The Walk-Off and the Save

My eight-year-old son Jalen turns nine in less than a week. 

Earlier this week, while driving J to school, he BEGGED me to stop singing along with Michael Jackson's Billie Jean when it came on Sirius XM's '80s station.* "You're embarrassing me!", he shouted from the confines of the back seat. Jalen's "no singing" edict followed his unilateral implementation of a temporary restraining order against me – an unwritten, unspoken agreement that requires ten paces of separation between my son and I when I'm walking him to his classroom in the morning. 

* -- Recently, while we watched "Ghostbusters II", Jalen was similarly (and inexplicably!) unimpressed as I sang along with Bobby Brown's "On Our Own" anthem. I couldn't believe it. Nearly 25 years after its release, I was still able to nail EVERY lyric. That's better than Bobby Brown could claim roughly one year later at the 1990 MTV Video Music Awards. 

I first remember feeling a bit of figurative separation with Jalen late last spring. I'd meticulously planned a father-son weekend in San Francisco with two tickets to a ballgame in Oakland as the admittedly predictable main event. Seats directly behind the Athletics' dugout! When I excitedly broke the news to Jalen, he responded with the equivalent of a verbal shrug ("OK") and quickly returned his attention to our living room television. 

Leading up to our flight on the first Saturday in July, Jalen seemed unaffected by all of the things that usually elicit inquisitive 6:00 AM wake-up calls from him, like "Who do you think the A's starting pitcher will be?" or "When we get on the BART train, can we ask the driver to go 100 miles per hour?" or "Do kids still get to run the bases after the game?"
 

And, Jalen has flown so many times that he's no longer even awed by airplanes. Instead, like the cynical beaten-down business traveler, he reserves what little emotion he can muster for expressing contempt towards his perpetual placement in the middle seat. 

 

We arrived in the city on one of San Francisco's typically frigid summer afternoons. And, like clockwork, I managed to lose my bearings on the two-block walk from the BART station to our hotel. At 4'4", Jalen is a full four inches shorter than my wife, but he inherited every ounce of her "know-it-all-ism". 

"Can't you use your phone to find the hotel?" 

"Mom's phone has GPS to find places. Do you want me to see if your phone has GPS, Dad?" 

"[Exasperated sigh] What's the NAME of the hotel, Dad? I'll just look up at all the buildings until we find it."

 

After a few minutes of relentlessly walking in circles, we found our hotel. That evening, we met one of my oldest friends and his family for dinner at Farmer Brown – a nouveau soul food spot in Union Square. I'm pleased to report that I didn't regret one drop of the four Mason Street Manhattan cocktails I sucked down. Not until 12 hours later, at least. 

Jalen: "Dad? Are you throwing up because you had too much to drink last night?" 

Me: "Probably." 

Jalen: "Should we call mom?" 

Me: "DON'T TELL YOUR MOTHER."

I had hoped to sober up with the terrific breakfast served at the Taylor Street Coffee Shop, but by 8:00 AM, there was a line out the door. Thankfully, two bacon, egg and cheese biscuits from Burger King cured what ailed me. Our only full father/son day in the Bay Area was off to a rocky start – which is to be expected when you promise your son the platter-sized pancakes that only a greasy spoon can produce and deliver a convenience store chocolate donut, instead. 

So, it was up to the A's game. An entire weekend built around enjoying each other's company hinged on the occasionally tedious style that's occasionally associated with the American League. A's versus Mariners! Two teams that finished a combined 42 games under .500 the previous season! 

Out of the corner of my eye, I sized Jalen up for any sign that indicated he was having a good time. As we traversed the overpass towards the ballpark, J exuded the indifferent aura of "high school cool". In years past, I watched him nearly knock people over as he speed-walked his way into a Spring Training game. Now, with the A's showing signs of life in the mid-season standings AND a throwback Oakland Oaks cap giveaway, J's gait reminded me of mine on a Monday morning after a three-day weekend. 

Our oddly detached day even extended into the grotesquely overpriced team store. After one lap around the suffocating, shoebox-sized shop, Jalen has usually asked for $500 worth of merchandise – that's up to THREE things! – but, nothing caught my kid's eye. What I would've given to have my old, excitable eight-year-old back. If he and I could no longer irrationally bond over baseball, I don't know what I'd do. Yes, it's melodramatic. But, it's also my favorite thing in the world to share with my son. 

As we trudged off towards our seats, I silently hoped for at least an entertaining game. Maybe that would reanimate the pocket-sized chocolate-brown corpse beside me. 

"Dad! I think Ryan Cook is signing autographs!" 

For those of you who don't know, Ryan Cook was the A's lone All-Star representative last season and, briefly, the team's closer. He was stationed at the end of the A's dugout and dutifully signing for anyone in the vicinity. Personally, I was just glad to see Jalen finally…

"Dad! Did you bring a baseball that I can get signed?!"

 

 

 

In the blink of an eye, J had worked his way towards the front of the small mob that had formed in front of Cook. And, from a distance not much farther than your computer screen is from your face, J politely asked the All-Star, "Ryan Cook, could you please sign my ball? I'm a pitcher, too!" 

Whew. Now, I could exhale. 

But, wait! The Mariners were starting Felix Hernandez on the mound – one of the best pitchers in the game and a notorious Athletics killer. The Cook autograph would keep J happy for a few innings, but a reappearance of Oakland's somnambulant offense could quickly ruin the mood. 

With the score tied 1-1 in the bottom of the eighth inning, Oakland's Chris Carter tapped a foul ball down the third base line that was scooped up by third base coach – and my 37th favorite Athletics player of all time – Mike Gallego. Jalen stood up and leaned out over the dugout roof in Gallego's direction, but Gallego's underhand toss towards J's outstretched glove was short by about three feet. The ball ricocheted away and rolled into the section of seats on our left. 

I was more bummed than my son, but there was no time to feel sorry for him. I'm not being callous. It's just that I really had to use the bathroom. There was a young woman and her father sitting next to us who I'd been chatting up throughout the game. They offered to keep an eye on Jalen while I was gone. Hey, if you can't trust two strangers in the fourth most dangerous city in America…

When I returned, Jalen was holding what I thought was the baseball that he'd gotten autographed earlier in the afternoon. 

Me: "Be careful with that ball, J. You don't want to smudge the autograph." 

Jalen: "This is a new ball. Mike Gallego gave it to me." 

Me: "Mike Gallego gave it to you? When? Just now?!"

