Baseball place No. 49: Yogi Berra Museum; and No. 49A: Minute Maid Park

Yogi Berra’s complicated.

He had all those years as a Yankee, even managing them to the World Series. Then, as if he suddenly realized just how tragic that was, Yogi sought redemption by signing with the Mets for a couple games.

Eventually, of course, Yogi managed the Mets to the “You Gotta Believe” pennant of 1973.

Sadly, proving that you can get sucked back in to the dark side, Yogi ended up in the Bronx again.

Apparently he also ended up in New Jersey, where he is the subject of the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center.

Josh Pahigian takes us there as place No. 49 in the “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

I try to limit my exposure to Yankeedom and New Jersey, so I’ve never been there.

But it’s a little known fact that Yogi spent time with another team, including one that staged an epic battle against our Mets. That would be the Houston Astros.

Yes, Yogi wore the rainbow-sleeved uniforms as an Astros bench coach in 1986.

That leads me to:

Alternative place No. 49A: Minute Maid Park

Here’s another adventure from the archives.

I usually don't mind a layover of an hour or two while traveling. But I confess that I was dragging on my way home from an education writers' conference in Houston in December 2004.

The conference itself was very helpful, our hosts at the Houston Chronicle were awesome and the city itself was nicer than I imagined.

But I usually try to work a baseball adventure into each of my work-related journeys, and this time I fell pretty short.

Minute Maid Park is downtown, but was a pretty good walk from where we were meeting, at least too long for a patented "got lost coming back from the rest rooms" side trips.

I made it to the yard 15 minutes before the gift shop closed. The clerk let me in, but wasn't particularly excited about it. I was able to snag an American League All-Star Game jersey on a clearance rack, but couldn't give the place the usual once-over that I like. And the shop was closed the rest of the weekend.

The store entrance is off a nice-looking lobby of what I believe was Houston's old train station, but I couldn't get any photos of the field or inside the stadium.

Keith feared that if Jesse threw another fastball, this pennant would say "NL Champs" instead.

There were some interesting things outside, like statues of Jeff Bagwell and Craig Biggio, but it was getting dark and my photos were disappointing. And the Biggio statue was actually kind of scary.

Bagwell, above, and the "Biggio as zombie searching for brains" statues.

It seemed odd since you usually don’t see statues of active players.

The park looked like a nice place to see a game, though. And I could see the home run train – decorated for Christmas – through the window.

Houston had another neat statue. There was a new park dedicated to President George H.W. Bush. Baseball + presidents = successful road trip.


And while I like cruising through airports, the trip home isn't as exciting as the first time through, especially in Atlanta's Hartsfield Airport.

I'd already ridden the underground train and explored all the gift shops and food courts. The only baseball items were related to the Braves, and you know I want no part of such things.

So I was aimlessly wandering one of the terminals, and I saw one of the gates decorated with tons of red, white and blue balloons. I assumed there must have been some soldiers returning from Iraq, and thought it would be a nice pick-me-up to see our heroes getting off a plane and into the arms of their families.

But within a minute or two, there was an announcement over the public address system: "Delta Airlines, the official airline of the 2004 World Champion Boston Red Sox, is proud to announce the arrival of a very special passenger, the 2004 World Series trophy."

What? You gotta be kidding me! The actual World Series trophy?

And sure enough, after all the passengers deplaned, the pilot and co-pilot walked into the gate area holding the trophy high. They placed it on a table surrounded by balloons, and people were allowed to pose for photos.

It was actually the first time I saw a legitimate use for those dopey cell phone cameras. Luckily, I had my own camera handy, and a Delta employee offered to snap the photo.


Officially known as the Commissioner's Trophy, it was first presented to the World Series winner in 1967, when the Cardinals beat the Red Sox in 7 games. The trophy features flags with each of the 30 teams on it and the World Series champion gets to keep it because a new one is made each year.

I've always thought the World Series trophy was cool because it is very different from the lame Super Bowl and NBA championship awards. You know exactly what it is at first glance.

I must say it was quite a thrill. I got to touch it and everything, and looked for the little pennant with the Mets name on it.

