: 11/11/11.

I have my answer.

Things are Lookin’ Up

The wife, out on the town, is ready for the holidays.

Bronx Beauty

Here’s the Mrs. taking pictures for her Christmas collection.

Come Back Tomorrow

A few weeks ago my wife turned to me and said, “What are we going to do when baseball ends?”

“Hopefully, we’ll be watching another victory parade,” I said.

“But then it’s over and what are we going to do? Maybe I should start watching football.”

Football? She hates football. What is she turning into?

Emily still likes to bust my chops when I become shrill and unreasonable, announcing the season is over after a first inning at bat. But on Sunday night, the pressure finally got to her. She retired into the bedroom by the seventh inning and listened to the game on the radio. I stayed out in the living room and watched it on TV. By the 9th inning, I came in and she said, “I think I’m going to vomit.”

An inning later, after the Yankees had won, I came in again, and she said, “I’m never going to watch or listen to another baseball game again. I can’t take it. I’m sick to my stomach.” I had to stop myself from smiling. This after the Yankees had won, mind you. “Welcome to my world,” I said.

Last night, with a chance to clinch a playoff birth, A.J. Burnett gave up seven runs in just over two innings, and I opted for the wife’s world of Dancing with the Stars. Figured I owed her one. The Bombers rallied but fell short, 7-5. The Red Sox also won, but the Rays and Twins both lost.

We’ll do it again tonight.

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"This ain't football. We do this every day."
--Earl Weaver