Harold and the ladies

I just thought I'd chime in on the Harold Reynolds thing.

The word around Bristol was that the, um, friendliness with the ladies was a regular thing with HR. I mean, who doesn't like to be chummy with the women? Of course, when you're married and have a child, maybe you should cut back or be a little more discrete.

I caught a glimpse of his "jockular" personality a few years ago in Houston during All-Star weekend.

I received two extra passes to an event on Saturday night, the night I arrived. A college friend of mine, Laura, and her husband, David, came along. It was just a buffett at a bar, nothing much. But there were some VIPs there, like Jimmy Kimmell and Sarah Silverman. David and I had our picture taken with Miss USA.

There was also a photo booth set up. You put on a glove they provided, stand in front of a green screen and act like you're catching a ball. Then, on the computer, they mesh that picture of you in a crowd with an outfielder also jumping for the ball that's landing in your glove. So the three of us took one.

Then Laura, who's had a few drinks, somehow says that we should do the shot over, but that instead of all three of us lunging for the ball, David should grab her breast. For some reason, he thought that was silly or inappropriate or something. David says, "Dan can do it." I had also had several drinks, so I did it. Laura's all proud of the picture she has of her lunging for the ball, me cupping her breast, and David looking on in surprise.

Then we see Harold Reynolds. Laura, again emboldened by the drinks, takes the picture up to him.

"Hey, Harold, what do you think?" she asks him.

"I don't know if you're going to get it," he replies, meaning the baseball.

"No," she says, "what about him?" And she points to my hand.

"OH YEAH!" Harold says. "He's got it!"

Final photos from the All-Star Game

There just wasn't enough room to get all my favorite photos from All-Star Weekend into a single entry, so here is a handful of remaining images that I felt worthy of posting.

In the eighth grade, one of our research paper assignments required that we write about a career. We could choose any one we liked, but I suppose the exercise was had the dual intention of getting us to start thinking about our futures as we headed into high school as well as helping us develop research and writing skills. I chose the career of Sports Photographer (capitalized, as if in the game of Life). Not long after that, a year or two, I got my first "real" camera, a Minolta Maxim something-or-other. It was a birthday gift, given to me a few weeks before the day one summer when my buddy Matt and our dads went to Boston to visit Boston College and take in a Red Sox game. Some of those first photos were of Nolan Ryan, Juan Gonzalez, Rafael Palmeiro and other Rangers and Red Sox in the Fenway outfield during BP.

Somewhat fittingly, that camera broke at a ballpark as well. In the summer of 1999, my sports editor at the newspaper asked if I wanted to write a weekly baseball column. The idea was that I would travel to the six minor-league ballparks in New Jersey at the time, as well as the new Yankees' affiliate on Staten Island. I managed a coup when I convinced them to expense a trip to Fayetteville, N.C., to investigate the Cape Fear Crocs, a team that had been bought earlier that summer and would be moving to Lakewood, N.J., in two years. I found something of a ghost city, a town struggling to rebound from tough times and a less-than-high-school-quality field that was meant to host minor league baseball 70 nights a year. It was a sad state.

But the camera broke a couple of weeks before that trip, when I visited Newark to see the Bears in their new (and at the time, just about finished) stadium. Out beyond centerfield lay the New York skyline, the Twin Towers the signature buildings. I took a few shots and then heard a pop or a crack. It sounded like my plastic lens cover hitting the concrete concourse, so I looked at my feet, thinking I'd dropped it. Nothing, nowhere. It was in my pocket the whole time. But after that, my camera refused to work. The repairs would cost nearly as much as a new rig, so I upgraded.

Anyway, I've thoroughly enjoyed taking pictures for the last 10 years, plus. Here are the last shots of an eighth-grade research paper come to life.


And the rockets' red glare ...


Jeet pleases the fans during NL batting practice.


Danny Graves tosses an autographed ball back to an unseen (to him) fan.


Roger Clemens didn't stop smiling all weekend ... well, until he threw his first pitch.


I just love this one as a photograph in itself.

When I switched to black and white film during Tuesday's pregame batting practice, I thought it was appropriate that the first photo I took was of one of the oldest players in the game, Barry Larkin. Surprisingly, VH1 didn't tie in its promotion of I Love the 90s with Larkin and the All-Star Game.

