josh pincus is crying

After bouncing between the minor leagues and the bigs, Bo Díaz was traded to the Philadelphia Phillies in the ‘81 off-season. With the departure of All-Star catcher Bob Boone, Bo became the Phillies starting backstop. His game-calling skills helped Phils ace Steve Carlton become the league’s only twenty game winner in 1982. Bo finished the season with offensive and defensive stats ranking him second among National League catchers, behind the Expos’ Gary Carter.

Early in the ‘83 season, Bo accomplished a feat only performed by eleven other players in baseball history. With the Phillies down 9-6 in the bottom of the ninth with two outs, Bo hit a game-winning grand slam. He ended the season catching Steve Carlton’s 300th career win. In the final week of the 1983 regular season, Bo hit .360 (including a game in which he went 5 for 5), helping the Phillies to the post-season. Despite losing their World Series bid to the Baltimore Orioles, Bo was the Phillies’ leading hitter.

Knee problems and two surgeries later, Bo was traded to the Cincinnati Reds where, once again he became the starting catcher. In one game against San Francisco, Bo caught opposing second baseman Robby Thompson stealing four times, a first-time occurrence in Major League history.

Bo continued for as long as he could, but several more knee surgeries and a shoulder injury forced him to retire on July 9, 1989 at the age of 36.

For nearly twenty years, Bo played winter baseball in his native Venezuela for the Leones del Caracas.  In 1973, 20-year-old Bo caught a no-hitter thrown by pitcher Urbano Lugo. Thirteen years later, he was behind the plate for a no-hitter hurled by Lugo’s son, Urbano Jr.

In November 1990, Bo was at his home in Caracas, adjusting the position of a large satillite dish on the roof. The dish accidentally tipped over and Bo was crushed to death beneath its weight.

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “twirl”.

For as long as he could remember, Tommy Lasorda, the longest tenured employee with the Dodgers organization, including twenty years as team manager, loved baseball. Growing up in a poor family in Norristown, Pennsylvania, Tommy could never afford to attend to a real Major League baseball game. When he was fifteen, Tommy joined his high school’s student crossing guard squad, but he had an ulterior motive. Tommy knew that at the end of the school year, the nuns would take the crossing guards to a Phillies game in neighboring Philadelphia in appreciation of service.

On the big day, the Phillies were playing the New York Giants and an excited Tommy Lasorda was beside himself with joy. After the game, he waited patiently by the clubhouse access tunnel at Shibe Park hoping to actually meet one of the ballplayers. One of the Giants outfielder lumbered past the star-struck youngster. “Can I get an autograph, please?”, asked Tommy. The player, Buster Maynard, riding high on the best season of what would be a short career, glanced at Tommy and barked, “Get the hell outta my way!” Tommy checked his line-up card to identify the player by uniform number as he walked into the opposing team locker room. Tommy was crushed and humiliated.

Seven years later, Tommy Lasorda, now a twenty-two year-old pitcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers’ minor league team in North Carolina, was on the mound facing the Single A division Augusta Yankees. He quickly struck out the first two batters of the inning, when he was frozen by the name being announced over the small ballpark’s public address system. Lasorda narrowed his eyes and watched as Buster Maynard — now an aging bench-warmer hoping for one last shot at reviving his career — ambled out of the dugout and approached the plate. The old man took a few creaky practice swings and stepped into the batter’s box. Lasorda silently fumed and went into his wind-up. He let the ball fly, rocketing just inches from Maynard’s chin and twirling the old man around in an effort to dodge the leather-clad projectile. Maynard took off his cap, scratched his head and peered across the field at the pitcher. Lasorda shot another head-high bullet at Maynard, this time forcing the elder player to hit the dirt in order to avoid getting some unrequested rhinoplasty. The third pitch from Lasorda wasn’t so forgiving. Maynard took one in the ribs and was awarded first base for his trouble.

After the game, the fading big-leaguer caught up with the young pitcher. “Hey kid,” Maynard began,”What the hell? Why were you throwing at me? I don’t even know  you?”

Lasorda answered, “When I was a kid, I asked you for an autograph and you pushed me aside, you lousy son-of-a-bitch!” Maynard was dumb-founded and he shook his head in disbelief as Lasorda walked away.

During his years as a Major League manager, Tommy Lasorda always reminded his players to happily sign autographs, adding “Because you never know if, one day, one of those kids’ll knock you on your ass!”

Chico Ruiz had an unremarkable career. He hit two home runs in his rookie season and never hit another. He played eight seasons in the majors with a lifetime batting average of .240. About average.

