The Social Ramble

Kitchen Adventures with The Social Ramble!

Tue, 25 Sep 2012 07:35:14 -0700

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

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F, or preheat a convection oven to 315 degrees F.

In a large bowl of an electric mixer, beat the sugar, butter, and eggs together until well combined. Add the oil and vanilla and beat again.

In a separate bowl, combine all of the dry ingredients. Add half of the dry mixture to the egg mixture and beat or stir to blend. Add 1 1/2 cups milk and beat again. Add the remaining dry mixture and beat until incorporated. Add the remaining 1 1/2 cups milk and beat until blended.

With a large spoon, scoop out 32 circles of batter onto a baking sheet. Bake for ~~10 to 12~~ 9 minutes. Let cool.

Spread filling onto 16 circles and place remaining circles on top, to make 16 Whoopie Pies.

Filling:

~~1 1/2~~ 1 cups shortening

1/2 cup butter

3 cups confectioners’ sugar

1 1/3 cups marshmallow topping

Dash salt

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/3 to 1/2 cup milk

In the bowl of an electric mixer, combine all ingredients except the milk and beat well. Add just enough milk to achieve a creamy consistency. Spread filling across cooled cookie circles.

3 HRs and counting: 4/19/12 5:50 PDT

Thu, 19 Apr 2012 17:53:29 -0700

Curtis Granderson

Live! Sounds of the game at AT&T Park in San Francisco.

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 19:44:18 -0700

Live! Sounds of the game at AT&T Park in San Francisco.

Chasing Opening Day, The Social Ramble Reports

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 15:59:00 -0700

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.

Chasing Opening Day, The Social Ramble Reports

Wed, 18 Apr 2012 11:51:10 -0700

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.

The Social Ramble is Going to Miami!

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 13:58:58 -0700

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

Cinema Tiger Film Review: Paranormal Activity 3

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 17:08:36 -0700

“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,

New from TSR Lady Correspondent Dodger Blue-Eyes: Notes on a Stadium

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 03:49:41 -0700

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

Baseball in the Bar, San Francisco Edition: Ace's

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 01:43:58 -0700

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

mightyflynn: Jump around. Photo by @ToddZolecki/twitter

Sat, 17 Mar 2012 14:56:25 -0700

mightyflynn:

Jump around.

Photo by @ToddZolecki/twitter

Play Ball! 160 Years of San Francisco Baseball, Live at the JCCSF

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 03:32:41 -0700

Presented by The San Francisco Museum and Historical Society

The San Francisco Pacifics, circa 1869. Seated at the far right is Roger Connor. Mr. Connor retired from professional baseball in 1897. He had amassed 138 home runs in his 18-year career, a record which stood for 23 years after his retirement and was broken by Babe Ruth. The player seated to Mr. Connor’s right is proudly displaying the League Championship Bat, awarded to the champion club each year, and passed along to the new champion at the end of every season. The player sitting second from the left is holding the team’s only other bat.

On Tuesday, March 13th, The Social Ramble attended a lecture on the geography of Bay Area baseball since it’s arrival here about a century-and-a-half ago. The photo above, featuring the entire Pacifics ballclub, was probablytaken in January of 1869. This and many other rich images were on display during a detailed look back into 19th century base ball here in San Francisco.

I arrived at the Jewish Community Center early so I could register for the lecture and find a cup of coffee. I paid for a ticket and received a box of Cracker Jack (no “s”, sports fans) and mingled with a largely hairy, elderly crowd. Most in attendance were clad from horn to hoof in San Francisco Giants finery, though yours truly betrayed no affiliation. I spent fifteen minutes inspecting the bizzare elvish runes and symbols on the walls, (turns out they were Hebrew) and when the auditorium opened I found a seat near the middle of the room. “Excuse me young man, would you mind moving over one seat?” The yenta behind me was unimpressed with my six feet and four inches of height. I slid over to receive similar treatment from her exact double, and decided the answer was to slouch.

