View My Seats

At the Intersection of Sports and Culture

Photo Credit for Header: Alex Foucre-Stimes

Djoker’s Wild

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An Ace trumps a King.

Well, in this case it was also a magnificent return of serve that took down the GOAT, reducing the greatest to have ever grazed grass to little more than a pile of dust and dismay.

Even a late rain delay wasn’t enough to rejuvenate the sod or the Swiss’ fortunes. This Championship Sunday was a day for the Serb, his third Wimbledon title has him rubbing shoulders and legacies with all time greats Johnny Mac and his coach Boris Becker, who during this men’s final resisted the urge to illegally instruct or cajole an apprentice who, in the end, required very little additional guidance or motivation.

2015 has been quite a year for the world’s #1 and there is no reason to believe that Novak’s genius will end in the quiet suburbs of London. More titles will be won. Records meant to be broken.

And a year from now, when the grass has grown green once again, don’t be surprised when history repeats itself as Djokovic goes for three in a row over the ageless wonder that is Roger Federer. Still, even in defeat, the one true King of the court, Wizard of Wimbledon.

Flying Over France

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In my next life I shall return as a helicopter flying over the Tour de France, capturing images of the French countryside as the most famous bicycle race in the world travels through places like Paris and the Pyrenees, Normandy and Nice.

The grand sweeping beauty of hedgerows and pastures beneath. Historic palaces and fertile manors, both indicators of a revolutionary past and a peaceful present.

There will be moments of concern and trepidation as the thin air whirls past my propellor while ascending the steep slopes of the Alps. But my spirit will be emboldened while watching world class riders rise to the occasion, legs and hearts aching, starving for more oxygen.

Yellow is the goal for them, but for me, a helicopter, the clear blue skies be enough as I toast another great adventure down the Champs-Elysees. My one true Arc de Triomphe.

Northwoods Vampires

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At dusk. At dawn. When the light hangs low in the summer sky and the water rests calmly, still as glass. They descend, hovering atop the lake like a malevolent mist, enveloping all that lives, breathes and swims. Who are they? And where did they come from? What brings them to here, to this our quiet, calm stretch of the bay?

Is it for sport? Survival? Or some sort of sinister combination of indulgence and hunger? Feast or famine.

I remain curious. Anxious. And as I look out from my front porch window, with coffee stained lips pressing firmly against the flimsy metal screening, all I can see is swarm after swarm of blood thirsty angler. Engines off, vessels silent. Undetected by their prey. Wading. Waiting. For the right moment.

And when that time comes, these vampires of the Northwoods cast their fangs into the water with the calculated precision of a cold blooded killer. Searching, lusting after their trophy. The one that got away.

Some appetites are impossible to satisfy. One fish. Two fish. Three fish all in the bucket and it’s still not enough for these undead hunters of Wisconsin.

I have been tempted to join before, to fly with the flock is human nature after all. But these fishermen and women are not alive. Nor are they dead. They exist as lifeless, soulless omnivores whose single pursuit is to survive for all eternity with nothing more than a rod in their hand.

My life means more to me than that. I choose not to be defined by death. The fish are my friends. What lies beneath these shores remains a mystery, better explored by those who make their home in my nightmares and day terrors.

For they, they are the vampires of the Northwoods.

View My Seats: Citi Field Edition

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Citi Field Cinco de MayoCiti Field on a Tuesday evening in early May is a friendly place to watch a baseball game. Even the parking lot attendant who directed us down the dark, dingy lair beneath the Whitestone Expressway couldn’t have been more enthusiastic about the season to date. And who can blame him? The Mets are playing great. Attendance is up. And on this night fan/internet favorite Bartolo Colon was taking the mound for the home town team.

A few other highlights from our trip to Queens:

1 – Citi Field still has that new car smell which might have had something to do with the Mazda 5 they were raffling off by the Shake Shack. In all seriousness, the concourses are spacious and the bathrooms clean, the latter somewhat surprising given that it was Cinco De Mayo.

2 – The food is as good as advertised. We went with sandwiches from Pressed by Josh Capon which if you’re going to spend $12 on a grilled cheese you might as well make sure it comes w/ pepper crusted bacon.

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Lipstick On A Pig

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When does a hot dog become more than a hot dog and turn into a gastronomical event worthy of equal parts praise and belt busting gluttony?

The 21st century has brought with it some futuristic alterations to the ballpark. High definition jumbotrons have changed the way we absorb blooper reels and wider, brighter concourses have created the appropriate amount of space for various children’s amusements in case the slow play on the field cannot keep up with the attention deficient synapses of America’s hyperactive youth.

But above all these things the hot dog, that stadium staple dating all the way back to the time of Abner Doubleday, has experienced the greatest culinary metamorphosis. Long are the days when a ballpark frank, steamed to perfection and left sweating in its own meaty juices, came delivered by an equally pungent and aromatic vendor who could offer you nothing more than the simple choice of mustard or ketchup. If you were lucky there was relish readily available and  only on those very special occasions, when the sun and stars aligned, could you find a spoonful of perfectly chopped onions. Ahhh simplicity in the design.

But today the ballpark dog comes adorned with more accoutrements than a supermodel at a fashion show. The hotdog has gone from star to sidekick with the role of alpha belonging to stand alone artists formerly known as chili, candied bacon and even a churro, a pastry most prefer as sugar treat at the state fair. Stadium concession purveyors have gone to great creative lengths to deliver fans with the latest taste bud treat.

Cooking shows have been dedicated to less material than the 21st century ballpark hot dog. Which begs the question, where should I begin?