But, on September 21, 1964, Chico Ruiz became the bane of every baseball fan in Philadelphia.

In a scoreless game between the league-leading Philadelphia Phillies and the second place Cincinnati Reds, Chico Ruiz did the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the inconceivable… and got away with it. With one out and clean-up power-hitter Frank Robinson at the plate, Chico Ruiz stole home. The Phillies, who held a six and a half game lead and had the taste of the World Series on their collective lips, watched helplessly as the collapse of their team began. Shocked Phillies pitcher Art Mahaffey wildly threw the ball to catcher Clay Dalrymple as Chico slid across the dish to score the only run in that game. The Phillies lost the next ten games and saw their post-season hopes carried away on the shoulders of the rival Reds.

In 1967, Reds’ struggling rookie catcher Johnny Bench was 0 for 3, when Chico was sent in to pinch-hit for him in the 9th inning of the game. Little did Chico know he would be the only player in history to ever pinch-hit for future Hall-of-Famer Bench. In 1969, Chico was traded to the California Angels, where he allegedly brought a gun to the locker room and threatened a teammate.

In the early morning hours of February 9, 1972, Chico was driving alone just outside of San Diego, when he wrapped his car around a sign pole. He was scheduled to report to Spring Training with his new team, the Kansas City Royals, in three weeks. Chico was 33 and had just become a United States citizen one month earlier.

During his two and a half seasons on the Cincinnati Reds, Willard Hershberger primarily served as the back-up catcher for Hall-of-Famer Ernie Lombardi. Though not an everyday player, he had a .316 lifetime batting average and even had two at-bats with an RBI in the 1939 World Series. However, Willard holds a singular, albeit dubious, distinction among ballplayers, although there is no plaque for him in the Baseball Hall of Fame. He is the only active Major leaguer to commit suicide during the season.

In July 1940, Ernie Lombardi injured a finger and Willard was called upon to fill in behind the plate. The mighty Reds blew a late-game lead to the lowly New York Giants and lost 5-4. Afterwards, Willard commented, “If Ernie was catching, we would have won. It’s all my fault.”  Several days later, The Reds played a scheduled double header against the poor seventh place Boston Bees. Willard was depressed and sat out the first game, letting third-stringer Bill Baker serve as backstop. The Reds lost the first game as Willard watched from the bench. Reds manager Bill McKechnie took Willard to his office to speak privately. Willard was still blaming himself for the team’s poor performance and related the story of discovering the body after his father’s suicide by gunshot. McKechnie tried to comfort the catcher when he threaten to repeat his father’s actions. Soon, a calmer Willard exited the manager’s office and readied himself for game two against the Bees. The Reds lost the second game 4-3. Willard went hitless in five at-bats. He sunk deeper into depression. He returned to his room at Boston’s Copley Plaza Hotel.

The next morning, Gabe Paul, the Reds’ travelling secretary, called Willard at the hotel and told him to take the day off. He was not scheduled to play and he didn’t need to come to the ballpark. Willard said he would be there anyway. When Willard had not arrived for pregame festivities, McKechnie sent Paul to investigate. The hotel manager admitted Paul to Willard’s room where he discovered Willard dead in the bathtub. The 30 year-old catcher had slashed his own throat with a razor.

McKechnie delivered the tragic news to Willard’s teammates, adding that they pursue the World Series in memory of “Hershie”. At the end of the 1940 season, the Reds defeated the Detroit Tigers in seven games to win the World Series. The Reds retired Willard’s uniform number “5″ for two years, reactivating it in 1942. (The number was retired permanently in 1986 to honor Hall of Fame catcher Johnny Bench.)

As an odd footnote, Ernie Lombardi became depressed after his retirement in 1947. In 1953, he attempted suicide in a manner similar to that of Willard Hershberger. He begged to be allowed to die. After a brief hospital stay, Erine recovered from his self-inflicted injury and received treatment for depression. He passed away in 1977.

A heart ailment forced 53 year-old Barney Doyle into an early retirement. A life long New York Giants fan, he would now be able to attend more games.