The room darkened and a man wearing a black Giants jersey took the stage. John Freeman, President of the Programs Committee for the SFM&HS and MOST BORING MAN IN THE WORLD introduced himself and blathered on for fifteen minutes. This guy was REALLY boring. Blah blah, donate some money.

Finally, Bay Area sports columnist Scott Ostler took the microphone from him…and blathered for another little while. There were some baseball jokes, some lawyer jokes, and some Dodgers jokes. And then the two-person panel was introduced.

Angus Macfarlane and Jim O’Connor, SABRmetricians both and members of the Pacific Coast League Historical Society, dove straightaway into the tale of West Coast baseball, beginning with the first mention of the sport in a newspaper:

The Daily Alta, February 4, 1851

Here, in it’s entirety, is the baseball news from that date:

Awesome. Unfortunately, journalists were only briefly interested, and it would be nine years before another ballgame was mentioned in print on the Left Coast.

Mr. Macfarlane then told the story of Recreation Grounds, at what is now Folsom and Cesar Chavez in San Francisco. His knowledge of the construction and life of the ballpark, and likewise it’s successors The Haight Street Grounds, Ewing Field, and Seals Stadium, was so detailed it sounded firsthand. Pictured above, Recreation Grounds opened on Thanksgiving, November 26, 1868. Also featured that afternoon were potato sack races and dancing. There was no charge for admission.

From FoundSF: 1906–After the Great Earthquake a new ball park, Recreation Park was built in the Mission on Valencia between 14th and 15th streets. A section of the bleachers, roped off with chicken wire became known as the “booze cage.” Admission price entitled the patron to a choice of either a sandwich or a shot of whiskey. Spectators who frequented the “cage” were said to be knowledgeable, loud and abusive.

Sounds like The Social Ramble’s kind of ballgame.

Panelists Macfarlane and O’Connor spent the next two hours blazing a trail through historical baseball in The Bay leading up to our recent World Champion Giants. They discussed the colorfully named clubs of the past, the Mission Reds, Vernon Taggers, SF Knickerbockers, and Troy Trojans, who also went by the “Gothams”, and in 1885 would become the New York Giants.

On display were ancient, battered, pre-earthquake San Francisco maps, showing playing diamonds all over the city. This included the sight of the first Pacific Coast League game in 1903, where there now stands a Bed Bath & Beyond.

Of particular interest to the assembly were tales of Babe Ruth’s three visits to The Bay, as well as the story of the demolition of Seals Stadium.

During game 4 of the 1959 World Series, while the Dodgers are beating the Chicago White Sox in Los Angeles, home plate is dug up at San Francisco’s Seals Stadium. The park would be demolished within a year.

Though many people here remember the Giants days at Candlestick park, few can claim to have attended a game during the Giants first season in San Francisco, 1958, at Seals Stadium. On Tuesday night, I chatted with a few old-timers who were there.

April 16, 1958, the first Giants-Dodgers game in California. 22,000 were in attendance for the Giants win. From 1901 to the present, the the two teams have met 2,189 times, with the Giants winning 1,094 of the contests. The Dodgers have won 1,078, with 17 games ending in a tie.

Using the Google-Earth overlay, we can see Seals Stadium resting on the Safeway and Office Depot.

From BurritoJustice.com, satellite positioning of Seals Stadium’s home plate inside Office Depot.

All in all, TSR’s visit to the JCCSF was informative and entertaining, despite the arrival of two booze-besotted geezers halfway through the lecture. Stumbling over my legs into the open seats next to me, they smelled of liquor and laughed a little too loudly throughout the remainder of the presentation. Between them, it was clear they’d forgotten more about the Grand Old Game than I may ever know. And while I was at first annoyed by their tardiness, their odor, and their general disposition, my ire quickly gave way to acceptance, and finally happiness, at their obvious enjoyment and interest in the affair. I would count myself very lucky in old age, to have a close buddy with whom to share a few drinks, a few laughs, a few memories of something older even than ourselves, and our tiny, tiny part in it.

