Baseball means spring ... except in the Northeast

When the phone rang, I knew it was my brother, and I knew why he was calling.

It was the morning of May 18, 2002, and my brother was going to rendezvous with me, my then-fiancee (now my wife) and her parents outside Albany, NY, for a trip to Yankee Stadium for that afternoon's game between the Yankees and Twins.

The weather, however, was nasty, and my brother was calling to ask if we were still planning to go. When I told him we were, he replied, "You do know it's snowing here, right?"

While we were just getting rain, my brother, who lived at a higher elevation about 40 minutes away, was indeed getting snow. I reassured him, however, that not only were we going, but that the rain was projected to stop by about 10:30, plenty of time before the game was supposed to start.

I'm not sure how much he believed me, but he came down to meet us, and the five of us piled into the car and headed to New York.

* * * * *

The arrival of baseball season, starting with images of spring training from Florida and Arizona, means spring is on the way.

It just seems like the Northeast is the last place it arrives.

Seeing snow on the ground this morning at my home outside Boston, since it's both March 31 and the more-or-less opening day of the baseball season (minus the Australia games, last night's ESPN opener and the teams who don't start until tomorrow), put me in a mood. I may have referred to where I live as a "frozen hellhole" at one point.

One of the guys who works for me may have been a little surprised, since he knows I grew up in upstate New York. The conversation brought back memories of my high school baseball days, when sometimes we practiced in weather so cold that I couldn't make my hands work well enough to zip up my pants afterward, so I wore my practice gear home.

The game schedule was more or less a wish list, since a lot of them were going to be called off, and getting anything done required a lot of practice indoors. My high school coach had all sorts of creative ideas for things we could do in the gym, complete with several soft baseballs he had acquired for that purpose.

One of those drills was going to be him pitching from one corner of the gym to a batter positioned near the batting net alongside the divider that split the gym in two, where the softball team was probably trying to get some work in of their own. Imagining balls flying around the gym and scattering other players doing their drills, I wasn't quite sure how it would work, but I never got a chance to find out.

You see, I was going to be the first batter in the drill, but while the coach was warming up, one of my return throws slipped out of my batting glove and short-hopped him in the last place any man wants to be short-hopped.

End of drill.

* * * * *

It was cold, but fortunately for us, dry.

When my boy Poopsie turned 30 a few years ago, we celebrated his birthday at Fenway Park. The game the between the Red Sox and Rays the night before had been suspended, and the weather the next night wasn't much better. The good news was that one of Poopsie's friends had connections that let us get tickets right behind home plate, under cover.

So while it was a chilly night, we were at least dry to see the end of the game from the night before, plus the regularly scheduled game. I tried to be clever by wearing my Durham Bulls hat, but since one of the guys in our group used to live in Durham, he realized what I was going for, since the Bulls are Tampa Bay's top farm team.

Since the MBTA only just started realizing people stay out late on the weekends, those of us who took the train had to leave early, but between the two games, we got to see about nine innings of baseball.

However, I'm hoping that the next time Poopsie and I hit a game, it'll be in Philadelphia, where he lives now, and that it won't be freezing.

* * * * *

The weather forecasts I had seen were correct, and the rain pretty much stopped at about 10:30, as we were approaching New York. 

We got there early, so we found a bar near the stadium where we could get lunch and watch Jason Giambi's walk-off grand slam from the night before. We all knew what was coming. We all cheered, anyway.

It didn't rain anymore, but it was cold ... as in wear-your-winter-jacket cold. The cold would have been bad enough, but the wind was also blowing hard from left field to right ... and we were in the right field box seats.

Did I mention that this wasn't March 18, not April 18 ... but May 18?

At least the Yankees won, but ever since then, I've been loathe to go to any games at Yankee Stadium early in the season. If I'm going to freeze my tail off at a ballgame, I can do it a lot closer to home.

Syracuse lost, and I'm not feeling so good myself

Tyler Ennis' three-pointer clanged off the rim -- to my mind the second bad decision he had made in the last two possessions -- and with it Syracuse's season had come to an end at the hands of Dayton.

And I proceeded to yell profanities (OK, only one in particular) in combination with "chokers" and various other forms of low regard, all while pounding my fist into my thigh multiple times hard enough so that I think it frightened my wife.

As it's one of the few parts of my anatomy with any muscles, my thigh was fine, not even a bruise, yet my rage remained unabated.

"Ennis needs to go to the NBA right now so he doesn't screw up anymore," I thought. "And take that overrated C.J. Fair and his disappearing act with him. And I'm so happy to see Trevor Cooney remember the scrub that he is. Maybe I should have called on Big Orange"

Rested and ready for a regional final that never came.