On Independence Day 1950, Barney went to an early Mass, had a quick breakfast and picked up a friend’s son, Otto Flaig, to make good on a promise to take the boy to a ball game. They arrived at the Polo Grounds in Upper Manhattan and found their section in the packed stadium. The sky was clear and it was a beautiful day for a double-header between the Brooklyn Dodgers and Barney’s beloved Giants. At twenty minutes after twelve noon, the Dodgers took the field for batting practice. In seat 3, row C, high in grandstand section 42, facing the Coogan’s Bluff section of New York, Barney leaned over to tell his young companion something above the din of the crowd. Suddenly, a bullet drilled into Barney’s left temple and he slumped back, dead before his back hit the bench. Police and medics pushed their way through the unruly crowd to the scene. As medical staff carried Barney’s body away, some of the standing-room patrons fought for the now-vacant seat. Otto was annoyed when policemen ushered him away for questioning, claiming he was missing the game — a game he had been dreaming of for a month.

Subsequent investigation determined that 14 year-old Robert Peebles had climbed to the roof of his Coogan’s Bluff tenement and fired the one bullet he had saved for the July 4th celebration from his .45 caliber gun. Robert stood behind a five-foot high retainer wall, 1,200 yards from the Polo Grounds, when he pulled the trigger. He couldn’t even see the ballpark from his position. He was charged with juvenile delinquency.

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “stir”.

Poor Thurman Munson. Despite an array of meritorious accomplishments — seven-time All-Star, two-time World Series champion, three-time Gold Glove Winner, 1970 Rookie of the Year and 1976 American League Most Valuable Player — the popular catcher and captain of the New York Yankees took a lot of shit. A lot of it from Reggie Jackson.

The 1976 baseball season ended with a four-game sweep of the Yankees by the Cincinnati Reds, the baseball dynasty known as The Big Red Machine. In the off-season following that defeat, the Yanks signed Reggie Jackson to a five-year contract. Jackson was known as a great home run hitter during his nine years with the Oakland A’s, but he was no stranger to controversy. His sense of “hustle” was often questioned and his air of arrogance didn’t always endear him to his teammates.

Jackson reported to the spring training camp of his new team in Fort Lauderdale, Florida in March 1977. One day, he met SPORT Magazine  reporter Robert Ward at a local bar for an interview. According to Ward (and disputed by Jackson), they were discussing the Yankees’ loss in the previous year’s World Series. Jackson suggested the team was missing one thing and then noted all of the various ingredients in his cocktail to make an analogy. Jackson was quoted as saying, “This team, it all flows from me. I’m the straw that stirs the drink. Maybe I should say me and Munson, but he can only stir it bad.” When the story appeared in the May 1977 issue of SPORT,  Jackson’s relationship with his teammates became increasingly strained. Jackson continued to maintain he was misquoted and that his quotes were taken out of context. In July 1977, Dave Anderson of the New York Times  subsequently wrote that he had drinks with Jackson, and that Jackson told him, “I’m still the straw that stirs the drink. Not Munson, not nobody else on this club.”

The 1977 season took the Yankees to the World Series once again — this time to face the Los Angeles Dodgers. A reporter approached Thurman Munson in the dugout to get his feelings about post-season play. Noting his teammate’s considerable playoff experience, Thurman pointed in the direction of Reggie Jackson and sarcastically said “Why don’t you go ask Mr. October.” The nickname stuck. Jackson went on to hit a record five home runs in the ‘77 Series and helped bring another championship to The Bronx Bombers.

By the 1979 season, the wear-and-tear of catching was taking its toll on Thurman Munson. He was considering retirement at the end of the season. Frequently homesick for his native Canton, Ohio, Thurman had been taking flying lessons and purchased a Cessna Citation to fly home on off-days. On August 2, 1979, he was practicing takeoffs and landings at the Akron-Canton Regional Airport with a friend and his flight instructor. On his third landing, Munson allowed the aircraft to sink too low before increasing engine power. The plane clipped a tree and fell short of the runway. It then hit a tree stump and burst into flames. His friend and instructor escaped the wreckage, but Thurman was trapped by debris. Inside the fiery cockpit, he inhaled toxic fumes and died from asphyxiation. He was 32. His uniform number “15″ was retired by the Yankees. Thurman’s locker was never reassigned and was moved intact to the new Yankee Stadium in 2009.

This week’s Illustration Friday challenge word is “dip”.

Springtime. It’s the time when the skies are clear, the air is fresh and another baseball season begins.

After a six-month rest, the Boys of Summer are back on the green fields and dirt basepaths. Dressed in their familiar hometeam colors. Shagging flies. Laying down the perfect bunt. Smacking the high cheese into frozen ropes. Turning two. Painting the corners with a nasty bender. Pinching a huge wad of long cut dip tobacco out of the tin. As that tin is jammed back into its protective pocket, that wad is wedged deep in the fold between the lower lip and gum. And then, a thickened stream of shit-brown liquid is spit down the chin and the front of the uni. Just ten more years and that cancerous lower jaw will be a thing of the past.