The Social Ramble, March 16, 2012

Roger Connor, 1857-1931. A lifetime .317 hitter, Connor is still fifth on the all-time list for triples with 233. He is credited with the first Grand Slam hit in the Major Leagues. MLB debut: May 1, 1880 with the Troy Trojans. Last appearance: May 18, 1897 with the St. Louis Browns. Roger Connor was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1976.

New TSR Correspondent, Dodger Blue-Eyes! (She's a Girl!)

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 17:29:06 -0700

From Dodger Blue-Eyes:

I can imitate Alpert Pujols batting stance perfectly. I say this because I have to. Because I am a woman. At the end of the day, my love of sports is often seen as a form of yielding. It is portrayed as a surrender by the girlfriend to the indulgences of the man. This is pretty damn shortsighted of people. But I am not going to explain that girls can like sports too-that is a stupid and obvious argument-but to love a man who loves baseball means to realize exactly where you fit into this scheme in the eyes of the world. And that is not the same place where you might see yourself.

Associated Press photo

When Eric and I go to ballgames, we take turns going to the concession stands. I am a snacker; my early contributions to our baseball excursions involved packing copious amounts of hummus, fruit, cheese, and candy. Eric buys the tickets. If you can dig up footage of the last Dodgers’ home game of the 2011 season, you can see us sitting to the right of home plate eating for five innings straight.

The Social Ramble staffers eat hummus while Brandon Belt strikes out.

We take turns going to concessions for water and whatnot, and often there is a long line for beer. I have noticed that every time I am in line, watching the game on the courtesy television, some guy - old, young, frat-y, will ask me in a not unpleasant way, where my boyfriend is. The implication that I would not be there without my man amused me at first, but now makes me feel deflated. They are asking where my male chaperone is because at the stadium - the bastion of masculine sporting glory - women are guests. We are not spectators, we are not participants, rather we are unwillingly brought by our boyfriends and plied with beer, churros, and the promise of a tight pink Matt Kemp jersey. But I don’t say anything like this, I just lazily gesture over my shoulder and go back to starting at the screen. Oddly enough, this never happens to me at basketball games, and I have been to far more Lakers’ games than Dodgers’. (Eric sweetly chimes in while reading over my shoulder “not for looooong”)

Baseball has long been ‘the mans’ game’, and it would be foolish for me to ignore that history. But it would be equally foolish to accept that history as a sustainable pattern. From the emergence of the Negro leagues to the thankfully diverse modern teams, if baseball is to truly reflect life then it must account for the loosening of social mores, stereotypes, and a general spirit of inclusion. Does it upset me to see manboys in mustard-stained jerseys blatantly leering at me - yes, and it does put just a bit of a damper on my day when time and time again it is assumed that the only reason I am rooting for Kershaw on the mound is because my boyfriend told me to.* I refuse to justify my presence in the stadium on the basis of my gender; in baseball, it shouldn’t matter. What does matter is that you show up, you have a good time, and whether or not your team wins you go home in the company of friends, a little happier and possibly a bit drunker than you were when you got there. I am here to root for my home team, I am here for the ballpark margaritas and the characters I will meet seated around me, and I am here to swim in a sea of Dodger blue upon the concrete of my favorite stadium in the league; I’m here for baseball.

Dodger Blue-Eyes, March 2012

*For the record, at no time would the boyfriend encourage anyone to root for the Dodgers - Ed.

New! The Social Ramble Film Review!

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 16:20:00 -0700

The Social Ramble is pleased to welcome our newest correspondent, The Cinema Tiger, with his debut TSR film review:

The purpose of this column is not to cast judgement on movies but rather encourage you to see them. Not only to see movies but go to the cinema! Fine art should be observed in a gallery, music heard in concert and films viewed at the cinema…well…most films that is. I will also be discussing the venues in which I see the films.

My reviews will either receive the rating “large popcorn” meaning see it at the cinema, or “microwave popcorn” of course meaning watch it at home.