It Still Counts: All-Star Gameday

All-Star Game Day, July 13, 2004, Houston

Really, it could have been Christmas morning. That's the kind of excitement Tuesday held. Laura played hooky from work and the three of us went to Buffalo Wild Wings for lunch. Joe Morgan was in the hotel lobby when she came in to get me, and she thought about getting a baseball for him to sign, then didn't.

We rode the shuttle to the ballpark together, getting there around 3:30. I went down to the field and sat on the Astros bench in the dugout to relax and be ready for batting practice at 4 o'clock. Stark and Kurkjian stood at the railing and talked. A few all-stars came out and mingled. Mark Loretta talked with someone about teammate Phil Nevin: "If he likes you, he'll do anything for you." That came after a statement that held the opposite meaning, if you know what I mean.

Being 5-foot-7, I'm dwarfed on the field when the players come out. Most people are taller than me, so even the sports writers look down to me. So unless I can get to the front of the crowd, I don't see much. So when, standing near the batting cage, I heard "Derek! Derek! Jeter!" coming from above the NL dugout behind me, I knew he was around. When I turned, two media members stepped aside and Derek Jeter came right at me. He obviously hadn't seen me on the other side of the tall people. "Excuse me," he said, then brushed past me and embraced Barry Larkin in a bear hug from behind.


Members of the shortstop brotherhood.

Mike Piazza came out of the dugout and walked out to the outfield behind second base. He said hello to Albert Pujols, then asked to see his first baseman's mitt, trying it on.

I took some pictures of Jim Thome taking throws at first base, of Mike Lowell in the batting cage, of Bobby Abreu next to it.

After the NL batted, the players went out to centerfield for the team photo and I noticed Tommy Lasorda amid a sea of reporters. When the NL players came back in from the outfield, Piazza put his arm around Lasorda as the two talked.


The catcher and the godfather.

Fox had its pregame desk set up in foul territory down the first base line, and Jeanie Zelasko had her long blond hair done up all wavy and wore a brilliant pink jacket. She just seems to get more bimboed up each week.

In another case of someone seemingly following me, I turned around to see Roger Clemens coming off the field. It was like a train wherever he went: always followed by a trail of reporters and/or security. At one point, the script "Astros" was headed straight for my head. ESPN's Chris Berman pulled him aside for a quick interview, and I headed down the steps into the dugout for a little bit.


Boomer and the Rocket.

I snapped a shot of Tom Glavine giving an interview and was heading up the steps when I heard the telltale cries from the fans above the dugout: "Mike! Mike!" Piazza was coming. I looked ahead of me, saw him coming toward the steps I was ascending, and backed down quickly, hoping to get a picture as he walked into the dugout. He was walking too fast, however, and I barely stepped to the side on the steps as he reached them. Looking up to the fans, he said, "Not now. I've got to go inside." He gestured beneath the stands as he spoke, pointing downward, and nearly conked me in the head with his elbow as he did so.


Glavine 47.

This 75th All-Star Game is the second in the two-year experiment to give home-field advantage in the World Series to the league that wins the midsummer exhibition game. Because baseball screwed up the concept so badly, coming to a climax with the 2002 tie in Milwaukee, they had to do something. I don't think using the All-Star Game is the answer, but it is at least nice to see it treated like a meaningful game again. There's no chance of it ever becoming meaningful again for the sake of league pride, so I guess this is the next best thing. What they should really do is have a monetary bonus for the winning players, a prize you only get if you actually play in the game. That would motivate them. It might cause some problems with players who aren't used, but something could be worked out for them. If they were healthy and able to play, but didn't, then they'd get a smaller, token bonus, but a guy like Schilling or Sean Casey, who were there and took part in just about everything else, wouldn't because they couldn't contribute. But the MLB slogan "This One Counts" seems a little ridiculous to me. It counts, but it doesn't. The stats don't count, the game result doesn't count. Only the winner matters. And yet, as if to remind the players that they truly are playing for something, the bases not only carried the All-Star Game logo on top, but the "This One Counts" slogan on the four sides. Any player diving into a base on a pickoff attempt or an extra-base hit will see those words coming closer. I think it was Scott Rolen who was quoted in an article I read that said the All-Star Game wasn't the right way to decide who gets homefield advantage. It shouldn't be decided by 32 guys on either side, he said, suggesting interleague play be the determining factor. Let all 700 players decide it was his point.

