The Social Ramble

In this very special installment of The Social Ramble, my lovely partner-in-crime continues her assault on my sex appeal with her endless production of rich foodstuffs. Follow the italics to make your own, or skip to the end for the full recipe. (Don’t do that though.)

For the pies, you will need: 3 cups sugar, 1 cup butter, 4 eggs, 1/2 cup vegetable oil, 1 tbsp vanilla extract, 6 cups AP flour, 2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder, 1 tsp baking powder, 1 1/2 tsp baking soda, 1 tsp salt, 3 cups milk (not pictured)

Diana, wanting to reproduce a regional delicacy featured prominently in my childhood, settled on the Whoopie Pie, a gigantic dessert sandwich that’s omnipresent in Midcoast Maine.

I told her I would help, and did so by rejecting all of her early research efforts into preparing a more sophisticated version of this New England staple. Pumpkin? Bourbon? Rose Water? While Diana’s investigation yielded intriguing and mouth-watering results, I explained that the only course of action, really, was to adhere to the most famous of all Whoopie Pie recipes, that of Waldoboro Maine’s Moody’s Diner. 

Combine all wet ingredients, except for the milk, in a bowl and mix. You don’t NEED the stand mixer for this, but if you don’t use one, beat the crap out of your batter.

Loading any ingredients at all into Diana’s KitchenAid stand mixer takes real cojones, as it has been stuck on Ludicrous Speed for some time now. Laying a towel over the top and clearing the hell out of the kitchen, I left Diana to bravely press the button on the speed-demon possessed appliance. I really must take a look inside and see if I can fix it. As the saying goes: If a man says he’s going to do something, he’ll do it. You don’t have to remind him every six months.    

So far so good. Diana favours her batter with a demure smile, à la Mona Lisa.

Confusion gives way to terror as a discrepancy in the recipe is uncovered. Conflicting versions of the Moody’s recipe on the interweb offer different measurements for the baking soda required. As Diana explains, too much will lead to overly fluffy pies and too little…well…disaster.

We decide to call Moody’s.

“Hi! I’m Diana and I’m calling from California because I work for a super-famous food blog/tv show/the President and we need to know how much baking soda goes in these famous Whoopie Pies!!!”

A helpful Down-Easter called Linda retrieved the recipe binder from the kitchen and gave us the correct measurement. After checking on the rest of our recipe and pronouncing it fit she bid us a “good one” and hung up. Thanks Linda.

2010 National League MVP Joey Votto looks on while 2012 MVGF adds vanilla extract to the batter.

After combining all of your dry ingredients in a bowl, alternate mixing it into your batter with the milk, back and forth, a little at a time.

A little boyfriend-approved cheating here, 1 tbsp of instant espresso is added to the dry ingredients.

More cheating, Diana simply must be watched at all times. Here, she adds melted dark chocolate to the batter. 

An insignificant recipe tweak; Fluff proves impossible to find on the west coast. We substituted JetPuff Marshmallow Topping. A sample confirms that while Fluff is the superior product, all marshmallow toppings are disgusting. I take the opportunity to sneak a taste of the batter while Diana considers marshmallows. 

Remember, Maine-iacs have large appetites, so be sure to scoop pretty generously. Also, it is paramount that you make your pies as round as possible, for sandwiching later. An ice cream scoop does the trick nicely.

When scooping out batter onto a lightly greased baking sheet, be sure to leave plenty of room. These things spread faster than a groupie at a Motley Crüe concert.

For the filling: 1/2 cups shortening, 3 cups confectioners sugar, 1 1/3 cups marshmallow topping, dash of salt, 1 tsp vanilla extract, 1/3 to 1/2 cup milk. Put everything in the mixer, but add the milk last and only use as much as you need to make it light and fluffy.

The best advice we can offer when preparing the filling for your Whoopie Pies is to double the recipe. We also substituted 1/3 of the shortening called for with butter, which made us feel smart and stuff.