The Mets 1969 trophy is unique -- it's the only one to have the Seattle Pilots on it.

Naturally I had a lot of questions, namely why in the heck was the World Series trophy making an appearance in the Atlanta airport? I had heard that the Sox were sending it on a tour of New England and even their spring training home in Fort Myers.

But the Atlanta airport? Did the trophy ride in coach or first class? Did they try to charge it $5 for a “snack pack” that included 50 cents worth of pretzels, peanuts and Combos? Did some jerk in the seat in front of it drop his seat back down moments as soon as he could? And did the flight attendant roll her eyes when it asked for a full can of Diet Coke instead of a small, ice-filled plastic cup?

Not that such things have happened to me.

And what the heck was Yogi doing serving as the Astros bench coach?

Not that these nagging details stopped me from having fun. Talk about good timing! And it just goes to show that you never know when a good baseball adventure can happen.

Baseball place No. 28: Batcolum; Alternative places No. 28A) Other sculptures dressed to impress

Chicago’s only three hours away. Will lives there. So it’s not like I’m unfamiliar with the Windy City.

And I studied art and architecture in college, so I know a lot of the city’s iconic public art.

It’s also safe to say Will and I have explored anything related to baseball in the Second City.

So imagine my surprise when Josh Pahigian directs us to something called “Batcolumn” as his spot No. 28 in his “101 Baseball Places to See Before You Strike Out.”

Apparently, at 600 West Madison Street, there is a giant metal sculpture shaped like a bat. He even calls it “the granddaddy of all baseball sculptures,” saying it rises 100 feet and sits in front of the Harold Washington Social Security Administration building.

It was created by Swedish pop artist Claes Oldenburg. He also created a giant hot dog, clothespin, toothbrush and other common items that are commonly small.

No wonder I didn’t know about this thing. You can’t have Euro pop artists creating stuff they don’t understand. It’s as if I tried blogging about soccer.

I prefer Chicago art that, like me, dresses for the occasion when a favored team makes the World Series. That takes us to:

Alternative place No. 28A: Chicago Picasso, Art Institute lions and Grant Park Indian warriors.

Chicago went nuts in 2005 when the White Sox went to the World Series. I was pretty excited, too, as the Sox have always been sort of a secondary favorite since they snatched Tom Seaver.

Will suggested I come over before Game One to soak up some of the atmosphere around Comiskey – what we’ll always call it – take part in some of the general craziness around the Loop then watch the game with friends at a packed sports bar.

We arrived at the ballpark just after a press conference where the Houston and Chicago mayors announced their traditional goofy bet. Staffers were loading a cow painted with White Sox logos into the back of a truck. Others were handing out cool Ozzie Guillen masks.

Many of the souvenir vendors were already open, and we picked up our programs and scouted the assorted caps and pennants that we would no doubt find cheaper elsewhere.The park was abuzz with activity, from special signs being hung on fences to uniforms arriving from the cleaners.

With masks and programs in hand, Will directed me on a downtown tour of Chicago reveling in its first World Series since the Eisenhower administration.

The first stop was massive Indian statues at Grant Park. The horses were decked out in their finest pale hosiery.

Ivan Mestrovic’s warriors, known as “The Spearman” and “The Bowman,” were erected in 1928 at the Congress Plaza entrance to the park.

We checked out “The Bean,” when found the Art Institute of Chicago, where Edward L. Kemeys’ lions that guard the front steps are wearing their Sox caps.

I wondered where exactly where they came up with baseball caps to fit bronze lion statues. I can see how a talented seamstress can whip together a couple socks for the horses. But these hats were plastic and big.

Kemeys gave the Lions unofficial names. The southern one is “Stands in an Attitude of Defiance” and the northern one is “On the Prowl.” Wonder what he named his kids.

The lions have been guarding the Art Institute since 1894, and have been decked out in team attire just twice before -- 1984 for the Cubs and the following year for 'da Bears.

Then we made it over to Daley Center Plaza, where the Chicago Picasso also was wearing a Sox cap. The 50-foot sculpture, erected in 1967, is technically untitled. Should have brought Kemeys over.

