Motor City adventures with Manny Acosta, our new favorite Met,

So Manny Acosta is one of my favorite Mets now. Yeah, it surprised me, too.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Caroline and I made the trip to Detroit last week to see our Mets battle the Tigers at Comerica Park. Now, any opportunity to see the Mets is a great and glorious one, but my last two Motor City-Mets meetings have not gone well for our boys.

The first was a 14-0 bengal beatdown in the Mets' first-ever game in Detroit. The second adventure, this time at Comerica in 2007 was a little better, though the Mets still lost 15-7 with Tom Glavine being disappointed but not devastated.

But those games were during the Streak of Shame. Since that was snapped in Cincinnati, I'm a Mets good luck charm, with a 9-0 victory at Citi Field and even a pair of spring training wins.

Detroit fans are a pretty mellow and humble bunch, so I never fear abuse for wearing Mets gear. The Tom Seaver 1969 flannel gets taken out for only the most formal occasions, so with the assistance of the friends in the Crane Pool Forum I opted to wear the 1992 Eddie Murray home jersey. With racing stripes and buttons, it's very tasteful.

We arrived before the gates opened – of course – and stood in line with another Long Island transplant, he wearing a black David Wright road jersey. He said he was surprised that he wasn't getting any abuse, adding that Phillies fans start abusing him even before he gets to the ballpark.

I wasn't too surprised – Phillies fans can be rough, as Rob will confirm. But I was even less surprised when my new friend mentioned that a pre-game ritual is driving through the streets of Philly with a Chase Utley jersey dragging behind the car. That's hardcore.

We made our way to the first row alongside the Mets dugout to watch batting practice. I brought the glorious Mets book on the off-chance that a player would come by and sign autographs. The Mets are notorious non-signers, and I'm usually very happy to get just a wave.

But third base coach Chip Hale came along, then Scott Hairston. That's two signatures added to the hundreds in the book, and one more than the 2007 encounter, when only Jorge Sosa was willing to be included in the tome.

Brother-in-law Jeff's advice about StubHub was spot-on, so much so that a Comerica usher thought we were seat-crashing in out spots in the aisle 25 rows behind Mets dugout. He was apologetic after I produced the tickets, and our new friend, offering two Tigers pocket schedules with Justin Verlander and much discussion throughout the game. He thought Jose Reyes would look good in a Tigers uniform.

And, as if his ears were burning, Jose led off with a hit, moved to second and scored on Daniel Murphy's double. The Murphy scored on Angel Pagan's double. The team already was ahead of the 1997 game.

But the best was to come in the fourth inning. Josh Thole launched an absolute bomb into the right field bleachers. Then Reyes tripled and came around on a Willie Harris hit.

My daughter was keeping score, and we discussed strategy amid the glorious scoring. With men on third and second and first base open and two out, I explained that Angel Pagan would get nothing to hit and probably walk because the Tigers would rather pitch to Jason Bay, who, I explained, is a bum.

Daddy looked wise when Pagan did, in fact, walk. And he looked like a dunce when Bay ripped one down the left field line, just around the foul pole and into the stands for a grand slam.

The Mets had not him a grannie since 2009, and have given up 18 of them since, mostly to the Phillies. So this historic moment was appreciated and apologies extended to Mr. Bay.

The next inning the Mets loaded the bases again, this time with Carlos Beltran at the dish. Beltran, I explained, is not a bum. But it would be too much to ask for another grand slam from a team seemingly allergic to them. Nobody told that to Beltran, and he smacked one over the left-centerfield wall for the second slam in as many innings.

There was only mild concern when the Tigers' Austin Jackson cracked a two-run homer in the bottom of that inning and when Andy Dirks send one deep in the seventh.

The Mets tacked on one more to make it 14, sending most of the Tigers fans packing. Caroline and I moved down a little closer so we could get photos of the post-game celebration, rare as they might be with me in attendance.

Now, I confess. I have said some unkind things about Mets pitcher Manny Acosta in the past. I was not entirely thrilled to see him take the hill in the ninth inning, even with a 14-3 game seemingly in hand.

But Brennan Boesch popped out to left, Dirks made an out to second, and Don Kelly swung and missed for a strike three, ending the game.

