This is my new ringtone: RAUUUUUL IBANEZ

¡Esta pelota no regresa!

When I smashed my Rollei in Montréal, for a few moments I was sure it was all over for the thing. My favorite camera makes it seem almost too easy to take compelling pictures, and absent-minded will be my epitaph. But, the hardy machine was unfazed, but for a mirror in the viewfinder that had come unhinged. I can still take pictures with it, but I have to really wrestle with the finder. Alas, it needs fixing again.

I was hesitant to take my camera back to the master machinist Harry Fleenor, fearing another eight-week wait for an eight-minute repair. This was simply beneath him.  A contact had recommended a repair wizard here in the San Fernando Valley, a man named Zvi who supposedly knew everything about every camera. He sounded promising so I followed up with some Web research and found a few gushing testimonials, including one that called Zvi the “camera whisperer.” That convinced me.

I planned to take my bruised Rollei to the camera whisperer and then head down to San Diego for a baseball game. I’d asked a few of my baseball-aware friends if they’d like to join me to go see the Phillies play down there. My mates respectfully declined, but I needed to get out of the house, so I decided to go solo. I planned a micro-excursion to America’s Finest City, to get from my apartment to Petco Park in downtown San Diego. I’d eschew my car and go via bus and train, stay downtown, and then come back the next morning.

The Phillies called up a rookie to make his first appearance in the major leagues. His name is Antonio Bastardo, and I was excited that I would be there for his debut.

I wasted away the morning, and while I packed extremely light, I have a way of misplacing critical items at crucial times. Time passed like it does, and abruptly I realized that I had no time to take my camera anywhere. In fact by the time I walked out of my place, I realized I had exactly one hour to make it to Union Station for the two o’clock train departure. Yikes! The repairs could wait. I had to go!  I thought back to the last time I’d gone to Union Station. I remembered that it had taken me exactly one hour. I was worried.

For one to go to Union Station in downtown Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley goes like this: Walk four blocks. Wait for bus. Catch bus. Get off bus, cross street, wait for subway. Take the subway to the very end of the line. You’re there.

It was a day of unsurpassed beauty, the sun was bright and warm, the sky was playful and clear. I vowed not to look at the time until I’d made it to the train station. I made a conscious decision to have faith, and that brought me a peaceful, beautiful, trancelike focus. I made made each connection smoothly without undue delay. And, when I got off the metro subway I finally checked. It was 1:55. I hustled up the escalators, through the station. I still had to print out the ticket from a kiosk. I tried one. It didn’t work, and I calmly moved to the next kiosk. I had such a blissfully assured calm. I was spiritual. I was quick without being crazy. I got the ticket. I checked the board. I had to make it to Track ten. Ten! I ran down the needlessly long hallway. Track ten was the farthest option. What were they hiding? I saw the clock. It was exactly two. I reached the ramp to the platform, looked up and saw motion blur. The train was speeding, speeding away without me.

Despite the economy, I guess the trains still run on time.

I stopped short, caught my breath, and let the anxiety that I’d outrun catch up with me. I stood there while that anxiety washed over me, and I let it pass me by. The aura of calm returned and I just chuckled. So much for faith, though.

I took out my camera, as Union Station was surely a great place to take pictures on such a day. For reasons I can’t comprehend, I couldn’t see any of those pictures. I ended up leaving without taking a single photograph. But, I’d convinced myself that I’d guaranteed the Phillies would win in the baseball game that I’d missed. That’s just how it would go. I knew it.

Back at home, I called the hotel in San Diego and canceled my reservation. I called the Padres ticket office. Despite their no exchanges policy, I explained what had happened, the train and everything. Kathleen was the service agent, and she convinced her manager to exchange my ticket for one for the next night’s game. My train ticket was good for any of these trips, so I’d just try again tomorrow.

And, I still had a few hours of daylight. Feeling productive, I jumped in the car to head to find the camera whisperer. I didn’t know his hours, but surely if I got there by five, I’d have a good chance of finding him. And, like the review said, don’t bother calling. This would work. Probably.

There was some light traffic, and Tarzana was a little farther than I figured in my head. But, again I was quick without being crazy. I found the address, parked, and saw the door to the shop open. It was five on the dot. I got out and approached. There was a tall man in his thirties at the door staring off into the distance , which I now noticed was flanked by a security gate that was pulled to the edge of the door. About to close. The man seemed unaware of me, of anything other than his cigarette. Was I going to be too late by a matter of seconds twice in one afternoon? I eyed the sign on the door listing hours as ten to four. Curious. Standing before the morose man, I said “You’re not open are you?”

