Post by $heriff Tom on Aug 25, 2006 14:18:17 GMT -5
couple of weeks ago while a healthy batch of you Creatures were out rampaging through Boston I decided to represent in my Yankee garb and led a contingent (well, as much of a contingent of Dana and Justin would make) to Shea to irritate Mutt fans, catch the Expos on the year of their demise, and see mascots dance on the field.
You see, it was Mr. Met's 40th birthday party, and the propensity for camp humor was immense. Dana and I arrived pretty early and got some good ducats from some oldtimer who probably could not use the seats as he had plans to die later that day. It was outside that I heard the ONE comment my Wells shirt and highly outrageous Yankee bucket hat elicited, some fat woman hitting me with the "Wrong Stadium, fella!" As I made a threatening muscle pose in her direction I was almost ran over by Edgardo Alfonso, who was steering his way into his own private vestige of Hell. How ironic would it be if Sheriff Tom was killed by a Met behind the wheel.
We did some power drinking out in the lot, and the Mutt fans could not be more courteous. I was treated like visiting royalty. They were offering us food off their grills, hearty guffaws, and not one comment in regards to the Yankees. I think between the 3 of us we crushed about 18 cans in less than an hour, and it was on the way in - sadly so as Dana needed a bathroom and we had to leave another 10 beers behind.
I promptly purchased a scorecard, marking it at the top with "Mr. Mutts Birthday - hopefully his last!" Once inside I started to get a bit unsettled. There was a matronly looking woman in the row in front of us, waving a homemade sign wishing Mr. Mutt a happy birthday. And - no joke - she had a card she was getting people to sign. I needed to go down and get more beer but I was afraid to miss any of the ceremonies, as they had a vast veranda set up, and a podium and the like. This was going to get good.
Some singer came out, sounding just like Tone Capone, then he got the words wrong to the Canadian anthem. I decided I needed beer, and sure enough as I was down there securing some a bunch of the honored guests hit the field.
I mean, good God. One by one the mascots hit the field, to some weak cheers and a smattering of boos. Of course I was yukking it up. When Mr. Mutt himself hit the field you would have thought the Lord came out and started having beer dropped out of the sky the crowd popped so huge.
Oh Lord, the gifts. Each mascot came with a gift in hand to give to Mr. Mutt. Bernie Brewer had a big cheesehead. Toronto's jackass of a mascot bought syrup for some reason. The Texas mascot stereotyped himself by handing Mr. Mutt a 10 gallon hat. The Angels mascot handed out a cool Cali pair of shades. Slugger bougt out some good old Kansas BBQ. The stupid Pirate Parrot (more on him later) bought crackers along. And that douchebag the Mariner Moose, who received a surprising amount of venom from the family crowd bought along - ugh, coffee.
Just when I thought it could not get any worse, it went horribly wrong and did. We were told to take a gander at the Diamond Vision, where a tribute video to the honored guest would be played. I tell you, I will never again in my life be able to hear U2's "Stuck in a Moment" again without seeing visions of Mr. Met at the controls of a train or feeding the elderly soup in my head. This was the definition of cheese. As the song played all the mascots locked arms and did a slow kickline dance. I booed.
The ceremony ended as the crowd basically sat, mouths agape, unsure if what we had just seen really happened. Then it got worse. Bobby Valentine took a slow trot behind the plate, glove in tow, and yes...Mr. Mutt headed to the mound to throw out the first pitch. That was beyond surreal. Of course he threw a ball and bounced off to a very misguided ovation. I went off to get more beer. We were not done with the mascots, however.
In between frames in the 3rd inning it was time for the dreaded "MASCOT TUG OF WAR." I mean, good god. American League vs. National League, with the Coney Island mascot being tossed on our team. Lucky us. Someone actually took a bet before this went off, although even a blind man could have seen this coming. Of course the National League was just about to lose when Mr. Mutt, ever so gallant, left his station, ran to the seats, plucked out a chubby kid, and bought him back to help foil the AL's chances. Of course the National League got the win, and I booed, then went off to get more beer.
Sometime a couple of innings later Mr. Mutt was again desecrating the big screen, the receiver of his own "Met Biography." I kid you not, there were "pics" of him as a baby, and yukking it up with people like Gil Hodges and Casey Stengel. I was very confused, and feeling dirty.
Cotton Eye Joe blared through the speakers at some point, causing Justin to toss his hands up in utter disgust, snarling "Um, can we get away from this fucking song please???" The music was appallingly bad, from Autograph's "Turn Up the Radio" to the organist playing Beatles songs on a FUCKING ORGAN. The usless fact of our life was put up on the board when Mr. Mutt finally got off of it, telling us Hall and Oates' "Your Kiss Is On My List" was the top song that week in 1981. I actually saw people getting mad while that song played.