Marilyn Monroe, by Andre Carrilho

Marilyn Monroe was/is a legend. Like Elvis Presley and Jim Morrison she created a style and persona that is still imitated today. Michelle Williams captures her essence perfectly in “My Week with Marilyn.” Ms. Williams is no stranger to brilliant performances, having already been nominated for three Academy Awards at the age of 31. She carries the film, stunning and hypnotizing in every scene. Somewhat ironically, her depiction is notable for the obvious dedication to her craft, despite the fact that she portrays an actress known to have little skill. This is the type of performance we’ve come to expect from Ms. Williams.

My Week With Marilyn is based on Colin Clark’s memoir “The Prince, the Showgirl, and Me” which chronicles the six months that Clark spent working on “The Prince and the Showgirl” and his alleged relationship with a suffering Marilyn Monroe.

Also starring in the film are up and comer Eddie Redmayne as Colin Clark, Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) as his love interest, and Kenneth Branagh as Sir Lawrence Olivier. Everyone actually commits to the story and allows you to feel like you are also part of the Marilyn Monroe love affair! Simon Curtis serves as director of the film, and having done mostly British television work in the past “My Week with Marilyn” is an excellent foray into the Hollywood scene!

Emma Watson is one of five actors in My Week With Marilyn to appear in the Harry Potter film series: Kenneth Branagh (Prof. Gilderoy Lockhart), Geraldine Somerville (Lily Potter), Toby Jones (voice of Dobby) and Zoe Wanamaker (Madam Hooch) are the others.

I knew this was going to be at least a decent film so I thought I’d see it in a decent theatre. The Kabuki Theatre, owned by Robert Redford’s Sundance Cinemas, is all class and no kitsch. If you want a quality film enjoyed with a quality cocktail and no teenagers in sight then this is the place! The audience was cool, lubricated, and ready to enjoy a good film.

Verdict: I definitely enjoyed myself. In the end I found “My Week with Marilyn” to be a lot like most of Marilyn Monroe’s films, an okay story but with a dazzling leading lady!

Rating =

- The Cinema Tiger

P.S. Michelle Williams! RRRAAAAAAWWWRRRRR!!!!

Sir Larry O: “Marilyn, my darling, you are an angel and I kiss the hem of your garment but why can’t you get here on time for the love of FUCK?”

"If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will..."

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 16:30:50 -0800

“If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant’s life, she will choose to save the infant’s life without even considering if there are men on base.”

- Dave Barry

Buster is Back!

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 14:43:04 -0800

So what if he only had one at-bat and flew out today? Buster is back, and he’s bringing hell with him!

Happy Birthday Aaron Boone!

Fri, 09 Mar 2012 14:37:43 -0800

Back on October 17th, 2003, this Social Rambler was a lowly cook at Tortilla Flats Mexican restaurant in Providence, RI. Having just finished my shift, I took my filthy apron off and joined the throng of noisy Red Sox fans at the bar. I had been receiving reports on the game from waiters and bartenders throughout, (still knotted at five) but I finally finished up in the kitchen and grabbed a Pacifico from the fridge. Huddled under a tiny TV that was almost never turned on, the Red Sox faithful brayed and shouted at one another during the commercials, but then the game resumed and order returned. Aaron Boone, hitless in the series against Tim Wakefield, would lead off the Yankee 11th. (Later, Keith Olbermann hypothesized about what happens when you match a knuckleballer, an agent of upset rhythm, against a hitter cursed with poor timing…)

Moments later, I lept from my stool with arms raised as Boone’s shot arced skyward toward left field. Once the ball found the seats I turned around…and immediately dropped my arms. The entire bar was silent. I looked back at the TV to see Pedro Martinez in a trance, staring at the field. The patrons in the bar were similarly hypnotized. For hours that night I had enjoyed the atmosphere of the place, listening to the sounds of the patrons during the exciting seventh game. The CLINK of empty beer bottles thrown into the bin punctuating the loud cheers as Red Sox Nation, fingers crossed, hoped to Reverse the Curse.

They would have to wait another season.