“No,” he said simply and quietly, not to me but to the afternoon’s haze. If I’d hoped for some leeway, that reply was enough to turn me right back around.

“Was there something you needed?” asked another voice. A stern, wizened woman whom I’d somehow not seen was right behind me. Much older than the man at the door, she looked at me painfully.

“I was just hoping to get a camera repaired,” I offered with an optimistic tone that seemed to die in the vast space around me.

“We don’t do that anymore,” she said gravely, dubiously.

Determined to be friendly, I pressed her if it was because business has been slow. I wanted to be supportive, empathetic.

“My husband has just passed away,” she said to no one. Zvi was gone, probably very recently.

Stunned, I lowered my head. These people were his survivors facing an uncertain future. I offered some unheard condolences, unheard by them and by me. And, I stumbled off awkwardly. I didn’t know their story, but I wish I did. What could I do? Back to my car, back home.

Antonio Bastardo and the Phillies played the game without me. I watched from home, and they won easily, putting on quite a show. I knew they would.

The next day started cloudy and filled with gloom, quite a contrast with the previous.  But, I tried again and made it down the coast. Another  day, another train, another baseball game. It was adventure mixed up with some fun, loneliness, and a ballpark hot dog. I still found it hard to take photographs. I don’t know why.

I’ve found another camera repair man in Los Angeles complete with tales of history and character. His name is Walter. I’ll take the Rollei to him. I’m sure it’ll be an adventure.

Probably.

Play this: “Get Busy” – The Roots

Thank you Jimmy Rollins for putting the Dodger crowd on their heels a bit — the ones that showed up, I mean. From my field level seats, I could easily see over a dozen seats in my section alone that were no-shows for the entire game. But, the fans that did show were hardcore, and I give them a lot of credit for cheering hard the whole game. What a game! I’m unable to bring my writerly skills to bear on it, except for maybe the title I picked for the photo above:

Dodger Fans Tried To Rally Their Team, But the Clouds Turned Philadelphia Crimson and Foretold the Outcome as the Phillies Were Ultimately Victorious

Late in the game, Andre Ethier hurled a ball at our section from a great distance, and it was headed right directly, so perfectly, into my hand — but the guy in the Garciaparra jersey in front of me stretched out and put his hand right into mine and deflected the ball off to the right. Thanks, Nomah!

Now, here’s some bonus crappy video of the final out.

Play this: “Lonesome Loser” – Little River Band

(Ed. note: I have been adding significantly to this post since I published it.)

Trash, seen on exiting Dodger Stadium after the Los Angeles squad eliminated the cursed Chicago Cubs. It was a surreal feeling, happy that the local team won and seeing all the happy people, but knowing all the booing and aggressive, brainless vitriol I’d seen directed towards Cubs fans at the game will be directed at me, should the Phillies advance to face the Dodgers.

I still remember the first Phillies game I went to as a young kid. It was against the Braves in the old Veterans Stadium.  Some Braves fans sat right in front of us, and I was baffled the whole time, wondering what they were doing there. They cheered all the Braves plays, and were not mean or anything. But, as the Braves won the game, they were happy and I wasn’t, and there was something that seemed unfair about that. To this day, I wonder if opposing fans in a home stadium care about the kids whose time they ruin? And, on the flip side. I can see the hope in that handmade sign. Hope that was crushed. I’m sure whoever made it was young and took a heap of abuse for it. I’m probably too sensitive about this. I mean, it was probably adorable when I saw that wheelchair guy in the James Loney jersey to teach his 8-year-old daughter to give the “throat-slash” gesture to Cubs fans. And the drunk fans ejected for flipping people off and swearing? It’s just the fun of sports, yeah?

Is it important that I deck out in Phillies regalia if I go to a Phils-Dodgers game at Dodger Stadium?  Would it be make more sense to do so if I had friends who were Phillies fans? Is it worth the tense confrontation with beer-soaked Dodger fans just to wear a red hat when all around you wear blue? Am I jinxing the Phillies by thinking about this before they clinch against the Brewers?

All the answers will come soon. I can’t wait to be throat-slashed!

Well, I said if Kentucky Joe got a W in September, I’d do it. And tonight, he pitched a piss-poor game against the Marlins, but was somehow bailed out by Jayson Werth’s big bat. Hey, a win is a win! And, I’m taking full credit for it, too. Never let it be said that I’m not true to my word, at least when it comes to ridiculous wagers. Ladies and gents, my ridiculous new chinbeard:

Update: As seen on The700Level

Update II: THis made the lower levels of Flickr Explore. It’s a juggernaut!