The recipe calls for 10 to 12 minutes in a 350 degree oven for these bad boys, but 9 minutes did the trick for us. Keep a sharp lookout. Or not, the recipe yields about 400 whoopie pies. 

DO NOT attempt to apply filling while the pies are hot. Seriously. Take our word for it. Just DON’T DO IT. ‘kay?

Amazingly, these look just like Grandma’s!

See you next time! And check out the original Moody’s Diner recipe below!

Ingredients

• 3 cups sugar
• 1 cup butter
• 4 eggs
• 1/2 cup vegetable oil
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
• 6 cups all-purpose flour
• 2 cups unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 1/2 tablespoons teaspoons baking soda
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 3 cups milk
• Filling, recipe follows

Directions

Filling:

                                                                  Curtis Granderson

                                              PART TWO: TAMPA/ST. PETERSBURG

Friday, April 6th, 2012: A four hour drive through intermittent rain and gator-concealing wetlands ends in the “parking lot” of the New Covenant Holiness Church on 6th Avenue in St. Petersburg. Finally emerging from the infuriating bumper-to-bumper clusterf*** that is I-75 on the way to Tampa, we are informed by signs that the stadium lot is full. The game is about to begin as we park on an expanse of grass next to the church, and Tropicana Field rises from the valley a few hundred yards away. We cut across the ramshackle church’s lawn toward the Trop, and My Lovely Young Escort begs permission to visit the restroom from an enormous Christian sitting on the steps. 

I wait outside and listen to the sounds of the game, arriving from a half dozen directions and radio feeds. The atmosphere brings to mind a small town fair; dust from the tight maneuvering of traffic, static-y music, local accents and a distant buzz of power. The slow snake of cars looking for cheap parking provides a seamless broadcast from the game, the game that is beginning without me. It is humid, hot, and painfully bright, and we are missing all the pageantry. The lineups are being announced, as locals with no tickets wander around and holler encouragements at their radios. A boy, no more than fourteen, swats mosquitoes from his arms and sells Budweiser cans from a cooler. For a buck apiece. I’ll take four hundred, I say to him.

   Inside the park, (No “Enjoy the game!”s at the Trop) we hustle to our section. It is the bottom of the first as we stumble over fans to our seats on the second level, and a tremendous *pop* snaps our attention to the field. Tampa’s El Presidente Carlos Pena has just taken CC Sabathia deep, clearing the bases in what turns out to be the first grand salami Sabathia has ever served up to a lefty. Marvelous. 

First we miss the Ceremonial Opening Day Hullaballoo, and now this? My beloved Yanks start the season like this? We’ve dug in at our seats now and begin assessing the fans around us, for conversational opportunities and valuable local insight. (Best insight offered, “As soon as the game is over, get out of St. Petersburg”) To my left sit two New Yorkers, whom we’ll call Ira…and Marty. Next to The Social Ramble Correspondent Dodger Blue-Eyes, on my right, is a generously proportioned mook in a Rays jersey known hereafter as “Asshole.” And directly in front of me sits….this guy:

Let it be known that TSR is unopposed to every baseball fan’s right to follow, root for, and care about as many teams and players as they may wish. Here at The Ramble, we are Phillies’ fans, Yankees, Dodgers, Giants, Twins and others, and this fellow certainly has every right to his opinions. That said, the fashion faux pas pictured above, the wearing of intrasport team colors, is unforgivable.

With our eyes rolling hard enough to give us headaches, Ira, Marty, myself, and My Lovely Young Escort indicated this unfortunate twat to one another, discreetly pointing and snickering. “Who DOES that?” is the consensus view. Feeling properly satisfied that we are fans with superior style and awareness, we forget about Confused Boy-Fan and watch the Yankees take the lead back from the Rays with Raul Ibanez’ three-run shot (First as a Yankee!) in the third. 