The plaza was filled with people attending a Halloween event. We were walking around snapping more photos when two television cameramen saw our Ozzie Guillen masks and asked us to pose in front of the Picasso.

They asked us to jiggle the masks, then pull them away and cheer. They had us to this several times to get the shot just right. We might have been on the Fox pre-game show.

We late caught up with friends and watch the Sox smack down the Astros at an over-crowded sports restaurant. Like the statues, we were wearing our Sox caps.

Pausing to reflect and give thanks -- and take note of the turkeys

I think it’s a shame that Thanksgiving has become something of an afterthought for many people, lost in the crush of shopping and football.

I’ve always liked it. I’m thankful the Lord has blessed me in many, many ways and I don’t say “thank you” enough. I have my health, my family, a career I enjoy, a wonderful church, friends, blogger buddies and, of course, the Mets.

So let’s take a moment one again to reflect on all that was good this year – as well as the turkeys who get in the way.

I’m thankful: That we all got to enjoy a monumentally exciting 2006 baseball season with the Mets finishing in first place for only the fifth time. Wow, was that fun! And I think we’re the favorites to finish on top again in 2007.

Turkeys: Baseball writers who deemed Carlos Beltran only the fourth most-valuable player in the National League. I realize that writers are infatuated with homers for batters and wins for pitchers, and typically just look to the leader board in those categories to cast their votes. But fourth? Excellent blogger Greg Prince of Faith and Fear in Flushing posted on the Crane Pool Forum that he wonders if anyone has ever:
*Won a Gold Glove
*Won a Silver Slugger
*Started in the All-Star Game
*Tied his franchise's record for home runs in a season
*Broke his franchise's record for runs scored in a season
*Played on the team with the sport's best record
...and finished as low as fourth in the MVP voting. Alas, like the no-hitter, and MVP award continues to be elusive for Mets, even when they deserve it. And I’m also angry that Willie Randolph was denied the manager of the year award, too.

I’m thankful for: Costco. Or to be specific, the warehouse store’s liberal returns policy. As you might remember, my beloved 20-gig iPod went muerto last April, plunging me into depression and desperation and without the receipt demanded by Hewlett Packard to use the warranty. My clever Mom told me to go to Costco and see if they could produce the needed document. Once I arrived, the clerks said the just return the dead iPod to them and they would give me store credit to buy a new one. Needless to say, I’m the proud owner of a new 30-gig pod and sing the praises of Costco whenever appropriate – and sometimes when it’s not!

Turkey: Yankee hack Tom Verducci. Speaking of being plunged into depression, Verducci couldn’t believe that his beloved Yankees were unceremoniously dumped from the postseason by the Tigers. Verducci then wrote that “baseball is giving us an October with almost no drama, no moments for posterity and no storyline.” And worse, “If the 2006 baseball playoffs were a sitcom or talk show --- hate to break it to you, folks, but we're sitting through the Arsenio Hall of postseasons -- it would have been cancelled long ago." Apparently, if the Yankees are not involved, Tommy declares the postseason boring.

I’m thankful for: My pastor, the Rev. Paul Krupinski. Paul is a magnificent spiritual leader and has a knack for knowing when I’m down and knowing exactly what to do or say. But check this out – he’s a huge baseball fan! He’s a Cubs guy, which is OK since they’re not exactly a threat to anyone. But he formed a computer fantasy league what plays games based on stats from the previous year and a couple Hall-of-Famers we can add to the rosters. One Sunday before the service, Pastor Paul came over and said the next round of stats was available and on his desk. “I’ll get them after church,” I promised. “If you get them now, you can look at them during the service,” he responded. I’m never going to find a better pastor than that!

Turkey: Kenny “Bleeping” Rogers. We Mets fans know that Rogers can do spectacularly horrific things in the postseason. So it sure seemed suspicious when The Gambler started moving down Yankees and Athletics in the Division Series and ALCS like he was the second coming of Christy Mathewson. Then a Fox camera picked captured the image of a mysterious smudge on his palm during Game Two of the World Series, and ESPN produced photos from other games with similar smudges. Manager Jim Leyland didn’t want to send Rogers back out in front of the Busch Stadium fans – not exactly known for being bullies – and the Tigers didn’t win another game.

