Save Dave
I swear I was planning to go to work yesterday. But when I woke up and saw the sun pouring through my window, I thought better of it. It was one of those glorious spring days with just a few puffy white clouds scattered amidst a sky of unbelievable blue. I felt like Ferris Bueller except I didn’t have to fake a stomach cramp and lick my palms. I just had to call the garage and tell them not to expect me. No one would be hailing a cab on such a nice day anyhow.
At that point, Melissa, my sweet Thai girlfriend (how did she get so sweet? years of practice), was actually playing the Cameron role in the story. She had woken up before dawn, and by the time I came out from under the covers, she’d already put in a full day’s work. She was back home in bed already, dead set on napping away the afternoon. “I’m dying,” she said, referring to the fact that she’d not had a full night’s sleep in weeks. “You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do,” I said, hoping she’d (and you’d) catch the reference. She didn’t budge.
But she bowed to my logic when I pleaded with her, “How many times are we both going to be free in the afternoon when the Yankees are playing a day game at The Stadium?” As she looked out the window at that beautiful sky, I watched Cameron slowly melt away. Before I had my teeth brushed and my mohawk tamed, there was my Sloane, cowboy boots and all, ready to go. She rubbed her bleary eyes, and we were Bronx bound.
A weekday game with a 1:05 start, and it was sold out. God bless this city. And God bless scalpers who get desperate within minutes of the National Anthem. I handled the shady negotiating, bought the tickets, and then scouted out the best empty seats in the house that we could sneak into without an usher bothering us. Melissa, once she got over her fear of being booted from our stolen seats, bought us our breakfast:
A Yankee Stadium hot dog used to taste like someone took a Dodger dog, dropped it on the floor, stepped on it, and then put it on a bun. Then they got worse. There was a very trying period sometime during the height of the steroid era (we’ve entered the HGH era) when hot dog vendors at The Stadium didn’t even have buns. They served dogs in small wedges of bread sliced three quarters of the way through as though we were too stupid to know the difference between a hot dog bun and a piece of Wonder Bread.
Even so, it had always been my dream to vend hot dogs at Yankee Stadium. One year I waited in line for hours in the bitter March winds off the Harlem River only to be turned away for not having a social security card on hand. The next year, after spending hours in line at the Social Security Office, I spent hours in line at The Stadium waiting for my second shot at the big leagues.
But some of the desperate, unemployed denizens of the South Bronx tried to cut in line, and some other desperate, unemployed denizens of the South Bronx with overdeveloped senses of propriety didn’t let it go. The shouting match turned into a fist fight, the fist fight turned into a brawl, and I high tailed it all the way to Coney Island where I languished selling hot dogs in Single A ball for a summer.
Melissa, knowing how hard it is out here for a vendor, tipped ours handsomely. They started using real buns again a couple of years ago, and they switched from Sabrett’s to Nathan’s. Although these bulk variety Nathan’s dogs have zero snap, they are wonderfully meaty. Maybe it had something to do with my stellar mood, but I thought that hot dog was so choice:
So was the cotton candy:
If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.
Unlike Ferris, I didn’t catch a foul ball. And the Yankees lost miserably. Yet, I believe the game was blessed. No one shouted for me to take my hat off during God Bless America during the 7th inning stretch, so I gotta say it was a good day. Sparky Anderson sat right near us:
We watched as a man proposed to his pink ARod jersey-wearing girlfriend who said “YES” and then cheered wildly while simultaneously staring at her new ring when ARod hit a monster home run just minutes later:
ARod was clutch!!!. . . for this happy couple
Then my idol, Bernie Williams, jacked one out of the park just for me:
Bernie Williams, you’re my hero.
Plus we were witness to 21-year-old Melky Cabrera’s first career home run. We can always boast we saw the first of many, if Joe Torre is right about him.
Had I driven the cab yesterday, I probably would not have made a dime. I think I needed the day off. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
(This shot goes out to all my straight female readers, my gay readers, and my male readers who are confident in their heterosexuality. . . To the Upper East Side nubiles)
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to book an eating tour. The question is what aren’t we going to eat.
(You’re still here? It’s over. . . Go back to work.)