Young Woman Next to Us: "Yep! He came out of the dugout and tossed him a ball! I had to get your son's attention, but the coach tossed it and your son caught it!"

 

 

 

 

Well, then. Don't YOU feel bad for harboring those "stranger danger" thoughts a few sentences ago? Also…if you're going to tell my wife about this post, could you not START with the whole "…left my son with strangers…" thing? Thanks! 

The A's and Mariners remained tied until the bottom of the 13th inning when Josh Reddick drove home Jemile Weeks after four hours of great baseball. It had been a l-o-n-g afternoon, but any time with my son is a good time – even if he IS getting older and won't be a child forever. 

Jalen: "Do kids still get to run the bases after the game?" 

Me: "You wanna run the bases? 

Jalen: "Yeah!" 

Me: "Let's go."

The Father and Son San Francisco Travel Diary -- Part II

Part I

Sunday, September 4

After a fitful five hours of sleep, I woke up and fiddled with my smart phone until Jalen was ready to start his day. I shouldn't have been surprised to see him standing behind me as I sat at a desk on the other side of my bed -- at 5:45 AM -- since the first words out of his mouth were, "We're going to the A's game today!" Quickly followed by, "Can we get breakfast?" I peel back the curtain in our room, revealing the city's ubiquitous blanket of fog still shrouding the souls and the sins of the previous evening below. "Let's wait until the sun comes up", I suggest, not wanting to walk around the Thriller video outside with my seven-year-old son.





The rooms at the Westin St. Francis have an "refreshment center" full of assorted salty and sugary snacks. However, in a new twist on the old "if you open this bottle of water, we'll bill $4.00 to your room" racket; the Westin has installed sensors that can somehow tell when, say, a bag of peanuts has been removed from the basket of snacks. Not eaten. Not opened. The room is charged if the bag of peanuts is lifted from the basket. Change your mind? Put it back and you're still charged. When I explained this to Jalen, you'd better believe I used the "don't talk to strangers" urgency in my voice.





About a week before this trip, I put out a social media request for restaurant recommendations – particularly hole-in-the-wall spots that are the antithesis of "touristy". One of my Facebook friends – an absolute sweetheart with the same deep-fried Frankenstein food preferences as me – wrote back with a veritable encyclopedia of San Francisco eating in and around Union Square. For breakfast, I went with the location she described as "hole-in-the-wall goodness" with praise for their crispy hash browns. (I chose this place over the restaurant she celebrated for their 6-8 strip side orders of bacon. I know…risky, right?!)

The streets were still filled with fog which made everything damp…and deadly. Not long after we left our hotel, Jalen tried to sprint ahead of me. He slipped on one of those enormous steel plates embedded in the sidewalk and tried to break his fall by grabbing my scrawny arm. This, in turn, caused me to slip on the steel plate. Jalen fell on his butt, I fell on my back. Sorry, San Francisco. I promise to have our father-and-son slapstick synchronism tightened up before our next visit.

Ten minutes later, we reached the Taylor Street Coffee Shop…and, goodness, it's a hole-in-the-wall. Jalen and I were apparently the first customers of the day and we took seats in the back of the restaurant which, architecturally, was like walking down a long, narrow hallway. The grill is adjacent to the front door – something I can't say I've seen before – and the walls were adorned with kitschy movie posters. I ordered the "meat lover's breakfast" – three sausage links, three strips of bacon, ham and two eggs. I tacked on a side of hash browns to complete my coronary. Jalen went with the pancake. When I asked the server how many were in an order, she replied, "One. But, it's big." She even made the "big" circular pantomime with both of her hands. "I want THAT!", replied a wide-eyed Jalen. This server knows her audience.





Jalen obliterated his pancake not long after its arrival, while I enjoyed my first ever over-medium eggs at breakfast. I've long opposed runny egg yolks, but with the ham and bacon's saltiness and the more complex seasoning in the sausage it was gooey glory. Sopping up the sun-colored excess from my plate with the hash browns and buttered sourdough toast made me wish I hadn't wasted most of my life ordering eggs "scrambled". What a fool I was.





After breakfast, as we walked back to our hotel, Jalen asked if I could "take a picture for mommy". I'd pulled a pair of toothpicks from a small container next to the cash register and Jalen excitedly wanted Mrs. Bootleg to see him…I dunno…picking his teeth? I suggested to my son that he just leave the toothpick dangling from his mouth, which led to the following conversation:

Jalen: "But, I can't smile if the toothpick is sticking out of my mouth."

Me: "So, don't smile."





Inadvertently, THAT led to this picture -- the most unintentionally awesome shot I'll ever take of my son. I'm hoping my wife OKs it for this year's Christmas cards. Let me know if you want me to license it out for yours.

At 11:30 AM, we boarded the BART train for Oakland to catch the Athletics v. Mariners game. It might've been too small of a sample size to hang the "jinx" label on Jalen, but during the regular season, the A's were 2-5 whenever my son has seen them live – including 0-2 in Oakland. And, yes, I keep track of these things. Before you pass judgment on my parental priorities, know that I was prepared for the aging stadium's trough-style urinals, public beach-equivalent restroom cleanliness and Jalen's predilection for touching everything.





The Athletics were holding their annual breast cancer awareness promotion at the Coliseum and giving away pink argyle scarves to fans in attendance. The too-prominent "Big O Tires" sponsorship logo still feels like well-intended marketing gone wrong, but it's obviously in furtherance of a great cause. The A's hosted more than 500 breast cancer survivors on the field in an emotional pregame ceremony and throughout the game, women shared their experiences with the disease during interviews that aired on the scoreboard between innings. Oddly, a couple of the interviews caused my allergies to flare up and made my eyes water. Stupid allergies.





Despite some shakiness from our bullpen in the late innings, the Athletics held on to defeat Seattle, 8-5. For those scoring at home (who are NOT Jalen's mother), Jalen consumed an entire personal Round Table pizza, a chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich, a large bag of popcorn and a churro. After the game, three different women who'd sat in the seats surrounding us approached me and expressed how much they enjoyed watching Jalen's passionate reactions to the action on the field and the way he and I interacted with each other. Honestly, I'm not bragging, but these weren't the first parents (I presume) who've told me this at ballgames. And, let's be honest: sitting through a meandering 3 ½ hour American League game just might be the apex of parenting.