I’m thankful for: Speaking of the World Series, my folks presented me with an awesome early Christmas present, a ticket to Game One at Comerica Park. Sure, it would have been better to have the Mets there. But attending a World Series game – any World Series game – is a treat of a lifetime. I’ve been blessed to see Game Six in 1997, too.

Turkey: Guillermo Mota. It’s one thing when Yankees are accused of taking steroids. We expect such things. But it’s another when an active Met gets a 50-day unpaid vacation for testing positive. Now we lose the moral high ground as well as a decent pitcher for the first month and a half of the season

I’m thankful: That I had the opportunity to meet Buck O’Neil at the Negro Leagues Museum during a business trip to Kansas City in February. Buck, as everybody knows, passed away in October and was a beloved ambassador for baseball. O’Neil fell one vote shy of being inducted into the Hall of Fame, yet still made it to Cooperstown for the induction ceremony in August.

Turkey: Braden “Bleeping” Looper. Looper’s lucked into two World Series rings, and Mike Piazza has none. That’s fair. Loops lost his closer’s job to Ugeth Urbina when pitching for the Fish in 2003. This year, he was caught on camera mocking the Jose Reyes chant in the Cardinals’ post-game celebration after the birds got past the Mets in the NLCS. One might suggest to Looper that perhaps the Mets would have been in the postseason last year when Looper was on the team had he not blown eight saves.

I’m thankful for: Audio Adrenaline. My favorite Christian rock band is disbanding this year because singer Mark Stuart is having vocal problems. But I salute the band for helping me grow in my faith since I discovered its music in 2001. The song “Hands and Feet” has been an inspiration for me as I try to spread His word, and time and again I was able to use Audio A songs to illustrate lessons for the middle school youth group I lead.

I’m especially thankful for: You! And other readers who find this corner of the blogosphere. I’m humbled that people come to check out this space. I appreciate all the people who read and post comments. I hope to make it worth your while. I’m grateful to the other bloggers who include me in their links.

Have a wondeful, wonderful holiday!

Delmon, the Rocket and what to do with bat-chuckers

OK, let me get this straight.

Devil Rays prospect Delmon Young flicks his bat at an umpire and columnists come out of the woodwork with self-righteous rants about how he should be banished for the rest of the season, if not longer.

But then you have the 2000 World Series when Roger Clemens decided to perk up Game 2 by picking up the shattered barrel of Mike Piazza’s bat, then opted to play a game of “catch the javelin” by hurling it at our man Mike as he ran up the baseline.

Clemens must have been frustrated that Piazza made contact, since Rocket was no doubt aiming at Mikey’s noggin, where he’s thrown oh-so-many times in the past.

And what was Clemens’ penalty for his attemped biopsy? A $50,000 fine and the woosh of a basesball flying past his butt, since Shawn Estes apparently was unable to drill the Rocket when he had the chance to do it and all of New York – at least the part we care about – demanded it..

Then you had he fawning Yankee apologists in the media lauding Clemens’ “intensity” and implying that Piazza was a wuss for not charging the mound.

I assume that Piazza realized he was the best hitter on the team and getting tossed out during the first inning of a World Series game would hurt the Mets. That makes him smart.

But I don’t think anyone can accuse the 20-year-old Young of being smart, at least in this case.

In case you missed the video, Young last week was called out on strikes, then stood frozen in the box, then took his sweet time walking out. We can’t tell if he was mumbling some choice words as he left, but the umpire tossed him before he got too far.

Then, with Young off camera, you see a bat magically come flying in from the side, striking the umpire on the chest. It doesn’t look like the bat was thrown especially hard, though it was hard enough to fly at least 10 feet and hit someone near the shoulder.

The best part is the utter non-reaction from the other team’s catcher. The bat caught his eye, and you see him follow its flight. Then he took off his mask, turned and walked to the mound like nothing happened.

Young, the Devil Rays’ top prospect, was suspended indefinitely and awaits a formal punishment.

If he’s expecting the love tap that Clemens got, he’s mistaken. For one thing, he bonked an umpire, an authority figure, and not another player.