Then it was more with the mascots. The worst of the worst, the MASCOT RACE. We see it kick off on the scoreboard, watching the mascots in taped segments running through Central Park, by the Empire State Building, and down 42nd Street. In some unintentional comedy you can clearly see a porno store in the background as the ran down the street.
Then we see them on the screen running into the bullpen areas, and there they are in real time, busting through the door and traipsing through the outfield grass. Mr. Mutt was so far behind, which had me gleeful, until I figured out EXACTLY what was going to happen....and it did. All the mascots STOPPED in front of the finish line and allowed Mr. Mutt to run by, gladhanding him all the while. I booed louder there than I had booed all day. Then I went to get more beer.
In yet another in a series of bad decisonmaking on the part of the promotions staff, they then let the mascots loose in the seats. Of course I was in the beer line when the first mascot sauntered into our section, getting whomped in the head with a couple of pretzels, showing even Mutt fans can think logically sometimes. Dana got what she called some "mascot lovin" as the damn Pirate Parrot gave her a grope, and actually left her doused in green fur from his costume. For some reason I have it saved.
But then, joy of joys, like a gift from God the Toronto Blow Jay mascot came rollicking right by. I chased him, and I swear he saw me coming and started hauling ass. He got stuck in a melange of giddy kids around the next ramp, though, and I caught up to him. I actually handed him my scorebook to sign (what can I tell you, I was drunk) - he deserved to cause during that horrid race on the field he actually started doing backflips for some reason.
As he signed "Ace - 00" I put him on heads up for the Creature Invasion come Labor Day weekend - I was ripping him one. I told him to stay away from us as there may be physical punishment if he did not heed. He muttered something and did his best to get the Hell out of there.
That was basically it. The mascots were getting a whole bunch of venom just by walking around in the seats. I had a nice buzz on, so I was laughing and booing intermittently. The Mutt fans gave us a wide base, not one comment. Meanwhile, on the field the Mutts were busy winning and making me even more sour, behind two Robby Alomar home runs.
After the game we had nothing but warm beers in the car, and the Mutt fans were practially lining up to hand us ice to cool our drinks. They passed us off much food, told us they are looking forward to seeing us when the Yankees invade thier pittance of a playing field, and sent us on our way.
There it is, my day at Shea. I represented the best I could, we were all bedecked in Yankee colors, and I got to see mascots frolic and dance.
Mets suck! F You Mr. Met! I hope you get killed in an archery accident.
Thank you for your time.
You see, it was Mr. Met's 40th birthday party, and the propensity for camp humor was immense. Dana and I arrived pretty early and got some good ducats from some oldtimer who probably could not use the seats as he had plans to die later that day. It was outside that I heard the ONE comment my Wells shirt and highly outrageous Yankee bucket hat elicited, some fat woman hitting me with the "Wrong Stadium, fella!" As I made a threatening muscle pose in her direction I was almost ran over by Edgardo Alfonso, who was steering his way into his own private vestige of Hell. How ironic would it be if Sheriff Tom was killed by a Met behind the wheel.
We did some power drinking out in the lot, and the Mutt fans could not be more courteous. I was treated like visiting royalty. They were offering us food off their grills, hearty guffaws, and not one comment in regards to the Yankees. I think between the 3 of us we crushed about 18 cans in less than an hour, and it was on the way in - sadly so as Dana needed a bathroom and we had to leave another 10 beers behind.
I promptly purchased a scorecard, marking it at the top with "Mr. Mutts Birthday - hopefully his last!" Once inside I started to get a bit unsettled. There was a matronly looking woman in the row in front of us, waving a homemade sign wishing Mr. Mutt a happy birthday. And - no joke - she had a card she was getting people to sign. I needed to go down and get more beer but I was afraid to miss any of the ceremonies, as they had a vast veranda set up, and a podium and the like. This was going to get good.
Some singer came out, sounding just like Tone Capone, then he got the words wrong to the Canadian anthem. I decided I needed beer, and sure enough as I was down there securing some a bunch of the honored guests hit the field.
I mean, good God. One by one the mascots hit the field, to some weak cheers and a smattering of boos. Of course I was yukking it up. When Mr. Mutt himself hit the field you would have thought the Lord came out and started having beer dropped out of the sky the crowd popped so huge.
Oh Lord, the gifts. Each mascot came with a gift in hand to give to Mr. Mutt. Bernie Brewer had a big cheesehead. Toronto's jackass of a mascot bought syrup for some reason. The Texas mascot stereotyped himself by handing Mr. Mutt a 10 gallon hat. The Angels mascot handed out a cool Cali pair of shades. Slugger bougt out some good old Kansas BBQ. The stupid Pirate Parrot (more on him later) bought crackers along. And that douchebag the Mariner Moose, who received a surprising amount of venom from the family crowd bought along - ugh, coffee.
