A Menu of Baseball Food Terms

The first month of the baseball season is over. How many of you had the Redsox, Royals, and Rockies off to fast starts?

I made it to a game two weeks ago, joined by a baseball buddy from San Diego. Decades ago, we went to elementary school together in Michigan. I can’t remember if we ever went to Tiger Stadium together as kids, but we’ve seen the Tigers in Anaheim two seasons in a row. Walking around the concourse got me thinking about how much the food selections have changed since those childhood days at Tiger Stadium. I remember going there in the 80s and having to choose between a hotdog and a Coke … and a hotdog, and Coke with a bag of peanuts on the side. Nowadays, ballpark menus not only include a host of fast-food options, but also cheese steaks, tacos, BBQ pork, garlic fries, chicken tenders, salads, Italian sausage, and cheeseburgers.

So, in honor of the all the ballpark mouth-watering options, I have dusted off my baseball dictionary for the second year in a row to bring you the ABCs of baseball food terms:

A is for Apple – The baseball. A batter is an apple-knocker, and the stadium is an apple orchard. However, an apple tree is a verbal symbol for choking, the equivalent to gagging on one’s Adam’s apple. As in Josh “apple tree” Hamilton.

B is for Banana Oil – A mythical solver of all problems on and off the field. The Yankees have had so many key injuries that they’re selling banana oil at home games in vials shaped like Vernon Wells.

C is for Cantelopes – A pitched ball that looks big to the batter. Or what American Idol judge Randy Jackson sees when he looks both left and right.

D is for Doughnut – The circular weight that batters use in the on-deck circle. Or what Prince Fielder eats between innings.

E is for Egg Feast – A low scoring game with plenty of “goose eggs” on the scoreboard. Imagine a game between Justin Verlander and Felix Hernandez.

F is for Fatted Calf – A player who is not in good physical condition. At 300 lbs. Reds hurler Jonathan Broxton is currently baseball’s heaviest Fatted Calf.

G is for Ginger – The zest, pep, vigor, or fighting spirit of a player. The Angels, Dodgers, Nats, Giants, Jays, and Reds need some Costco-sized containers of ginger if they’re going to make good on all those playoff predictions.

H is for High Wine – Rubbing alcohol for a pitcher’s arm or what fans drink in the upper decks of stadiums in California.

I is for Icing – A synonym for insurance runs. The Angels bullpen is so bad that that they’ve called up Flo and a funny accented gecko to try to stop their opponent’s flow of insurance runs.

J is for Jam and Jelly – Pitchers get in a jam, and they jam batters with inside fastballs. Batters get jelly-legs when their knees buckle after being fooled by a curve ball.

K is for Kitchen – An area of a batter’s torso inside or at the edge of the strike zone. Today’s hitters stand so close to the plate that the Kitchen is now in the opposite batter’s box.

L is for Lettuce and Tomato Hitter – A weak hitter with no power. Houston’s lineup this year resembles a full-sized salad bar.

M is for Muffin – An unskilled or ineffective player. The minimum salary for a player in 2013 is $490,000. So even the muffins get to make a lot of dough.

N is for Near-Beer Pitcher – A pitcher who generates a lot of 3-2 counts. When Prohibition was repealed, the first beer was a drink with a 3.2 alcoholic content and it was referred to as “3.2” rather than “beer”. Lefty O’Doul is probably is most well-known Near-Beer Pitcher.

O is for Onion Picker – An antiquated term for a third baseman or an outfielder.

P is for Pie Thrower – A pitcher who holds his palm too far under the ball rather than having his fingers on top of it.

Q is for Quail – A synonym for a dying quail, a pop fly that drops suddenly and unexpectedly. My all-time favorite Quail is the one hit by Arizona’s Luis Gonzalez to win the 2001 World Series against the Yankees.

R is for Reuben’s Rule – The legal decision that allowed fans to keep foul balls. On May 16, 1921, New York Giants fan Reuben Berman refused to give back a foul ball and was removed from the Polo Grounds. He sued the Giants for mental and physical distress and won the court case, plus $100.

S is for Spaghetti baseball – Baseball played in Italy. Back in the day, great grandma Gervasi was quite the (pizza) pie thrower.

