The cathartic booing of Derek Jeter

The scoreboard flashed the signal for mass booing

Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter announced today that the 2014 season will be his last as a player.

This will no doubt unleash a torrent of weeping and praise from the Yankee-centric media. I mean, even more weeping and praise than usual.

It’s not going to be an easy year.

Someone has to provide balance, and that person is me.

Here’s a tale from the archives about when Will and I went to see the White Sox play the Yankees, and St. Derek got the booing he so richly deserved. And yet, it was a cathartic experience for this long-suffering Mets fan.

So while Tom Verducci starts getting ready for an ocean of soft rain, he’s a story from 2010 to help soften the blow.

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.

Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quiet of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

(Note: Here is another tale from the archives listing players who have more range than Derek Jeter)

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. 

Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they just hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. 

Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn't wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously premeditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not, lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of 2009 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog. 

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings. And I feel the need to boo him no more.

The booing of Derek Jeter

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.
Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quite of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember alleged Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn’t wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.
The scoreboard flashed this international call for mass booing.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously pre-meditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of '09 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog.

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings.

Cheering Frank Thomas, charming security and confronting Derek Jeter

We don’t set out to have adventures. Stuff just happens when Will and I get together for a ballgame.

You have to remember that Frank Thomas is one of our favorite players. He was a slugging rookie for the White Sox – whom both of us claim as a secondary team – and came up the year we were hired at the Flint Journal and became friends.

Of course, the off-told story of the magical misty night at Tiger Stadium only sealed the deal.

So Will grabbed tickets the day the Sox announced they were retiring The Big Hurt’s number on Aug. 29. And the opponent for this destined-to-be-glorious day? That would be the Evil Empire. Will certainly has no love for the Yankees, and my open loathing is legendary.

This day is best told with photos, and in multiple parts.

We arrived at the park bright and early because the team announced with was distributing Frank bobble heads, and we didn’t want to leave empty handed. An hour before game time, the line was already massive.

This brought back unpleasant memories of a Sox WinterFest, when sought Frank’s autograph and waited and waited in line, only have Frank replaced by two other signers as we were within two cattle-chute turns. No offense to then-manager Gene LaMont and the legendary Minnie Minoso, but our disappointment was immeasurable.

We did not want a repeat, and were only somewhat comforted by the stacks and stacks of bobble head cases on the other side of the rail. This fear would not go away until a bobbling giant Frank head with the mega-watt smile was in our hands. We passed through the gates and obtained without incident.

Here’s where things get a little ugly. The Sox have a lame policy that limits people with upper deck tickets to the upper deck. This stinks, because it’s not like we’re trying to steal seats. We like to get a look at batting practice and check out all the cool features in the stadium, very few of which are in the upper reaches of the park which is among the highest and steepest in baseball.

Having experienced this segregation last year, we knew that we could indeed mingle with the hoity toity people below by going to the guest services window and asking for a shopper’s pass.

Upon our banishment to the upper deck, we immediately went to the window and asked for the pass. I assumed this was a mere formality.

“It’s too busy now,” the power-tripping clerk said. “Come back after the fourth inning.”

Both of us realized that fighting with this guy was pointless. But we would not be denied, instead relying on our smarts and charm. Being denied was not going to be an option.

First we went to the guy working the elevator. He said we couldn’t go on, but if we walked down the endless ramps on Gate 3, we might be OK.

After descending, we came face to face with a kindly woman, and told our tale of woe. We just wanted to go to the team store, see the statues, then head back up to our seats. First she said, “Sorry, guys.” But I said we were told by the guy at the top of the ramps that we could do this if we walked all the way down. I looked as pitiful as possible, clutching my Frank bobble box to my chest, and looked wistfully beyond at the field level concourse. Sniff.

“OK, you can go.”

We scooted away before she changed her mind, and headed right for the centerfield area.


The Sox have a bunch of cool things out there. There’s the famous shower -- and it works, so be careful unless you want to get soaked.

Then there are a number of statues of Sox greats. Unlike the Tigers, the Sox have these at ground level where fans can touch them and pose and get an up-close view.
Minnie Minoso is a Sox hero, and we were thrilled to meet him -- even though we were waiting for Frank. The Minoso statue is pretty sweet.


We liked the detail on the Carlton Fisk statue, including the logo on the batting helmet. Naturally we had to recreate the infamous confrontation with Deion Sanders.

There are statues of Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio attempting to turn a double play. I say attempting, becuase I am clearly safe.
We shunned the statue of former owner Charles Comiskey. How come Bill Veeck doesn't get a statue. Probably because Veeck would never stand for the way upper deck fans are treated at this ballpark.