It was fun to see the Mets celebrating the big win, and I knew Acosta had the ball that was used for final out. As he walked to the dugout steps, we called out, “Nice game, Manny!” He looked up and must have seen Caroline and I in our Mets finest, because he smiled and threw us the ball. I had my camera in one hand and grabbed the ball in another, clutching it to my body.

Some kid next to me started pawing me, trying to wrest the ball from my grip.

Then, I heard a voice I had never heard before – coming from me, nonetheless. It was deep and scary.

Get. Your. Hands. Off. My. Ball.

The kid pulled his hands away, knowing what was good for him. I promptly gave the ball to my own kid to enjoy.

Manny Acosta. How about that.

A different usher asked to see the ball – he promised to give it back – and then offered to take a photo of me and Caroline. He then directed us to guest services, where the staff members would present us with a certificate proclaiming that we, in fact, had an official ball from a Major League Game.

On the way out I apologized for any unkind things I might or might not have said about Mr. Bay and Mr. Acosta, and we slipped off into the Detroit night for the long trip home, rewarded by the Mets for our devotion.

Tiger fans, these New Yorkers know your pain

One of the nice things about going to a game at Comerica Park is that you occasionally bump into another New Yorker.

I ran into Liberty near the carousel food court last month and a Tigers photog snapped this shot. Both of us are dressed for the occasion, though I’m wearing Pedro Martinez’s Mets All-Star Game jersey from 2005.

My relationship with the Tigers is complicated.

There are two big strikes against the team.

First, they play in the American League. Ick.

Second, they’re not the Mets.

Neither are entirely the team’s fault. But I can only obsessively follow one heart-breaking franchise at a time and I certainly cannot abandon my roots.

After all, I’m not a Michigander who was born in New York. I’m a New Yorker who lives in Michigan.

The former fondly remembers eating great poppy seed bagels for breakfast every day. The latter still eats poppy seed bagels for breakfast every day and bemoans that they’re just not as good as the ones in Massapequa Park.

I don’t root against the Tigers. I treat them with friendly indifference.

A lot of friends here are big fans, and the Tigers have provided a venue for some amazing baseball adventures for me over the years, including a World Series game.

It’s nice to see former West Michigan Whitecaps wearing the Old English D. I make an annual late-season trip to Comerica. I watch some games on television while on the treadmill.

This year, however, was a little different.

With the Mets decimated by injuries, I started paying a little bit of attention to the folks in Detroit, checking the scores each night and looking to see if Curtis Granderson was doing well.

I cared, for a change.

And I commiserated with co-workers as losses to the Royals and White Sox mounted and the Twins crept closer.

I followed Tuesday’s disaster on my iPhone, and felt a very familiar feeling setting in.

On Wednesday, a distraught co-worker slumped into her seat, saying she was still unable to get over that the Tigers lost first place on the final game of the season, blowing the tie-breaker in extra innings.

After months of planning and looking forward to post-season baseball, there would be none for her.

"Oh, I know how you feel," I said with a sigh. "Exactly how you feel."

Baseball Place No. 53: Frank Navin's resting spot; and No. 53A: "Dead" Cubs fan at Wrigly Field, seats behind home plate

Josh Pahigian comes right here to Michigan, and I confess it’s to a spot I’ve never visited.

He picks former Tigers owner Frank Navin’s crypt at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Southfield as spot No. 52 in the “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

I’m sure he picked Navin’s crypt because of the two Tiger statues standing guard. But doing a little research, I learned the cemetery has as many Tigers interred than are standing on the Comerica Park Field during gametime.

Aside from Navin, fellow owner Walter Briggs also has a crypt, sans the statues. Tiger Stadium once was called both Navin Field and Briggs Stadium.

Then you have Hall-of-Famers Charlie Gehringer and Harry Heilmann. Rounding out the roster are Vic Wertz, Dick Radatz, Billy Rogell, Barney McCosky, Steve Gromek and Al Cicotte.

“Leaping Mike” Menosky never played for the Tigers, but he’s buried there, too. Golfer Walter Hagen rests there as well.

So someday I’ll have to make it over there and pay respects to this fine gathering of ballplayers.

I did spend time with someone at Wrigley who I thought was about to join these guys in the great beyond.

Alternative place No. 52A: Wrigley Field, seats behind home plate.