FFDave, you are my hero. Sigue Sigue Sputnik was playng in my head the whole time I was reading this.
F-ing aweseome Beastie Boys reference too.
Have a good weekend!
Comment by dan — June 16, 2006 @ 1:31 pm
As always your post was fantastically sarcastic and an enjoyable read to boot, but what I really wanna say is that your old school yankee cap there kicks some serious arse!!! Rock on!!!
Comment by christiooon — June 16, 2006 @ 1:54 pm
Yeah for wonderful days off.
Comment by Shannon — June 16, 2006 @ 2:08 pm
dave, good job on the hot girlfriend.
Comment by Steve — June 16, 2006 @ 2:43 pm
Did you eat pancreas too - or just the dog?
Comment by Kristiane — June 16, 2006 @ 2:48 pm
I’m jealous! Looks like it was a beautiful day to see a ball game. Sounds like it was a lot of fun!
Comment by Cindy — June 16, 2006 @ 3:19 pm
I am going to RFK tonight for Nats Yanks and then in the morning for game 2! How jealous are you?
Comment by Coleman — June 16, 2006 @ 3:53 pm
Dave….I mean Ferris Bueller you’re my hero.
Comment by a dave fan — June 16, 2006 @ 5:56 pm
This is the best blog on the entire internet.
And I don’t just throw words like that around…
Comment by Ayala — June 16, 2006 @ 9:45 pm
And I was just gonna ask if you would ever wear a Mets cap. I guess not. I saw the Yanks beat the Twinkies in Minneapolis this summer. I saw the Yanks beat the Mariners in Seattle summer before that. Whenever I see the Yanks, they beat my team. Who cares, as long as I get a hot dog and a beer.
Comment by Mary Drew Powers — June 18, 2006 @ 12:25 am
Next time you must sing Twist & Shout in a parade. And how bout stealing some one’s reservation in a super nice restaurant… that sounds like a good adventure/post.
Comment by Johnny Blevins III — June 19, 2006 @ 1:51 pm
One day the crowd at Yankee Stadium will acknowledge that Famous Fat Dave is in the house.
Comment by Adam B — June 21, 2006 @ 6:52 am
[…] He was, however, heading to a neighborhood far from any place where I might find another fare: The South Bronx. It was late on a Thursday night and they were going dancing at a soul food restaurant slash lounge called Sam’s. He actually invited me in, but I regretfully declined because I needed to go back to work. I’d been there multiple times before to partake of their delicious bbq chicken on my way to Yankee Stadium just blocks away. But the night club concept fascinated me. […]
Pingback by The Hungry Cabbie: The Eating Adventures of a NYC Yellow Cabbie » Gettin’ Down In The Boogie Down — June 27, 2006 @ 10:30 pm
[…] The Bronx is usually a great place to watch a ballgame. But when Randy Johnson pitches, it can be extremely unpleasant. Thankfully, The Bronx is always a great place to eat jerk, no matter who is pitching. […]
Pingback by The Hungry Cabbie: The Eating Adventures of a NYC Yellow Cabbie » The Hungry Cabbie Eats The Outer Boroughs XVIII — July 31, 2006 @ 6:12 am
[…] “Baseball is the only real sport, I think, in the world.” Babe Ruth said that. As a Yankee fan who hasn’t missed a box score since I was eight years old, laid on collapsed cardboard in the South Bronx for twenty two hours to get a ticket to the 1998 World Series, and chants “Boston SUCKS” at Yankee Stadium even when the visiting team is the Orioles, I believed in the Curse of the Bambino. In the American League Championship Series that October of 2003, the Yankees were playing the Red Sox, who had been languishing under the curse since Babe Ruth was sold by Boston to the Yankees for the low, low price of $100,000 in 1920. The Red Sox, who had won the 1915, 1916, and 1918 World Series behind the brilliant pitching of a young Babe Ruth, had seemed to be on a roll when the teens ended. But the Great Bambino led the Yankees to their first World Series title ever in 1923, the Yankees went on to win 25 more championships, and the Red Sox were damned. […]
Pingback by The Hungry Cabbie: The Eating Adventures of a NYC Yellow Cabbie » Spring Training — March 9, 2007 @ 8:46 am