The BART ride back to our hotel was uneventful until the final few moments. As Jalen and I departed the train, a woman came onboard who was breast feeding her child. Now, I have NO problem with this. Really. But, the woman wasn't using any kind of discreet…uh…breast-covering cloth thingie. Not a towel, not her blouse…nothing. And, her breast was [OK...I'm making the "big" circular pantomime with both of my hands]. If Jalen had seen any of this…well, remember Alfre Woodard's mute son in the Bill Murray comedy Scrooged? I know it was more than 20 years ago, but I'm still too shaken to think up a more recent reference.

It's closing in on six o'clock as we enter the elevator, heading back to our room to find more appropriate clothes before the 60-degree San Francisco summer sun sets and winter arrives for the night. An older couple gets on with us and proceeds to make some "isn't he CUTE?!" conversation with my son. It had already been a long day, so my "eminent embarrassment radar" must've been recalibrating itself. Less than 24 hours earlier, I cracked a joke to Jalen about the private lounge on the top floor of our hotel and how it was for "…people younger than me and older than [my son]." I should've seen this coming:

Jalen (to the older gentleman): "What floor are you on?"

Older Gentleman: "We're on the 30th floor just like you!"

Jalen: "Oh. Well…you can't go to the 32nd floor because that's for younger people. But, you can go to the other floors because those are for old people."

Me: [Head explodes.]

For dinner, I decided on a pizza place called "Victor's". The same friend who recommended breakfast called this spot, "cheap, tasty and good". It was also close by – 0.8 miles away according to my phone. I estimated a 15-20 minute walk. When I presented this to Jalen, he responded, "That's too far to walk for my little legs! Can't we take a taxi?!" Yes, he said, "…for my little legs". I would have expected – and have previously heard – that same complaint from his 4'8" mother, but not from him. Admittedly, I might've been parenting out of spite when I barked back, "Get your jacket. We're walking." (I'm sorry you guys had to see that side of me. But, keep reading. The "Aaron should've listened to Jalen" lesson is right around the corner…)

I've visited New York, lived in Los Angeles and been to several other major American metropolitan locales. I'd be willing to bet that no area transitions from "touristy" to "sketchy" faster than ANY street in San Francisco. Five minutes from our hotel, we're navigating a maze of homelessness, random bags of trash and possibly The Luniz. There's pizza at the end of this urine-scented journey, so Jalen is walking with purpose and before long we're passing through a more presentable residential area. We're about a half-mile from our hotel and we've passed through three distinct neighborhoods -- just one shy of the shortest walk/most neighborhoods record.

Victor's Pizza is on a street that's dotted with takeout restaurants and under-the-radar watering holes. The atmosphere on our walk had become a mix of live music comingled with barbecue or curry or carne asada. Victor's is a bit of a throwback -- for me -- with its practically pitch-black dining area and eternally burning candles offering negligible light. There were a few other customers inside, but noticeably no kids. And, sure enough, Million Dollar Birthday Fries were not on the menu.





But, they had pizza! Their sauce had a touch of sweetness from the tomatoes with a fresher flavor than I ever would've expected. Jalen and I kept it simple -- small pepperoni for him, small sausage for me -- and the toppings were quite good. The pepperoni had a bit of bite and a not-at-all oily texture, while the sausage popped with fennel. Best of all was the crust: crispy on the outside with a light smoky char, perfectly chewy consistency on the inside. The service was off-the-charts, as well. Prompt, attentive and my pint glass was never empty.

With two full bellies, we left the restaurant -- but, not before Jalen redoubled his begging for a cab ride back to our hotel. Truth be told, I was absolutely exhausted myself. I weighed the prospects of a 20-minute walk with my increasingly sleepy, already irritable seven-year-old son versus a two-minute taxi ride. Not wanting to get his hopes up, I told Jalen if we see a cab, we can...

"There's one right there!", he shrieked. "TAXI!", he shrieked again.

Monday, September 5

Our flight home from San Francisco departed at 11:55 AM. We took off into a cloudless sky and returned to a surprisingly rainy San Diego 90 minutes later. When we finally pulled up in front of Stately Bootleg Manor, I wanted to tell my son how much I loved him and how much fun I had over the past few days. Instead, Jalen sprinted from my car -- before I could open my mouth -- and into the waiting arms of his mother.

Jalen's little legs had regained their strength.

The Father and Son San Francisco Travel Diary -- Part I

Over Labor Day weekend, I flew up to San Francisco with my seven-year-old son Jalen. While Mrs. Bootleg had graciously tolerated -- and tagged along on -- our baseball-centric family vacations for years, it occurred to me that cutting my wife loose was the selfless thing to do. So, I selfishly absconded with the boy for some quality father/son time.

Saturday, September 3

Jalen loves flying. As most of you know, I...am not a fan. Our flight was scheduled to depart San Diego at 2:15 PM and Jalen was absolutely bouncing off the walls at breakfast. For me, the worst part was having to emulate his wide-eyed early-morning enthusiasm while my own stomach spontaneously knotted. Thankfully, watching a season's worth of Oakland Athletics games -- paid for as part of the MLB Extra Innings digital cable package -- has taught me how to feign excitement over something my son loves.

Mrs. Bootleg contributed to the trip in several ways. Most importantly, she used her credit card points to land Jalen and me a two-night hotel stay. From there, she proceeded to pack enough clothes for Jalen to coincide with a six-night stay. My wife's an incurable over-packer and reflexively responds "Just in case" to anyone who'd dare question this psychological, sartorial tic. Crazy people should be required to finish that phrase. Just in case...of what? Random acts of Gallagher on the streets of San Francisco?

At the airport, I realized I forgot my wedding ring. I'm privileged to not be saddled with one of those accusatory or suspicious spouses -- and it's not like I could pass off the pot-bellied black child with the similarly-shaped head and almost identical baseball team t-shirt as anyone but my son -- but, I send a quick text and admitted to my absentmindedness. In it, I referred to my wedding ring as my "good luck charm" for flights when I'm anxious. My wife's accusatory and suspicious response ("Is that ALL it means to you?") confirmed my faith in superstitions forged out of white gold.

We flew Virgin America to San Francisco. Our flight cost $130 less than it would've on Southwest Airlines. And, unlike Southwest, the cabin was immaculate. Also, passengers select their own seats at the time tickets are purchased. The obvious benefit is peace of mind, but the downside is that Jalen couldn't have his beloved window seat. I only sit in the aisle seats and I'm NOT suffocating in the middle seat, just so my son can intermittently see God's majesty. Before you judge me, know that my comeuppance appears in the next paragraph.