Now, in the innings leading up to this home run, Asshole (remember Asshole? Sitting next to My Lovely Young Escort?) has been taunting the Yankee fans in attendance, of which there are many. His ridicule includes the kind of stuff that Assholes at every sporting event employ, almost always displaying a total lack of knowledge of the proceedings. It is never wise to take the bait of a Sports Asshole, you can’t win arguments with them. 

Perhaps owing to the Yanks offensive onslaught, Asshole is grumpy and decides to take his frustrations out on someone, anyone. I actually see his gaze settle on the Confused Boy-Fan, and I wince while he taps the teenager’s shoulder to begin his verbal assault. After Asshole fires off a few obscenities, the terrified-looking kid turns around and explains in a quavering voice that the Yankees are his favorite team, but the Rays’ Evan Longoria is his favorite ballplayer. He is so apologetic that I am immediately shamed, and instantly change my position on Confused Boy-Fan, renaming him True Baseball Fan and Person of Substance. Asshole is unimpressed by T.B.F.a.P.o.S’ personal politics and begins a campaign of annoyance in which we are all casualties. “Hey, leave him alone” says the boy’s grandfather finally, and Asshole is temporarily quieted by embarrassment and the Yanks’ stellar defensive display.

An inning later, Evan Longoria strides to the plate and sends a Sabathia offering 415 feet to left. 

I hate this kid in front of me. True Baseball Fan and Person of Substance. Douche Bag. 

Having arrived late to the game, we decide to take our tour of the park in the middle innings, and The Boys of Summer limit the action on the field in our absence, which was thoughtful. A cursory glance at the dining options in the Trop reveals nothing new, there is no great tradition of popular local foodstuffs in St. Petersburg. We fortify with roasted pecans and take a lap around the concourse. 

Tropicana Field might not look impressive on TV, in fact it may look a precursor to the dystopian 1987 film The Running Man. TV can’t take you into the hallways however, and the Trop is a lively place, with brightly-coloured halls and emphasis on children’s activities. There is a “Trivia Game Show” with a live host, an interactive aquarium with live rays, batting cages and a “Make Your Own Baseball Card” booth. Historical displays and a new exhibit chronicling, minute-to-minute, the events of last September 28, when the Red Sox choked big time, are a treat for real fans. As I snapped some photos of an exhibit, a passing Rays fan sneered at my journalistic investigation, and I was visited by fantasies of punching a stranger, for the second time in as many Florida baseball games. It would not be my last.

A visit to the team store (Some baseball cards and another ball for the old man) brought this exchange with a young clerk: 

TSR: How much are the game-used lineup cards?

Clerk: A hundred bucks. Um…you’re missing a really good game? Did you know that?

We appreciated the advice and made it back for the last of 6th. No change in the score, and we settled into conversation with the excellent Ira and Marty. 

Marty lives a five minute walk from Madison Square Garden, and has a tight little ‘fro and devastatingly acute lisp. Ira, a New Yorker living in Tampa for the past eight years, has a ten-month-old daughter and perfect teeth. They are best friends, and Marty flies down to see Yankee games with Ira a few times a year. They talk about the Bombers with real knowledge, and Ira asks My Lovely Young Escort what he can do to ensure his new daughter becomes a baseball fan. We are enjoying a close game, (6-5 Yanks) and everything is just swell. Almost.

During our tour of the park, Asshole has imbibed somewhere in the neighborhood of 47 Miller Lites. His clamorous hokum has reached it’s nadir; he’s even made himself an enemy to other Rays fans. When David Robertson pulls his usual Houdini act for the Yanks, putting runners on the corners with no outs and escaping by striking out the next three batters, Asshole’s hoarse screaming becomes unbearable. Somewhat shamefully, I actually find myself wishing he would touch My Lovely Young Escort, or say something terrible to her, anything so that I’d have an excuse to rearrange his huge, fleshy nose. Never waste your time with body-shots when dealing with a huge customer like this, I’m thinking. Sock him straight in the face, receive applause, watch Mo shut down Rays in the ninth, go home. 

