Yankees 1, Orioles 0

Last game ever in my beloved season ticket seats. If we ignore an afternoon where my friend and I crawled around the upper deck like oversized arachnids, it's been a remarkably smooth decade in Tier Reserved 6.

I shared the final Yankee Stadium Saturday with my old buddy Gritty. Grit's a veteran of several legendary days and nights on River Avenue (the "Black Suit Sucks" night, the "Sleeper" night, Piazza Beaning #1, as well as a bizarre bleachers excursion on opium)-- we settled in without a hitch.

Of course, the Yankees hired/asked no one to sing anything. How do they manage to screw that up every time? This is New York City!

We couldn't hit to save our lives all day. As one of our section-mates said, "This is a microcosm of our season." I was tempted to push the "every game is a microcosm of each of our lives" thing, but I held back. I just burped instead.

Hundreds of cops swarmed around the Stadium like giant ants. I might need to reconsider my "souvenir" approach for tomorrow night-- maybe stealing a urinal flush mechanism isn't the best idea. I'll be happy to make it home with my wallet and apartment keys.

Either I'm nuts or 75% of Billy's across from the Stadium is now an Apple Bank branch. They replaced a bar with a bank? What's the point?

Tomorrow night better be good. I want Bernie jamming with the surviving members of the Dave Matthews Band, Giambi arm-wrestling Kevin Millar, free beer, and George Steinbrenner descending onto the field via hovercraft. I also want to be home by midnight.