My new theme song: “Ugly” – Fishbone

Well, Joe Blanton didn’t have it today against the Nats, getting pulled early. It’s not looking good for the new guy, ol’ Kentucky Joe.  I defended the move when the Phils picked him up, so I’m gonna do what I gotta do to help him be successful.

So, if Joe Blanton records a W in the month of September, I will do it. I’ll rock the chinbeard. I know it’s a drastic measure, but this is a pennant race and I’m stepping up and laying my chin on the line.

Play it: “The Hair On My Chinny Chin Chin” – Sam Sham & The Pharoahs

MLB – Philadelphia Phillies/Washington Nationals Box Score

The past never dies, it gets repackaged as retro chic — or at the very least it always comes back as an ironic indie band name.  ESPN writer Jeff Pearlman highlights a great example of this immortal truth this week.

“We should be ‘Randy Ready,’” one said.

“No,” said the other. “We can do better.”

“We should be ‘Lou Whitaker,’” one said.

“No,” said the other. “We can do better.”

“We should be ‘Steve Balboni,’” one said.

“No,” said the other. “We can do better.”

And then, as if emerging directly from the lips of God, words of inspiration struck.

“We should be … Von Hayes,” one said.

“Yes,” said the other. “We should.”

The result: Von Hayes — the rock band.

Read: ESPN Page 2 – Pearlman: When baseball and music collide

An indie rock band named after one of my favorite old-school Philadelphia Phillies baseball players from the 1980s? There’s no way that could suck!

“Mr. Guts” – Von Hayes

“Superballs” – Von Hayes

Actually, they do kinda suck. (More at http://www.myspace.com/vonhayes09)  But, that’s okay! All music sucks in some way. It’s  a great story and I hope the real Von Hayes calls them back at some point.  I was a big Von Hayes fan in my time.  Cool name, looked cool in Philly pinstripes, and hit two home runs in one inning. Very cool! Bonus Cool Points for ESPN’s nickname machine Chris Berman calling him Von “Purple” Hayes back in the day.

But guys, just don’t let him invite you onto his boat.

Now, onto some bonus video comparison:

Von Hayes, the ex-Phillie and current minor league manager:

Von Hayes, the enthusiastic indie rockers:

In the beginning, there was the Wolf Pack.  In the wake of that followed the Padilla Flotilla, Chase’s Chicks, and even Sal’s Pals. Any Philadelphia Phillie player with any sort of character seems to get a possibly-alliterative, perhaps-rhyming, potentially-punny nicknamed fan club.

Last night, however, a new one surfaced to support sophomore starter Kyle Kendrick.

Full Coverage and credit at Philadelphia Will Do: Kendrick’s Hendrix

I’m not sure I can support this one. They’ll have to start playing lefty and come up with a better drawing. Of course if it leads to KK warming up to “Spanish Castle Magic” then I will be on board.

Bonus flashback: Preseason prank: Kyle Kendrick traded to Japan

The Phillies traded minor leaguers for SP Joe Blanton and in typical phan-phashion, Phillie blog reactions have been derisive and shrill.

Immediate quotes from the Beerleaguer comment section:

“I would have been happy trading for Burnett, but Joe Blanton? Why bother?“

“I’m going to go start drinking now“

“Wow. Just unbelievable. Why oh why“

“ARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!“

So, they’re really taking a wait-and-see approach. I do have one source who was a big Joe Blanton fan from Oakland. But, when I interviewed her for this story, the best anecdote she could recall was that Blanton pitched so quickly on Fireworks night that the game ended early and everybody had to wait two hours before fireworks started.

Now, that is a solid endorsement.

Also, she claims his nickname is Kentucky Joe. A second source confirms this.

I think it’s a good move, and I think Blanton will at least calm things down. The Phillies rotation was in full-on crisis mode. He’s a major league arm coming to a weaker hitting league. This has a decent chance of working out.

Even Wikipedia sez: “Blanton throws a low-90′s fastball, along with a 12-6 curveball, a slider, and a straight changeup. His curveball is by far his best secondary pitch, drawing comparisons to former teammate Barry Zito’s famously baffling 12-6 curve. His slider and change are only league-average, but Blanton appears to have solidified his position as a quality starter.”

That’s gotta be true, right?

Read Big Joe’s Bluegrass Blog on the MLB sanctioned mlblogs.com. Nothing about the trade as of press time, but stay tuned!

Updated: Apparently video of the Blanton-Shoves-Ichiro Incident does not exist!

Seen on The Fightins’ » Philly & Long Beach together? Now you know you in trouble..

Best. Celeb. Pic. Ever!