Moments before the doors closed, the final passengers boarded the plane -- among them was the occupant of the window seat in our row. She was wearing a long, off-the-shoulder summer dress and both of her bare arms were covered in sleeves. Uh, not those kind of sleeves. These kind of sleeves. And, her nose and tongue were pierced. She smiled politely as she squeezed past us and JUST as Jalen asked, "Why does that lady have...", I fell on top of my son's innocent verbal grenade. Literally. "Sorry, Jalen! Daddy's so clumsy sometimes. Hey, why don't YOU take the aisle seat?! That's where big kids sit!" Whew.

Quick question: How did humanity survive 90-minute flights before satellite televisions were embedded within every headrest?

After we landed in San Francisco, Jalen and I took the BART train from the airport into the city. I asked these questions on Twitter, but I'll put them out here, too: (1) does anyone ever get used to that weird feeling that comes from sitting in a rear-facing seat while the train appears to speed backwards and (2) how do those of you who ride the train everyday not throttle the person playing Nicki Minaj loud enough to hear through their earbuds? Physiologically, both affect me the same way.

In 2007, I wrote the following after surviving New York City's Grand Central for the first time:

You know what Grand Central needs? More stairs. This is the only place on earth where rolling luggage is a burden, not a blessing. Paraplegics, you've been warned.

Union Square in San Francisco is hereby added to the list. Jalen and I navigated the mass of humanity -- all of whom seemed to be walking in the opposite direction of us -- lugging a single piece of rolling luggage over the cracked, decaying sidewalks that the city's administrative infrastructure forgot. San Francisco will always be my favorite American city, but I'm convinced that all the crowds and inclines have given the city a greater gravitational pull than anywhere else on Earth. It's a working theory. Well, then, tell my quads I'm wrong!

We stayed at the Westin St. Francis. Eventually. At check-in, I'm told our room isn't ready. It's 5:15 PM, which made me think...our room should be ready. The front desk employee excuses herself to "see what she can do". We're meeting some dear friends of mine at 6:00 PM for dinner and I'd like to freshen up and change from my "San Diego" t-shirt (short-sleeved) into my "San Francisco" t-shirt (long-sleeved). My baggy Jordan shorts can -- thankfully -- withstand all climates. The hotel employee is gone for more than five minutes. She returns with a key to a "better" room (her words) on the 30th floor. (Translation: "Here's the same room -- cleaned -- and a few floors higher.") I'm on to you, hotel industry.

Below is the view from our room. Here's something I've never understood: why do people take pictures of the view from their hotel rooms? The splendor of a city's skyline is one of those things that seems impossible to capture on any camera, much less the one built into a cell phone with a window in front of the shot. There's a reason these images always carry the same caveat on the Facebook page in which they appear: "These pictures don't do the view justice." Same applies here, yo.

On the elevator ride back down to the lobby, Jalen tells me, "The 'going-down' elevator makes my penis feel funny." My only regret is that he and I are the only ones on the elevator to hear this.

Jalen and I met up with my friend Vig, his lovely wife and their adorable four-year-old daughter. We walked around the corner to Max's Cafe for dinner. The decor and concept is an unapologetic knockoff of the east coast delicatessen, but the menu is a gloriously bloated cavalcade of calories. Of course, I started with the "Max-hattan" -- their take on America's manliest cocktail. It was OK. A little too heavy on the vermouth, but I took down two of 'em with dinner which, for me, was "Grandma's Honey Roasted Chicken". The golden salt-and-peppered skin accented the sweet glaze nicely. The meat was moist and absorbed a lot of the exterior flavors. Unfortunately, the mashed potatoes didn't work with the honey and sugar notes from the chicken while the roasted sweet carrots seemed redundant in taste. I could, however, eat the chicken by the box, bucket or any other acceptable urban chicken transport system.





After dinner, Vig and I took the kids to our hotel's top floor. No real reason. They're kids. They like this stuff. As the elevator doors opened, the 32nd floor appeared to be some kind of private bar. A clipboard-carrying attendant rushed over before dismissing us with a sneer perfected from hundreds of dorky families taking their kids to the hotel's top floor. She so wanted us to step off the elevator so she could throw us out, but the doors closed before she could have the satisfaction. When Jalen asked why we didn't get off, I responded with my tongue in my cheek, "That floor is for people younger than me and older than you, son." You'll be surprised to learn that innocuous explanation came back to bite me the very next day.





Jalen didn't fall asleep until after 10:00 PM. I'm usually the one who's perpetually uncomfortable in unfamiliar beds, but here's my son alternating tossing and turning with obvious proclamations ("I can't SLEEP!"). I went to bed right around midnight, but was awakened just after 2:00 AM...by my son. As he involuntarily rustled -- and wrestled -- between his sheets, Jalen sat up in bed and let out a momentary moan. To my slightly disoriented soul, in a darkened hotel room, this freaked me OUT. It appeared to be inspired by this.

Sunrise can't come soon enough.

NEXT: Hole-in-the-wall restaurants, Oakland A's baseball and some inappropriate (very) public breastfeeding...

TBG in NYC Travel Diary -- Part II: Welcome to New York City

Yo. There's a war going on outside, no man is safe from
It don't matter if you three feet or eight-one
You'll get eight from me, nine and straight blown
Wig split, melon cracked, all that on day one...

-- Cam'ron, Welcome to New York City


Travel Diary Part I

Wednesday, June 22


4:15 PM (New York time) -- I've landed at JFK and discover my phone is once again functioning. Scrolling through e-mails, I open a really nice and thoughtful note from a longtime reader whom I'd never communicated with before this day. He was going to the Mets vs. A's game at Citi Field later that evening and he offered to meet up and buy me a beer if I was at the ballpark. I couldn't make it to that game, but blog-related e-mails like that never fail to lift my spirits. And, while the author of that note doesn't know it, his words made me even more determined to...wait, we'll get to that later in the diary. For now, I've got to get my bags.

4:20 PM -- I hadn't eaten all day, so I slip into a shop for some grotesquely overpriced airport snacks. I wait politely behind the gentleman at the front of the line when another man cuts right in front of me. I see the east coast has gotten awfully uppity since the demise of Death Row Records. Don't make me act out any random song* from the Death Row catalog on some of your citizens, New York City.

* -- Stupid random song generator.