I even allowed myself some sacrilege.

"Maybe Jim Boeheim ought to retire. He hates being in the ACC, anyway."

In fact, I was so upset at how horribly Syracuse had played in a game they would have won going away if the Orange had even been mediocre, I even let a few bad calls slide, which isn't something I normally do.

@MichaelPawluk They couldn't overcome not being able to make shots and making stupid decisions.
— LastHonestSportsFan (@LastHonestSport) March 23, 2014

@MichaelPawluk Shameful officiating was Aaron Craft manhandling Syracuse's guards two years ago. Tonight was 0-for-threes and bad decisions.
— LastHonestSportsFan (@LastHonestSport) March 23, 2014

My pal FortyFourist (and by pal, I mean guy I sometimes converse with on Twitter, since we don't actually know each other) has been trying to keep the angry masses at least somewhat at bay since last night, although I don't know how much success he has had.

Tyler Ennis made about 4 bad plays ALL SEASON. If you want to crucify the kid for last night, you're missing the big picture. Badly.
— FortyFourist (@fortyfourist) March 23, 2014

I eventually calmed down long enough to watch Wisconsin complete its comeback against Oregon, and then had a good night's sleep. I still think Ennis messed up royally at the end, but he did have a great year in what I'm sure will be his only year in Syracuse, and while I think being in the ACC will cause Boeheim to retire earlier than he had planned, I don't actually want it to happen.

However, I'm not backing off Fair's disappearing act, and Cooney has to figure out a way to do something on offense if teams actually ... what's the word I'm looking for ... guard him.

And I'm reminded again that one game, played by people I don't know and will most likely never meet, can cause such fervent emotion. (I'm sure Dayton fans are feeling the same level of emotion, but of joy and not anger).

Is it irrational?

Sure it is.

But that's sports.

Who are the worst sports fans in America?

Because everything it about brackets this time of year, the folks at Deadspin are running a tournament to find "the bitchiest, most defensive fans in America." Although they have non-sports "regions" as well, I'm going to concentrate on the sports section.

Remember, this is one fan's opinion, and please ... no wagering.

So here we go ...

First round

1. Soccer fans vs 16. Redskins name change people

The people who want the NFL's Washington entry to change its name should be a 16 seed, given that the name is pretty racist, so it's hard to complain that they're too bitchy. Soccer fans aren't a great No. 1 seed either, although I can see a certain indie-band fan vibe among some of them in that they think only the cool, sophisticated people "get it."

I don't see soccer fans going all the way, but I'm not ready to go Harvard-Stanford women yet.

Winner: Soccer fans

8. Boston Red Sox fans vs. 9. NBA basketbloggers

I'm a Yankees fan who lives 15 miles from Boston. Who do you think I'm picking? (Side note, Yankees fans aren't in the tourney because they and Dallas Cowboys fans are dismissed "your standard asshole bandwagon fans." Who has more bandwagon fans than the Boston Red Sox?)

Winner: Boston Red Sox fans

5. Boxing fans vs. 12. MLS fans (distinct from soccer)

Oh, MLS fans, getting their hopes up one day only to have them crushed. They want so bad for their little indie band to make it big. Every tournament has to have its 12 beating a 5, so here you go.

Winner: MLS fans

4. Duke fans vs. 13 Notre Dame fans

This is the annual "committee has a funny sense of humor" contests, but it's really not that close. After Syracuse got a call in the Carrier Dome, Duke fans were complaining about not getting a call.

Let me repeat that ... Duke fans were complaining about not getting a call.

Winner: Duke fans

6. St. Louis Cardinals fans vs. 11. Kobe Bryant fans

From the Deadspin description

"Currently the NBA's best player. RIGHT NOW. AT THIS MOMENT. Even when he's unable to play. Say the word 'Colorado.' Go on. I f---ing dare you."

That'll do.

Winner: Kobe Bryant fans

3. All hockey fans vs. 14. Penn State fans

I wasn't kidding when I wrote that the Paterno dead-enders need to let it go. This isn't a 14 beating a 3; this is a 14 beating a 3 ... by 40.

Winner: Penn State fans

7. Lacrosse players vs. 10. Oakland Raiders fans

Deadspin described lacrosse "as a sport for rich preppy dipshits." Not from my experience. In college, lacrosse players were pretty much the campus psychos, which I say with equal parts fear and admiration. As for Raiders fans, I speak of them with equal parts fear and dislike for their team.