It worked out differently. As Marty and Dodger Blue-Eyes debated the level of excitement that comes with a Lakers game at the Staples Center versus a Knicks home game, Mariano lost his nerve and the game. After giving up a run-scoring-triple to tie the game, Mo intentionally walked the next two batters to load the bases. 34,000+ were on their feet as skipper Joe Girardi called the infield in, protecting against the ground ball and hoping for the double play. With the bases loaded, five infielders, Mo, three umpires and two base coaches, 14 men stood on the infield. It looked like a football game as El Presidente smacked a fly to left center, ending the game and spelling disaster for Asshole, had he stayed for the end of the game. 

I definitely would have killed him. 

We shook hands with Ira and Marty, and shuffled out of the stadium, favourably impressed with it’s many charms, and happy to escape further association with the locals. Climbing back over the New Covenant Holiness Church yard to the rental Kia, we mapped our trip back to Miami, and made detailed plans to never return to Tampa Bay. 

                                                                     EPILOGUE

70 miles north of Miami, my Lovely Young Escort Driver is doing a conservative 90 mph down I-75, and I am half-asleep in the passenger seat. Her tiny yelp stirs me just in time to see the unmistakable shape of a prehistoric dinosaur, observing motorists from his place on the road directly in front of us. Two miles and 3 minutes later, Dodger Blue-Eyes breaks the silence: “I just ran over a  f***ing alligator.” I close my mouth and give her thigh a squeeze. “The important thing here is that we’re both okay” I console her. “You don’t understand,” she says, “This morning when I rented the car I waived the optional insurance.”

“oh.”

The Social Ramble, April 18, 2012

This was the second game attended by TSR this season. 

                                                PART ONE: MIAMI

I have been waiting in line for five minutes, for the opportunity to purchase Miami Marlins caps for TSR staffers, and the heat is brutal. We are standing on a scorched strip of concrete, under a blazing sun. The line moves at a snail’s pace, as elderly tourists wait to reach the cashier before rifling their fanny packs for credit cards. I pass the time trying on different styles of caps and settle on the orange one, while TSR writer Dodger Blue-Eyes changes her mind back and forth between the different colors that reflect Miami’s obnoxiousness diversity. In Miami, it’s totally acceptable to smoke cigars in public, in restaurants and bars, on the beach, and in a line with old folks and tiny children. I consider punching the leathery old cigar-smoker in front of me, but then they wouldn’t let me into the air-conditioned spaceship next us, where baseball is rumoured to take place, and from which Latin rhythms are pouring out at a volume sufficent to wake Carmen Miranda. The smoker releases another noxious cloud of filth at us and I can actually feel the sweat escaping every pore in my body. I have been waiting in line for twenty minutes. 

Faster than you can sing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” (assuming you sang it 457 times in reverse pig-latin) we are at the gates, where we must prove we are unarmed to the nice lady at the turnstiles. We receive our first “Enjoy the game!” of the season and are gifted with commemorative lanyards and Tic-Tacs. (?) Fidgety with the sugar and caffeine that a half dozen cortaditos bring to bear, (more on the those later) our tour of the park begins…

                         Note the 75-foot “Home Run Sculpture” on the bottom right. 

Unfortunately for the fans in attendance, it’s clear that the folks in Miami haven’t yet figured out how to move 36,000 people around in this technological terror they have constructed. Imagine that it were last call for alcohol immediately upon entering the stadium, and that last call took seven-and-a-half innings, and you’ll have an idea of the chaos on Opening Day in Miami:

                                                            A little crowded in Miami

Investigation of the culinary delights available for the gastronomes of Southern Florida reveals thoughtfully provided options for those fans miserably, hopelessly cursed with gluten-intolerance or Jewish orthodoxy. The Social Ramble dined at famed Cuban restaurant Cafe Versailles in Little Havana prior to the game, and thus had no appetite for the decent-enough looking Cuban sandwiches available at the Latin American Grill. Honestly, ceviche at a baseball game seems like a bad idea, but in a charming display of Southern Hospitality the Marlins have promised a menu “special” for every home series in honor of the visiting team. St. Louis-style ribs were served for the Redbirds on Opening Day; expect lobster rolls for the Fenway Faithful’s visit. 