4:40 PM -- Ask most New Yorkers and they'll tell you their public transportation system is the best in the country. (Isn't that right, Portland or Denver?) I, for one, think they should vacate their self-appointed title until someone creates a shuttle from JFK's terminal #8 to the baggage claim five miles away. I exaggerate, of course, but McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas practically fits in my back pocket and they have a shuttle to baggage claim. Some of us have asthma and get winded easily, New York!

5:00 PM -- My bag has been retrieved, so I exit the terminal and proceed to the shuttle bus that will bring me into Manhattan. A digital display just outside the sliding door reads 77 degrees. As most of you know, 77 degrees in New York feels NOTHING like 77 degrees in California. But, it's lazy and cliché for a San Diegan to whine about everyone else's weather. Let's leave it at this: 77 degrees in New York is jimejime. 77 degrees in California is karatto. Tell 'em, Chihiro.

6:00 PM -- The shuttle bus ride ends just a few blocks from Grand Central Terminal. Back in 2007, as a novice, I had to navigate through the pimps and C.H.U.D.s and nattily-attired locals to find a train from New York City to Hartford, Connecticut. This time I'm staying in New York. This time I know what I doing. This time...well, this.

6:15 PM -- I lost my short-lived grip on the city when I satiated my hunger with the first slice I could find. ProTip: There is no greater disparity in the known universe than the 99-cent pizza's gap between "economical" and "edible".

6:30 PM -- I'd wager it hasn't looked this dark above New York since Nino Brown ruled the drug trade from his penthouse apartment in New Jack City. I'm roughly 12 blocks from my hotel and feeling reasonably confident I can beat the skies if I walk with an urgent stride. As I get my bearings, the heavens open. Reinforced rain drops -- reminiscent of water balloons -- unleashed hell upon the streets below. (Too much? I hadn't seen rain in late June in at least 25 years, so my frame of reference is a tad off-center.)

6:40 PM -- My plan to wait out the rain under an awning is dashed when I learn there are actually places on earth where it doesn't stop raining after ten minutes. It's time to flag down a cab -- which, historically, I've been worse at than any of you are at anything else. Let's see...step towards the curb...casually raise right arm...don't look desperate as you stand in the rain -- already soaked to the bone -- in shorts, San Diego State t-shirt and rolling bag. Hey, it worked!

6:50 PM -- For the next three nights, I'll be staying at the Ramada Eastside on 30th and Lexington. According to the hotel's website, it's in "the genteel Murray Hill neighborhood". Ironically, the woman at the front desk seems to be going out of her way to ignore the sopping-wet tourist immediately in front of her. When she finally looks up, she asks me, "Is it raining?" As if there's another way for someone to get wet from head-to-toe while fully clothed in this city. (Wait, is there?)

6:55 PM -- I took the picture below with my cell phone as my back was against the door to my room. The online customer reviews for this hotel almost uniformly lamented the size of the rooms -- as if expecting suites for less than $200/night. As a guest in the city that never sleeps, I was fine with the cramped quarters. My adventures awaited outside these walls!

7:15 PM -- Boy, I wish I had something to do. My room's TV doesn't get ESPN or either of the local cable sports conglomerates, YES and SNY. These streets haven't made me feel brand new and the lights, so far, have been uninspiring. Just as I'm ready to declare Alicia Keys full of s**t, my cell phone chirps with a text from my friend and TBG reader "NY Jon". I've met him before, but his unexpected text read: "Be there at 730. Shaved my head from last time but still tall, gay and black. Felt you needed description again after alcohol poisoning in Albany." He's right! I had forgotten.

7:30 PM -- The rain has tapered off, but the A's/Mets game still hasn't started. In our search for a bar where we can drop anchor for the evening, Jon remarks, "I know a spot for you to blog about."

7:45 PM -- We ended up on 42nd Street at a cupcake place called Baked by Melissa. I opened the door and a powerful blast of air conditioning inside hit the thick, sticky air outside -- resulting in a makeshift wind tunnel that nearly knocked me over. The young woman behind the counter recognized Jon and asked, "Is this your friend, the eater?" I have a reputation! In New York!

8:00 PM -- I left my cell phone in my room to charge, so I didn't take any pictures. In the absence of evidence, let's just say I might've ordered and ate 25 coin-sized cupcakes as we walked along Lexington Avenue. The peanut butter and jelly and chocolate chip pancake flavors were superb. Jon's infinitesimal six cupcake order was an insult to me and an embarrassment to himself.

8:15 PM -- We landed at The Whiskey Rebel with the A's/Mets game still in the early innings. Three of the four TVs were showing the Yankees/Reds game, so Jon and I were segregated(!) to the back of the bar. Nearby, we could see and hear three guys simultaneously hitting on the bartender.

9:15 PM -- Even under National League rules, my Oakland A's are able to slow the pace of the game into an American League slog. As a result, Jon and I turn our attention towards the three guys who are still obnoxiously chatting up the female bartender. After an hour, it appears they're going all in:

Guy: "How 'bout this? We'll all put in $50 and try to guess the color of your underwear. If one of us is right, he gets the money. If none of us are right, you get the money, but you have to give us a peek to prove we were wrong."

Considering I paid $20 for 25 mini-cupcakes, perhaps I'm in no place to point out this city's fiscal absurdities. I'm only slightly embarrassed to admit Jon and I spent a few seconds dissecting their bet like television analysts:

Me: "$150? She's gotta be wearing some sort of print or something. No way she agrees to this if they're monochromatic. Too easy to guess."

Jon: "Unless she's not wearing any."

Me: "Good point."

10:00 PM -- Jon had to work the following morning, so we cut our drinking off early. I returned to my room and found a text message from my friend, Tom. I'd never met him, but we'd previously been web columnist colleagues for several years and through Twitter and our respective blogs, we've established a comfortable rapport.

11:15 PM -- Tom graciously made the walk over from his director's cut, extended edition happy hour a few streets over. We took a short stroll over to Brother Jimmy's BBQ and watched the rest of the A's/Mets game which had gone into extra innings.

12:15 PM -- A's lose to the Mets, 3-2, on a bogus hit-by-pitch with the bases loaded. Look at this nonsense. Look at it! The batter makes no attempt to get out of the way -- a CLEAR violation of MLB Rule 6.08(b)(2). LOOK IT UP! Mets fan Tom -- a supposed proponent of fair play -- blithely ignores this miscarriage of justice. After his heel turn on me, how can Tom and I harmoniously attend Thursday's A's/Mets tilt?