Just when I thought it could not get any worse, it went horribly wrong and did. We were told to take a gander at the Diamond Vision, where a tribute video to the honored guest would be played. I tell you, I will never again in my life be able to hear U2's "Stuck in a Moment" again without seeing visions of Mr. Met at the controls of a train or feeding the elderly soup in my head. This was the definition of cheese. As the song played all the mascots locked arms and did a slow kickline dance. I booed.
The ceremony ended as the crowd basically sat, mouths agape, unsure if what we had just seen really happened. Then it got worse. Bobby Valentine took a slow trot behind the plate, glove in tow, and yes...Mr. Mutt headed to the mound to throw out the first pitch. That was beyond surreal. Of course he threw a ball and bounced off to a very misguided ovation. I went off to get more beer. We were not done with the mascots, however.
In between frames in the 3rd inning it was time for the dreaded "MASCOT TUG OF WAR." I mean, good god. American League vs. National League, with the Coney Island mascot being tossed on our team. Lucky us. Someone actually took a bet before this went off, although even a blind man could have seen this coming. Of course the National League was just about to lose when Mr. Mutt, ever so gallant, left his station, ran to the seats, plucked out a chubby kid, and bought him back to help foil the AL's chances. Of course the National League got the win, and I booed, then went off to get more beer.
Sometime a couple of innings later Mr. Mutt was again desecrating the big screen, the receiver of his own "Met Biography." I kid you not, there were "pics" of him as a baby, and yukking it up with people like Gil Hodges and Casey Stengel. I was very confused, and feeling dirty.
Cotton Eye Joe blared through the speakers at some point, causing Justin to toss his hands up in utter disgust, snarling "Um, can we get away from this fucking song please???" The music was appallingly bad, from Autograph's "Turn Up the Radio" to the organist playing Beatles songs on a FUCKING ORGAN. The usless fact of our life was put up on the board when Mr. Mutt finally got off of it, telling us Hall and Oates' "Your Kiss Is On My List" was the top song that week in 1981. I actually saw people getting mad while that song played.
Then it was more with the mascots. The worst of the worst, the MASCOT RACE. We see it kick off on the scoreboard, watching the mascots in taped segments running through Central Park, by the Empire State Building, and down 42nd Street. In some unintentional comedy you can clearly see a porno store in the background as the ran down the street.
Then we see them on the screen running into the bullpen areas, and there they are in real time, busting through the door and traipsing through the outfield grass. Mr. Mutt was so far behind, which had me gleeful, until I figured out EXACTLY what was going to happen....and it did. All the mascots STOPPED in front of the finish line and allowed Mr. Mutt to run by, gladhanding him all the while. I booed louder there than I had booed all day. Then I went to get more beer.
In yet another in a series of bad decisonmaking on the part of the promotions staff, they then let the mascots loose in the seats. Of course I was in the beer line when the first mascot sauntered into our section, getting whomped in the head with a couple of pretzels, showing even Mutt fans can think logically sometimes. Dana got what she called some "mascot lovin" as the damn Pirate Parrot gave her a grope, and actually left her doused in green fur from his costume. For some reason I have it saved.
But then, joy of joys, like a gift from God the Toronto Blow Jay mascot came rollicking right by. I chased him, and I swear he saw me coming and started hauling ass. He got stuck in a melange of giddy kids around the next ramp, though, and I caught up to him. I actually handed him my scorebook to sign (what can I tell you, I was drunk) - he deserved to cause during that horrid race on the field he actually started doing backflips for some reason.
As he signed "Ace - 00" I put him on heads up for the Creature Invasion come Labor Day weekend - I was ripping him one. I told him to stay away from us as there may be physical punishment if he did not heed. He muttered something and did his best to get the Hell out of there.
That was basically it. The mascots were getting a whole bunch of venom just by walking around in the seats. I had a nice buzz on, so I was laughing and booing intermittently. The Mutt fans gave us a wide base, not one comment. Meanwhile, on the field the Mutts were busy winning and making me even more sour, behind two Robby Alomar home runs.
After the game we had nothing but warm beers in the car, and the Mutt fans were practially lining up to hand us ice to cool our drinks. They passed us off much food, told us they are looking forward to seeing us when the Yankees invade thier pittance of a playing field, and sent us on our way.
There it is, my day at Shea. I represented the best I could, we were all bedecked in Yankee colors, and I got to see mascots frolic and dance.
Mets suck! F You Mr. Met! I hope you get killed in an archery accident.
Thank you for your time.
