I’m only about 5% Scottish yet I’m one of the cheapest people in the world; thrift is a matter of pride. I figure the money I save by buying store brand dish soap and baked beans in bulk trickles into used books and ’zine projects—the things that really matter. It’s called budget living, and I need not extol its virtues to you, the Zisk reader, for chances are you’re a convert. I know the Zisk contributors are. Whenever we organize an outing to Shea everyone votes for upper deck seats.
But this spring I was offered a pair of luxury box seat tickets. To a Yankees game. I figured pride could be set aside—it’s one of the seven deadly sins, right? No baseball fan, self-respecting or self-loathing, could pass up such a potentially memorable experience.
And memorable it was. While waiting in the lobby I got to see adult Yankees fans heckle 10-year-old Mets fans…
Thirty-something Yankees fan getting into elevator, to kid wearing a Mets cap: Hey, Mets fan, good luck!
Other thirty-something Yankees fan getting into elevator, to same kid: (Bends over, gets eye to eye with the kid, points to Yankee insignia on his cap) Don’t worry about luck, kid!
So, yeah, there was the requisite ugliness that not even the fancy setting could mask. There was also the ridiculous service.
Yankees Fan Relations Guy, speaking to the guy sitting next to me: I’m sorry, sir, but, yes, batting practice has been cancelled due to the weather. You may go to your seats, if you’d like.
Guy sitting next to me: Will it be dry there?
Yankee FRG: Let’s see, you’re in row G. There may be a little residual mist there, not rain, but residual mist is possible.
Residual mist. Clearly, I’d set foot into a different world. But I’m here to apologize, not to list the lavish accommodations. I apologize because I did not kill George Steinbrenner. You see, after meeting up with my wife, we went up to the club level, and as we stepped out of the elevator we walked by Steinbrenner. I passed within six feet of George, and though he was flanked by lackeys, there were no barriers between us. I could have exterminated evil, removed baseball’s biggest thorn, and I didn’t. I’m shamed. Please forgive me. I offer this new issue of Zisk as the first in a series of acts of contrition.
That said, with the Mets painfully distant from the playoffs, let’s go Dodgers or Cubs or Red Sox or Twins or A’s!
Rock and the Red Sox: Bill Janovitz and Boston's Two Obsessions by Steve Reynolds
Duckie Nation By Dan Dunford and Ari Voukydis
They Make The Call by Steve Reynolds
Myths of Place by David Shields
The Great Debuts of 2004 by John Shiffert
Mickey Mantle's Mistress by Michael Baker
Clemens Is Still a Wiener And Other Thoughts That Occurred to Me While Watching the 2004 All-Star Game by Lisa Alcock
Words Can't Describe How I'm Feeling by David Shields
Zisk Vs. ESPN by Mike Faloon
Zisk Book Reviews by Michael Baker
Rants From the Upper, no, Lower Deck by Steve Reynolds
Winning is Nothing, Vengeance Is Everything by Ken Derr
They Called Him Spaceman by Tim Hinely