Exhausted, I left the field and joined Laura and David in the stands to talk with them some more before leaving for the mezzanine. I staked out a spot in the front row, directly above the Astros bullpen mound, planning to take pictures of Clemens as he warmed up. It put me in the perfect spot to see Roger start his warmups by long-tossing with his bullpen catcher in the outfield. When Piazza wandered out from the dugout, Roger kept throwing with the bullpen catcher, so Mike put his mask and glove down and did some stretches. When he moved to the bullpen, Clemens brought his bullpen guy with him. Then Piazza went in and took two or three pitches before hopping on a bullpen cart for a quick trip back to the dugout for the player introductions. Ivan Rodriguez, meanwhile, remained in the AL bullpen throughout introductions warming up Mark Mulder. In listening to New York talk radio and some viewpoints from Houston and elsewhere since last Tuesday, Mike Piazza has come out of this whole "feud" with Clemens as the good guy. It was Clemens who hit him, Clemens who threw the bat, Clemens who used his own catcher to warm up for the All-Star Game. It was even Clemens who, in the midst of his worst first inning ever, who shook off Piazza's pitch to throw a slider that Manny Ramirez sent into the left-field seats. I've since heard that the reason Piazza's so pissed at Clemens is that somewhere during the past few years Clemens has made an insensitive and derogatory comment about Piazza and, well, his sexual preference.


The Rocket warms up.

When it comes to Clemens, I don't blame him for signing with the Astros and I think the Yankee fans who whine and cry over his "betrayal" of the Yankees are whining for whining's sake. How many players have the Yankees taken from their original teams, players the fans now despise for simply jumping at the money the Yankees can offer? Nowhere does it say that every potential Hall of Famer since 1990 has to play for the Yankees and retire a Yankee, but to hear some of the callers to New York talk radio, you'd think it was one of baseball's new rules or trends, like the bereavement list or alternate jerseys. That being said, I'm not a big fan of Clemens. I'm in awe at what he's done as a pitcher, but I don't admire him the way I did Nolan Ryan. It was amusing to see Clemens get shelled by the AL in his home park, and I've always felt there was a difference in Clemens and a pitcher who throws inside. There's throwing inside and there's throwing at a batter's head. A case can be made for the likes of Don Drysdale and Bob Gibson, notoriously aggressive headhunters, but at least those guys had to pay for it themselves by taking their turn at bat. Until this year, and with the exception of that one interleague game at Shea Stadium a couple of seasons ago, Clemens never had to pick up a bat and stand in the batter's box.

I watched the game and kept score, not an easy task on a standard scoresheet (I used the one in the media guide) for an All-Star Game with so many changes. I still haven't gone through it to make sure it's accurate. My seat in the front row of the section nearly proved to be the perfect spot. When David Ortiz sent a rocket to right-center, I took a quick look and declared, "That's coming up here." It hit the front of the temporary table about 15 feet to my left, bounced back toward the field, then ricocheted off the railing and three rows up into the hands of another journalist. Within minutes, he'd taken several calls from friends and family who saw him on TV and then he went hunting for a clubhouse pass to borrow from another reporter (not all of us, myself included, had the Texas-shaped badge necessary for clubhouse access). "It's his first all-star homer," he said. "It's right for me to keep it."

After the sixth inning, my prediction came true when the roof began rolling back. I didn't notice it at first, instead watching the stadium's "Kiss-Cam" on the monitors in the press area. But when the Fox feed came back on, it was a wide shot of the field showing the growing opening. "Drayton loves the roof," Laura told me earlier after we'd talked about the home run derby. "He's got a button for it in his office." I figured that if he was going to open it for the derby, he'd surely want to show it off during the game itself. Again, before the roof was 1/3 open, I felt the warmth from outside already, but also the breeze. If there was a breeze, it was bearable. Without the air circulating, it was stuffy. After the seventh inning, Laura called me to say that the people in the seats next to theirs had left, so I joined them for the last inning and a half, passing through the pleasantly air conditioned club level one last time.