Last stop before taking our seats in the top deck is the Bobblehead Museum, the most agreeable place in the park. Literally. Also the creepiest. 588 tiny prisoners, all nodding endlessly…forever…little mad ballplayers. Always smiling. Nod. Smile. Nod. Smile. It actually makes you dizzy. I circled it a dozen times, like the scientists circled the object in Michael Crichton’s Sphere. From my conversation with Reggie Jackson: 

The Social Ramble: Hey Reggie. 

RJ: [Nods]

TSR: um…

RJ: [Nods]

TSR: Can you hear my thoughts?

RJ: [Nods]

A $7.25 Diet Pepsi refreshes us to our $300 seats in the Vista Box, in a neighborhood near the stadium. Sitting in the cheap seats at Marlins Park can be like paying for a dream of baseball. The colors are otherworldy, the tribal rhythms persuasive. The cool, thin air at altitude had us feeling loopy, and somewhere down there, beneath the clouds, the first game of the season was about to take place.

On the field, Opening Day pageantry commenced: The Inaugural Opening of the Dome, (whisper quiet!) followed by The Official Opening Day Lineup, (escorted onto the field by bimbos) followed by The Inevitable Depressing Moment With a Veteran, Including an Embarrassing Language Barrier and Confusing Audio Delay, followed by Jose Feliciano’s rendition of The Star Spangled Banner, Now With Real Cultural and Historical Significance, and ending with The Ceremonial First Pitch, delivered by Muhammed Ali. For many at the game, this was the lowlight of the day. Ali does not look well, his participance in the hoopla was a terrible and detailed update on his condition and felt somewhat silly. Especially when the poor man was driven from the field by the Miami Sound Machine.   

Seven innings and no Miami hits later, the Fish were left gasping for air. The Marlins and their lackluster play sucked the energy straight out of the proceedings, and little blooms of empty seats began to decorate the stands. When Jose Reyes broke up Kyle Lohse’s no-hitter in the bottom of the 7th, we decided to take a walk and pick up souvenirs. I scored a couple of baseballs, one for the old man and one for my boss, and we returned to our seats in time for one measly Marlin run. It was all they could muster against the defending champs. 

Not much of a game really, but the monstrous Home Run Sculpture in left-center is alone worth the trip. It’s as though the Baseball Gods have left an enormous Caribbean  anti-home run shrine at the park, to ward off evil long balls. Or offense in general. So far it’s working. Assuming anyone ever hits a home run here, the installation is equipped to scare unsuspecting fans and drench visiting centerfielders. 

Should anyone hit a grand salami, Disney’s The Little Mermaid, Princess Ariel will leap out and tongue-kiss Ozzie Guillen. Unless he’s too busy going over signs with new third base coach Fidel Castro. 

The Social Ramble, April 18th, 2012

This was the first game attended by TSR this season. 

Members of The Social Ramble staff are headed to the Sunshine State on Monday to begin their Opening Day baseball tour. Stops will include the first game at the new Marlins ballpark in Little Havana on April 4th, the Rays opener against the Yanks on April 6th at Tropicana Field, then back to the west coast for the Dodgers home-opener vs. the Pirates on the 10th, and finally back up to the Bay Area for the Giants opening homestand, also against the Bucs. Come along with The Social Ramble as daily coverage and photos begin this week!

Batting practice at the Marlins’ new ballpark, viewed through the aquarium behind home plate.