Sheepishly, I slunk back to the kitchen for my coat. The bar was still quiet. Steve, the huge bartender, mopped up pools of spilled margaritas while grown men sullenly dragged tortilla chips through the dregs of their nachos. I made accidental eye-contact with a drunk lady, and recognized her as my boss from a previous job. As I watched her trying to match my face to someone in her memory, I thought of the day she fired me from the bakery. She looked even more pissed off at this moment, and I hustled out the kitchen door into the alley. In the morning I would call my father to discuss the game, and the poor misguided Red Sox fans.

This Week In Spring Training: Beyond the Boxscore

Thu, 08 Mar 2012 23:42:00 -0800

Spring Training is here! The Boys of Summer are preparing for the long season ahead, and The Social Ramble is here with the latest in Grapefruit and Cactus action!

The Cincinnati Reds get limber

Philadelphia opened spring training going 3-3, with Hunter Pence twice going deep and Cole Hamels impressing the brass in his first outing. This week, with Ryan Howard, Chase Utley, and Placido Polanco at various stages of recovery, focus is on Hamels and Shane Victorino’s contract discussions. Both will be free agents in 2013, but both hope

before then. Philadelphia’s Flyin’ Hawaiian is looking for five years, and why shouldn’t he? The San Francisco Giants will be paying Aaron Rowand one billion dollars to sit on Miami’s bench this year, Shane has got to be worth more than that!

The Phillies will have to dig deep pretty soon if they want to hang on to Victorino, Hamels, and Pence…

Victorino celebrates a come from behind victory

In other news from the City of Brotherly Love, new closer Jonathan Pabelbon will no longer use the Dropkick Murphy’s tune “Shipping Up To Boston” as his walkup song. Lead Singer and bassist Ken Casey saw to that. Maybe Elton John would be a good choice for Pap…

Ugly white guys with no lips.

Down in Peoria, where the Mariners (6-1) and Padres have agreed to train until 2034, King Felix has looked strong and Ichiro, coming off a “bad” year, went three-for-three in his spring debut.

The Social Ramble doesn’t understand M’s skipper Eric Wedge’s decision to move Ichiro down in the order this season, but Ichiro will produce from anywhere so we’ll let it go. Does anyone believe Chone Figgins will fill Ichiro’s shoes at leadoff?

Jesus Montero is battling the flu and some bad luck, as rogue baseballs are relentlessly attacking his face. Seen here after catching a fast ball on the chin…

and one pitch later…

The way The Social Ramble figures it, certain players in the Yankee clubhouse must have been nipping Jobu’s rum late in the season, too late for Jobu to exact revenge. This week alone A.J. Burnett took one in the eye, Montero is getting pelted behind the dish, Yanks set-up man David Robertson tumbled down a set of stairs and sprained his ankle (The girliest of all injuries) and even poor little Eduardo Nunez took a shot in the hand. (X-rays negative)

SPEAKING OF THE YANKEES:

The New York Yankees, after starting spring 2-4, are shocked to learn that “future ace” Michael Pineda has never heard of a change-up. Two-pitch fireballer Pineda blew heat past all comers early last season, but batters started to figure him out and his second half was mediocre. Reporting to camp 700 lbs heavier than expected, Michael seems to have discovered C.C. Sabathia’s waylaid Cap’n Crunch.

The Social Ramble knows the Yankees real captain, Cap’n Jeter, will sort this mess out. He’ll get Pineda in shape, teach him the circle-change, and autograph a ball for him.

OFF THE FIELD AND IN THE NEWS: Sadly, sometimes baseball players go bad. Such is the story of one Lenny Dykstra, seen enjoying a Twizzler below. Read the whole at Bleacher Report. In short though, stolen cars, cocaine, HGH, missing money, blah blah blah. Say it ain’t so, Lenny.

”Yes Your Honor, I brought enough to share with the whole courtroom.”

Who could’ve foreseen this guy would be trouble?

Prosecutor: “Judge, the man seen in these photos is charged with-“

Jury, in unison: “Guilty!”