Winner: Oakland Raiders fans

2. Mixed martial arts fans vs. 15. Sabermetricians

I'm still trying to make peace with sabermetricians.

Winner: Mixed martial arts fans

Second round

1. Soccer fans vs. 8. Boston Red Sox fans

Only one of these groups of people loves to remind the world of everyone else's PED use (especially if they wear pinstripes in New York) while ignoring transgressions in their own house.

@LastHonestSport I'll correct it. Send me the link explaining exactly what he too and how long he took it. Thanks.
— Pete Abraham (@PeteAbe) December 15, 2013

And that guy's not a fan ... he's a writer.

Winner: Red Sox fans

4. Duke fans vs. 12. MLS fans

Coach K never gives the officials a hard time. Just ask Duke fans; they'll tell you.

Winner: Duke fans

11. Kobe Bryant fans vs. 14 Penn State fans

The people who think they are the real victims of the Jerry Sandusky scandal cruise to another victory.

Winner: Penn State fans

2. MMA fans vs. 10. Raiders fans

The winners might be too beat up to continue.

Winner: Raiders fans

Semifinals

4. Duke fans vs. 8. Red Sox fans

This could be a pay-per-view main event anywhere in the country, but Duke fans have never questioned my sanity.

Winner: Red Sox fans

10. Raiders fans vs. 14. Penn State fans

"Our football coach got fired because he didn't do anything about the child molester on campus? Let's riot!"

Winner: Penn State fans

Finals

8. Red Sox fans vs. 14. Penn State fans

It should be obvious I don't think much of Red Sox fans. I find them to be bandwagon-jumpers ("lifelong fan since 2004, baby!") who literally think there's something wrong with Yankees fans.

However ...

The whole tournament is built on generalizations, and is pretty tongue-in-cheek. Not all Red Sox fans are obnoxious, and neither are all Duke fans, Kobe fans, MLS fans or any other fans. I even have a lot of friends who root for the Red Sox, and they all insist they never, eeeeevvvveeerrrr chanted "Jeter sucks."

And obviously, many, many ... most Penn State fans are horrified about what happened. Any right-thinking person would be. But that there are any Penn State fans who are any less than horrified gives them the "distinction" of being the worst sports fans in America.

Winner: The idiots among Penn State fans

Another year with Dad

As my memory has it, I was standing at the plate during Little League practice, when I saw someone unexpected on the other side of the chain-link fence.

It was my father.

The surprise at him being there wasn't because my parents had split up and he was never around -- they've been married 42 years -- but because I figured he'd be sleeping or not long out of bed that Saturday morning. A steel fabricator, he had gotten a night-shift job not that long before.

It wasn't the greatest, especially since my brother and I mostly saw him right after we got home from school, but it was during the recession of the early 1980s, and he had already been laid off a couple times, so if a night-shift job was what it had to be, a night-shift job was what it had to be.

Except he had just quit, tired of never being around, so there he was at my practice. Fortunately, he found another job not much later.

It was a point of pride for my parents to come to my brother's and my ballgames, plays, concerts or whatever. I remember them talking with a combination of bewilderment and disdain about parents who just dropped their kids off and left when it was over. As I think about it, maybe those parents couldn't come because of work or some other reason, but what I knew what that my parents were always around.

As I got older, it sometimes bugged my baseball coaches (and I have to say, not completely without reason) when after an at-bat I'd walk over to where my father was standing to dissect what had just happened. After all, he wasn't my coach, but he knew more about my swing than anyone else.

He actually know more about all of my game than anyone else, since he taught me most of it. The house I grew up in had a small front yard, site of countless rounds of pitch-and-catch during childhood and the constant reminders to aim for the chest and that a bad throw made a good play useless and a bad one worse. (Also, if someone can't hit a pitch, keep throwing it until he does, and if a pitcher is having a good game, leave him in.)

If I wasn't hitting very well, he'd take me to the vacant field across the street, or sometimes the Little League field itself, to pitch batting practice.

Once in a while, I'd change things up and play wide receiver, even though football wasn't his thing. The size of the yard made pretty much anything other than down-and-in patterns a challenge, and the tree next to the house made for a fearsome strong safety.

Today's my father's birthday. He's 63. Although he once answered a question about when he would retire by saying, "When they put my a-- in the ground, he actually stopped working exactly a year ago, and he's still on this side of the grass. For the previous year, whenever the phone calls on Sunday nights came around the 19th, he would count down another month toward retirement.

Dad doesn't watch a ton of baseball any more, to the point where I sometimes forget how much he knows about it. His main sport is NASCAR, which makes up a large part of our Sunday talks.

