Return from Exile: Take Me Out to the Ballgame!

One of the things I miss most about living in Manhattan was the ability to take a subway train to watch a baseball game.  As I’ve noted before, I’m one of those horrible heretical fans who roots for all the New York teams, so I used to love hopping the trains to go to either Shea or Yankee Stadium.  Going to Yankee games was always better, of course, not just because the team was better but also because Shea was a dump and the 7 train is a horrible, horrible train that seems to stop at every stupid street corner in Queens.  Seriously, can’t people from Queens walk a few blocks?

As much as I love football, there’s no question that it’s more fun to go to a baseball game.  Watching football live is a great experience, but baseball live is better for a bunch of reasons.

  • If you’re a football fan like me, the idea of watching only one game at a time is ridiculous.  You only get one day of games a week (other than Monday night football), so you have to maximize your football intake in that narrow window that you get.  So pretty much every Sunday, I used to hit the Gin Mill on the upper west side to eat the best and probably least healthy chicken fingers in the world and watch every game at once.  I do the same thing now, just at a bar in Nyack with much less tasty chicken fingers.  But watching just one game at a time is torture.  You don’t have that problem with baseball, since there are baseball games pretty much every day of the week and you don’t feel like you’re missing something if you’re actually at a game.
  • Watching football live makes you much more aware of all the artificial stoppages of play.  Moreover, you have to watch the halftime show instead of getting highlights, which is more torture.  In baseball, the play stoppages are more natural: at the end of innings, pitching changes.  Baseball is a terribly slow game, but at least you don’t get all these times where everyone just stands around waiting for the commercials to end.
  • Football is played at a bad time of the year in every kind of weather, usually very, very bad weather.  And because the tickets are so expensive, you end up going even when it’s raining and snowing and so cold that your testes freeze up (if you have testes, otherwise I guess some other plumbing freezes up).  But baseball?  Beautiful spring and summer weather, and if it rains they don’t play.  And if they play through the rain but you don’t want to sit there, you just don’t go and you eat what is likely a much less expensive ticket.

So going to baseball games is just the best. And being able to spontaneously decide to go to a game because you could hop a subway and be there in 45 easy minutes was one of the great things about living in Manhattan.

That’s one of the real pitfalls of living in the suburbs — the fact that you have to plan ahead, that you have to drive, that you have to park, and that you can’t drink because you have to drive home.  Just the worst.  No more spontaneity.  No more making fun of people sitting in traffic jams as you head to the subway, because you’re now one of those people.

With that in mind, I made my first trip into the city for a game this past week, trekking out to the new Yankee Stadium.  I only made one game to the new stadium last year, and only one trip to Citifield, what with the move and all, so I was looking forward to it.  And, of course, because I was so completely terrified of the traffic problems, I left like hours before I needed to.  The game was at 7:30, so I left at like 5PM, figuring that I wouldn’t get parked until 6:30 or so.  But of course for whatever reason there was no traffic, and no parking problems, and I end up in my seat at like 5:45, which is a ridiculously early time to arrive for a baseball game.  There were like kids running around on the field.

It did give me time, though, to check out the new stadium.  It’s actually pretty interesting how the Yankees and Mets took such different tacks in designing their new stadium.  The Yankees basically rebuilt Yankee Stadium as an exact replica of the old stadium, not just in the dimensions and the cosmetic touches but with everything. Yes, there are more luxury boxes and restaurants and food and stuff, and it’s a lot nicer walking around the concourse that is open to the sky rather than under a forbidding concrete roof, but it’s pretty much the same feel as the old stadium.  Nicer, but the same.

Citifield, though, is a complete departure from Shea, which makes sense insofar as Shea was a craphole.  While the Yankees had a stadium that was filled with all this great history and grandeur, the Mets had one of those awful all-purpose parks that was not so great for baseball.  But that freed them up to do a lot of cool stuff, and design Citifield along the lines of all those brand new baseball-only parks that have been the rage since Camden Yards opened about 20 years ago.  The end result is that Citifield is a MUCH better place to watch a game, which I know is heresy to Yankee fans but is simply the truth.  The team stinks, of course, which is more than a little important, but the ballfield is really nice.

That said, now that I’m driving to all the games and having to park, we’ll see how I like it when I have to stow my car over by the old World Fair grounds or under the Van Wyck.  At least I don’t have to make 45 separate stops on the stupid 7 train anymore, though.

A Fan of New York: Confessions of a Sports Polygamist on the Eve of Another Glorious Baseball Season

Thank God it’s baseball season. Yes, I know that we’re only starting spring training, but March is an important month for sports fans, because it means that we’ve just gotten through the worst part of the year– the fallow cold depths of February, when football is over, baseball hasn’t begun yet, and basketball doesn’t matter yet.  When the highlight of the month is the Basketball All Star Game, we’re talking sports wasteland.