When the game ended, we had no need to stick around for any post-game ceremonies, so we were among the first ones on the first shuttle. Our driver, a rotund black woman, enjoyed getting us to the hotel as quickly -- yet safely, she assured us -- as possible. She floored it through yellow lights at intersections and took any opportunity to change lanes when other drivers left the smallest opening. After one adept maneuver, she laughed heartily. "I think she's cackling," I said to Laura. My thought was confirmed when we made another yellow light, and some passengers closer to the front commented as well. "Don't worry, honey," the driver said, "I'll get you there safe."

Laura, David and I had a drink in the bar area and ordered a plate of nachos before, just after midnight, they left. As I headed up stairs with my beer, I saw Karl Ravesh with one of his own, just back from the ballpark. On the television, Chris Berman anchored the post-game edition of Baseball Tonight.

In the morning, I saw Harold Reynolds at the ATM and Berman at the front desk, then again out in the driveway asking the bellhop for a car to the airport. Berman left in a private car while I waited for the cheaper shuttle. I should've taken a cab myself, expensing it on the magazine, instead of waiting for the van, which then stopped at the Hilton and was packed, nine men and a woman sitting three to a bench seat for the half-hour drive north.

Waiting at gate E7, I saw Tom Gordon's family come through and sit down in the waiting area, one of his sons holding the large dry-mounted placard with Tom's name, left over from the media day, I guessed. Until I was told I was sitting in the wrong seat, it appeared that I would be flying home next to one of the Gordon boys, but instead I had the bulkhead on the aisle, two rows in front of Reynolds and his wife.

Back in Newark, I chatted with Reynolds at baggage claim after I noticed his wife carrying my magazine, then went outside to see two undercover cops putting hand cuffs on a man posing as a taxi driver. It's one of the current concerns at airports: people who pose as drivers and offer to take passengers from the airport to their hotel for a fee around the same or cheaper than what a legitimate cab would cost. But when they get to your destination, they charge you much more than they quoted you and won't give you your luggage from the trunk until you pay up.

So from Kenny Mayne as I entered the hotel to a conversation with Harold Reynolds and a sting operation in progress, it was nonstop excitement for five days. Next year, Detroit, if I can handle the heat in an open ballpark.

I think I'll manage.

Baseball Future: Minor leaguers and arrogant sports writers

All-Star Sunday, July 11, 2004, Houston

I went to the ballpark before 1 p.m. to get my press pass and check out the stadium a bit before the Futures Game. For some reason, I wasn't surprised when they couldn't find my credentials at will call, but they were prepared and I was sent over to the trailer to have my picture taken and get my pass printed right there. Unfortunately, instead of my smiling, happy photo that I'd e-mailed the week before, I had a sour, hungover face. It was just too much effort for me to smile for a picture at that moment. At least it's not a driver's license photo I'm stuck with for years. I kind of laugh at it now.

I used the trip to Houston to get back to my sportswriting roots, interviewing Orioles farmhand Val Majewski and Phillies prospect Gavin Floyd before the Futures Game to send back home to the newspaper for a little freelance fee. Just some extra walking around money. As I stood waiting to talk to Gavin, he was chatting on the dugout bench with another reporter. At one point, the reporter had stood up, so I thought their interview was over and I took a few steps closer to make sure I caught Gavin before he went into the clubhouse. But then they sat down again, and shortly after that, a certain ESPN.com writer came up and said hello to the two of them. After chatting with the other reporter, the ESPN guy -- whose stuff I read regularly and certainly enjoy -- then said, "You've got a hoverer over here," meaning me. Ass.

Unfortunately, the laptop I'd brought from work didn't have a wireless card for internet access (Minute Maid Park is wi-fi enabled), so it was essentially useless. I thought it might be dead weight, a complete waste of energy bringing it with me, but after I returned to the hotel and banged out a Futures Game story and e-mailed it back to NJ, I noticed that the business center at the hotel had two desktop areas with internet connections that allowed guests to plug in their own laptops. So the computer came in handy the next day.

