The Chicken, Mr. Met and less-worthy mascots

Occasionally at a baseball game, we can enjoy a brush with greatness.

And on rare occasions, we can assist those who are great. For me, this would be that day in 1990 when I had the pleasure of assisting the Famous Chicken with his act.

For this to make sense, you need to realize that I love mascots. We all have our guilty pleasures, our moments of shame.

For reasons I can’t fully comprehend I am drawn to the fuzzy costumed beings that roam the stands inspiring smiles. I am compelled to give them high-fives and when possible pose for a photo – or compel my kids to do so.

When my previous employer, The Flint Journal, created a mascot costume, the marketing types knew who would be the first volunteer. The costume was a giant rolled-up newspaper that I named “F.J. Scoop.”

And yes, inside the character is hotter than Busch Stadium Astroturf in August. Here’s an insider’s secret: The costumes come with a vest with long pockets that hold gel-like plastic strips that you stick in the freezer. You’ll still perspire enough to soak through your clothes, but it makes the heat tolerable for about 45 minutes.

My baseball buddies are aware of this attraction, and humor me by snapping photos. But they say my nadir was forcing them to snap a shot of me with Foto, the Fuji Film mascot at Comerica Park’s Photo Day in 2003.

So naturally, I hold a soft spot for our own Mr. Met. You might not realize it, but our baseball-headed hero was the first of the live action mascots to appear at games. I didn’t see him much in the 1970s – I blame M. Donald Grant and Dick Young. If those two could conspire to trade Tom Seaver, there’s no limit to the evil they could inflict upon us.

My buddy Bob recently tried to raise a ruckus over on the Baseball Truth discussion boards by relating how he took his kids to a park recently and they saw statues of Phil and Phyllis, two kids in colonial garb who were trotted out as Phillies mascots for a while during the 1970s. His kids remarked that they thought Phil and Phyllis were much better than Mr. Met.

Bob’s a teacher, so I was surprised he missed an obvious teachable moment.

The proper response is that the couple were soon jettisoned because they were in fact lousy mascots, violating all sorts of rules. Yes, like the responsibilities for fans we discussed last post, there are some basic responsibilities for mascots.

For the sake of Bob’s kids, let’s review.

1) Be a recognizable thing.
We know what Lou Seal of the Giants is supposed to be, as well as Dinger of the Rockies and even Billy of Marlins fame. Mr. Met of course is a guy with a cool baseball head. But what in the heck was Youppi, the embarrassment that no doubt contributed to the demise of the Expos? Existing as a Muppet reject on steroids is not the basis for suitable stadium entertainment.

2) Be funny.
The Philly Phanatic is an unidentifiable life form, but at least he brings a chuckle. He’s got that motor scooter thing that zips around the yard and he goofs around with players and umpires. He can enhance a game without upstaging the players. Bernie Brewer has his cool chalet and slide that he uses when a Brewers player hits a home run. Compare that to, say, Paws, the Tigers mascot who aimlessly wanders around Comerica Park for no apparent reason.
Zimmer's a mascot, right? I mean, what other purpose could he possibly serve?

3) Have a costume.
The Yankees once had a mascot called Dandy, but he didn’t last very long. They had another, called Don Zimmer, who was around for most of the 1990s. Dandy had a costume, Zimmer for some reason didn’t. He didn’t even wander around the stands, just kind of sat there in the dugout. Pedro went through a brief anti-mascot phase and threw Zimmer to the ground. Luckily he’s over that now.

Condi consults with Mr. Met on matters of state

4) Be a foreign policy expert.

Mr. Met has many skills, including some that we don’t dwell on a lot. But as you can see from this photo, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice sought out Mr. Met for his knowledge of world affairs. Now you know why the Mets host that International Week every year.

The Famous Chicken of course adheres to all these rules, making him the Willie Mays or Tom Seaver of the mascot world.

You can imagine my excitement when I learned that the Chicken would be performing in Rochester during the weekend that I was spending chronicling the life of Mickey Weston, a pitcher from the Flint area who had several cups of coffee, including one with the Mets in 1993.

Before the game I was introduced to the chicken’s alter ego, Ted Giannoulas, who looked a lot like Sonny Bono. We chatted a while, and he seemed like a really nice guy. I was going to ask him about the situation in the Middle East, but his time was short and I’m not a secretary of state.