Sunday’s game between the Giants and D-Backs at Salt River Fields was delayed when swarms of foul-tempered bees attempted to take over the field of play. The Giants would go on to win 11-1, but not before the bees descended in right-center field and later made a home of the Giants dugout. Local firefighters defended the club and soon the bees departed, leaving tiny beer cans and frightened minor-leaguers all over the infield. Huffington Post Sports describe Giants groundskeepers using cotton candy and lemonade to lure the miserable bastards away, but the Diamondbacks returned to the field and lost…

Though Timmy has yet to find his stuff, the Giants have to be happy with newcomer Melky Cabrera. He hit two home runs on Tuesday and has been working on his Brian Wilson beard during San Francisco’s 4-2 spring. Huff Daddy had a long ball the other night too, and Buster is due on Friday.

On the other side of The Bay, Manny went hitless in his first appearance with the A’s, and claimed afterward he was “satisfied” with his debut. Imagine that! Meanwhile, the Athletics’ principle owner Lew Wolff is still looking for a place for his team to live, and Bud Selig is waaaay to busy to help. Here’s to another season of cheap A’s tickets!

Manny Ramirez, “fielding”.

In Fort Myers, Florida, Twin injury-magnets Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau started on Thursday and combined for an 0-5 on the day. So that kind of sucked for everybody. Twins first base coach Jerry White spent Monday night in the hospital after having chest pains, and was diagnosed with acid reflux. Said White:

“I just need to cut down on my spices and sauces, I eat right, but I like hot stuff and fried stuff, and I need to stay away from that.”

Joe Mauer, beneath the fold.

WANT MORE INJURIES?

Former Tribe stalwart Grady Sizemore is injured again, this time it’s his left leg. And right knee. And lower back. And now that you mention it, his goatee hurts. When it comes to poor suckers, the only guy ahead of Grady is Chase Utley…

Otherwise the Wahoos (2-3) are poised to continue being a baseball club in the A.L. Central, with uniforms and everything.

In Port St. Lucie this week, Andres Torres, former Giant and current Amazin’ centerfielder, hit the ground running before being sidelined Thursday with a “tight right glute.” (His bottom hurts) Here’s to a speedy recovery! The Social Ramble has a soft spot for Torres, who was kind enough to foul a Stephen Strasburg heater our way in a Giants game two seasons ago…

While Andres gives his ass a rest in Florida, work continues at the Mets’ Citifield to bring the outfield fences in and lower the walls. In an effort to improve the team further, this year the Mets (2-3) will be allowed 4 strikes when at the plate, and opposing teams will have to win by at least 12 runs, otherwise the game will recorded a “W” for New York.

The new outfield wall is in blue.

Another reason to miss Shea Stadium…

Over in Surprise, Arizona, (Surprise, it’s f***ing hot! Now show us your papers!) Adam Dunn equaled his entire offensive output from last season when he went 2 for 3 with a four-bagger on Thursday.

Like the Indians, the ChiSox will field a baseball team this season. The South-Siders are 1-3 so far this spring. (Tune in next week for The Social Ramble’s 2011 Adam Dunn Strikeout Gallery!)

Just a short distance away, in Goodyear, Arizona, the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim of Goodyear (3-1) are poised to beat the shit out of everybody all season long. This, folks, is a team full of sluggers. So much so that Bobby Abreu is begging for at-bats. Skipper Mike Scioscia promised Abreu around 400 plate appearances, but no more. With Pujols and Co. projecting plenty of offense, expect Abreu to depart before the season is out…

The Angels burst Bobby’s bubble

Come on back Ramblers! More reports from Spring Training and the usual fun stuff soon!

Spring Training, buckets of onions…

"I think about the cosmic snowball theory. A few million years from now the sun will burn out and..."

Wed, 07 Mar 2012 00:02:42 -0800

““I think about the cosmic snowball theory. A few million years from now the sun will burn out and lose its gravitational pull. The earth will turn into a giant snowball and be hurled through space. When that happens it won’t matter if I get this guy out.””

- Bill “The Spaceman” Lee

The Final Word On Mud

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 14:49:00 -0800

According to The Social Ramble’s crack research team, February 29 only rolls around every once in a while. Fittingly, there’s not much concerning The Game that has taken place on this date. But we dug up some stuff for you anyway….