Here’s another tale from the archives!

My assignment was to check out a charter school in Chicago that was run by a company setting up a similar school in Flint, where I worked at the time.

It was just a coincidence that the Cubs were in town on the day we were scheduled to be there.It also was just a coincidence that I wrapped up the last interview in time to make it to Wrigley before the first pitch.

These things happen.

What also happened that day was one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen at a ballpark.

Since I was buying just one ticket, the Cubs were able to sell me a seat about five rows right behind home plate — among the best seats I’ve ever scored. Chris Berman of ESPN was in the next section.

It was a beautiful May day, and Jon Leiber was throwing against the Braves and future Hall-of-Famer Tom Glavine.

Glavine was not at his best that day, giving up five runs including a blast from Sammy before being chased in the fifth. Not that we Mets fans have ever seen anything like that from Glavine.

But the real story took place in the seat in front of mine.

Early in the game, a guy wandered to his seat with a beer in each hand. He looked a lot like the Jim Belushi character in "...About Last Night," wearing a Starter red Bulls jacket and sweat pants.

He didn’t spend much time in his seat, disappearing for an inning at a time to buy more beer and smoke in the concourse — which was fine with me. I was enjoying the unobstructed view of Chipper Jones taking a collar with two strikeouts.

Later in the game, the guy came back and slumped down in his seat to take a nap. I remember thinking, "What a waste of one of the best seats in Wrigley."

As this guy slept, he apparently tried to get more comfortable, stretching out instead of slumping. His arms went out over the seats on either side of him. Keep in mind, Wrigley is an old ballpark with small seats and narrow rows. His head now stretched back so far into my personal space that I had a hard time keeping score in my program.

This went on for an inning or so, with people sitting around me making jokes.

Suddenly the guy’s arms started shaking and bubbly spittle was forming on his lips. I knew this wasn’t good.

Then we heard something spilling and saw a puddle forming under his seat. Did he knock over his beer? No. He was wetting himself.

Now, one of the things I remember best from Mr. Ousteckey’s eighth-grade science class is that the first thing you do after dying is wet your pants — the body just releases everything.

I remember thinking, "This guy is dead. There is a dead Cub fan practically in my lap."

The guy in the seat next to me started freaking out, waving frantically for an usher. One came over and radioed for the paramedic on duty. A lot of people in the section were trying to move away.

I was scared, but apparently had the presence of mind to continue keeping score, as my program would indicate.

The paramedic was pretty calm. He leaned over the guy, poked him a little and said. "Hey, chief. I work for the Cubs. Let’s go for a walk."

The guy -- apparently not dead -- woke up, groggily stood up and started walking with the paramedic. Then he stopped, turned around and went back for the half a cup of beer in the cup holder. He walked off, oblivious to what had transpired. Someone came by with a cup of water to pour under his seat and dilute the puddle.

Apparently these guys have some experience with drunken Cub fans.

Tigers, Yankees, pie and the spectacle

Remember the scene in “Stand By Me” where Gordie is sitting around the campfire and tells the story about the pie-eating contest?

The thumbnail version is that the overweight, picked-on kid enters the contest and plots his revenge against the town by downing a whole bottle of castor oil just before the event, eats the pies then hurls all over the place. As the smell of the vomit wafts through people in the crowd, they, too, start hurling all over everyone and everything.

As this is happening, the picked-on kid stands on the stage, proudly surveying the chaos he has created.

Friends, I submit to you that the Detroit Tigers are “Lard Ass” Hogan.

In the wake of their improbable triumph over the Evil Empire, the Tigers have unleashed chaos and despair over all things Yankee.

It’s a beautiful thing. Let’s chronicle the events since that fateful Saturday night.

1) There are rumblings that Yankee skipper Joe Torre will be packing his bags. I guess nine straight first-place finishes and six trips to the World Series are not enough to keep your job.

And when you think about it, this should polish off Torre as a manger. How can he go somewhere else with his reputation intact? It’s not like any team searching for a manager is ready to contend, unless you put a lot of faith in the “Sack Showalter, Soar to the Series” theory.

So wherever Torre lands next, when he finishes anywhere other than first place, people will say, “See, he can’t win without a $200 million payroll. A trained chimp or Don Zimmer could have manager to the playoffs.”