T is for Take a Drink – To strike out. Strike outs are piling up like crazy. The last eight months of baseball have been the eight biggest strike-out months in the history of the game. Joe DiMaggio never struck out 40 times in a season. In April three players struck out 40 times for the month: Mike Napoli, Chris Carter, and Jay Bruce. Last year more players K’d 100 times (111), than did from 1901 to 1967 (110) combined.

V is for Vanilla – Said of a team without vitality. See the Los Angeles Vanilla Angels of Anaheim.

W is for Wild Duck – A bat that leaves the batter’s hands as he swings and that goes flying toward the infield, foul territory, or the stands. California ballparks have banned Wild Ducks in accordance with the state’s foie gras law.

Thankfully, we can still get our High Wine with our hotdogs and peanuts.

My Meeting with the Pet Medium

I’m sure I’m not alone among dog owners who wish they knew the thoughts of their pet. So, on a recent trip to the pet store, I was pleasantly surprised to meet a lady who is able to answer my questions about what my dog Peetey is thinking.

She’s a dog psychic and her name is Claire. Cable TV has the Long Island Medium and Los Angeles has the Pet Shop Medium. Her website touts her service as “helping you have a deeper connection with and an understanding of your best friends, your pets.” Who wouldn’t want that, right? Her site says that she is able to get inside the head of your dog and discover the root of any training, behavior, or health issues. 

She told me that she connects telepathically with animals and figures out what is going on with them. In Peetey’s case, there might not be much actually going on. There can’t be a dog around that sleeps more than he does. If sleeping were an Olympic sport, he’d be Michael Phelps and Usain Bolt combined. Also, he never barks. There could be a family of raccoons living in my attic and he wouldn’t make a sound. Nor is he the least bit curious with the world outside the front door. But, he does have some leash aggression, not to mention a desire to turn small puff-ball dogs into appetizers. Those are two issues I’d like fixed, but I’m more interested in simply knowing if Peetey is happy.

Using Claire’s skills seemed like the perfect way to find out, until I saw her rates. She not only charges an arm and a leg, but also a paw and a flank too. A half-hour reading costs $90. Or I could plop down a meager $180 for a full hour. Her website also boasts that she can communicate with pets in spirit. That sold me. The opportunity to hear from the dearly departed Starbuck was worth the money. So, I called her up and booked a 30-minute appointment.

I fretted for the five days prior to the meeting. What if she was unable to connect with Peetey? He isn’t the sharpest canine in the kennel. He may have a big head, but once Claire climbs inside, I think she’ll be shocked at what’s missing. Maybe there’s just not enough going on in that giant noggin of his to warrant a reading? Or if they do connect, what if he says that he is really unhappy living in my care? Maybe he’ll complain that I don’t walk him enough or that my yard is too small.

Additionally, I wasn’t even sure if I believed that Claire was legitimate. Ok, I didn’t believe it at all, and I was worried that she was going to be able to channel my doubts and put me through an exorcism. Moreover, how was I going to verify what she said? Find another dog medium for a second opinion? It seems like she could easily just say that I have a great dog and that he’s completely content in my care. She could also say that Starbuck is living in a doggie nirvana, sleeping on giant pillows, running through fields of gold, and sniffing butts to his heart’s content. I considered canceling my appointment.

But instead I showed up on time. She led me to the back of the pet store where she had curtained off a section of the storeroom. I thought maybe there’d be a couch for Peetey to lounge upon or perhaps a crystal water dish that she’d use to summon his inner puppy. Instead, there were two chairs for her and me and a rug and water bowl for Peetey. We sat and talked while he explored. I told her as much as I could about his behaviors. She would pet him and speak calmly to him whenever he wandered over. Twenty minutes into our meeting she asked for a picture of Starbuck and switched the conversation to him. Ten minutes later she announced that Starbuck says hello. He is cancer-free and happily chasing his tail and sleeping on the backs of heavenly couches.

“Great news,” I said. “But what about Peetey?”

“Oh, I couldn’t get a reading from him,” Claire said. “He’s a sweet boy and seems to be content, but telepathically, he’s about as dull as Mariah Carey on American Idol. Will that be check or charge?”

I knew it. My biggest fear was realized. I took Peetey home without telling him he had failed his test. I left him in the house while I ran and errand. When I returned and opened the door, there he was to joyfully greet me, his tail wagging furiously.