On February 29, 1968, Lena Blackburne (above, seated between Eddie Collins and Ty Cobb) passed away at the age of 81. Having retired from baseball with a .214 career batting average, 4 home runs and 139 RBIs, Russell Aubrey “Lena” Blackburne wasn’t exactly Cooperstown material. (By the way, those stats were compiled over a career that lasted 19 years) Lena was destined for baseball immortality anyway, as the sole supplier of Big League….Filth.

There’s a semi-well-known known story about the ~~magic~~ special mud used to rub-up new baseballs before all Major and Minor League games. Baseballs arriving fresh from Costa Rica (another story) are too shiny and slippery to be put to immediate use. MLB Official Rule 3.01c pretty much states that the Umpire is in charge of inspecting the balls and seeing that they’re suitable for play. This includes rubbing them with clay from the banks of the Delaware River. From the “website” for Lena Blackburne’s Mud:

It all began in 1938 when an umpire complained to Lena Blackburne, a third base coach for the old Philadelphia Athletics, about the sorry condition of the baseballs used by the American League. Back then a ball was prepped simply with mud made of water and dirt from the playing field. The result? The ball’s cover was too soft, leaving it open for tampering. Something was needed to take off the shine but not soften the cover.

We learn next that Mr. Blackburne happened on to some muck near the Delaware River, and pronouncing it suitable trudged home with a bucket full. The Philadelphia Athletics were the first to adopt the superior sludge and soon the rest of the American League would follow. It took the Senior Circuit a few years to catch on. Today MLB still uses the stuff, though it’s top secret location is now guarded by Blackburne’s boyhood-pal’s-son-in-law’s-son, Jim Bintliff.

But wait….there’s more. The Social Ramble, through whole minutes of research, has uncovered the dirty truth about this magic mud…

In actuality, the umpires’ original complaint was that the process of rubbing up a ball involved spitting tobacco juice on it and rolling it around in the dirt. This disgusting chore was, well, disgusting. Lena Blackburne’s mud, carefully rinsed with tap water and filtered for debris, removes the glare from the ball without damaging or marking it. It had the added benefit of not grossing everybody out, so that was good.

Baseballs, rubbed…and unrubbed

But wait, there’s more…

A Roger Angell story titled ‘Sand and Brooms’ appeared in The New Yorker on June 10, 1950, and more or less jibed with the tale on the official website: “Before every game, a couple of umpires have to devote half an hour or so to rubbing the shine off baseballs. This is a drab, ritualistic proceeding that…takes place in the umpires’ dressing room.”

Later, Angell details the method employed by American League Umpires, saying “The American League is more finicky than the National. It uses…a substance called Alabama Clay, gathered on the banks of Pensauken Creek, a tributary of the Delaware River…”

More intrigue here, as the reason the National League didn’t use the same gunk as their A.L. counterparts was that Mr Blackburne, a lifelong A.L.er, refused to sell his filth to teams in the National League! Eventually, Lena’s business sense overcame his affinity for the American League, and the Senior Circuit got their tobacco-stained hands on some.

From Baseball Is A Funny Game, Joe Garagiola, 1960:

As you can see, by 1960, everybody was using the mystery New Jersey mud.

But wait…there’s more….

Ray Chapman slides into home, “Shoeless” Joe Jackson waits on deck

The REALLY REAL story about why baseballs are rubbed down dates to August 16, 1920, when Cleveland Indians shortstop Ray Chapman was struck in the head by a pitch. From the New York Times: “The ball hit Chapman on the left side of the head. The crack…could be heard all over the stand and spectators gasped as they turned their heads away.” Chapman was helped from the field, clutching the ring he had purchased as a gift for his wife, and later died in the hospital.

The terrible tragedy was blamed on the slickness of a new ball, and Rule 3.01c was instituted shortly thereafter. After close to two decades of widespread drooling on baseballs, Lena discovered his mud.

Yep, this pretty much looks like a bucket of shit.

BUT WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE THIS MUD?!?

Studies by Princeton University and the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers reveal that the mud from Palmyra, NJ contains an unusually high feldspar content. Feldspar is a gentle enough abrasive that it removes the slickness from a ball without scratching it to hell.