Ah, Spring. Play ball.

Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher Dock Ellis had, if anything, a colorful career with a lifetime win-loss record of 138-119 and a career earned-run average at a respectable 3.46.

His career was highlighted by events including famously beaning Reggie Jackson in retaliation for a home run in the 1971 All Star Game. In 1972, Dock was sprayed with mace by a security guard at Cinncinati’s Riverfront Stadium. The guard claimed that Dock had not properly identified himself and made threatening gestures with his fist. Dock said he was merely displaying his World Series ring to the guard. In May 1974, Dock decided to hit every player in the Cincinnati Reds’ lineup. Dock hit Pete Rose, Joe Morgan, and Dan Driessen in order in the top of the first inning. The fourth batter, Tony Perez, avoided Dock’s close pitches and drew a walk. The next batter was Reds’ catcher Johnny Bench. After two pitches aimed at Bench’s head, Dock was removed from the game by Pirates’ manager Danny Murtaugh.

But it was on June 12, 1970 that Dock achieved a record that still stands today. He became the only pitcher in professional baseball history to pitch a no-hitter while under the influence of LSD. Dock and the Pirates flew in to his hometown of Los Angeles for a road trip. He asked his manager if he could go home since he was not scheduled to pitch for two days. Granted permission for a day off, Dock took some LSD at the airport and went to visit some friends. Upon his arrival at his friend’s home, Dock began to experience a full-force acid trip and passed out. He woke up just long enough to take some more acid before he was awakened an hour later by his friend’s girlfriend, when she asked “Don’t you have to pitch today in San Diego?” Dock answered “No, I’m pitching tomorrow.” She informed him that he had been “out of it” for an entire day and it was  tomorrow. She showed Dock that day’s newspaper as proof and Dock panicked. He rushed to the airport and arrived in San Diego two hours before game time. As Dock later related, he was as “high as a Georgia pine.”

Dock took the mound and in the course of nine innings — where he claimed the ball was huge and then small; where he sometimes saw the catcher’s glove and sometimes not; where he dodged balls he perceived as line drives, but actually came nowhere near him — he struck out six and walked eight. Aided by excellent fielding from second baseman Bill Mazeroski and center fielder Matty Alou, Dock pitched a no-hitter nonetheless. The Pirates beat San Diego 2-0.

Dock bounced around on four more teams in his later years, finally calling it a career back in Pittsburgh in 1979. After retirement, Dock, a long-time alcoholic, was diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver. He passed away in 2008, while on the list for a transplant.

The current Monday Artday challenge is “gratitude”.

Curt Flood spent most of his career as a center fielder for the St. Louis Cardinals. He led the National League in putouts four times. He won seven consecutive Gold Glove Awards. He also batted over .300 six times, and led the NL in hits in 1964. He retired with the third most games in center field in NL history, behind Willie Mays and Richie Ashburn.

On October 7, 1969, the Cardinals traded Flood, catcher Tim McCarver, outfielder Byron Browne, and pitcher Joe Hoerner to the Philadelphia Phillies for first baseman Dick Allen, second baseman Cookie Rojas, and pitcher Jerry Johnson. However, Flood refused to report to the Phillies, citing the team’s poor record, the fact that they played in dilapidated Connie Mack Stadium and, what Flood felt, racist fans.

With the backing of the Players Association and with former U.S. Supreme Court Justice Arthur Goldberg arguing on his behalf, Flood sought action against Baseball Commissioner Bowie Kuhn in a case that lasted from January 1970 to June 1972 at district, circuit, and Supreme Court levels. Although the Supreme Court ultimately ruled against Flood, upholding baseball’s exemption from antitrust statutes, the case set the stage for the advent of free agency.

The emotional costs to Flood as a result of his unprecedented challenge of the reserve clause were enormous. Flood’s major league career effectively ended with his legal action, and he traveled to Europe, spending much of his time there painting and writing, attempting to deal with the pain and frustration of being away from the game he loved. In 1970, prior to the Supreme Court decision, Flood published his autobiography, The Way It Is, a book which outlined his moral and legal objections to baseball’s reserve system.

At the memorial service for Curt Flood, who died of throat cancer in 1997 at the age of 59, dozens of former ballplayers gathered to pay tribute to a man whose sacrifice made him not merely a hero, but a martyr. Former major leaguer Tito Fuentes wondered why the current generation of baseball’s multi-millionaires did not attend the service to pay their respect. “He was a great man,” Fuentes remarked as he passed by Flood’s casket. “I’m sorry that so many of the young players who made millions, who benefited from his fight, are not here. They should be here.”