1:00 AM -- I take the high road for the remainder of the evening. Tom and I dish on our days writing for 411mania and Inside Pulse. He tells me how many years -- plural -- it took for him to acclimate to life in the big city. I make a point to tell him how I especially enjoyed some of his specific writings. And, we took a minute or two to express our shared affection a certain Twitter feed.

See? The high road. Now, let's hope my A's win tomorrow and take the series so I can shove it in his stupid face.

NEXT: Dunkin' Donuts! Shake Shack! The 7 Train! And, a really long rain delay.

TBG in NYC Travel Diary -- Part I: The Worry and The Women

"And detrimental verbals get to spittin'
The highest in intellect, try connectin' with the written
Now they faced with the forbidden, vocally chosen
To explore new terrain, then remain unseen, throughout the war..."

-- Kurupt (from Tha Dogg Pound), New York, New York


Wednesday, June 22

4:00 AM -- Waking up. You all know that my travel diaries usually begin with a period of pre-flight anxiety. This time, however, my unfounded fretting was more pronounced. Subconsciously, it seemed to manifest several months before. After securing a cross-country kitchen pass from Mrs. Bootleg and negotiating the terms of my furlough, I procrastinated on every other aspect of this trip.

I didn't buy my plane ticket until three weeks before my intended departure date. I waited another week after that before I made hotel reservations. There were several people I wanted to meet in New York City -- most for the first time -- yet I'd only made vague plans with just one of them. So far, my self-saboteur work was worthy of Ravage.

6:00 AM -- I've made it to my gate a full 90 minutes before my flight. After folding my sleep-deprived, caffeine-deficient cadaver into one of the uncomfortable chairs, I reach for my cell phone and discover accomplices in the plot to sabotage my vacation. These guys! My Verizon HTC Thunderbolt phone had only been activated two months earlier, but in that short amount of time it had graduated to my primary time-waster. Now, however, I couldn't connect to any of the interwebs. No Twitter! No Facebook! No e-mail! NOOO!

6:10 AM -- After running through all the troubleshooting tactics I know (restarting phone, try restarting it again) it occurs to me that Mrs. Bootleg single-handedly saved my previous trip into New York City in 2007. Now, I need her more than ever. I give her a call and...wait, what? Well, yes, I used my cell phone. Oh, it worked for making calls and texting. The problem was internet connectivity. Did you guys miss the four straight exclamations that ended the preceding paragraph? Try and keep up, kids.

6:11 AM -- "Did you try turning it off and turning it back on?", Mrs. Bootleg suggests. In baseball parlance, it was obvious I went with the wrong reliever. She even slips in a "Well, if this is the worst thing that happens to you on this trip..." I'm booing her off the mound at this point as I grudgingly accept my phone's now-silenced bells and whistles. But, not before I try restarting it one more time...once a minute, every minute until my flight takes off.

6:15 AM - 7:15 AM -- NOOO!

7:25 AM -- Onboard the plane, perhaps five minutes prior to takeoff, the two seats next to me were the only unoccupied ones around. And, then the sitcom began. Two very attractive, VERY shrill women ambled down the aisle. Their hair and make-up were immaculate, their curve-hugging clothes were nightclub-correct and they wobbled together atop two pairs of the highest wedge shoes I've ever seen. Oh, and one appeared to be a few years older than the other. Eight to ten years, tops.

"Hi! I'm Marissa and this is my mom Sonja! I think we're sitting in the seats next to you!"

7:40 AM -- After her oddly-placed introduction, Marissa took the window seat and her [insert appropriately shocked pause] mom sat between us. I didn't mind their hyperactive passenger-banter with me in the least, as I couldn't take my eyes off of them. Mother and daughter? As our flight ascended, I silently wrestled with the innocuous ways I could approach this conversational taboo. (Oh, don't look at me like that. I negotiate defense contracts with the United States Government for a living. I know discretion and decorum. OK, fine...spoiler alert: I never found out their ages. I never even had a chance to ask. There. Happy?)

8:10 AM -- "Business planner". That was Marissa's cryptic job description. She's flown to Miami three times this year and it's her favorite city. This is her second trip to New York and she was in Washington DC last month. Why am I boring you with a transcript of our inane conversation? Stay with me.

8:15 AM -- The flight attendants began handing out headphones for the in-flight entertainment. I am NOT making up what happened next.

Marissa: [Receives headphones, whispers to me.] "Are these free?"

Me: "I'm pretty sure they are."

Marissa: [To flight attendant] "What are these for?"

Flight Attendant: "They're...for the movie."

Marissa: [To me] "They show a movie?! Do you know what it is?"

Me: "Uh, I don't know. Something that's like six months old, I'd guess."

Marissa: "Oh. So not, like, Transformers?"

Me: "Probably not."

It occurs to me that Marissa might not fly as much as she claims.

8:30 AM -- Just as drink service begins, Marissa gets up for the first of what would be six or seven restroom visits in the next 90 minutes. "Can you order me a chardonnay?", she asks with more command than question glinting off of her lightly-glossed grin. Her mom whispers in my ear, "I'll pay for it." Before I can completely appreciate her alleviation of that awkward moment, she orders a rum and coke for herself.

9:00 AM -- Marissa is still nursing her first glass of white wine, as she's morphed from sociable to comatose. On the other hand, her mother just ordered a third rum and coke.

10:00 AM -- Sonja just finished her fifth rum and coke. FIFTH! The first round of drink service ended an hour ago, so she just walked to the back of the plane and placed her order with any loitering flight attendant. Marissa is now slumped -- asleep -- against the window. I was left to wonder just how much of an alcohol head start she got on her mother. To her credit, mom's tolerance seemed stronger than her daughter's.

10:30 AM -- And, now mom's passed out. And, then, this happened to me. And, then, mom's head and torso limply fell forward just enough for this to happen. Her mom!

1:00 PM -- Shortly before we land, Sonja and Marissa simultaneously snap back to life. In a few short moments, they've touched up their make-up and brought the salon quality back to their hair. Sonja turns to me and in sweetly-accented English says, "I hope you have fun in New York!"

I'm off to a good start.


NEXT: New York City -- Home of 99-cent pizza, Nino Brown and my obligatory reference to "pimps and C.H.U.D.s"!

My Favorite Cities (Version 2.0)

"So, is [New York City] your NEW favorite city?"

The above inquisitive text came from Mrs. Bootleg at 10:30 AM this past Saturday morning. When I received it, I was sitting on a bench near the corner of 30th and 3rd, sipping a large black coffee from Dunkin' Donuts and taking in the relatively serene surroundings. It was my last day in New York City. For the first time in four days, I could see the sun. The humidity had eased up. And, the city's relentlessly frenetic energy was temporarily replaced with a smattering of dogs being walked and delightfully disoriented tourists.