There's a concession area high above the batters' eye in centerfield. Jim Thome reached it with not one, but two epic blasts.

Then we moved into the Fundamentals area. You are supposed to have a kid with you to get in this area, and it’s strictly enforced at the upper deck entrance. But adults in the field level can walk in un-kidded, yet another injustice.

Se we entered from below, and it’s pretty cool. Kids can try to race a giant cutout of Scott Posednick, and he apparently loses more races than a minor league mascot. There are batting cages and a pitching area where you try to knock down a moving cutout of a Sox catcher with your fastball.

Mickey is the sidewalk art from this year's All-Star Game in Anaheim.

There’s also a little field where you can field grounders. This looked like a lot of fun, but we didn’t want to push our luck any more than we already had.

Finally we made our way back to the upper deck for lunch. I will give the Sox credit here, they produce the best-smelling hot dogs ever, with large grills piled high with sizzling onions. And the entire concourse is decorated with photo murals with key players in Sox history, like Tom Seaver, represented twice.
Our attempted banishment to the upper deck was not without pleasures. The dogs and onions smelled wonderfully, and our grillers had a lot of nice things to say. The murals were worth exploring, and we found at least two references to Tom Terriffic.


Having secured both a victory over oppression and lunch, we settled into our seats, which were in the highest, deepest part of the ballpark, in fair territory in left field. No matter, as we were happy to be there.

Sadly, the sound system in our section was not working, and it was tough to clearly hear the on-field celebration. Lots of Frank’s former teammates were on hand, to wish him well, and his portrait on the outfield wall was revealed, as well as his framed jersey with No. 35, never to be worn by another member of the White Sox.



It was tough to hear what Frank was saying as he addressed the fans. He seemed to get kind of weepy, which was nice. I’m also pretty sure that he thanked Will and me by name. We could have asked people in sections with a functioning sound system if they heard Frank mention us, but we didn’t want to risk disappointment, as we were having too much fun.

Frank then threw the ceremonial first pitch to Carlton Fisk, and it was time for the game against the Yanks and the vile Derek Jeter.

Clearly, we needed to make a statement of sorts, and our treatment of Jeter will be detailed in the next post.

Baseball place No. 83: Mike Greenwell's go-karts, 83A: Scott Radinsky's Skatelab -- and a tough interview

We’re back on the trail after giving Josh Pahigian a break, and heading back to Comiskey Park’s final game, too.

Josh heads to Cape Coral, Fla. To Mike Greenwell’s Bat-a-Ball and Family Fun Park as place No. 83 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Greenwell’s career ended in 1993 and opened the amusement park, which sounds like it has the usual assortment of go-karts and batting cages, and is a short drive from where the Red Sox spend spring training.

I’ve never met Greenwell, and have not been to Cape Coral, though we did once buy a house from a family that moved there.
But we did spend some time with Scott Radinsky, who also spends his post-baseball time running an action park. That would be:

Alternative place No. 83A: Scott Radinsky’s Skatelab, Simi Valley, Calif.

Will and I were Radinsky fans, and he was a promising rookie in 1990 when the White Sox were saying farewell to The Baseball Palace of the World.

He was finishing the season with a 6-1 record and somehow grabbed four saves in the season where teammate Bobby Thigpen obliterated the record with 57.

And he was a colorful guy, playing in a punk band when he wasn’t pitching.

As you know from the Ken Griffey Jr. conversation, the scene before the final game at Comiskey was surreal. There were all kinds of people roaming around foul territory; some of them even had legitimate reasons to be there.

Will and I were out there, fighting our way through the people with disc cameras and sprayed on gray hair, and were taking in the scene for our Flint Journal story. We saw Ozzie Guillen with his uniform number shaved into his hair, and Ron Karkovice holding one of his kids, and we were looking for someone to interview.

Ideally, that would have been Frank Thomas, our new hero. But Frank must have known what awaited, because he remained in the safety of the clubhouse, which was off-limits. Usually reporters are allowed in the clubhouse, but the White Sox were wise enough to limit access on this day given the “media” in attendance.

But Scott Radinsky was brave enough to enter the fray.

I caught him as he stepped into the dugout. I must have looked pretty goofy, pad in hand and laptop case slung over my shoulder. We called the computers “portables” at the time and I didn’t dare let it out of sight given the suspicious-looking crowd.

Soaking in flopsweat, I started to ask “Rads” some questions. And he was being, well, really difficult.

Granted, I was star struck, nervous and probably stammering. And my questions were not especially insightful, stuff like, “What’s it like in the clubhouse with all this going on?”

And Rads offered up stuff like, “What do you think it’s like?”

After several rounds of this, I was crushed, thanked him and turned away.

