Scooter-Oh!

Well, thank god we're actually playing ball tonight. If the rain erased another Jays opener, I'd have been forced to discuss something bogus and dull, like another slight and inconsequential brush with a former Blue Jay, in this case the time my dad sat next to an unemployed Kelly Gruber on a flight somewhere. As it is, we're playing ball, and I can save that nugget for another day. Good thing, too, because once that load was blown, I woulda had to resort to truly abysmal material, like my quest to drink 3 liters of milk today before it goes bad (chocolate syrup helps). For realious.

But! The rain has magically and mysteriously been held at bay, and the Jays and Yanks are tangling on TSN. And oh my! Marco Scutaro! Stealing bases! Fun fact: with 2 swipes, he already leads the 2007 Jays.

I've liked Scutaro the feisty Venezuelan (is there any other kind?) since I snagged a foul ball of his in Ottawa during his (lengthy) AAA days. He was with either Indianapolis (Brewers) or Norfolk (Mets) at the time. He was waaaay out in front of a breaking ball and he fired it down toward the third base dugout. It took one big hop and headed straight for me, sitting in the first row behind said dugout. I deflected it with my one free hand - the other cupping a beer - and it flared harmlessly straight over my head. When it came down again, it landed softly in that same hand, and nary a drop of beer was spilt. The ovation I got from the crowd was nice, but even better was the lingering look I got from Marco, a look of respect. It was brief, in the larger scale of things, but it was there. There was a recognition, an unmistakable vibe, a flash of respect from one man of the world to another. His look said, "Nice snag, mang." I returned him a nod that said: "I feel you, Marco."

As for this game, things have looked pretty good until - as I write this - the Yanks have loaded the bases in the 7th. A solid play by Hill to save a blown play... fuck, I love baseball! And then Doc Ks Melky Cabrera, forcing him to atone for his earlier sins against Jaysdom (Joe G: put Damon back in CF!).

Life is good again. After this one ends, King Felix - another feisty Venezuelan - takes the hill in Seattle. Sleep be damned.

Alright look, I don't pretend to be as entertaining a liveblogger as the Drunkards. I'm drinking chocolate milk tonight, not libations. Head on over there for sloppy hilarity.

My Brush With a Blue Jay: First in a Series (of two)

Long before he was famous for getting all up in Gibby's mug, Theodore Roosevelt "Lefty" Lilly was just another promising youngster in the Montreal Expos' organization. After being drafted by the Dodgers and kicking around the lower rungs of their system, Lilly was dealt to the 'Spos, and subsequently assigned to AAA Ottawa. It was 1998, and the world was essentially an optimistic place, because nobody had flown planes into buildings yet. Young Lilly arrived in the frozen north full of promise and vigour. The world was his for the conquest.

Long before my distinguished career as stay-at-home dad and would-be romance novelist began, I was but a lowly shopboy, just another moony young man convinced that a gig in a record store was but a short layover before the world offered me its riches. Then, as now, I loved records and baseball. When not working or listening to Guided By Voices, I might be found at Lynx Stadium.

One day, while minding the shop - smiling 'til it hurt, stocking shelves, making ornate displays celebrating the latest Hip release - a dark-haired young man came into the store and began browsing. Eventually he came to the cash with John Mellencamp's greatest hits CD. I rang him up, wished him a good day, and he was gone.

A few minutes later, he was back. "This doesn't work in my car," he said. I took the CD, tried it in the store's CD player, and found it to work fine. Still, being the customer-first sort of guy that I was, I offered him a replacement copy. He left again, only to return a moment later. The scene replayed itself twice more. He was nice about it, so I kept offering him more copies.

Finally, after the fourth or fifth transaction, I asked him if he would mind showing me what his car stereo did when he put the CD in. Obligingly, he led me to the parking lot, where his very shiny and fast looking Ford Mustang, with California plates, sat waiting. He opened the door and climbed inside, then popped the latest CD into the slot. Nothing. Satisfied, I said, "I don't understand it, but if you want your money back, it's yours."

On the way back into the store I asked, in a casual and completely hetero way, what a guy from California was doing buying CDs in Ottawa. I think I kind of expected the answer. "I play baseball for the Lynx."

"No shit?" I said, "I go to Lynx games. What's your name?"

"Ted Lilly," he said, and he kind of swaggered, as if to say, "Remember it, cuz someday I'll be a 15 game winner in the Show." I was a bit taken aback; I'd seen him pitch earlier that very week.

We talked about ball a bit more, I gave him his money back, and he moved to leave, but before he did, he turned to me. A bit uncertain, he asked, "So you go to a lot of games?"

"As many as I can," I said.

"Maybe you can tell me, then," he said, and he paused, as if unsure that he should continue. Finally, through a hangdog expression, he managed: "Why don't more people come?"

And that is the completely true and totally amazing story of how I met Ted Lilly.