But once we stagger through February, we start a beautiful run:

  • March: March Madness, bracket pools, spring training.
  • April: the glorious return of baseball!
  • May and June: baseball in full bloom, and basketball playoffs.
  • July and August: more baseball, and football training camps
  • September: King Football!, and baseball pennant drives.
  • October: More football, and baseball playoffs.
  • November: Even More Football, and maybe some people get excited about basketball coming back.
  • December: FOOTBALL FOOTBALL FOOTBALL
  • January: Football playoffs, made sweeter by the looming specter of February.
  • February: You want to kill yourself. (Yes, I know you get the Super Bowl, which is fine, but it’s just one stinking game).

So we made it through another horrible, horrible February, which means that we have months and months of wonderful sports to come.

As you might have guessed, I’m one of those guys who loves sports, watches a ton of games, follows all the major sports (King Football, Baseball, Basketball), plays fantasy sports, all that stuff.  It’s the one “guy” thing that I do, since I don’t know anything about cars, can’t do much more than screw in lightbulbs around the house, have shot guns like twice in my life, etc.

And when it comes to sports, I have a confession to make: I am a New York fan.  As I’ve noted before, of course, I’m absolutely in love with New York City, which is one of the driving forces behind writing this blog — my commitment (however wavering) to maintaining my connect to this city that I love to death even while I was forced into exile.

But when I say I’m a “New York fan,” I’m more precisely referring to my relatively odd and unusual quirk as a sports fan — I root for all the New York teams.  Virtually everyone else pledges their allegiance to one team or another — if you’re a Mets fan, you hate the Yankees; if you’re a Giants fan, you hate the Jets; if you’re a Knicks fan, you barely can even muster up enough passion to be mildly disinterested in the hapless Nets.  For most people, rooting for a team is like making a commitment to a spouse — you have to forsake all others.

Not me.  I root for them all, as long as they play in New York.  I’m like a New York Sport Polygamist.  I root for the Yanks, the Mets, the Giants, the Jets, the Knicks, and try to muster up a passing interest in the hapless Nets.  I don’t really follow hockey, but I root vaguely for the Rangers, and don’t really have any hate for the Islanders or Devils.  I love them all, so long as they are from New York (let’s just ignore the fact that the Giants and Jets actually play their games in New Jersey, which is an accident of geography and good taste).  That said, like any good polygamist, I do have my favorites — Yankees over the Mets, Giants over the Jets — but that’s only when they’re playing each other.  Otherwise, I always root for New York teams over any other city’s teams.

Most “real” fans hate me for that. Sporting polygamy is heresy.  Even fans that have weird non-geographic allegiances, like New Yorkers who like the Mets or Yankees yet somehow became Dallas Cowboy fans (largely, of course, because the Cowboys were good when they were growing up, and the Giants and Jets were terrible), look down on people like me who root for two teams in the same sport. I also get a lot of flack from out-of-towners who insinuate that I root for them all so I can talk smack about whatever team is good, which is totally true.  My friend Scott, a true Boston fan exiled to LA right now, get apoplectic that I can mock him for both Bill Buckner (Mets) and Bucky Dent (Yankees).

I don’t get it.  I don’t understand how “New York” fans can root against New York teams.  I mean, I see their point about committing to one team, but how can they ever root against a New York team?  You see these Met fans, who are also usually Jets fans who absolutely HATE the Patriots, but who will root for the Red Sox over the Yankees.  I totally don’t get that. I wouldn’t root for the Red Sox if they were playing Al Queda.

And there are, of course, some great advantages to being a polygamist New York fan. I get to count all the championships when smack talking with people from other cities. I double the odds that I’ll have a good team to follow in any given year. I can cherish the memories of all the great teams: the 1986 Mets and the 1998 Yankees, the 1969 Jets and the 1986 Giants, the Patrick Ewing Knicks teams and, okay, not so much with the Nets.

Most importantly, I get to save all my hate for the people who deserve it, like the people who root for Boston and LA.  I don’t waste that hate on the New Yorkers that I love.

My first suburban accomplishments

So how is the adjustment to SUMA going? So far, I have eaten Chinese takeout from a storefront restaurant, shot a 87 (my best round ever) at my local country club, watched a Yankee win from a big overstuffed chair, drove to two different quickie marts to find a copy of the New York Times. More importantly, I’ve eaten three meals so far with my parents, hung out with my youngest brother, reprogrammed my mother’s car so she can get country music on her satellite radio, and slept 9 hours at one time. So far so good.

What I’m going to miss

I’m going to miss Manhattan.

I’m going to miss the Upper West Side.

I’m going to miss the owner of my local dry cleaner, Ms. Kim, who has been in that store just about every time I’ve gone there in the past 15 years.

I’m going to miss the ability to get stone drunk, crawl into a cab, and be able to get safely home so long as I can properly recite my address. (I’ve always thought of getting a temporary tattoo on my forearm with my address on it, so I could just thrust my arm into the front seat and show it to him on particularly tough nights).

I’m going to miss the first really nice day of Spring, when the horrific winter weather breaks and everyone bolts into Central Park. The best park day of the year, because everyone is just so happy to be out of their apartments. And the crowdest, much more crowded than any summer weekend, since so many of those fools choose to drive five hours on Friday night to sit in what is actually a suburban house all weekend reading Hamptons magazine trying to find a hot party to go to and fooling themselves into thinking that they’re having a great time.

