The Futility Infielder

I'm finally back online after spending the better part of a draining week moving from a spacious and inexpensive (though grungy) East Village apartment shared with my friend to a cozy and pricey (but clean) love nest with my girlfriend. It's an exciting transition, tempered only by the threat of me having to selectively store a sizable portion of my book and music collections. Where Have You Gone Vince DiMaggio? Right back into a stackable banker's box. A minimalist I'm not; the librarian/archivist/pack rat who spent five years of manifest destiny at Chow Mein Central (the aforementioned Second Ave. apartment which I just vacated) is going to take time getting used to a limited amount of shelf space.

Moving has put me in touch with some far-flung friends and family, and there are a couple of baseball-related notes I'd like to share. The first is that the Jaffe family can now make claims to having a member in the major leagues... sort of. I often talk about my father's side when it comes to baseball -- my grandfather was offered a professional contract, and he spent countless hours playing catch and talking baseball with his grandkids. But on my mother's side, there's plenty of connection with the game as well. My uncle Harold recently retired from his car audio business to take his dream job: seating host at the Seattle Mariners' Safeco Field.

Though my mom termed it "a Wal-Mart greeter" position, any baseball fan would agree that Harold's got a pretty sweet gig ("it's a fucking BLAST!" were his exact words to me). Essentially, he gets paid to watch baseball and to wear a uniform (unnumbered) while working the Diamond Club seats behind home plate, even getting on TV now and then. He was one of 30 people selected out of 300+ who interviewed for jobs, and was lucky (or well-connected) enough to be placed in the expensive seats, which rotate between four stations: one directly behind the plate, one behind each on-deck circle, and one in the restaurant downstairs.

"The job is to take care of the guests' every need and insure that everyone has a good time," writes Harold. "We don't serve food or drinks as that job belongs to the Hyatt folks... There is certainly some work to this job, but it is great fun and I've already met some really nice folks that appreciate good service and good, knowledgeable conversation. There is no doubt that this is a job made for your Uncle Harold! We have to make sure that folks don't get too rowdy and spoil the fun for others, but we have security to deal with those issues." Hmmm, maybe I'm in the wrong line of work and should give Mr. Steinbrenner a call. In the meantime, congrats to Harold, my uncle that made the show.

Next up is a quick email I received from Ron L., my mentor and former co-worker, who got lucky at Yankee Stadium on Wednesday: "Wells pitched a ball to the second Toronto batter last night and it went off his bat and right into my hands!!!!! I was in sec 9 box 233 row G seat 1! I got the ball!!!!"

Now, I've been going to about 15 games a year for the past five seasons and the closest I've come to a horsehide souvenir is the infamous David Segui Foul Ball Incident, in which my former rooommate dropped one over the front rail of the upper deck to the jeers of 42,000 (everybody in the park except him) one chilly May afternoon. Ron goes to one game a year and snags a ball before anybody's even snarfed down their hot dog, though to be fair he was sitting in a much closer seat than I usually do. Still, another lucky dog.

OK, time to unpack my bobbleheads (including the hard-won Paul O'Neill, for which I froze my ass off in the 20° wind chill last Wednesday). Gotta keep the important stuff around...