During that game I abandoned the press box in favor of he photo bin, which was really just a section at the end of the dugout. Needless to say, I learned more about baseball that afternoon than I had in a previous lifetime of fandom.

About halfway through the game I heard a muffled “Dave!” and felt a poke in the back.

It was the Chicken, in full costume, holding a broom.

“When I get on the field, can you hand this to me?”

Can I? You know the scene in “Wayne’s World” when Alice Cooper invites Wayne and Garth to hang out back stage with the band? “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

So at the appropriate time, the Chicken ran out the dugout steps, turned and said “OK” and I handed him the broom, a prop for one of his gags.

It was my brush with mascot greatness.

Mickey & Me, Part 1: Two Hall-of-Famers and an Original Met

Jim Palmer humoring me by allowing himself to be subjected to an interview at Tiger Stadium.


I haven't booed a baseball player since 1990. Well, that's not entirely true. I reserve the right to boo Chipper Jones and each and every member of the New York Yankees. It's just the right thing to do.

But everyone else has gone un-booed ever since I spent a weekend in Rochester, N.Y. with ex-Met Mickey Weston and got a glimpse into what life is like for the guys working to make the roster year after year.

I actually started this story in the middle in October. Hey, it worked for George Lucas, and unlike George, I won't subject you to Jar Jar Binks and pod races. You can find it here.

I convinced my editors at the Flint Journal to allow me to tell the story of Weston, a pitcher from Fenton, Mich. Mickey toiled in the minors for years -– mostly in the Mets system -- before getting a shot with the Baltimore Orioles in 1989. He earned a save in his first game and a win in his second, and then hurt his arm.


I caught up with him again toward the end of the 1990 season in Triple-A Rochester. My assignment was to tell readers what it was to be tantalizingly close to a dream only to have it taken away.

From that point on, I kind of became Weston’s personal biographer, following his career through stops in Toronto, Philadelphia and back to the Mets. He became the a kind of poster boy for replacement players in 1995, getting his photo on the cover of USA Today after being named the Tigers’ Opening Day starter. He returned to the Mets system as a minor-league coach before taking a full-time job in a Christian organization that works with missionaries.

A devout Christian, Weston spent every off-season giving baseball clinics and spreading the Gospel, intent on being a role model on and off the field.

He's also about as friendly a person you'll ever meet, and was very patient with a star-struck young reporter.

Before heading to Rochester, I tried to be as prepared as possible, interviewing people in and around the Lake Fenton High, where Weston holds the school record with a 0.034 ERA.

Then I saw that the Orioles were going to be in town playing the Tigers for a series. Score! Naturally I was obligated to head to Tiger Stadium and talk to the manager and coaches about Weston. Background for the story, you understand.

The manager that year was Hall-of-Famer Frank Robinson and the pitching coach was Al Jackson, an original Met and one of the better young players of that statistically sorry bunch.

The visitor’s clubhouse in Tiger Stadium is just off the main concourse. I picked up my credentials and walked in, heart racing. This was my first time in a clubhouse to interview anybody. Someone pointed out that Jackson was in little locker area inside the visiting manager’s office. I walked in and was immediately embarrassed – he was changing into his uniform.

“No, come in, come in,” he said, greeting me with a big smile and a warm handshake.

Sportswriters get used to interviewing people in various states of undress. But I normally covered schools and this was just awkward. But Jackson was very gracious, answering all my questions about Weston, his injury and what he needed to work on to do better when he got another shot at the majors.

I told Jackson that I also wanted to throw a couple questions at Frank Robinson, if that would be OK. He said the skipper was already on the field, and I could probably find him near the batting cage.

I remember stepping out onto the field, stopping on the gravel and taking in the scene. Sure enough, there was Robinson leaning on the batting cage as Sam Horn was knocking the crap out of the ball.

Robinson is universally respected as a player and legendary for being on the grumpy side. I was completely intimidated. I got his attention, and he slowly looked over at me, clearly not one of the Orioles beat writers or anyone else he knew.

I told him that I was working on a story about Weston, and that he was a local guy.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he grumbled. I was panicking now, not understanding what he meant. My mind was racing with images of security goons hauling me off the field.

“Talk to the people in Rochester.”

I explained that I realized Weston was pitching in Rochester, but that he had been up with the Orioles for a spell and wanted to know what Robinson thought about him.

“Go talk to the people in Rochester,” he said, turning his head back toward the activity in the cage.