But most importantly, Clemens was a Yankee and there are different rules for them.

You think I’m kidding? Jason Giambi pretty much admits to being juiced in leaked grand jury testimony. Then Gary Sheffield allegedly admits to being stupid – technically, not realizing he was taking ‘roids.

And the response from Major League Baseball? (Cue the chirping crickets.)

But allegations are made in a book about Barry Bonds, who has the misfortune of playing for the Giants, and we have a former U.S. senator heading an investigation.

So Delmon can expect to be sent to time out for a good long stretch.

Of course, the best punishment might be to send him to the majors. Remember, he plays for the Devil Rays. Promote him and he’ll be playing for a horrible team in a dreadful stadium in butt-ugly uniforms.

If that doesn’t make suck out his will to live and make him beg for forgiveness, nothing will.

Windy City World Series Adventures

Baseball, of course, is a funny game. Our beloved Mets won a World Series in their seventh season, the expansion Marlins claimed a crown in their fourth, and the Diamondbacks laid waste the Evil Empire for a championship in their third season.

But the Chicago White Sox, a charter American League team, has not been to a series since 1959 and hasn't won one since 1917.

Will, now a Chicago resident, said the Windy City is going nuts over the Sox and invited me over to soak up a little World Series atmosphere and watch Game One in style.

We met at U.S. Cellular Field on the site of Old Comiskey park's home plate a few hours before the "security bubble" closed off access from Indiana to Wisconsin. OK, maybe it wasn't that bad, but we heard that if you didn't have a ticket -- and we did not -- you wouldn't get anywhere near the stadium near game time.

I arrived just after a press conference where the Houston and Chicago mayors announced their traditional goofy bet. Staffers were loading a cow painted with White Sox logos into the back of a truck. Others were handing out cool Ozzie Guillen masks.

Many of the souvenir vendors were already open, and we picked up our programs and scouted the assorted caps and pennants that we would no doubt find cheaper elsewhere.

I think it's interesting to watch a stadium come to life before a game, and "The Cell" was abuzz with activity, from special signs being hung on fences to uniforms arriving from the cleaners.

The cleaners delivery guy thought I was strange for wanting to snap photos of him doing his job. Even stranger was that I wasn't the only one.

If you don't think seeing this is exciting, you're reading the wrong column.

With masks and programs in hand, Will directed me on a downtown tour of Chicago reveling in it's first World Series since the Eisenhower administration.

The first stop was massive Indian statues at Grant Park. The horses are decked out in their finest pale hosery.

We then walked up the street to Millenium Park where we started seeing more and more Sox supporters. The new sculpture "Cloud Gate" -- Will calls it "the Bean," and I like his name better -- is amazing to see. Walking away we ran into a family in their Sox finest. The dad had several rally monkeys hanging in nooses draped over his shoulder. I'm assuming they're left over from the League Championship Series, but you never know.

Not far away was the Art Institute of Chicago, where the lions that guard the front steps are wearing their Sox caps. Very cool.

I wondered where exactly do you get plastic baseball caps to fit bronze lion statues. I can see how a talented seamstress can whip together a couple socks for the horses. But these hats were plastic and big.

It's best not to wonder too much about these things, and just be grateful that the lions were tasteful enough to sport fitted caps without cheesey mesh.

The lions have been guarding the Art Institute since 1894, and have been decked out in team attire just twice before -- 1984 for the Cubs and the following year for 'da Bears.

We then walked a few blocks over the Daley Plaza, where the tall Pablo Picasso sculpture sits. He, too, is wearing a Sox cap.

Some nice Sox fans offered to take our photo in front of the Art Institute.

The plaza was filled with thousands of kids attending some kind of Halloween event. I'm assuming that because they were wearing costumes. Either that, or they were Cubs fans too ashamed to show their faces in public.

We were walking around snappling more photos when two television cameramen saw our Ozzie Guillen masks and asked us to pose in front of the Picasso. They asked us to jiggle the masks, then pull them away and cheer. They had us to this several times.

When they were done -- and after we asked them to snap a photo of us in front of the Picasso -- they told us to watch the game that night. Maybe we were part of the pregame show, or will appear sometime in a broadcast. You've been warned.