I guess Rads sensed my dejection and called me back, “I’m just messing with you. What do you want to know?”

And he was perfect after that.

“He was just making you work for it,” said Will, who snapped photos from a distance throughout the interview.

Rads went on to have an 11-year career in baseball, also pitching for the Dodgers, Cardinals and Indians. He compiled a 42-25 record with 52 saves.

This year he’s the Indians’ pitching coach, though he probably doesn’t brag about that, especially after the Mets sweep.

He had a second job even while pitching, working as lead singer for the band Ten Foot Pole and then Pulley.

Being a true California skater dude, Rads also runs Skatelab , a massive complex dedicated to all things skateboarding. Aside from courses for grinding and other stunts, Rads has a skateboarding hall of fame and museum.

And, hopefully, when a young, starstruck reporter shows up to ask the owner some questions, Rads supplies the answers – after making him work for it a little.

Our Comiskey conversation with Ken Griffey Jr.

My mental picture of Ken Griffey Jr. isn’t the oft-injured Red or aging Mariner missing pitches he used to crush.

No. Griffey, who retired this week, will always be the 20-year-old kid shouting to Will and me in the Comiskey Park outfield.

Our time in Chicago for the ballpark’s final two games produced an unimaginable stream of baseball adventures, and Griffey starred in one.

You have to understand the scene. It was the time before the final game, and the assembled media was allowed to wander the field, at least the part in foul territory.

That’s not usual. Go to a game and you’ll see a handful reporters and lensmen among the players taking batting practice.

The White Sox, it seems, didn’t deny a single media request. Ours were shaky, but still legit since I was in fact a reporter and Will was in fact a sports editor. It was not the first time – nor the last – that we would have credentials.

But there were people walking around that field with media credentials around their necks snapping photos with disc cameras, which no semi-serious photog, much less a professional, would be caught dead holding.

It was a surreal scene. Ron Karkovice walked around with his toddler daughter, Ozzie Guillen signed autographs with his uniform number shaved into the back of his head. Infamous DJ Steve Dahl of Disco Demolition Night fame held court by a dugout. Our favorite was a television guy wearing a mobster suit, and up close we noticed that the gray in his hair was sprayed on.

So Will and I walked around, taking this all in. Then we spotted Griffey and two others walk out to a spot in the outfield on the first base side, down the line a little.

Griffey was in his second year and already dominating, and this was in that short period when the Mariners also had his father on the roster. We were able to see father and son, playing side by side in the outfield.

So we scurried near the spot where Griffey was standing. One of the people with him was a photographer, but we didn’t know who the other guy was.

We walked right up to the foul line as Will started snapping away.

Then it happened. Our conversation with Junior.

“Hey! Who you work for?”

We looked around. Ken Griffey Jr. was talking to us.

“Who you work for?”

“The Flint Journal,” I sheepishly replied.

“You’re all right.”

Then Junior, bat in hand, looked at Will, .

“Who you work for?”

“The Flint Journal,” Will also replied.
“Not a card company?”

“It’s a newspaper.”

“You’re all right.”


Given Junior’s blessing, Will started snapping away. This drew the attention of the third guy.

“Fellas, this is a private shoot,” he said, holding up his hand like a traffic cop. “A private shoot.”

We looked at each other and smiled. The idea that there could be anything private about that afternoon was comical, much less the hottest player in the game posing in centerfield.

Aside from all the people in the stands, there was an army of legitimate and illegitimate photographers ready to snap photos of anything and everything. And they all had already documented Ozzie’s hair and Karko’s kid.

We kept clicking away.

Later that year, Will came across a baseball card of Griffey distributed only on the West Coast, distributed by a cookie company called Mother’s.

There was Griffey, in his Mariners road uniform and the unmistakable arches of old Comiskey Park in the background. It also explained why Griffey asked if we were shooting for one of the card companies.

Separate and not quite equal at U.S. Cellular Field

Here’s a sentence I never thought I’d type. The White Sox should take customer relations lessons from the Mets.

The Baseball Truth gang made U.S. Cellular Park the spot for our Executive Game 9 last weekend, watching the Sox beat the Orioles 4-1.

Will shows off the tickets as we head out to the game. Fans of the televison show "Leverage" will recognize Laurie, who had a big scene in the pilot and was praised mightily by the producers in the DVD commentary.

New Comiskey was the site of the very first Executive Game in 2001, and this was my first visit inside since then, though Will and I had fun exploring the outside just before 2005 World Series Game One.

The park was famously overhauled, and it does seem like a much better place.

The team trimmed some rows from the painfully steep upper deck, painted a lot of the grab concrete, added a neat deck area in centerfield and about a zillion more concession areas in the upper level.