That would be it for Frank. I was walking back toward the stands when I saw Jim Palmer, the former Orioles pitcher who was working as an announcer. I thought, “What the heck, it can’t go worse than it did with Robinson.”

I waited for Palmer to finish his conversation, introduced myself and told him what I was doing. He seemed happy to talk about Weston, telling me about his strengths as a pitcher and how because he’s a soft-tosser teams don’t have a lot of patience.


As this was happening, my brother – visiting for a couple days – was snapping photos. One proudly hung above my desk for years.

Later, about halfway through my weekend in Rochester, I mentioned to Weston that Palmer had nice things to say about him.

“You guys talked to Jim Palmer – about me?” He asked.

“Heck, yeah. Frank Robinson, too!”

Weston winced.

There will much more to come.

In Other Words...

We know that Gary Sheffield, Derek Jeter and their cronies woke up to find coal under their Christmas trees this year. But what did members of our beloved Mets find? A great new Mets blog, Miracle Mets, has all the answers!

Mickey & Me: Clubhouse Celebration

The 1990 champion Rochester Red Wings were a colorful team. A guy named Curtis Schilling was on the roster.

The champagne that gets sprayed around championship locker rooms stings your eyes. I learned this on a late September night in 1990.

Watching the Chicago White Sox celebrate their World Championship brought me back to a mad dash to Columbus, Ohio to both catch the Clippers and Rochester Red Wings determine the International League crown and find the perfect ending to a story I’d been working on for a good slice of the summer.

It was my first year working for the Flint Journal, and I convinced my editors to allow me to tell the story of Mickey Weston, a pitcher from a Flint suburbs who had toiled in the minors for years before getting a shot with the Baltimore Orioles – then got hurt and was sent back down to Triple-A.

A photographer and I spent a weekend in Rochester, N.Y. with Weston near the end of the season. I learned more about baseball in those few days than I had in the previous 26 years of my life.

We’re not supposed to have opinions about the people we write about, but I couldn’t help but pull for Weston, a devout Christian dedicated to being an example both on and off the field. He's one of those players who would post spectacular numbers in the minors, then have things not quite click when reaching the show. And since soft-tossers are kept on a short leash, his stays were typically brief before being asked to prove himself at Triple-A all over again. Think Crash Davis without the cussing and skirt-chasing.

Writing about Mickey over the years led to baseball adventures from interviewing to Hall-of-Famers on the field of Tiger Stadium to sitting inside the Mets clubhouse to helping the Famous Chicken with his act. You’ll hear about them all in time.

The main Sunday package was about the ups and downs in the life of a minor league ballplayer. But the story just didn’t seem complete. Weston was having a phenomenal year, and I continued to follow the progress of the team as it wrapped up the season and progress through the playoffs.

The Red Wings ended up facing the Clippers for the championship, and who should draw the assignment for the deciding game but Weston. The perfect ending!

Will suggested we sprint down for the game. A Columbus native, he knew the 5-hour trip by heart and had witnessed dozens of games at the stadium while growing up.

We picked up out credentials and walked out on the field. I was horrified to see how few people were in the stands – and Will laughed. It was the day of the first home Ohio State football game, and he explained that the Clippers take a very distant back seat to the Buckeyes.

Walking to the press box, we spied the prized Governor's Cup in the shed where the groundskeeping equipment is stored. It's not quite as glamorous as the World Series trophy, but we enjoyed the opportunity to see it up close.

We took our seat, and found that the Rochester newspaper had sent its reporter along. I tried making some small talk with her while we were guests of the Red Wings, but found her rather unfriendly. And her disposition had apparently not improved much on the way to Columbus. The rest of the Clippers staff was a little confused why the Flint newspaper was sending two reporters, but didn't seem to mind.

Weston did his part to help the story, giving me the ending I had hoped for.

He went the distance, holding the Clippers scoreless until the seventh inning. A 5-1 victory gave the Red Wings the championship.

We hustled back down to the field and entered the clubhouse through the bullpens. Inside was already bedlam. Players were showering each other with champagne, though it didn't seem to be as plentiful as in a World Series celebration.

You have to watch for the corks, which are projectiles. A couple landed near me, and I have one as a souvenir, among the stranger things on display in the baseball room.

Once they ran out of beverages to spray, third baseman Leo Gomez brought a hose in from the bullpen and soaked everything and everyone -- including us. Did we mind? Heck no!

