Corrections

Having been following the Story of Lori Hacking, the missing woman from Utah, and her husbands, say, indiscretion, it gave me cause to reflect. 

Mark Hacking is being put under the microscope for lying on his resume and to friends and family.  I do not wish to speculate on his guilt, innocence, or involvement in his wife's disappearance.  This is a horrible time for all involved.  My thoughts and prayers are with the family.

I would like to, however, clear the air about myself in an effort to ward off any suspicion that may be cast upon me for any wrongdoing anytime, anywhere. 

I would like to corect the following points on my resume':

• I am not now nor have I ever been an astronaut
• My given name is not Sylvia
• No, the carpet does not match the drapes
• I have never competed in the Kentucky Derby as either a runner or rider
• Michael Jackson was employed as my nannie from 1973 to 75, not 74 to 76

Thank you.

bleachers II

To truly enjoy the bleacher seat experience, you can't pay full price for anything that day.

As I said (uh blogged?) earlier, dad would haggle us all in and that's where we learned.

The summer between my 8th and 9th grade, the summer of 1980, my brother was entering his senior year in high school. He had injured his knee and was, for the most part, laid up for the summer. We had quite a routine set up-

We would get up at the crack of mid morning and wait for the mail man. We became pretty close to ... I think his name was "Hey mail guy" and developed quite a relationship with hey mail guy, or as his close friends knew him, hey.

After our mail bonding session ended, it was time to go-on a good day the A's were in town.

We would load up our mexican tuperware (the kind with "margarine" written on the side) with a pack of baloney and a pack of cheese, swipe a loaf of bread and a 2 liter of soda from the cabinet (swiping was necessary to the whole outlaw bleacher thing) and drive in his '70 vw super beetle with no brake lights up to Oakland.

Being passenger in his car required some skill- see, with no brake lights, he would drive, downshift and step on the brakes, I would pull the headlight knob so that the rear lights would turn on- thus avoiding a rear ender or being pulled over- never get cought by "the man" with hot baloney in your car. Then on to the BART parking lot and across the ramp to the ticket booth.

On regular days it would go like this- he would go in, then pretend to have something that needed to go back to the car, hand me the something ( a jacket, bag,...) through the gate and give me his torn stub- I would then go to the opposite side bleacher entrance, tell the ticket taker that I went in earlier, but forgot this stuff (whatever I was holding) in the car and "the guy that was here before said go ahead and get it- just save your ticket stub". Then I would go in and meet him at the food stand.

On Wednesdays and most Mondays this wasn't necessary- those were half price Family Night or Business Man's Afternoon Specials- half price days wen you could get in the park for a dollar- a dollar we swiped from mom's purse.

After loading up on concession stand relish, onions, mustard and stuff, our baloney and cheese sandwiches were now a foot high, looked and tasted better than anything else in the park, and we would go to our bench.

See, even though the Bleachers were general admission, we had our bench. Low down on the left field side- Henderson territory. Seats we sat in all summer. Early in the season, my brother used an el marko and wrote our names on our bleacher- we sat there every game.

I remember one game where, when we arrived, two really old guys- had to be 23, 24 at least, were sitting in our seats. My brother hobbled down on his bum leg and tapped one of the guys on the shoulder with his crutch and said, "hey, your in our seats". The guy just looked at us, shaking his head (the bleachers were for the most part empty in those days) and said "I don't see your name on it". I was sure we were going to get the crap beat out of us, but my brother told the guy to stand up and look at his seat- sure enough, there were our names. Both guys just laughed, got up and said "here ya go". Then, while eyeing the big Dagwoods we were holding, traded us 2 sandwiches for a couple of colossal dogs. And a beer. Not bad for a 13 and 16 year old.

Those years of baseball were the best. I know, not very kosher- empty seats, pitchers that would throw till their arms fell off, stealing bases for no good reason, Billy nose to nose with the umps- but it was the most exciting baseball ever.

This was Billy Ball.

This was the summer of '80.

Bleacher bum

Watching Eckersley being inducted into the Hall last weekend, then reading the LFR(http://lunaticfringereport.blogspot.com/) got me thinking.

I consider myself a baseball fan. Not a fan of stats, I don't know any. Not a fan of players, although I have some favorites, and, even though I have always enjoyed the A's, I don't even think of myself as an “A's fan"- I just love the feel.

I love the feel of baseball. The excitement you feel walking into the stadium- the glare of the sun or the bright lights- the color of the grass (and it must be grass) looking so thick and rich.

The smells and sounds of the game.

But most of all, I love the bleachers. I am convinced that, aside from a bar to lean against, wood was invented for bleachers.

As a kid, I was a bleacher rat. My dad would get free tickets to the Coliseum from work, but usually only 2, or sometimes 4 reserved seats- not enough for a family of 7, not counting the always present 3 or 4 neighbor kids who tagged along.

But that didn’t bother dad- he would pile a dozen or so of us into the battleship of a station wagon that we had and we would head up the freeway between Hayward and Oakland.

When we got there, we would all march up to the bleacher gate, dad holding the few freebie tickets out to the ticket taker, and, looking over to our sad, pitiful faces, plead “help a guy out?” He would then proceed to trade the few reserved tickets for us to all sit in the bleachers.

The ticket takers would always make a fuss about silly rules and regulations, but I always got the feeling that they enjoyed letting us in as much as we enjoyed them doing so.

We were never turned down. Not once.

Once in side it was perfect- sun, green grass, and, years before Crazy George arrived on the scene, there was my dad pounding away on a leather covered wooden drum so loud we would all laugh and pretend it was embarrassing us- until he stopped-then we would beg him to do it again.

Sitting in the bleachers back then was as close as you could get to the field. The home run fence was the first row. We would get there early and catch batting practice homers and, once or twice, get a real game homer ball.

Heckling the opposing outfielders loud enough to get a reaction- at various times we were ignored, cussed at, or flipped off- what more can you ask for? They knew you were there.

The best was getting a wave or nod, or even better, a ball tossed at you from Reggie or Billy North, or later, the best outfield ever of Henderson, Armas & Murphy.

Baseball was, and always will be, about sitting on a wooden bench with you dad.