My NEW favorite city? Well, I did have a great time. I caught ballgames at both the Mets' Citi Field and new Yankee Stadium. I discovered a chain cheeseburger that beats In-N-Out and Five Guys. I established a new personal record for highest per-beer bar tab in a single evening. I ate an enormous cheesesteak with extra Whiz and grilled onions at 3:30 AM. I was on the streets during the awesome aftermath of this awesome moment. And, for the first time, I met four of my favorite readers/former colleagues/Twitterers/New Yorkers.

I've sketched an outline for my travel diary and as soon as I've collected enough crossover New York-centric rap songs* for my opening lyric gimmick, I'll start working on it. First installment next week. Cool? Cool.

* -- It's 11:00 PM as I type this, but off the top of my head there's "N.Y. State of Mind" by Nas, "New York, New York" by Tha Dogg Pound, "Welcome to New York City" by Cam'ron, Diddy's verse on the "Welcome to Atlanta" coast-to-coast remix and "Empire State of Mind" by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys. A weak and predictable list, you say? IT'S 11:00 PM!, I retort. Jerks.

I am, however, ready to place New York City within my list of top 10 cities I've visited. Several years ago, I wrote a similar piece, but (1) it was terribly written and (2) I wrote it just before my first trip to New York in June 2007. Since ret-cons and reboots are all the rage these days, let's just pretend that first post never happened.

(10) Boston, Massachusetts -- In the interest of full disclosure, I must mention that I only spent one night here back in November 2005. It was an unseasonably balmy 60-degree evening and the memorable bar scene led to years of attempts to manipulate another business trip to the Hub.

(9) St. Louis, Missouri -- In May 2007, I agreed to a business trip at a customer's site in St. Louis based on the fact that my Athletics were playing three hours west in Kansas City. Naturally, I caught games in both of the state's MLB ballparks, but during my stay I was surprised by how friendly everyone is in St. Louis.

(8) Albany, New York -- I spent three nights here in July 2009 -- flying out for Rickey Henderson's induction into the baseball Hall of Fame. It featured the best elements of Boston's bars and St. Louis' hospitality. Locals offered me free drinks all weekend for reasons ranging from "You're from California?" to "You're going to see Rickey?" to "Thanks for not hitting on me." Yeah, it's all in here.

(7) Austin, Texas -- I visited for work in February 2002. Coincidentally, during their celebration of Mardi Gras. After I returned, my boss called me into his office, closed the door and said, "I heard some things about your trip to Austin...". After 15 minutes of half-hearted denials, I convinced him that I only enjoyed the jazz bars on Sixth Street and assorted barbecue restaurants. And, nothing else.

(6) Scottsdale, Arizona -- There aren't too many places that feature such stark demarcation lines between the approachably pretentious populace in North Scottsdale and the strip-malls and bars spirit of old Scottsdale. I'm fond of both scenes. Besides, if I'm in town, it must mean Spring Training is, too.

(5) Washington DC -- The assortment of famous landmarks and monuments are positively awe-inspiring, but I've been back there at least a half-dozen times over the past ten years. I've seen all of the touristy spots. Now, I'm hoping for a return trip to Nationals Park where I can enjoy another Chili Half-Smoke from Ben's Chili Bowl while watching pitchers hit and hitters bunt. Washington DC: Big government, small offense. Am I right?! Feel free to use that, Fox News.

(4) Seattle, Washington -- I've told this story before, but Seattle was the destination for my first business trip. The richly diverse population, cool weather and extensive microbrew community made for love at first sight. It was also the place where my co-workers and I discovered a small "oysters and cigars" bar on our first night in town. Later that evening, I discovered that two dozen raw oysters, two cigars and two glasses of scotch can turn a black man's stomach inside out. In 2006, two-year-old Jalen threw up on me as we stood atop the famous Space Needle. Such an implausible father/son accomplishment had only been seen once before in Seattle.**

** -- I know it was on the road, but I assume the game was televised back home to all of King County.

(3) Vancouver, British Columbia -- Easily the most beautiful city I've ever visited; it combines the man-made enormity of the big city while maintaining its natural and cultural identities. Although, admittedly, the highlights from my September 2006 vacation were my first taste of ketchup-flavored Lays Potato Chips and meeting rapper/actor Ice Cube in a small market while buying a birthday cake for Mrs. Bootleg. He was pushing his own shopping cart. This guy!

(2) New York, New York -- Second place!

(1) San Francisco, California -- I've championed their eclectic population, offbeat watering holes and TBG-appealing climate since my first visit in 1996. Before my son was born, I'd make two or three trips into The City every year. These days, I don't get up there as often. But, when we do, Jalen knows that an Oakland A's game is probably on the itinerary, along with an order of chocolate chip Mickey Mouse pancakes at the diner by our usual hotel. He loves it, too.

TBG Desert Travel Diary -- Part V: Athletics, Indians and the Chocolate Milk Horror Story

Part I -- Part II -- Part III -- Part IV

Hard as it seems
This ain't no damn dream
Gotta know what I mean
It's team against team

-- "By the Time I Get to Arizona", Public Enemy

Monday, March 14

1:05 PM -- This Athletics/Indians game was being broadcast nationally on the MLB Network. Our seats were behind home plate, roughly 20 rows up. Of course I had the DVR set to record back at Stately Bootleg Manor in San Diego. There was almost NO chance that we'd be seen on TV, but during an Athletics/Angels game in 1994, m'man Smitty and I made the 11 o'clock news. We could be seen heckling Angels LF Bo Jackson as he hobbled in pursuit of an A's extra-base hit in the corner. Oh, don't look at me like that. They're professional athletes! They're used to this kind of thing! It rolls right off their backs.

1:30 PM -- Erstwhile Oakland OF Travis Buck is starting for the Indians. Buck was never able to build upon his solid rookie campaign with the Athletics in 2007. His body betrayed him during the remainder of his Oakland tenure. When Buck wasn't on the disabled list, he was antagonizing A's manager Bob Geren and our boy-genius GM with his refusal to play hurt. In the end, Buck deserved better than extended, spiteful Triple-A exiles. Here in Goodyear, he just struck out on a 58-foot breaking ball. Whew. Glad he's not on my team.