I also remember Jeff McKnight, a future Met, attacking the post-game spread of fried chicken, then standing on a table and reading out some kind of poem. I couldn't quite understand what he was saying, but then I don't think it mattered.

Mickey came over, gave us bear hugs and said he thought the game and the season proved that he belonged in the big leagues, then jumped back into the celebration.

Will and I continued to just sit back with eyes wide. It wasn't our championship so we couldn't participate, but it sure was fun to watch.

After all the comotion had calmed down, who appeared but the Rochester reporter, who had changed her clothes and was wearing a towel around her neck. She was so concerned about staying dry that she missed all the excitement.

We got back home to Flint very late that night -- early the next morning, actually. But what fun night.

And Mickey got the call-up he deserved, a few days later he was pitching for the Orioles.

The Flood, the Sandwich Queen, and the Burlington Bees

John O'Donnell Stadium in the Quad Cities was flooded in 1993.

You’re no doubt hearing a lot about the work of Red Cross volunteers in the wake of Hurricane Katrina.

These people are angels of mercy. I know this from having spent some time with them in 1993, when floods devastated big chunks of Missouri, Iowa and Illinois.

I was finishing a travel story in St. Louis when I got a call from the editors to send my wife home, rent a car and catch up with a team of Red Cross volunteers from Flint who were headed to Iowa.

The flooding was national news, and there was plenty of evidence in St. Louis, where the Mississippi was climbing the steps to the Arch.

Julie, a Mizzou friend and Tony on the steps to the Arch. Look at the flagpoles to see how high the water was in St. Louis.

But I was amazed by the size of the devastation on the outlying farmlands I saw while driving north on U.S. 61 through Quincy and Alton and Keokuk. Take away an occasional tree top, power line or silo, and I would have thought I was passing Lake Michigan instead of miles of crops.

The water level had already started to slip back by the time I reached southeastern Iowa. I’ll never forget the stench of the water, which smelled like rotting garbage. And there were flies everywhere.

Just touching the water was considered dangerous, and tetanus shots were dispensed like breakfast.

It was in this kind of environment that I caught up with the volunteers from the Flint area. Some were based in high schools, helping people get their lives back in order and providing a shoulder to cry on.

I was amazed at how much the Red Cross provided — clothes, food, cleaning supplies, mattresses and hotel space until homes were livable again. All of which is provided through donations from folks like you and me. Two of the Flint volunteers preparing meals.

The goal is to get people out of the shelters as quickly as possible, because there is nothing dignified about sleeping on cots in a high school gym with your possessions stacked around you.

Others volunteers hit the road, bringing meals to National Guard members and ordinary folks stuffing sandbags along the swelling Des Moines and Mississippi rivers.

Two volunteers I helped deliver meals to a fire hall near sand-bagging operations.

Volunteers are asked to stay about three weeks, which is about as long as a person can last before enthusiasm and energy dissolve into depression and exhaustion. And they were largely the kind of people who can take three weeks off from work, a lot of good-hearted retirees, teachers in the summer and people with home businesses.

A helper named Norma was dubbed "The Sandwich Queen" for her ability to quickly turn 80-pound stacks of turkey and seven racks of bread into meals.

Others are kind of colorful. One volunteer from Colorado was teamed with the Flintites, and wanted to talk about writing. He said he made good money writing for a particular kind of magazine — the kind with a lot of pictures and very little writing, if you know what I mean.

The impact on these close-knit small towns is hard to describe. One of them, Wapello, was so small that people not only don’t lock their house, but they leave their keys in their cars. It was so small that my arrival was news, and it was known that I had touched water and not yet had a tetanus shot. A nurse from the local public health department tracked me down and gave me the shot.

Wapello, Iowa. A big chunk of downtown was underwater.

The scariest thing happened when I was driving back to St. Louis, crossing a two-lane metal bridge somewhere near Keokuk. It was one of those bridges with the metal grates for a road, and if your car is stopped you can look straight down into the water.

And I was stopped for a while because a backhoe was stretched over the guard rail to dislodge fallen tree trunks and utility poles that had washed downriver and were stuck against a support pillar.

The was rushing quickly, and was so high that it seemed to be only about five feet under the bridge. And at one point I looked upriver and saw something dark bobbing in the water. As it got closer, I realized it was a tree — not a branch, but a full tree. As it got closer I realized there was nowhere I could go, with traffic stopped in both direction.

It finally struck the bridge with a large KLANG, and it seemed to shake for a second, but that was it, and I could exhale.