Later, when I climbed into bed, the evening ritual began. Like he does every night, Peetey leapt onto my bed and buried his face into my chest. I scratched his head and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes under my loving hands. He curled into a ball against my side. Soon he was snoring.

I looked over at him before hitting the light. I was certain he was happy. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to figure that out.

Hoping for Snow in Newtown

I hope it snows in Newtown today.

The slow-falling, soft, huge, puffy flakes that you can catch on your tongue kind of snow.

Not a blizzard, the folks there don’t need that stress. And not the dry powdery snow that stings your cheeks in the wind. But a few inches of the good stuff, the wet snow that rolls up into boulder-like balls. I’m hoping for the snow that soaks your mittens, packs firmly together into perfect white orbs, and squishes into puddles under your boots.

If it did snow, I’d want to go there and throw snowballs at street signs, and trees, and fence posts like I did as a kid. I’d launch one snowball for each tear I’ve shed since last Friday. I’d put all of my anger and sadness and disbelief into every throw and I keep hurling until my shoulder hurt.

And then I’d get to work. I’d build a snowman. But one snowman wouldn’t be enough. I’d make 20, all about three feet tall.

One each for Charlotte Bacon,

Daniel Barden,

Oliva Engel,

Josephine Gay,

Ana Marquez-Greene,

Dylan Hockley,

Madeleine Hsu,

Catherine Hubbard,

Chase Kowalski,

Jesse Lewis,

James Mattioli,

Grace McDonnell

Emilie Parker,

Jack Pinto,

Noah Pozner,

Caroline Previdi,

Jessica Rekos,

Avielle Richman,

Benjamin Wheeler,

And Allison Wyatt.

I’d arrange about eight in rows, seven others in a circle. Some would be in a group of three, next to another group of two. I’d place seven taller snow-woman in and around the 20.

Vicki Soto would be up front, teaching.

Rachel Davino would be helping a small group.

Lauren Rousseau could sit with the circled-up seven.

Anne Marie Murphy would be reading to the group of three.

Mary Sherlach would be observing.

Nancy Lanza would be there to volunteer.

Dawn Hochsprung will stand in the back, overseeing.

When finished, I’d invite the people of Newtown to surround my snow classroom. I’d seek out the first-responders, the pastors, and rabbis. I’d ask the grieving parents and the heart-broken neighbors to be there. I’d gather the counselors, acupuncturists, art therapists, and massage therapists who came from all over the east coast to lend support. I’d thank the guy from North Carolina who brought nine huggable, face-licking service dogs to help comfort the families. I’d greet the old man who lives across the street from Sandy Hook School and sheltered six kids who escaped the bullets. I’d find Lt. Paul Vance and shake his hand, tell him thank you.

People would bring scarves and hats to adorn the snow children. We’d put lights in the nearby trees. I’d tell anybody who’d listen about how I started my teaching career in a first-grade classroom. Those children in my initial class graduated from high school in 2012. I’d mention my chilling sadness that these 20 students will not see second grade, let alone a commencement ceremony. I’d remember the first graders that I currently tutor and stand dumbfounded that this could happen to little, innocent, happy, hungry-for-learning kids.

I’d ask the congregants to link hands and surround the children. Anybody would be free to share their thoughts, maybe say a prayer. We’d light candles. Following a moment of silence, we’d start with the Christmas songs. Silent Night. O Little Town. What Child is This? I’d think of the scene in “The Grinch” when the people of Whoville woke up on Christmas morning and still celebrated despite their missing gifts and decorations. And even though someone took so very, very much from this community, he couldn’t stop Christmas either.

I’d ask the people to end the singing with O Holy Night and then I’d slip away into the cold darkness with their voices drifting like snow behind me. I’d pause at the words that symbolize Christmas in my own mind and heart:

A Thrill of Hope,

A Weary World Rejoices …

… I’d fall on my knees and say my own little prayer. A prayer for healing and recovery in this weary place. A prayer for the thrill of hope to settle over this town the way it did many years ago in a small city in Israel.

I’d end my prayer with thanks.

Thanks for hope.

Thanks for Christmas.

Thanks for the children.

Thanks for the snow in Newtown.