Feldspar and Quartz found in the mud were most likely pulverized by the glacier that covered New Jersey more than 10,000 years ago.

As the number of Baseball teams grew, companies like Rawlings tried to produce alternative rubbing compounds, but none were effective. Owner and Head Mudslinger Jim Bintliff: “The League doesn’t officially endorse the product but sayd it’s the only substance that works. It’s also about tradition - essentially the MLB wants today’s players to apply the same mud that Ted Williams used.”

Fans of the game will remember the “juiced ball conspiracy” theories that ran roughshod through the sports media around the end of last century. Many fans, and players, felt that something fishy was going on with the makeup of baseballs used at the Major League level. On May 22, 2000, 56 home runs, including six grand salamis, were belted in one day of baseball. This fact alone was all the ammo needed for skeptics to cry foul. Many studies were conducted, even the MLB got in on the action, and even though reports on findings varied, eventually everyone calmed down.

You can bet your sweet bippy the Baseball Authorities never forgot the unpleasant turmoil however. The Social Ramble is unconvinced that Lena’s magic mud is impossible to replicate. While the notion that MLB continues to use the mud for romantic, tradition-serving purposes seems cute and all, the truth is likely more calculated. Baseball, as image-concious as ever, wouldn’t risk upsetting the apple cart by switching to new mud. Think of the backlash! As soon as somebody broke a record of long-standing, purists would leap at the opportunity to blame the new slime on baseballs. “Well, when Joe Dimaggio hit in 56 straight games, they were still using Lena Blackburne’s mud…”

In truth, the image of a solitary umpire, kneeling in his office and reverentially treating each ball before game time is probably apocryphal. These days, the filthy work falls to clubhouse managers and clubbies, who probably don’t revel in the chore.

But that kind of makes it the beginning of a new tradition, don’tcha think?

Ahnuld, demonstrating another great use for mud, hides from Manny Ramirez.

After 100 Years, Boner Still Hard To Swallow

Fri, 02 Mar 2012 13:50:00 -0800

Today marks the anniversary of the passing of Fred Merkle, centerpiece in the most controversial game of baseball ever played. Before there was Steve Bartman, before Pete Rose leveled Ray Fosse, before drugs, expansion and inter-league play, there was…Merkle’s Boner….

September 23, 1908, Polo Grounds, New York: In the bottom of the ninth inning, in a tie game between the visiting Chicago Cubs and New York Giants, Fred Merkle stands on first base after hitting a single. (At 19, he is the youngest player in the National League.) There are two outs, and Merkle’s teammate Moose McCormick is at third. First place in the division is still a hot contest, a trip to the World Series the reward for a finish at the top. Al Bridwell strides to the plate and rips a first-pitch fastball to centerfield, driving home the winning run for the Giants.

But the game-winning winning run would be nullified, and the legend of Merkle’s Boner would be born…..

September 23, 1908, Polo Grounds

Accounts, including Merkle’s own, remember that amid the chaos of fans rushing the field, all semblance of order lost, Fred turned and trotted back to the dugout. He had never touched second base. MLB Rule 4.09 states “A run is not scored if the runner advances to home base during a play in which the third out is made…by any runner being forced out.”

Here accounts begin to vary, but one of the Cubs, likely Frank Chance or Johnny Evers, appealed to the umpires and won the argument. The inning was over, the game still tied. Umpire Hank O’Day called the game for darkness, and the Chicago Cubs won the rematch, 4-2, on October 8th. They would go on to win the World Series. They have yet to win another.

The “Merkle’s Boner Ball” was sold at auction in 1993 for $30,250

For a man accused of “censurable stupidity” by The New York Times, Fred Merkle would have a fine career. Batting .273 over 16 seasons, he would reach the World Series five times, always on the losing side. Bitter over the events of the game, and his nickname “Bonehead”, Merkle avoided baseball altogether after his retirement in 1926. Finally appearing at a Giants old-timers game in 1950, he was welcomed with a standing ovation. He died six years later.