Naturally, I attempted to work some baseball into the trip. O’Donnell Stadium in the Quad Cities — not too far north of Wapello — was famously under water.

The home of the Burlington Bees had reopened by the time I was leaving Iowa.

But the Burlington Bees yard was on high ground and not affected. It was locked up tight on the day I had some time to explore. I already had a cool Bees cap anyway. But as I was headed out of town I saw the stadium lights on, a sign that life for these poor folks was slowly returning to normal. As long as there is baseball, things were looking a little better.

A Rare Sight in the Bronx

Jim Abbott pitching for the Angels.

Only twice have I witnessed visiting players get a standing ovation at Yankee Stadium.

And one of those times shouldn’t count. It was August 4, 1985, the day Tom Seaver won his 300th game, and we Mets fans pretty much took over the Yankees’ home that day.

But the other time was May 24, 1989, coming when a rookie pitcher was doing something as ordinary as making warm-up tosses.

Jim Abbott was already pretty famous. He was on the mound when the United States won the Olympic gold medal in 1988, was drafted in the first round by the California Angels and went straight to the major leagues.

What amazed a lot of people was that Abbott was born without a right hand.

The handicap didn’t seem to hold him back at all. He pitched and was the quarterback at Flint Central High and played for the University of Michigan’s baseball team. There were stories about how an opposing college team tried to take advantage of him, sending the first four batters to the plate bunting. The team changed its strategy after Abbott fielded each attempt cleanly.

What amazed me was how gracefully Abbott would catch the ball and get ready to pitch.

He would wear a left-hander’s glove, catch the ball, tuck the glove under his arm, take the ball out and place the palm of his glove over the stump at the end of his right wrist. After throwing the ball he’d quickly slip his left hand back into the glove to be ready to catch the return throw.

Abbott could complete the cycle so smoothly and quickly that it looked like he wasn’t even thinking about it. It was completely natural to him.

So I was excited when the Angels rolled into town in 1989 – a month and a half into Abbott’s rookie season – and that he would pitch in the series. This was well before the Yankee dynasty. Don Mattingly and Rickey Henderson were in the game, but they were surrounded by people like Ken Phelps, Bob Geren and Mike Pagliarulo.

I scammed seats in the lower level of the first base side so I could get a good view. There was polite applause for Abbott when the line-ups were introduced. But I was surprised by what happened when the Angels took the field in the bottom of the first.

There was quiet as he walked to the mound, at least as quiet as ballparks get. Then Abbott started taking warm-up pitches, making the complicated maneuvers with the glove.

It started with more polite applause, and it started to swell with each throw, building and building. Finally, everyone in the stadium was on their feet cheering. It was really emotional. And all he was doing was throwing warm-up pitches.

I think it was a sign of respect. This guy had a handicap, and there he is standing on the mound in what is perhaps the most famous ballpark in the world. It wasn’t an Eddie Gaedel-like stunt. Abbott earned his way.

But keep in mind, this was the Bronx. As the applause died down, I remember a guy a couple rows ahead of me saying, “All right, you got your applause. Now let’s kick his ass.”

If there was any butt-kicking that day, it was done by the Angels, who beat the Yanks 11-4, making it a good day all around. Abbott got the win, pitching 5 and a third innings allowing three runs on 10 hits.

Abbott, of course, got another ovation from Yankee fans when he pitched for them several years later and threw a fantastic no-hitter, the high point of his 10-year career in the majors.

Jim Abbott pitched for the Yankees, but we like him anyway.

A year after I saw Abbott pitch I moved to Michigan to work for the Flint Journal, and our coed softball used to practice at Central High, where Abbott once pitched. Occasionally I’d stand on the mound, look around and think of that day in Yankee Stadium.

Mayhem in Miami -- and the Marlins, too

If you think Michael Jackson got one over on the legal system, let me tell you about a trial I once covered.

This case involved exotic locales, courtroom chaos — and baseball, too. Pretty much a trifecta of glory for this reporter.

The Flint Community Schools thought they were getting rid of a problem when they allowed a music teacher to quietly resign after being accused of molesting students in 1987. This saved the district from getting involved in messy teacher tenure hearings and airing dirty laundry.

Unfortunately, the teacher — I’ll avoid using names here — moved to Miami, got a job in a school there and allegedly picked up right where he left off.