We had already read that security would be tight around the city. Chicago police have always enjoyed a reputation of being somewhat aggressive. But we had no idea the city was actually employing Imperial Stormtroopers. Kind of explains the 1968 Democratic convention, though.

Blogger Darth Marc will be shocked to see that the Empire backs the Sox.

I heard a radio report on my way in that said the Cubs had hung a banner reading "Congratulations Sox" in front of Wrigley. This I simply had to see. That, and we knew there are a number of large souvenir stores near the stadium. So we treked up to the northside for shopping and some lunch.

The stores delivered as expected, with World Series caps going for $5 to $10 cheaper than in the booths outside Comiskey.

But not only was there not a sign on Wrigley, they were tearing the place down. No kidding! Most of the bleachers were rubble. Apparently the thought of the Sox in the Series was just too much for the Cubbies.

Apparently the Cubs have started their long-stated plan to expand the bleachers out over the sidewalk. We were kind of sad after walking around to the other side and seeing that one of our memory spots was no more. The strike zone that provided the scene for our epic Wiffle Ball game against the alleged major-leaguer and the actor from Bull Durham had already been demolished.You can read about it here.

While there were no decorated statues in Wrigleyville, we were surprised to see some of the local establishments jumping on the bandwagon. This bar across the street appears to have gotten some grief for supporting the Sox.
We took a break from our atmosphere-soaking to enjoy some Chicago-style hot dogs at a shop down the street. Apparently asking for a dog "with everything" means a virtual salad on a bun. I wimped out on the peppers, but it was an outstanding meal.


We then headed back to Will's place to hammer out our next baseballtruth.com column before finding a place to settle in to watch the game with friends.

We found one of those sports-themed restaurants with a million televisions. It was so crowded that we knew we'd never get a table, but no one cared. Actually, the fire marshal seemed to care when he arrived about midway through the game with some paperwork for the manager to fill out.

But it was a great place to enjoy the game, with the crowd going nuts with every hit and nice play. The crowded erupted in cheers when Bobby Jenks dispensed with the Astros to end Game One.

So not having tickets didn't stop us from having an awesome time enjoying the World Series in Chicago.

Watching a White Sox World Series game with friends: Priceless! Left to right: Jim, Laurie, Amy and Ozzie Guillen or Will, I kept getting confused.

Extra innings: Greg from the awesome Faith and Fear in Flushing site offered this proof of the Cubs offering their support to the Sox. Thanks, Greg!

Unexpected Glories of October

rhetorical question: n. A question to which no answer is expected, or which the answer is already known.

One day in late October 1997, my father called me with such a question: If he could get tickets to the World Series, would I fly down to Florida?

Naturally, if he could get tickets to the World Series, I would crawl to Florida, if necessary.

The Marlins have been one of my second tier teams since my parents surprised me with a ticket to their historic debut game in 1993. Things got exciting when owner H. Wayne Huizenga opened his checkbook for some key players, though I disagree with the notion that he purchased the pennant like the Yankees try to do each season.

He certainly added some key studs, like pitchers Kevin Brown and Al Leiter, and outfielder Moises Alou. But other players — Jeff Conine, Charles Johnson, Rob Nen — either came through the system or had been with the team a while. And Cuban refugee Livan Hernandez was the toast of the town.

So it was with great excitement that I watched the Fish advance through the playoffs and make it to the World Series in 1997, playing the Cleveland Indians.

And I was practically doing cartwheels when he called to say he was able to get us tickets. Attending any Series game is a dream come true. And to see a Series game with a team I like, well, that's just over the top.

Dad amazingly snagged tickets for Game 6, which made things a little tricky. Of course I was rooting for the Fish to win, but they had to lose a couple games purely for my selfish reasons.

And sure enough, the team traded victories with the Indians for the first four games, and took Game Five in Ohio, setting up a potential clincher with me in the stands.

Dad spoils me, and so does my wife, who let me run off on this baseball adventure while she stayed home with the six-month-old and five-year-old kids, not an easy task.