“The Trop”, in Tampa, Florida, where baseballs run the risk of bouncing off the catwalk above the field, or the empty seats used to decorate the stadium. Tropicana Field is so ugly even TSR Staff Writer Groovy Davey wouldn’t have sex with it. And that’s saying something. 

                     Hey, thanks Los Angeles Dodgers. We’re happy to be here.

                                  AT&T Park, from China Basin in San Francisco

“You know the rules, turn off the lights and turn the volume WAY up!” 

I said these words to my roommates as we settled on the couch and prepared to watch Paranormal Activity 3. At this point I think everyone knows what the P.A. films are about. Family moves into a new house, things go bump in the night, Dad sets up a video camera to capture what might be happening, theatrics ensue!

Writers Christopher Landon and Oren Peli deliver another chilling installment of the Paranormal Activity franchise. This chapter brings us back to in time to 1988 when it all started.* Katie and Kristi are just little girls who begin talking with an invisible pal called “Toby”. Inevitably, strange things start happening in the house. Doors slamming, objects moving on their own, earthquakes! As the family tries to record the nefarious unknown entity things slowly and surely start to get worse…

 *(For your interested Americana, in 1988 NWA was Straight Outta Compton, the average price for a new car was $10,400, Stephen Hawking described time, briefly, Roy Orbison died, Rihanna was born, the Hubble went up, and Prozac and crack were invented. -TSR)

Like the other films in the series, the footage captured at night is by far the most disturbing. The nervous film-goer stares at the dark screen waiting for SOMETHING to happen. What was that noise? Did that just move? Who is she talking to?!? What I love about these films is that they don’t need monsters or violence to scare us, they just need our own wild imaginations. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE is afraid of the dark on some level. The fear of the unknown! That we can’t see exactly what is terrorizing this family makes it all the more frightening!

I’ll be honest, I had the heebie jeebies throughout most of this film. Watching it at home in the dark just added to the tension. A corollary effect of these “haunted house” movies is that when it’s over your house becomes one too. You’re locking the doors, looking out the windows, (“Just checking!”) hearing tiny, unfamiliar noises and maybe taking a little peek under the bed. Y’know, to make sure. 

The Cinema Tiger recommends Paranormal Activity 3. And if you haven’t seen the other P.A. films, why not make it a marathon? Just don’t forget the rules…turn off the lights and turn the volume WAY up!

The Cinema Tiger, 28 March, 

The last baseball game of the 2011 season in Dodger Stadium was in the middle of the week and it seemed like the park was half-empty; a sad mix of Dodger Blue and concrete. Long-time Dodger play-by-play announcer Vin Scully, slated to retire after the season, changed his mind and announced his return for 2012. Perhaps it was because no one had been coming to the games. 

Certain things matter here in L.A., are considered native traits; knowing the exact location of Chavez Ravine, hating the McCourts and Shane Victorino, knowing where the sun will hit the stands and burn the tops of your thighs. I have driven to the park so many times that I know exactly how long it will take, from any freeway, in any amount of traffic, to get there. 

On last day of the season, it was 80 degrees outside, and even when night fell the temperature stayed the same, the park shielding us from the wind. We had driven up through the gates and parked against the railing like we always do, under the eucalyptus trees and with a panoramic view of downtown. Walking toward the stadium, Eric carried the picnic bag (stuffed peppers and olives, crackers and hummus) and I kept the flask stashed against my leg. 

Dodger Stadium is old by Los Angeles’ standards. It is uncomplicated, un-embellished, and the concessions are cheap. Visible from our seats on the first base line, past the lights and scoreboard, rise the green hills of East L.A. Perched on one of the hills outside the park sits a cluster of letters, in the style of the ‘HOLLYWOOD’ sign, that reads “THINK BLUE.” Dodger Stadium was built low, open to the land and sky. 