This time, the girls involved thought they would be better off going to the police instead of their school administrators.The teacher was charged with multiple felonies, with a 1997 trial in Dade County.

Normally the Flint Journal would not send a reporter on the road to cover such a thing. But there were a number of Flint school people on the witness list, and I could save the paper money by crashing with my folks, who live about two hours north.

It was pretty nasty stuff. The guy married one of his former students. And several young women took the stand, each with a similar story. They either didn’t have a father, or had one that was too busy to spend too much time home. The teacher would start to build up trust with the girl and her family, become sort of a surrogate father and before too long the molestation would start.

Seemed like a pretty iron-clad case to these untrained eyes. The teacher was allegedly having and affair with not only a student, but her mother, too. Prosecutors broke out a tape of a telephone conversation between the teacher and one of the girls, pledging his love and announcing his plans to marry her. One of the Flint witnesses grew up to become a prosecutor and sounded pretty credible to me.

The weekend break came as things were wrapping up. I always try to work a baseball adventure into every road trip — and the first week in February is one of the few times of the year where there is no baseball in Florida.

Luckily, the Florida Marlins came through in the clutch with their annual winter fanfest.The Fish are an enigma because they can be awesome to their fans and horrible, too. But this fanfest was pretty sweet.

The White Sox held these functions in hotel ballrooms, and the Tigers in the Joe Louis Arena. But cold weather isn’t an issue in Miami, so the Marlins were able to conduct the festivities at Joe Robbie Stadium.

There were booths lining the outside concourses with all sorts of freebies, activities and discounted goodies. I picked up a complete set of programs from the team’s first season and a bat autographed by former manager Rene Lachemann. The team offered tours of the clubhouse and dugouts and even let fans see Jeff Conine's All-Star Game trophy . Former player Warren Cromartie broadcasting a radio show and greeting fans.

The areapas alone made the trip worthwhile. Areapas are a Cuban treat made from two slices of sweet cornbread grilled with cheese. Apparently they’re considered borderline carnival food, like elephant ears, which is why they were sold from a cart at a fanfest. But I’m hooked.

It was cool to be in Miami, which seems like a different country because virtually everyone speaks Spanish. I thought this was a good time to try my limited abilities. The guy selling hot dogs from the cart in outside the courthouse did not seem impressed.

One of the Miami Herald reporters took me out to lunch in a real Cuban restaurant in Little Havana. After the incident with the hot dog vender, I let Herald reporter order for me.

Back to the trial.

The sides presented their closing arguments, with the prosecutors playing the tape again. The public defender representing the teacher noted that the victims had filed a civil suit. He repeated two phrases over and over: "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," and "Show me the money!"

Now, I haven’t covered a lot of trials. And I know these guys didn’t have a lot to work with. But I’m thinking there are few successful legal defenses built upon quotes from "Jerry Maguire" and pithy phrases.

At first I wondered if the jury would even have to leave the box to break out with the verdict. I studied the six people — apparently that’s the number for some Florida trials — during the proceedings. There was one stern-looking woman who barely moved as she watched intently. One guy seemed odd, wearing shorts and carrying his lunch in a metal lunch box that he kept in his lap the entire time. And there was one person who I’m pretty sure slept through the whole thing.

No one could figure out what was taking so long, but I used the down time to get to know some people in the court. I’d been speaking to the lawyers on both sides on the phone for a couple weeks, so it was nice to let them connect my voice and face. They were all from New York, so we had a lot to talk about. The judge even called me into her chambers to chat and asked me to send her some of the Michigan newspapers. "I can’t imagine what they’re talking about in there," she said of the jury. "There isn’t really a lot to decide."

Finally, late in the morning of the second day, the jury came back. The court was packed with family members of the victims and some of the teacher’s family and friends. It was very quiet, and very tense. Then the clerk read the verdict: "Not guilty."

First there was stunned silence, like people couldn’t believe what was happening. Then all heck broke out.

Shrieks, screams, sobs. One of the fathers yelled "Burn in hell!" A mother yelled to one of the public defenders — who was seven months pregnant — that she hoped the lawyer’s child gets a teacher like the accused. Several of the girls collapsed in tears. The judge was hammering her gavel like Marky Ramone beats his snare drum.

I knew it would be a while before the victims families could compose themselves enough to talk to me, so I walked up to the defense table for a quote."You have to give me a couple minutes, Dave," the lead defender said. "We have statement here for a guilty verdict. We didn’t even write one for not guilty."