Elvin Anduhar is "The Man"
Right, so.
Since I’ve not exactly done a good job of keeping up with things here (or anywhere else, truth be told) I’m going to have to be fairly spotty in my recreation of the last half month.
All in all, there hasn’t been much of note going on, or at least nothing good, really. T’s birthday was, in fact, dreadful: velvet rope bar, overpriced drinks, and some of the worst clientele I’ve had the misfortune of sharing a room with since I moved to the city.
I am still working slowly, when at all. Today would, so far be in the “not at all” category.
Saw “24-Hour Party People” last night. How cool am I that I’m pretty sure I was at the Hacienda in Manchester back in the day. As I recall, it really was just a nightclub like any other, which confirms the suspicions I’ve always had about those who wax poetic about Studio 54’s heyday. A club is a club is a club, and they all pretty much suck. Still, I demand the indie-points I deserve from having been there.
I did see what may have been the most enjoyable baseball game of my life last week. I went to the second-to-last game of the season for the Brooklyn Cyclones. Cute park, cute fans, the whole adorable minor-league experience. Still, there is something sad and unsettling about all of the old-school Brooklyn Dodgers fans who still remember every crevice of Ebbetts field and still seem to be waiting for their “bums” to return. The mythology has outlived any healthy baseball memory and become a rather dirge-ful and oddly hostile kind of fandom. Coupled with the fact that an older gent who tended to “spray it” when he would “say it” sat next to me, and it didn’t seem particularly promising, really. Still the crowd out in the rightfield bleachers seemed to change around me as the game went on, and got cooler and affably rowdy as the fairly dull game went on. They ended up adopting the Cyclone’s right fielder, a banjo-hitting dude named Elvin Andujar who was only playing because the “real” rightfielder got hit by a pitch in the first inning. The crowd roared at every move Andujar made, but in a way that actually seemed supportive rather than mocking. Andujar seemed confused but appreciative by the nonstop chants of “Elvin! Elvin! Elvin!” and began playing more and more to the crowd as the game went on. The Cyclones dropped a three-run lead to fall behind 3 to 4 by the sixth inning. Our man came up in the bottom of the ninth, with a chance to tie the game up with a base hit (one out, man on second). We, of course, exploded when he came to the plate. Perhaps he was a little over-pumped, because after swinging so hard he almost fell down, he grounded out to the shortstop. Nevertheless, he moved the runner over, and Brooklyn managed to tie the game and head to extra innings. Elvin came back into the field and we treated him like a conquering hero. Finally, he came up again in the eleventh, with one on and two out. We’d been assuring him for the entire top of the inning that he was the man ( or “los hombre”, as those sensitive enough to note from their scorecards that he was Dominican told him). He would, we assured him, be the hero of the game, no matter his 0-3 performance thus far that night or his .137 average for the season. Tonight, the crowd, explained to him, he was destined for greatness. We were, however, unprepared when he hit a line shot over the 412 sign in centerfield to win the game with a walk-off homer. The few, loyal, and loud fans that had lasted out all 11 innings on the rickety aluminum bleacher in rightfield went insane with joy. It was World-Seriesesque - strangers hugging, high-fives all ‘round. We screamed and stomped for a curtain call, and when Andujar finally came out to us in the field, he was burdened down with the biggest grin imaginable and a big pile of little squishy balls to throw to his fans. I caught one, happily. It’s going on my bookshelf.
I’m sure I could make a big pietistic point about what is or is not “good” about baseball, and debate the relative merits and “purity” of the minors versus the majors, but I’m pretentious enough without doing that. Suffice it to say it was a great day at the park, and I can’t think of another night in New York that was that much fun and only cost me five bucks.
So my new favorite player: Elvin Anjujar. I wonder if I can get a Jersey…
Other than the big baseball adventure (the relation of which has made me feel like a horrifying mix of Doris Kearns Goodwin and myself at twelve), there has been only minimal doings. I spend another wonderful-awful day with P, which ended, as it would have to, badly, but things seem to have stabilized a bit, which is good for all involved.
Now I think I’m going to play computer games. Boy, am I ever productive.