2) If No. 1 is true, then reports are that Yankee retread Lou Piniella will take over. Oh yeah, that’s what they need, a guy last seen bailing from the Devil Rays, right after bailing on the Mariners.

Anybody care to speculate how fiery Lou’s tantrums will go over in a Yankee clubhouse allegedly stocked by corporate executive types?

If Lou couldn’t motivate a bunch of juvenile Devil Rays, what makes anyone think players like Jorge Posada and Derek F. Jeter will do anything but chuckle when Piniella goes into his “Throw the Base” routines?

3) One of the arguments in favor of Lou is that he’s had success with Alex Rodriguez in Seattle. That may be true, except the universal consensus is that 8-Rod, too, is headed out of town.

Alex, of course, got lose with the “I sucked” comments while Tigers players were pouring champagne on Michigan State Police troopers’ hats.

Now, I’m not saying Alex is wrong. The stats don’t lie. He did suck, and for $25 million he could have mixed in an occasional base hit.

But the truth is that signs point to Rodriguez being banished even before his clubhouse confessional.

You don’t bat the reigning MVP eighth in a win-or-go-home game unless you are trying to make a statement. You also don’t sign off on Yankee hacks writing damning articles in Sports Illustrated the week before the playoffs unless you are trying to tell someone they are not wanted.

Heck, if the series had gone one more game, Rodriguez probably would have been assigned to the ground crew or being the bat boy.

Don’t blame this all on Torre. I don’t believe for a minute that any of those things could have happened without the higher-ups signing off. Maybe they even ordered the hit.

4) Speaking of ARod, the New York Daily News looked to bump it’s circulation among Mets fans by posting this headline on the back page on Tuesday: “Blame Jeter.”

I have no problem for that. I blame Jeter for everything from gas prices to the Blue Jays’ horrid uniform. But the News actually tried to back up their allegations with facts.

Jeter, the apparent pick among AL beat writers to take home an underserved MVP, got toasted for being a rather lame team captain and not defending ARod when he was getting pounded on all season, allowing the situation to snowball to the point that Rodriguez was a quivering pile of pinstriped pooh once the postseason rolled around.

It’s a major event when the fawning New York media implies that Jeter had a day that wasn’t quite as glorious as the day he is entitled to for all his greatness. To see these guys actually state that St. F. Jeter has a fault is just shocking. I’m sure apologists like Klapisch and Verducci will strike back in full rage during the next few days, possibly even picketing outside the News’ headquarters.

No doubt all of this was fueled by the Mets’ chipping their way past the Dodgers on the same day. I’m not a Newsday fan, but the “Sweep and Weep” headline was possibly the best ever.

When all this shakes out, here’s what I expect to see happen.

1) Torre is indeed fired, takes his $7 million contract and spend the year making occasional visits to the Baseball Tonight studios where he can join Steve Phillips in second-guessing his former employers.

2) Piniella takes over, throws a fit when Bobby Abreu goes only 3 for 4 in a game against the Red Sox, overturns the clubhouse spread and is stunned when Mariano Rivera shows no emotion when a piece of fried chicken bounces off his forehead. Silly Lou, cyborgs don’t show emotion.

3) After a year of meltdowns and a second-place finish behind the Red Sox, Der Boss decides that the Yankees need a more calming presence and rehires Joe Torre.

4) Alex Rodriguez is traded to the Los Angeles Angels for a Rally Monkey and Dean Chance, who despite being long retired is still younger than Randy Johnson, and Donnie Moore, who despite being, well, dead, is more useful to the team than Carl Pavano. The Yankees agree to pay whatever part of ARod’s $25 million contract that the Rangers aren’t paying.

5) ARod regains his form and is sent to Red Sox at the trading deadline for Manny Rameriz, Mike Lowell and Roger Clemens, who came out of retirement a week prior to the deal. Rodriguez, who does not bat eighth, goes on an eight-week power binge. In an important game against the Yanks, ARod strides to the plate to face Mo Rivera with the bases loaded and promptly clanks one off the Ruth monument. Jeter trips him as he trots past, prompting Verducci to write “Classless ARod tries to pass through Derek’s personal space.” Rivera shows no emotion because cyborgs don’t show emotion.