Sadly, they try to keep you up there, too.

We took the train to the park, and after paying tribute to the former Comiskey, we entered the ramps, only to find the lower level blocked off with and an usher checking tickets.



Scott managed to race around all the people playing corn hole and score!
Cars now park on the spot where Tom Seaver pitched. Sigh.

When we got to the top, we discovered that people with upper deck tickets were not allowed in the lower levels at all. Outrageous. I’ve never seen such a rule.

You have to know that I’m one of those people who likes to get to games as soon as the gates open and explore every inch, even if it’s a place I’ve been to before.

I like ballparks. They’re fun places. And once I explore and purchase the necessary program, yearbook and Diet Coke, I can settle in and enjoy the game.

To be sure, the White Sox added all kinds of stores and food concessions in the renovated upper deck concourse. But there were more stores on the lower levels, as well as all the fun in the outfield concourse.

I purchased a program at a concession stand, but there were no yearbooks to be found.

The team also has a new Fundamentals section, with neat interactive games for kids. I knew playing the games wasn’t an option, but I wanted to get photos of the activities, which were pretty elaborate.

I took a step into the upper deck Fundamentals area, only to have an usher stop me and say I couldn't enter without a child.

This was madness.

And I would not be denied, mentioning to friends that I would, in fact, get to the lower level at some point.

The scoreboard erupted after Carlos Quentin launched a bomb into the left field stands.

I approached an employee and told them I want to go to the lower level to go to a store and buy a yearbook since there were none available in the upper regions.

He told me to find the customer relations booth and ask for something called an elevator pass.

Finding this booth, I declared that I wanted a pass because I wantd to spend money in one of the stores, and that it was somewhat insulting to charge someone $30 for a seat in the park and restrict them to only one level.

The worker gave me a pass, reluctantly, noting that there were three people in my party and asking that I return the paper pass back to him upon my return.

Will, Laurie and I made a quick trip down. At one level, the elevator doors opened, and there, briefly, we saw a display case with the glorious 2005 World Series trophy.

But the game was about to start, so after a short walk we hustled back up to our seats.
Future Hall-of-Famer Jim Thome and closer Bobby Jenks in action.

In the third inning I did something I never do: left my seat for a walk around the yard. Will’s a former official scorer, so I knew I could fill in the missing spots in the program upon returning.

With my elevator pass — I did not turn it in — I slipped back down to the main concourse, wandering out to the outfield area, checking out the view from the party deck.

The Sox have always done a decent job of showing off their not-always-glorious history, and new in centerfield were a series of statues of Sox legends. Note to the Mets: This is a cool thing, and you have legends.

Billy Pierce

Nellie Fox

Luis Aparicio

Then I saw the lower level entrance to the Fundamentals area. Knowing the kid rule, I followed a family through the entrance, past the usher and up the stairs.

There were some neat things to see, like a cutout of Scott Posedenik running that sped along a 90-foot track. Youngsters tried to keep up, and the times of both were flashed on a scoreboard.

I checked out some stores — finally getting my yearbook — and headed back to the elevator. Once on board, I asked the operator if it would be OK to stop on the level with the World Series trophy and take some photos.

"Sure! You take all the time you want."

Finally, an employee who gets it.

Aside from the World Series and American League Championship trophies, the lobby had a display dedicated to former Tribune sportswriter Jerome Holtzman.


Photos, views and yearbook secured, I headed back up to the seats in the upper deck, missing two full innings. I assumed my cohorts thought something horrible had happened, since it’s incomprehensible that I would miss that much of the game.

Lame new rules aside, U.S. Cellular is a nice place to see a game. It was certainly the best-smelling stadium I've experienced. The upper deck concourse was lined with food stands, and the team grills onions with the hot dogs and brats, and the aroma fills the area.

The team had some pretty cool souvenir stands, too. I found two dedicated to items on clearance, and snagged an authentic World Series game cap for $10.

The exploding scoreboard is fantastic, and the team still does a nice job saluting its history.

Throughout the upper level, murals showed great players and events in Sox history, including a nice photo of Tom Seaver and a shot from his 300th win.

Hail Seaver!

We attended on a fireworks night, and the rockets started firing with moments of the last out.

Naturally, Chicago is too wild of a town to head right back home.
Scott and Tim hoist a Hudy. Not being from Cincy, I hoisted Diet Cokes.

Will and Scott are Ohio natives and Scott lives outside Cincinnati. Will discovered a Cincy-themed bar not far from his Windy City apartment, and we celebrated the Sox win the Skyline-style spaghetti and chili and they enjoyed Cincy-based brews.

The original Executive Board: Dave, Jim, Scott and Will.