Yankees 2, Tigers 1

[warning: this post contains explicit descriptions of medical conditions and procedures that some may find disturbing or just plain gross. click here for a somewhat cleaner account of the same game from Left Field.]

Charlie Simone made the trip down to the city for a nice weekend with the Mazzolas. We're still recovering from an exhausting vacation "down South". Despite an invitation to a fun, fun party out in Brooklyn, we decided to stay in for a nice night of burgers, Bud cans and baseball trivia.

We should've been reasonably well-rested for Saturday afternoon's Yanks-Tigers game. I got up at about 6:30 in anticipation of LJ's waking, and tried to squeeze in some computer time and general straightening up. The boy was up at 7:00, so we hung out and ate breakfast while Chuck and the Mz got a few extra hours of sleep.

Charles and I took LJ out to the park from about 9:30 to 11:30, giving my wife some valuable work time. Finding time to work out of your home with a little kid around ain't easy, and requires creative but strict scheduling. We're still learning how to do this at the Mazzola household.

So we had a lovely time watching LJ swing and bang and stumble around the park in what felt like high 80's in the sun. I was getting pretty beat already, and we were still two hours from first pitch. We got the boy home safely, and made our way up to the stadium.

As you well know, my new Saturday seats are way the fuck up in the Grandstand section. Not bad, but way the fuck up. I've been taking steps (or less steps) to make sure I'm not climbing up and down the upper deck every ten minutes, and one way to do this is to sit in other people's seats. I've always hated doing this, but you do whatcha gotta do, right? We sat in the same 2nd or 3rd row seats of my section that Gritt and I used in my last game (the one where I burned the shit out of myself). We even had sunblock this time, but were immediatedly booted out of the seats by a couple of Tigers fans. We looked around and didn't see many open areas of seats, and trudged up to our proper seats in lower Kathmandu.

It's nice and cool up there (in Kathmandu), but kind of a pain in the ass. We're right in the middle of an aisle (kinda like being stuck between China and India), so it's always awkward to run down and get beer, food, bathroom, etc. You know the drill. So you end up in sort of extreme states of being: thirsty, hungry, too much beer, too many cardboard/plastic containers, gotta piss, etc. (kinda like climbing Mt. Everest without all the equipment).

The game itself was pretty great. Coney threw out the first pitch to Joe Girardi in commemoration of his perfect game ten years ago. Could CC Sabathia duplicate Cone's historic feat today?

Not with me in the building. It wasn't pretty, but CC did a fine job stymieing the Detroit offense. Verlander completely shut us down (with the exception of Jeter) until later in the game when A-Rod kinda blooped a weird home run to right (called a "timely tater" by the Yanks site). A borderline cheapo run gave us a 2-1 win, complete with save by Mariano.

We spent most of our time drinking Guinness and sorting out unfinished trivia questions, like "Who says 'Subdivisions...' in the song "Subdivisions"? I immediately answered "Neil Peart" (apparently incorrect) and the rest of us went with "Alex Lifeson" (probably incorrect as well). Thanks to AP and Frank Rose for the correct answer. Our other questions included players who won multiple MVPs at different positions, and teams whose names could effectively be used as slang for women's breasts. It was a day of rich discussion.

As always, the beer sales were cut off at precisely the end of the 7th inning. I think we're only beginning to understand the supernatural powers of the new Yankee Stadium, because my bladder's ability to evacuate waste was also shut down at this exact moment. Very interesting timing.

To make a long story short, Simone and I hopped in a car service from River Ave to in hopes of getting home in time to help out with LJs nightly routines. I had to piss so fucking bad in the car that I devised emergency plans every time we stopped at a light. Not "excuse me, can we make a quick stop at this Starbucks up here" but simply jumping out of the car and peeing on the curb. The pain was so great that I knew I wouldn't be able to walk reasonably, let alone stand on a damn bathroom line. I buckled down and just waited for home.

The car pulled over across the street, and Chuck helped me across the four-lane drive to my apartment. I couldn't walk at all, and I actually fell on the ground in front of an oncoming car. We looked like a scene recreation from The Deer Hunter, except we were wearing Yankee hats instead of torn bandanas. I commanded Chuck to just dump me into the stairwell in front of my building, where I could theoretically piss in a drainage grate while Chuck ran around and let me in from inside. The rivers still weren't flowing, so I writhed in agony and waited. We finally got into my place and I hunkered down in the bathroom for what seemed like hours, doubled over in agony.

A conference between the Mz and my doctor(s) produced a plan that would circumvent the bureaucratic hell of an emergency room (thank Jesus!), involving a cab crosstown (us) and a duck-out from hospital rounds to personal office (my doctor, on a Saturday, mind you). This is why my specialist is the best fucking doctor in New York at what he does-- he always puts his patients first.

Meanwhile, Charles is putting LJ to bed back home. I'm happy to report that he did an absolutely stellar job. Jr already likes Chuck, so we never expected anything less. I don't think a Purple Heart would really be appropriate for Simone's clutch performance(s) after the game, but maybe a Purple Spoon might make more sense.

I mewled in quiet agony for the surprisingly quick car trip to the east side, and staggered into the office and onto a medical table for the covert procedure (I almost felt like DeNiro in Ronin). There's little you can do as a patient to prepare for certain invasive medical procedures, so why try? I couldn't watch the whole catheter performance from my lousy view, but I bet it was kinda funny: me trying not to come off as a complete pussy, while my wife helped with clamping or elevating or whatever she had to do while my doctor siphoned almost two liters of wawa out through my weewee. The relief was instantaneous and beautiful on my end; I can't speak for the "beauty" witnessed by Mz and doc.

I was immediately hooked up to an IV mega-steroid drip, probably much like the one that revitalized Big Papi's offensive production this June. Pretty soon I was joking around with my wife, actually drinking water, and hooking monster home runs into right field at Fenway.

Probably gonna skip our next game against the A's so I can rest up for the next August game. By then I should be able to piss all over whatever I want, whenever I want. Bring on the Red Sox!!!