Attending a World Series game is a once-in-a-lifetime event, so you have to do some planning, right down to the outfit. I packed my Marlins vest jersey with teal undershirt, though I was torn over wearing the original teal cap from the inaugural year, or the black cap with the official World Series patch that the team would be wearing on the field. Such things are important.

We got to the stadium before the gates opened, as planned, so we could hunt for programs and other essential souvenirs and get them back to the car so we wouldn’t have to lug them around in the backpack the whole game. This decision turned out to be a good one, as you’ll soon see.

I was a little excited to go to a World Series game.

And the atmosphere outside Joe Robbie Stadium was absolutely crackling. There were salsa bands, tailgating — a teal party wherever you looked. There was a smattering of Indians fans. I saw guys with their faces painted like Chief Wahoo. I’m not a fan of the Wahoo logo, but you have to salute freaks in facepaint who obviously paid attention in art class.

Some Tribe fans made the trip to Miami.

The weather in South Florida was 80 degrees and perfect — a sharp contrast to the games in Cleveland, which were complete with snow flurries and 15-degree temperatures.

We went inside as soon as the gates opened, and twisted up the circular ramp to our level, where we encountered the first moral dilemma of the day.

Draped over a trash can was a large vinyl banner with the Marlins and Coke logos and the words "Congratulations Marlins." It’s the kind of advertising thing you see hanging around stadiums. But this one wasn’t hanging up, and there did not appear to be any employees around who were in the act of hanging such things up.

Our questions: Was this garbage? If we took it, would it be stealing?

We were debating this when a guy walked up and said, "If you’re not taking that, I am."

Our response? "In the backpack!" We quickly rolled it up and got it to fit -- barely. Sometimes -- but not often -- it’s better to act first and fast and worry about the messy moral questions later.

And the banner looks very nice decorating my baseball room, along with the newspaper rack cards, subway signs and other baseball-related advertising that posed similar moral dilemmas over the years.

This decision we can blame on an empty stomach, so we chased down some arepas, the local treat that tastes even better at a ballgame — especially a World Series game.

Our seats were awesome, in the second row by the Marlins bullpen out in rightfield. Settling in, it seemed both like every other ballgame I’ve attended and yet something entirely different. It looked the same, but there was a collective electricity moving through the stands — especially since it was among the largest World Series crowds ever. The Marlins opened up upper deck football seats that are normally covered and unsold, boosting attendance to 67,000.

I thought things were breaking in the Fish’s favor. Ace Kevin Brown would battle an undistinguished young pitcher, Chad Ogea, a 26-year-old who posted an 8-9 record and unimpressive 4.99 ERA during the season.
And this is why baseball is a glorious game. October has a way of making heroes out of the players who aren’t supposed to be.

Indians third-baseman Matt Williams started the second inning with a single, and Jim Thome and Marquis Grissom walked, loading bases. Up stepped pitcher Ogea.

Keep in mind that as an American League pitcher, Ogea didn’t get to bat much, only in some interleague games that season. Easy prey for a stud like Brown. You would think.

Ogea fouled off four pitches, and he shouldn’t have been able to make contact. Then he lined a single past Jeff Conine, scoring Thome.

It was his first ever Major League hit, and became first Indians pitcher to drive in a run since Steve Dunning homered on Sept. 1972, a year before the AL introduced the DH.

And he wasn’t done. In the fifth, Ogea smacked a double between Conine and the bag, and later scored on Ramirez's fly for a 4-0 lead. He was the first pitcher with two hits and two RBI in a series game since Tiger -- and future ex-Met — Mickey Lolich in 1968.

That sucked the air out of the crowd; it wasn’t the kind of World Series history fans were hoping to see. But history nonetheless. I was still a very happy camper.

Some players have years of success and others get fleeting moments of glory. Game Six was Ogea’s career moment. He finshed with a 37-35 career record with a 4.88 ERA over six years.

I flew back to Michigan the next day, excited and exhausted, and got home in time to hang my banner and catch Game Seven on the television. The folks at the stadium that night — were they rooting for the team to lose my game? — got to see the Fish celebrate after beating the Indians in a 10-inning thriller.

The scoreboard told the tale of Game Six -- and the first five games, too.