Since I’ve not exactly done a good job of keeping up with things here (or anywhere else, truth be told) I’m going to have to be fairly spotty in my recreation of the last half month.
All in all, there hasn’t been much of note going on, or at least nothing good, really. T’s birthday was, in fact, dreadful: velvet rope bar, overpriced drinks, and some of the worst clientele I’ve had the misfortune of sharing a room with since I moved to the city.
I am still working slowly, when at all. Today would, so far be in the “not at all” category.
Saw “24-Hour Party People” last night. How cool am I that I’m pretty sure I was at the Hacienda in Manchester back in the day. As I recall, it really was just a nightclub like any other, which confirms the suspicions I’ve always had about those who wax poetic about Studio 54’s heyday. A club is a club is a club, and they all pretty much suck. Still, I demand the indie-points I deserve from having been there.
I did see what may have been the most enjoyable baseball game of my life last week. I went to the second-to-last game of the season for the Brooklyn Cyclones. Cute park, cute fans, the whole adorable minor-league experience. Still, there is something sad and unsettling about all of the old-school Brooklyn Dodgers fans who still remember every crevice of Ebbetts field and still seem to be waiting for their “bums” to return. The mythology has outlived any healthy baseball memory and become a rather dirge-ful and oddly hostile kind of fandom. Coupled with the fact that an older gent who tended to “spray it” when he would “say it” sat next to me, and it didn’t seem particularly promising, really. Still the crowd out in the rightfield bleachers seemed to change around me as the game went on, and got cooler and affably rowdy as the fairly dull game went on. They ended up adopting the Cyclone’s right fielder, a banjo-hitting dude named Elvin Andujar who was only playing because the “real” rightfielder got hit by a pitch in the first inning. The crowd roared at every move Andujar made, but in a way that actually seemed supportive rather than mocking. Andujar seemed confused but appreciative by the nonstop chants of “Elvin! Elvin! Elvin!” and began playing more and more to the crowd as the game went on. The Cyclones dropped a three-run lead to fall behind 3 to 4 by the sixth inning. Our man came up in the bottom of the ninth, with a chance to tie the game up with a base hit (one out, man on second). We, of course, exploded when he came to the plate. Perhaps he was a little over-pumped, because after swinging so hard he almost fell down, he grounded out to the shortstop. Nevertheless, he moved the runner over, and Brooklyn managed to tie the game and head to extra innings. Elvin came back into the field and we treated him like a conquering hero. Finally, he came up again in the eleventh, with one on and two out. We’d been assuring him for the entire top of the inning that he was the man ( or “los hombre”, as those sensitive enough to note from their scorecards that he was Dominican told him). He would, we assured him, be the hero of the game, no matter his 0-3 performance thus far that night or his .137 average for the season. Tonight, the crowd, explained to him, he was destined for greatness. We were, however, unprepared when he hit a line shot over the 412 sign in centerfield to win the game with a walk-off homer. The few, loyal, and loud fans that had lasted out all 11 innings on the rickety aluminum bleacher in rightfield went insane with joy. It was World-Seriesesque - strangers hugging, high-fives all ‘round. We screamed and stomped for a curtain call, and when Andujar finally came out to us in the field, he was burdened down with the biggest grin imaginable and a big pile of little squishy balls to throw to his fans. I caught one, happily. It’s going on my bookshelf.
I’m sure I could make a big pietistic point about what is or is not “good” about baseball, and debate the relative merits and “purity” of the minors versus the majors, but I’m pretentious enough without doing that. Suffice it to say it was a great day at the park, and I can’t think of another night in New York that was that much fun and only cost me five bucks.
So my new favorite player: Elvin Anjujar. I wonder if I can get a Jersey…
Other than the big baseball adventure (the relation of which has made me feel like a horrifying mix of Doris Kearns Goodwin and myself at twelve), there has been only minimal doings. I spend another wonderful-awful day with P, which ended, as it would have to, badly, but things seem to have stabilized a bit, which is good for all involved.
Now I think I’m going to play computer games. Boy, am I ever productive.