You call that gratitude?

This song by The Baseball Project sums it up perfectly. (Lyrics HERE.)

As I watched the 2009 baseball postseason, I thought about my long association with the Philadelphia Phillies. 

As a kid, I was never a sports fan. My brother and father would park themselves in front of the television and rabidly watch anything that remotely resembled a sporting event. Depending on the time of year, our house was filled with the sounds of kicked footballs, batted baseballs, whacked hockey pucks or basketballs swishing through nothing but net. There was always some sort of elimination round of some playoff of some series — punctuated by the heated and opinionated arguments between my brother and my father. I was usually off somewhere drawing, as — to me — one sport was just as boring as the next. But soon, all that would change.

In October 1977, I passed my driving test and was awarded a license to operate a motor vehicle in the state of Pennsylvania. I happily offered to run errands for my mom and drive friends around. I used any excuse I could think of in order to tool around Northeast Philadelphia in the most reliable of vehicles from the Pincus Family motor pool: my mom’s 1969 Ford Galaxie.

The Galaxie was a massive assemblage of steel and rubber that was sturdy enough for battle. It boasted a dashboard that looked like it belonged in commercial airplane. In what was obviously an exercise in poor planning, the radio was wedged into a most inconvenient corner space to the far left of the steering wheel. This gave only the driver control of the soundtrack for each ride.

The 1977 baseball season ended and the first place Phillies were once again denied a trip to the World Series, this time by cross-country rivals, The Los Angeles Dodgers. It was in that time between the 1977 Fall Classic and ’78 Spring Training that my brother gave me a valuable piece of advice, and probably the only piece of advice from my brother I ever followed. He suggested that I apply for a job at Veterans Stadium, home of the Philadelphia Phillies, as a vendor. It proved to be the greatest job I ever had.

In February 1978, baseball players began reporting to training camps throughout Florida. Meanwhile in Philadelphia, I obtained the necessary employment certificates allowing me to work, in compliance with Pennsylvania law. I borrowed the Galaxie and carefully navigated southbound Interstate 95, a thoroughfare I had only traveled once before, and that was while accompanied by a driving instructor. With my hands properly on the steering wheel at 10 and 2, I kept the car steady and as far to the right on the highway as legally possible. After a grueling forty-five minute ride (that should have taken twenty), I arrived at the 50 million dollar multi-purpose concrete structure that was known to locals as “The Vet.” I parked my car in the enormous lot and followed the signs towards the employment office. An uninterested woman with no inflection in her voice asked me some questions covering my age, where I attended school and how I heard about the job. She then directed me to another office that was empty except for an industrial-looking camera and a neutral photo backdrop suspended from a metal frame. I stood before the frame and smiled when cued. After several minutes, I received my laminated ID card and just like that I was officially a vendor for Nilon Brothers, the company that operated the food service at the stadium. I didn’t actually  work for the Phillies, so, unfortunately, I was not on the same payroll as Mike Schmidt. But, in sixty days, I’d eagerly return to hawk my wares amid the cheering crowd of baseball faithful.

My brother and a number of his friends had worked as vendors for five years. I was welcomed to the fold as long as I could provide transportation to the ballpark as part of a carpool. I committed and was welcomed once again, this time more sincerely. Arrangements were made and I was to drive a car full of my brother’s buddies to The Vet every fifth home game or when needed.

It was unseasonably cold the first week of April in Philadelphia, but that didn’t keep the 1978 baseball season from starting. I got a call from one of my fellow vendors informing me when to be ready for pickup for Opening Night. A car packed with my brother’s friends pulled up in front of my house. A horn honked as my signal to join them in seconds or be left behind. I scurried down the front lawn, and climbed into the back seat, squeezing between two hulking college seniors. They were anxious to start the new vending season, as they had all turned 21 and were now legally permitted to sell beer. That’s where the real money was.