2:00 PM -- Attending a ballgame with Mrs. Bootleg and Jalen means that I have to fetch their food and drinks during the first few innings. I'm convinced that my wife thoroughly observes the concourse beforehand and specifically selects the ONE menu item sold at the ONE stand that's invariably the farthest from our seats. We're several innings in before I can finally make my annual amble to Goodyear Ballpark's "Hot Dog Nation" stand. Over the past two years, the Cleveland Dog (chipotle BBQ sauce, bacon, onions and shredded cheddar cheese) earned its coveted 5 out of 5 "TBG Eats" evaluation. Last year, the Cincinnati Dog (chili, shredded cheddar cheese and onions) couldn't compare. This year, I went with the New York Dog (sauerkraut, spicy mustard). Let me get into character:





Current Weight: 161.2 lbs. I really like good sauerkraut and when it's done right, the cabbage flavor isn't entirely overwhelmed by the more sour components. The cheap sauerkraut here, on the other hand, wasn't as delicious. More salty than sour, if it adorned a lower-quality hot dog, I doubt I could've finished it. Thankfully, the Hot Dog Nation dogs are dense, well-textured and seasoned nicely. Based on the lowered bar at an exhibition baseball game…it was inoffensive eatin'. Grade: 2.5 (out of 5)

2:30 PM -- Me: "Jalen, if you want one more swim in the hotel pool, we'll have to leave no later than 3 o'clock. It closes at five and we've got a long drive ahead of us." Jalen: "I don't wanna leave. I wanna watch the game." Me: "sniff".

2:45 -- During my 30 years as an Oakland Athletics fan, there were only two A's players who displayed the kind of prodigious power that could make fans collectively stand and gasp based solely on the sound of the bat meeting the ball. This sixth-inning clip DOES NOT do it justice, but the absolute boom off of Chris Carter's bat had everyone in our area on their feet. His home run hit the scoreboard and resulted in several complete strangers -- hands incredulously clasped on top of their heads -- instinctively exchanging stories of the farthest home runs they've ever seen with whoever was sitting in their vicinity. For those who don't know, Carter led the entire organization – big leagues and minor leagues – in home runs last year. As of this writing, he's still in the minor leagues. Just sayin'.

2:55 PM -- Athletics closer Andrew Bailey came on in the bottom of the sixth inning to get some work in. He faced three batters before he was forced to leave with an apparent arm injury. In person, the words "worst case scenario" crossed my mind. This is a sport where emotionless stoicism is the unmarketable norm amongst the game's rank and file. But, Bailey was hopping around the mound, wincing and holding his limp right wing in a demonstrative show of anguish. Years ago, Mrs. Bootleg and I were in the stands at PETCO Park where we witnessed this gruesome incident. Watching Bailey, I thought we might have a new contender for the silver medal of grisly on-field injuries. (Nothing short of the opening scene of The Last Boy Scout could top two outfielders running face-first into each other.) Fortunately, Bailey's injury was relatively minor and he's expected to be 100% in a few more weeks. Don't EVER scare me like that again!

3:15 PM -- Top of the eighth inning and there might be a few hundred fans remaining. Oakland's Chris Carter steps to the plate and – again, on the first pitch – hits his second home run of the afternoon. In its own way, this opposite field blast was just as impressive as his scoreboard-denting in the sixth inning. His effortless ferocity here reminded me of two other right-handed hitters with legendary power the other way: Frank Thomas and Mike Piazza. Hold your cards and letters, kids. Carter's obviously not in their stratosphere. But, for ONE at-bat in a meaningless Spring Training game, I could impress my seven-year-old son with the comparison. Know your audience, y'all.

4:00 PM -- The Indians won, 9-8. Carter -- whose "30 A's in 30 Days" player profile was coincidentally pre-posted to run on this day, complete with Incredible Hulk clip -- actually came up in the ninth inning, but walked. The A's are winless in the three games we've seen them play at Goodyear Ballpark. However, for the first time in three years, the Indians didn't obliterate Oakland. Progress!

4:30 PM -- On our way back to the hotel. From the backseat of our rented SUV, Jalen looked a little lethargic. He had gotten a few extra innings on the Kids' Field before we made our walk to the parking lot. We hadn't been on the freeway for five minutes, when I opted for an off ramp and found a Fresh & Easy supermarket about a mile down the road. "Refreshing beverages for all!", I thought. Bottled water for Mrs. Bootleg. Red-flavored (as most of you know, it's a flavor in the black community) sports drink for me. And, for Jalen, his favorite cocktail: Nesquik Chocolate Milk.

4:45 PM -- It's seemingly impossible to drive the surface streets anywhere in Arizona without running into road construction at some point. Everything here is being built newer or bigger or wider or better. I applaud your EVENTUAL infrastructure, Arizona. But, this "work in progress" nonsense has proved to be problematic for me in the short-term. We left the supermarket 15 minutes ago and -- with only one lane of traffic open -- we still haven't completed the one mile drive back to the freeway. I'm boxed in nice and tight, inching along towards the on ramp when this happened:

Jalen: "My stomach hurts."

Me: [Instantly panicking.] "What? Jalen. Do NOT throw up in this car!"

Jalen: [Reacting to my panic with some of his own.] "NO! I have to go POOP!"

We've moved half a mile in 15 minutes! I'm idling in a single row of cars with nothing around us but several small mountains of unearthed dirt, traffic cones and the speck of a supermarket in my rear-view mirror. Oh, and a Ruby Tuesday restaurant roughly 150 yards off the street and to our right. There's no vehicular access to the eatery from where we are, so I explain to Mrs. Bootleg that she and Jalen are going to have to make a break for it. The two of them simultaneously exit the car. Without a moment to spare, Mrs. Bootleg gently takes Jalen's hand and...well, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. Here's a real-time reenactment.

5:00 PM -- Ultimately, I had to drive past the freeway and double-back to Ruby Tuesday's. Mrs. Bootleg and Jalen both climbed back in and both were wearing identical "let's never speak of this embarrassment again" looks on their faces.

Agreed.

Effective tomorrow.

TBG Desert Travel Diary: The Outtakes!

I'm hoping to have the fifth and final installment of this year's Spring Training travel diary up by the end of the weekend. In the meantime, here are a few vacation pictures that were left on the TBG cutting room floor:

Jalen proudly dragging his own personalized luggage. This is the smile of child who hasn't been through enough airports.

Jalen possibly saving a less experienced swimmer.

HAW!

Dad shows how it's done.

HAW!

Breaking out the boomstick.