When I first started following NASCAR, I became a Dale Earnhardt fan ... mainly because he was.

Happy birthday.

Come chat about Liverpool-Manchester United with us

What I hope David de Gea sees in his nightmares.

I am a Liverpool fan. My mate Gardner is a Manchester United fan, and we're throwing an online party to watch today's game.

The door is open to anyone who wants to come. You can log on through Twitter, Facebook or whatever social media you prefer. I hosted a similar chat on another site during the Academy Awards, and it was great fun.

There are basically three rules:

1. Bring your own provisions.

2. If you're coming to a party at my online house, please don't pee in my online pool.

3. The intent of the chat is to hang out while watching the game, have fun and maybe engage in a little good-natured banter. If your idea of chat involves lots of all caps combined with exclamation points and insults (i.e. "DIRTY SCOUSER!!!!" or "FILTHY MANC!!!!), find somewhere else to go.

Other than that, come join us. We'd love to have you.

Liverpool is coming ... and I probably won't be going

Thanks to Mrs. Last Honest Sport, I already knew Liverpool was playing a preseason game at Yankee Stadium this summer, and the news came today that the Reds would be at Fenway Park as well.

Count me in, right? After all, it's ... Yankee Stadium ... and Fenway is just 15 miles from where I live. But while I reserve the right to change my mind, based on my experience at Fenway two years ago, I doubt I'll be going.

When Liverpool came to Fenway in 2012, it was not long after Euro 2012 and right before the Olympics, which meant no Steven Gerrard, no Luis Suarez and no most of the Liverpool regulars. Raheem Sterling played, although at the time he was more of a prospect and less the budding star he is now, as did Jonjo Shelvey, Joe Cole and Charlie Adam. Not exactly a ton of star power there.

I'm assuming that because of the World Cup this year, that probably means at a minimum no Gerrard, no Suarez and no Daniel Sturridge, and perhaps no Glen Johnson, Jordan Henderson or Sterling. In other words, no most of the people I'd want to see.

Plus, I'm hoping to see Liverpool for real someday.

They did do a good job trying to replicate the Anfield experience at Fenway.

What you don't see is the pole I was sitting behind.

The view from the end of the bench

Dan Shaughnessy wrote a thoughtful column in today's Boston Globe (relax, I'm as surprised as you are) about how high school coaches should, whenever possible, make sure all his players get to play.

"In a lifetime of being a ballplayer, a parent, and a professional sportswriter, I have seen it all, and I care about this issue deeply. The best coaches are the ones who find a way to include everybody. And the worst ones are small minds who stop seeing the kids at the end of the bench."

That's the end of the column. Earlier, he wrote that he probably believes so strongly about the issue because he was the 12th player on his high school basketball team, with a "coach who was smart enough to get all of us on the floor when there was a spot for it."

I don't remember how many players were on my high school basketball team, but however many there were, I was the last one. At least I was at the end of the bench on merit, because I was a terrible basketball player, compounded by the fact that I would get so nervous I could barely move when I knew I was going to play.

One time, when we had a bunch of players foul out in an overtime game and the only players left to go in were me and a starter who was dressed but was being held out of the game because he had mouthed off in practice, the coach stuck to his guns and put me in. There were groans; I heard them. We lost, but it wasn't because I screwed anything up.

I was a garbage-time guy on a good team my junior year and a bad one my senior year, and there wasn't really much difference, other than I was always happier when the team won, of course. On both teams, the starters didn't think too much of the bench-warmers, so much so that in my senior year we turned down a trip to the postseason (it was an open competition), probably because we knew we were going to get blown out and because we were just tired of being around each other.

Yesterday at the end of the Syracuse-Virginia game, the crowd went wild after senior former walk-on Thomas Rogers hit a three-pointer at the end of the game. As always, I wondered whether it was a sincere cheer for a player who worked hard and finally got a reward or just a final chance to laugh at the end of a blowout.

When I would go into a game, I could hear people in the crowd whenever I touched the ball, especially ones who yelled "Shoot!" (The gyms were small, plus I knew where everyone I knew was sitting. As Yogi said, "You can observe a lot by watching," and I did a lot of watching during my high school basketball games.)

I'm sure some of it was friends and family who wanted me to do well, but it also felt like there were people (mostly students) looking for a chance to laugh ... either at the opponent, or me. To be fair, due to other issues from my high school days, perhaps I was a bit too sensitive.

So while Shaughnessy's advice was for the coaches, mine is for the fans. When the kids on the end of the bench go in, cheer for them.

And mean it.