It was warm and so we drank pilsners that day, rows of us leaning back in our seats, arms and legs akimbo. I bought a Dodger Blue water, temptingly beaded with condensation and sporting a plastic baseball for a screw-top. The family behind us pointed it out to their son, a disabled but enthusiastic youngster doing his level best to behave. Whenever I go to a game, I make a few friends in my section. The man behind us spent his career in the employ of the Cisco company, and had a daughter attending college in San Francisco in the fall. We shared recommendations and tips on Bay Area life, and mentioned our forthcoming trip to San Diego, where we would chase the Dodgers to watch the last of the season in that city, too. While their son waited impatiently for a foul ball, Mom and Dad dispensed advice on San Diego, where they owned a timeshare. Giving high praise to a wine bar near Petco Park, we promised to investigate it and root, root, root for the Dodgers. 

The game ends in a Dodger victory, and we stick around for Randy Newman. Walking lazily back to the car, Eric and I smile at the light-hearted taunts offered by the fans streaming past us. Eric is wearing a Giants cap, and they’d like to know what I see in him…this…Giants fan. 

Leaving a ballgame feels like a collective sigh. The walk from the park is slow, measured, and I notice most of the couples nuzzled against each other. Children are draped sleeping across parents shoulders like worn sweatshirts, and concessions workers gather in the alcoves smoking cigarettes with their backs to the departing crowd. 

We get back to the car and lean against the hood, looking out over downtown L.A. We always park on the perimeter of Chavez Ravine, affording us a sweeping view of my hometown. The light cast off from the high-rises creates a soft glow that makes the city look like a mirage. From the top of the hill, it’s easy to imagine the city below is so distant, and so foreign, that going home would be impossible. The after-game glow sustains us, and we join the slow snaking of cars toward the freeway.

Dodger Blue-Eyes, 25 March, 2012

March 22, 2012, 4:00 pm: The Social Ramble boogied over to Ace’s in the Nob Hill district of San Francisco on Thursday, in time to catch the Yanks-Sox spring training matchup from JetBluePark in Fort Myers. Ace’s is a “New York” bar with the clientele to prove it, and a lot of Big Apple ambiance in the form of NY subway signs, photos of Frank, and cheap drinks poured by actual mook bartenders. These barmen subscribe to the fading “buyback” policy in the pubs of yore, and admission of Yankee-worship is usually good for a beer or two as well. 

Thursday afternoon, TSR bellied-up five minutes before first pitch and demanded a frosty from the bored-looking barman. I had the place almost to myself. With my pint sweating on the bar in front of me, I flipped open my notebook and started writing. In a few minutes, I would be meeting a friend here, Red Sox fan and meat expert Zane, to enjoy the game, talk trash, and toast the upcoming season.

Instead, disaster struck. 

Another bartender arrived and casually changed the channel on each of the dozen TVs simultaneously, and then unzipped his fly, extracted his testicles, and smiling, dipped them in my beer.

Well, okay, not that last part, but he may as well have. “Excuse me” I stammered, “But will you not be showing the Yanks game today?” “Wisconsin game tonight man, sorry” was his reply. F***ing basketball? I sat in stunned disbelief and considered my options. I could ditch Zane, hail a cab, get home and probably only miss the first two innings. Or I could try to find another bar, but with San Francisco fully in the grip of Bracketology I doubted I would fare better anywhere else. 

Mercifully, the other barman came to my rescue: “Hey pal, maybe I can get the ballgame on the small TV, the one above the door.” I grabbed my beer and stool and set up facing the entrance, an awkward but welcome respite from being forced to watch the future rapists of the NBA. From my stool immediately in front of the door I was able to inspect every one of the patrons flowing in from Sutter street, and noted with some amazement that the Wisconsin Badger fan makes up some 87% of the Bay Area populace. Borne upon a tide of March Madness, a thirsty-looking Zane Clark rolled in and surveyed the TVs, grasping the situation right away. “Who’s that pitching?” Zane asked. “Exactly” I replied as Red Sox hopeful Aaron Cook took the mound.