I’m going to miss being a 15 minute cab ride from the best live theater in the hemisphere.

I’m going to miss my neighbor Cindy, who owns the building next door to me, a four-story townhome that she bought in the early 70s for what she now gets every two months for renting the top two floors out.

I’m going to miss my wife’s “Menu book,” room service from like 50 restaurants, arranged by cuisine type (seriously).

I’m going to miss the mushroom veggie burger at the UWS Shake Shack, and regret that Danny Meyer didn’t open the damn place five years ago.

I’m going to miss going from a hot platform to a cold subway car.

I’m going to miss taking that subway car to Yankee stadium, 25 minutes from my apartment by the D, if you catch the trains right.

I’m going to miss the joy of seeing a new storefront opening up in the neighborhood, and peering into the windows to see what’s coming.

I’m going to miss going into Gin Mill on Amsterdam on football sundays to see the same group of guys, one of whom is the most dedicated displaced Eagles fan I’ve ever met.

I’m going to miss not going to museums. I’d like to say I go to museums, but…not so much.

Last, I’m going to miss telling people that I live in Manhattan, and feeling that this fact alone entitles me to a certain level of respect.

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I Love Manhattan, but I’m leaving….

I love living in Manhattan.

I love watching the evening news, and seeing that someone was run over by a car or stabbed or something, and being able to say, “hey, that’s like three blocks from my apartment!”

I love getting room service any time I want from my big book of delivery menus that my wife has actually collated, three-hole-punched, and put in a binder organized by ethnicity.

I love going to Central Park on Saturday mornings for some of the pickup softball games in the Great Lawn or the uptown ball fields.

I love the fact that my little neighborhood sandwich shop, Lenny’s, is now all over the city, and that other people get to share in the joy of a Thanksgiving turkey sandwich all year round.

I love pretending that I go to the Metropolitan Museum of Art because I have a membership card that says I’m a supporter, even though I never go.

I love my local restaurants Calle Ocho and Barbao, run by people I like and respect, although I liked going to brunch at Calle Ocho more before everyone else found out about the free sangria.

I love going to the meatpacking district and remembering where the transvestite hookers used to hang out, and seeing people buying $1500 handbags there.

I love walking around my neighborhood on the upper west side, playing the game of “what used to be here.”  Like, the northeast corner at 82d and Columbus is a “corner of retail death,” one of many in the city.  It’s now a Mexican restaurant called Comida.  Before that, a semi-Southern-creole-could-never-quite-figure-it-out place called Madaeline Mae’s.  Before that, a faux Irish pub called TJ O’Briens.  Before that, the estimable and lamented Kitchen 82.  And before that, Corner (run by the Lenny’s folk until they realized they could do better just making more Lennys).  And, finally, before that, a local grocery called Casanas, which I still miss because they had these cheap homemade burritos that I’ve never been able to find anywhere else.

I love the fact that you can buy a nudie mag on pretty much every street corner, not that you would when so much more effective material is available now on the internet.  But they’re still there, and basic economics says that someone must still be buying them.

I love being able to decide spontaneously to drink one night, knowing I don’t have to drive home, and that I can get back to my apartment so long as I can remember my address and be able to speak it out loud.

I love it all, and yet, and yet…..I am leaving.

I’m moving out.  Selling the apartment that I bought in 1994, renovated and combined with another unit in 2004, and getting out.  No more Upper West Side.  No more delivery food. No more Central Park.

Why would I do this? It was time.  I’ve lived here for almost 20 years, soaking up as much Manhattan as I could.  But I work outside the city, and have for about six years.  A 45 minute commute, each way, every day.  That wears on you.  And, frankly, as much as I love Manattan, I wasn’t getting a lot out of it when I’m getting home at 8PM exhausted from my drive and long day.  And as much as I love my brownstone apartment, I’m tired of climbing stairs every day.  People joke about how it keeps me in shape to climb two flights to my living room.  It doesn’t.

But here’s my problem.  I grew up in the suburbs, I work in the suburbs, and I know the suburbs.  And I’m terrified about living in the suburbs.  I don’t see why my life should change, I don’t know why I shouldn’t be able to create some semblance of my city life in the suburbs, with interesting bars and good restaurants and fun things to do.  So I’m writing this blog to document my search for that life, that search for an urbanized existence in a suburban environment.

But some of the signs are not so good. My wife and I were exiled to the suburbs in 2004 when we were renovating our apartment, six months of Cheescake Factory Fridays and bars filled with guys wearing flannel and wierd sections of the New York Times that I never saw before.  We kept saying we’d come into the city, and we did.  Three or four times.  Not a good sign.

Can I really live there? Can I live without mixology and Malaysian delivery and a short subway ride to Yankee Stadium?  Can I find new friends and new places to hang out without becoming the suburban guy that I was as a kid.

I’m going to find out.

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