On the bike, and away from the back

He walked by from the back of the gym as I was preparing to do my leg curls. He was wearing a New England Patriots T-shirt, shorts and a weight belt, and had muscles that made it obvious he went to the gym a lot more than I do. His face looked enough like someone who used to work for me that I had to take a closer look to make sure it wasn't him, that he hadn't put on about 40 pounds of muscle in the military.

He sat down at the other end of the weight machines, and after I had moved on to the leg press, I saw him working on the arm curl machine, his earbuds in, his face one of concentration.

As for me, I finished my leg presses, then went out and used the ab and back machines before telling my wife, who was on the treadmill, that I was finished. Another hour gone, I put on my sweatshirt and sweatpants before going home.

It was an unusual workout, not because I rode the bike particularly well or lifted especially heavy weights, because of something else that I don't normally do.

I was sweating.

* * * * *

My wife and I decided to join a gym late last year. My motivation wasn't to become a muscleman, but instead to maybe lose a little weight (although I also have to work on the eating part of that equation) and not be so horribly out of shape. Seriously, I was sometimes finding myself winded carrying laundry up the stairs, and my energy level was practically non-existent.

We checked out a local health club that offered workout equipment, tennis, a pool and classes, but as nice as it was, it was a little pricey for us. If we were going to play tennis or swim more, maybe it would have worked out, but we probably weren't going to.

After some Internet research, we wound up at the local Boston Sports Clubs. It was convenient, being close to both our house and the train station where I usually pick up my wife after work, and the prices were reasonable. My wife got a membership that allows her to take yoga classes, and I got the basic membership.

We decided to go Tuesdays and Fridays after work and Sunday mornings, and for the most part, we've stuck to that schedule, although I missed a couple days because I was sick. It helps having someone to go with, to make sure I go on the days I'm not particularly motivated.

We're eligible for an hour of free personal training, but we haven't used it yet. Instead, we have our own routines. My wife walks on the treadmill, sometimes lifting weights at the end, while after a couple days of experimenting, I settled on riding a bike for 45 minutes, with weights the last 15. I do arm and leg exercises alternating days, with ab and back work every time.

I'm probably missing a lot with that approach -- every time I walk past the punching bag, especially when I've had a bad day, I think about doing my Sergio Martinez impression -- but this seems to work for me.

I've found that riding the bike -- I prefer a seater -- actually helps me relax. Once I get my legs loose, I get into a nice rhythm with the pedals, and for one of the few times during my day, I'm not bouncing from thing to thing. Pretty much all I can do is read my Kindle, look up at the TV once in a while and pedal. That's it. It's actually a nice diversion.

At first my goal was a 6-minute mile, then a 5-minute mile, which lets me ride nine miles in 45 minutes. Lately, however, I've been able to go at a pace that lets me ride 10 miles in 45 minutes. I'm only on level nine out of 20 or 21, which means no hills, but I'm doing better.

* * * * *

The bikes and machines I use are at the front of the gym, while the locker rooms are in the back, where the free weights are. With the free weights come the people who lift free weights, who, like the guy in the Patriots shirt, come across to me as very serious. They seem to all know each other, as they talk amongst themselves when they talk at all.

I try to avoid these people at all costs. In my mind, they look at me and they see some out-of-shape guy who actually thinks riding a bike while reading a book and a few minutes of weights will get anything accomplished.

Of course, they may be perfectly pleasant people, even willing to provide a few tips if I asked, but I'm not going to take that chance. I keep a quick pace, and try not to make eye contact.

* * * * *

One bit of trepidation I had before I joined the club was what I call my "broken radiator," a problem I've had since my youth. Since I don't sweat that much, and therefore don't cool off from sweating, I have a tendency to overheat during physical activity.

Usually, the worst I get is a headache, but once it was so bad that I was seeing spots while driving home from playing volleyball, and by the time I got home and put a cold washcloth on my head, I literally felt the heat radiating off my ears.

So I was wondering what would happen if I worked out, and I make sure my water bottle is full every time. I drink every 15 minutes for about a minute at a time while I'm riding, plus a little more when I'm done, and by the time I'm finished, I've pretty much drained the bottle.

And I've started sweating. First it was a little on my arms, but I just thought that was from having my arms folded on the arms of the bike. Then there was a little on my back, but yesterday, it was down my back and my front. It wasn't pouring off me, but it was there, enough that I actually have to wipe off machines when I'm done with them.

And when I got off the bike yesterday, my legs actually felt tired, and my knees were a little sore last night. But in its own way, it felt good.

Maybe I'm getting somewhere with this.