Zane is a butcher at one of the city’s finest groceries, Bi-Rite Market in the Mission. He is a coarse Bostonian, and a man comfortable spending hours at a time elbow-deep in blood, organs, and flesh. While I sip from a glass, Zane grips a bottle in his fist, and pours half a beer down his throat with each gulp. We discuss meat, waylaid friends, and Terry Francona while the bar reaches capacity. It takes a while to acclimate to our bizzare situation, for every time our eyes wander from the game a cheer erupts and we are startled back to attention, to find the uproar was about…basketball. Very disorienting. By the second inning, I have learned to ignore the Badgers altogether. We are the only two people facing the door, the rest of the bar is turned in the other direction toward the huge flatscreen TVs showing Syracuse and Wisconsin. It is as though we are unknowingly-deaf participants in a huge game of Simon Says, awaiting instructions while everyone else reacts in unison. 

During seasons past, Zane and I have passed an hour or two in heated debate over whether or not the Red Sox are assholes, or if in fact Jeter swallows. On Thursday, in the midst of college basketball fervor and the general lack of enthusiasm that spring training inspires, I found it difficult to summon much hatred for the Sox. Instead I spent the evening sharing memories of The Greatest Rivalry In Sports with my local butcher, and found common ground in our mutual respect for Tek and Posada, Wakefield and Pettitte. Through nine long spring training innings, and an ignominious Wisconsin defeat, Zane and I traded rounds and trips to the water closet. 

In the fifth inning, while I was explaining to Zane why Curtis Granderson is a more entertaining ballplayer than Kevin Youkilis, (Grandy stands in the box like the Highlander; Youk looks like he’s waiting for his 9-year-old son to quit screwing around in the bathtub already so he can take a shit, fer chrissake) the Yanks had built a 4-0 lead over Boston and were cruising. Of course, this late in a spring game, neither of us had any idea who was actually playing at the moment. Temporarily sporting our teams’ colors were “prospects”, “hopefuls”, “also-rans”, “longshots”, and “journeymen”, none able to call themselves real no-foolin’ Major Leaguers yet. 

Later, an eighth inning surge from the Sox has the game knotted at 4. Just as TSR was preparing for another set of 12 ounce curls, Joe Girardi decided his Yankees had played enough baseball today, thank you very much, and the team packed up and hurried to St. Jetersburg to play Grand Theft Auto and drink light beer. Meanwhile, in the Sox dugout, Bobby Valentine was left feeling hurt and angry, and channeling his inner Stephanie Tanner.

During the regular season, The Social Ramble digs extra innings, (i.e. free baseball) but on Thursday I was ready for a sandwich (Prosciutto)  from Bite up the street and a cab ride home. My lovely young lady, a Dodgers fan, had promised she was going to take her shirt off later that night. So it was with a spring in my step that the butcher and I parted ways, as amicably as we ever will until after the playoffs. I will return to Ace’s throughout the season, and perhaps without NCAA basketball as a distraction, and the games bearing more statistical significance, I will better “get the dander up” and shout insults at Bostonians. But today I am content with the small TV in the corner and the rarely agreeable company of a Sox fan. Zane Clark himself may have put it best. Two seasons ago, while being heckled for wearing his Dustin Pedroia jersey to a Giants-Mets contest, Zane turned and spotted the foul-mouthed ruffian. “Hey!” he called out, drawing the attention of nearby spectators “I’m here for BASEBALL Motherf***er!”

Indeed, sir. 

The Social Ramble, 28 March, 2012

                                              Ace’s, 998 Sutter St, San Francisco

Here, for Zane Clark, butcher and holder of the domain name facebook.com/thebostonredsox The Social Ramble presents our photo gallery

                   ”Kevin Youkilis; Someone Help Me Unzip My Uniform” 

Youk considers intentionally striking out, just to get to the clubhouse bathroom quicker

        The intestinal pain has intensified, and the other ballplayers scatter fearfully

                    There’s not much time now, Youk has to think of SOMETHING