The policy of vending for Nilon Brothers was this: Vendors essentially worked for themselves, meaning there was no salary. A vendor would arrive at the stadium several hours before a game and queue up for admittance. Once the vendor entrance opened, one would proceed to what we called “the laundry”. It was a counter where a man sat and distributed smocks in exchange for your ID badge and ten bucks. The smock was a red, white and blue striped pajama top that identified you as an authorized Nilon employee. I suppose Nilon felt that carrying a tray of foodstuff and screaming one’s head off was not enough to allow for proper recognition. At the end of the night, once your smock was returned (no matter how soiled or sweat soaked), you would receive your ID and full deposit. After putting on the clown-like smock and tying on your own supplied change apron, vendors would head to one of four vendor-only commissaries placed strategically throughout the stadium. I, and my carpool colleagues, worked out of commissary 535 in the right field upper deck. The commissary was set up like a cafeteria. There were sections for each product — soda, peanuts, beer — from which a vendor choose his item for the night. I sold Cokes, which were dispensed in waxed cups and arranged in wire trays of twenty. A tray of Cokes was purchased by the vendor — that’s right, purchased— for $14.25. Different products cost different amounts and, therefore, offered different profit margins. With a catchy “call” and swift feet, a tray of twenty Cokes at eighty cents apiece brought the vendor $16.00 — and a profit of a buck seventy-five. An average summer game would net about thirty-five dollars, a huge sum to a seventeen-year old. On a really good day, fifty bucks could easily be made, if a fair amount of hustling was involved. Rain delayed games were great because there was a captive audience, no game and nothing to do but buy food. Vendors loved rain delays. Oh yeah, vendors had to provide their own change. Aside from a workplace, Nilon Brothers provided shit.

My first night of vending was exciting and I was ready to vend. However, after toting a heavy metal tray laden with twenty, ice and soda-filled cups up and down steep, cement steps into the dizzying heights of the 700 level, I was dragging my ass. The tray weighed a ton and, due to the chill in the air, Cokes weren’t exactly a hot commodity. As baseball season went on and the weather got warmer, vending blossomed into a great experience. I hustled through the crowds, deftly tendering two dimes for every dollar I received for a Coke. I perfected my attention-getting call of “Heeeeeeyyyy! Coooooooo-ke He-YAH!” as I worked the bleacher throngs. The camaraderie among most vendors was great. I acknowledged the other vendors I passed with a wink, as though we were part of a secret club. There was McKenna, a geeky string bean with thick glasses and his unmistakable call of “Give your tongue a sleigh ride!” when he sold ice cream. There was old Charlie Frank, a legend among the elite clutch of hotdog vendors, with his rapid-fire call of “DoggieDoggieDoggieDoggieDoggieDoggie”. There was my brother’s pal Scott, another hotdog vendor, who served up two dogs on one bun, affectionately called a “Scott-dog”. Since hotdog sales were tallied by the roll inventory, this treat was not uncommon, but only available to vendors.

Nilon Brothers didn’t care much for competition. Enterprising, yet unauthorized, street vendors that set up on bordering Pattison Avenue infringed on Nilon’s high-priced fare. Besides that, they were vending illegally on private property. Each night, policeman would systematically confiscate shopping carts filled with Philly soft pretzels from some rogue salesman. The offender would be chased from the premises and his offerings carted into the bowels of some stadium storage area. Those storage areas were adjacent to the vendor laundry. One night at the seventh-inning vendor departure time, as a group of us were returning our smocks, a voice from behind inquired, “Are these pretzels for anyone?” We turned around to see Jim Lonborg, the lanky Phillies pitcher, who had just gotten pulled from the evening’s game. Upon receiving several shrugs from the cluster of vendors, Lonborg grabbed a strip of eight baked-together pretzels, jammed them into the webbing of his glove and headed off to hit the showers.

The drives home from the game were an adventure as well. If I was a passenger, I was usually relegated to the back seat where I had to survive the smell of at least five of my brother’s friends, all sweaty and tired, but charged with adrenaline. If I was the evening’s driver, I had to maneuver around the ancient train tracks that littered Delaware Avenue, while deflecting the passenger trying to reach through my steering wheel in an attempt to change the radio station. When I’d get home my parents would ask who won. “Who won?” I’d reply, “I don’t even know who was playing. I was too busy making money.”

On October 1, 1978, along with the Phillies season, my career as a vendor came to an end. The weather had turned cold and I needed to secure a job that lasted more than a few months.

In 1996, I began my tenure as a Phillies season ticket holder. With the package we purchased, my family began attending every Sunday home game the Phillies played. Today, as my wife and I sit in the stands of Citizens Bank Park, the new home of the Phillies, there are several vendors ambling through the crowd that I recognize thirty-one years later. Their calls are raspier and their gaits lethargic, but they are unmistakably the same guys. It seems sad to me that men of advanced age are still working the ballpark mobs. I suppose they don’t want to give up the greatest job they ever had.