Remember, you read it here first!

Knitting and cussing at Comerica

I like going to games by myself, and I’m not one of those people who easily starts conversations with strangers, preferring to quietly keep score and enjoy the festivities.

My new friend Mary Ann would have no part of that.

On Thursday I made my annual final-homestand roadtrip to Comerica Park to see the Tigers and Blue Jays. These excursions have been eventful in the past, from watching the White Sox clinch last year to Mike Sweeney tossing me a ball in an otherwise downbeat trip during one of those make-up games in the first week of October in 2001.

Typically on these trips I can pretty much sit anywhere. But given the Tigers impending trip to the playoffs, there’s a lot of excitement in Motown, attracting 28,000 to an afternoon game.

You can usually get a good seat when you’re buying just one ticket, and the clerk at the booth was able to set me up 20 rows from the field right behind home plate.

After making the mandatory lap of the concourse and inspection of the gift shops, I purchased my yearbook and program and proceeded to section 129.

And there in seat 9 I saw an elderly black woman in a black beret. I slipped past, sat down and politely said “Hello” before taking out my program.

“Young man, I’m going to ask you to forgive me,” she said.

I was confused. “For what?”

“There’s a chance I might curse during the game.”

I laughed, and said, “Ma’am, you’re in the right place. Feel free to cuss away."

She then introduced herself, telling me her name and explaining that she came to the game with her son, Lou, who was attending his first game at Comerica.

My new friend, who Lou later told me was 80 years old, soon told me all about her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, including the son-in-law in the Navy who is stationed in Japan.

Mary Ann belted out both anthems, proud that she knew the lyrics to “O Canada,” though I think Lou wanted to hide under his seat.

The game started horribly for the Tigers, with errors by Brandon Inge and Kenny Rogers contributing to the Jays posting two quick runs. Mary Ann pulled out two small knitting needles and beige yarn, saying she liked to knit when she was nervous. She knit a lot during the game, with good reason.

The Blue Jays jumped all over Rogers – like I haven’t seen him meltdown before -- chasing the notorious Andruw Jones-walker in the fourth-inning. The Jays were up 7-0 by the end of the frame.

After each hit, I heard Mary Ann emphatically say “Sugar!” and noticed her knitting more furiously.

She knew her baseball. Lou was calling for Rogers to get pulled during the first inning, and said players should be fined for making errors. Mary Ann would explain to him that’s not the way it works. Rogers would get a couple innings to right the ship, and players have contracts.

“He’s new to the game,” she told me with a wink.

The Blue Jays lead – and A. J. Burnett not giving up a hit until the fourth -- cheered the guy who sat on the other side of me, a gentleman who lives outside of Toronto and shares a block of season tickets at the Rogers Centre with a group of 10 friends.

When Mary Ann wasn’t talking, my Canadian friend was, telling me how the trip across the border is getting more difficult, new food concessions at the former SkyDome and the lowdown on the Jays’ young infielders.

We were also amazed that the Jays twice tried stealing third base on Pudge Rodriguez, both time failing miserably – especially when turtle-fast Jason Phillips was one of the would-be stealers.

The Tigers started making noise in the bottom of the fourth, loading the bases with none out and Carlos Guillen coming to the plate, the crowd on its feet.

Guillen wiffed. Then it happened.

“Ooooooooohhhhh shit! No! Sugar! I mean sugar! ”

“Mom!” Lou said, shocked.

I just laughed. “You told me that might happen.”

The Tigers made things interesting, pushing a run across in the fourth and adding two in the sixth before adding one in the seventh. Then Sean “The Mayor” Casey launched a two-run bomb to bring them within a run. Lou was convinced each hit was the result of his Mom’s prayers.

Alas, the Jays added an insurance run in the eighth, and Brandon League and B.J. Ryan mowed the Tigers down.

But a good time was had by all – though I never would have expected it. There was something familiar about talking baseball all afternoon with a senior citizen.

I dawned on me later it was like those games from my youth, when my Grandmother would take me to see the Mets at Shea. I finally got to return the favor, taking her to a couple spring training games in 1996. We lost her the next year.

Next time I go to a game by myself I might not be as shy. You never know who you might be sitting near – and it’s OK if they need to cuss a little.