The city has been a bit boring. Last night, I stood outside my building and watched a lady from Pennsylvania try to park her fancy sports car. I wouldn’t call it fun, but it did kill 15 minutes.
Once a New Yorker in a big Buick convinced her that “you ain’t gonna get in there in a million years,” she moved on.
The man with the Buick took less than a minute to wedge his way in.
What am I going to do now?
Yankee tickets are going on sale.
“But we have season tickets,” my wife said. “One of the benefits is that you don’t need to stand in line.”
But I can’t always depend on people who don't know how to parallel park.
What I learned at Yankee Stadium today:
Twin Donuts has the best chocolate-glazed in the neighborhood. And the best coffee, too. But there was a petition circulated – it was actually a dirty piece of cardboard that was passed down the line – to rename the crème-filled, pastry with chocolate frosting: Yankee Cream.
It’s not a party until something gets broken.
George Steinbrenner is the best owner in baseball. He would never make poor fans pay for a railing that wasn’t strong enough to support the weight of a dozen men and one woman.
My friend Jose is the fastest deliveryman in the South Bronx, but even carried in an insolated container, which was apparently donated by a Dominos franchise, pizza gets cold when it’s 28 degrees.
Everyone believes that Jorge Posada is tough enough to stand in line for tickets, when it’s 28 degrees.
Mariano Rivera wouldn’t need to stand in line. We would let him drink coffee at Twin Donuts and bring him his tickets.
Derek Jeter can hang out at home and we’ll drop his tickets off later.
Everyone loves Bernie Williams.
At least one New York City police officer is far too sensitive.
My mother is correct. My smart mouth is going to get me in trouble one of these days.
A collection of Red Smith baseball columns isn't as valuable once it’s been dropped in a slushy puddle.
Rats don’t mind the snow.
A cold, wet newspaper can be pried from an unwilling hand. It will also burn.
George W. Bush may have been in the city today, but we didn’t see him waiting for tickets.
Many believe: “George W. Bush couldn’t find the Bronx on a dare.”
Most don’t think very highly of Mike Lupica either. In fact, one man from Jerome Avenue is convinced that Lupica “lives in a mansion in the suburbs and should stick to writing about suburban sports like mall walking, Wal-Mart shopping, golf and football.”
If they ever build a Wal-Mart in New York City, it would take less than 10 Yankee fans to bring it down, brick by brick.
Some people will always live in the past. Jimmy, who clearly came directly from 1977, doesn’t like today’s, kinder, gentler Yankee fans.
“Back in the day,” he begins, “if you came here wearing a Red Sox shirt, we would rip it off your back and burn it. What do they do today? Say something; maybe throw some popcorn or peanuts. Wimps.”
Back in the day, Jimmy stood in 15-foot snowdrifts for his tickets.
Pitchers and catchers don’t report for another 14 days.
What am I going to do now?