Back at the ballpark -- the hotel-to-ballpark shuttle service was the perfect way to get around -- I trekked up to the "auxiliary press box" out in the mezzanine sections in deep right-center field. And I was finally hungry, so I had a sandwich and some popcorn from the spread and settled in to watch the Futures Game from afar. The US team held on for a 4-3 win after Gavin came in to face a bases-loaded, no-out situation with a 4-0 lead in the top of the seventh (the final inning). A 12-hop single through the hole between first and second made it 4-1 an RBI groundout cut it to 4-2 and a wild pitch on the first offering to Justin Morneau made it 4-3 before Gavin struck out the Twins' super-prospect. US manager Goose Gossage then went to the bullpen for Tigers pitcher Kyle Sleeth, who got a grounder to short to end it.

I then had to hustle down to the field for the celebrity game because that was the main reason I was in town. I'd lost track of time and didn't get down to the batting cages beneath the stands where the players were warming up, but I followed them out onto the field and caught up with the likes of Nick Lachey, Bill Rancic and Charlie Maher before the game. They wore the hats of their hometown teams -- Lachey, from Cincinnati, had a Reds cap; Chicagoan Rancic was a Cubbie and Maher wore the Yankees' "NY." Adam Rodriguez from CSI: Miami got it right with a Mets cap. I found myself in the middle of reporters and former ballplayers clamoring for photo ops or interviews with the likes of Lachey (Cecil Fielder wanted a picture with Mr. Simpson and his daughter) and Shandi. It was a bit of a madhouse down there, very hectic, but I got what I needed.

On the field for the celebrity game was where I first saw ESPN.com's Sports Guy, Bill Simmons. For the next two days, his whereabouts mimicked mine. I saw him frequently from that point until he returned to the media hotel from the gala in a taxi that pulled up just before mine did. If I'd had the chance, I would've told him that I didn't expect to see him back in Houston so soon, but he addressed that in his all-star column.

I used the softball game time as a chance to explore the stadium, and I watched parts from the lower seats and the second-level, air-conditioned, carpeted club section. When the softball game ended, I returned to the hotel, dropped my stuff off in my room, and went downstairs to the Stuff XPO, which promised celebrities and all-stars alike. There I saw more ESPN guys -- Dan Patrick, Rob Dibble, Mayne and Reynolds again -- and former ballplayers like Daryl Hamilton and Dave Stewart. There was a Lamborghini, a Ferrari and a BMW near the entrance, video games set up in the back, and MP3 player and portable movie players on display elsewhere. It was like an adult arcade with an open bar. I could've had my golf swing recorded and analyzed, then put on a CD to take with me. I could've taken some pictures to become a photographer on a Stuff photo shoot. To do that, I would've been shooting the women at the party who were posing to become a Stuff model. There was even a speed pitch there. Crazy.

But, like a true celebrity party, there was nowhere -- literally, nowhere -- to sit, unless you had the white wristband for the small VIP area in the back where the ESPN guys hung out. My feet became painfully sore and around midnight I couldn't take it anymore. I gave up, resigned myself to the fact that I wouldn't be making friends with any celebrities, and headed for the door. "We're not letting anyone back in, just so you know," someone told me on my way out. "Too crowded in there?" I asked him. "Yeah." I hesitated. What if Mike Piazza showed up? What if Jimmy Kimmel made an appearance. If they did, I'd probably miss them anyway, I figured. I walked down the stairs to the lobby to get to the elevator. To my surprise, a crowd of people surrounded the red-carpet area at the bottom of the escalator, hoping to get a glimpse of someone they knew from the TV. "You're not giving up your pass, are you?" someone asked me with a voice filled with hope. "Sorry," I mumbled and headed for the elevator and my comfortable, king-size bed.

Arriving in Houston: All-Star Saturday

All-Star Saturday, July 10, 2004, Houston

For my first All-Star Game, I don't think it could have gone much better than it did in Houston. From the outset, I was worried about the heat. I don't do well in the heat and I've been to Houston in July before. It's not pretty. But out of nearly four days there, I spent maybe a total of 30 minutes outside between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m., and that was just walking from one air-conditioned building to another. The Saturday night beers with Laura and David at the icehouse were during the cooling evening hours and Monday night's All-Star Gala was at the Downtown Aquarium, both inside and out, after 10 p.m. So I managed it well.

Thank goodness, though, that Minute Maid Park has a roof. Sunday's Futures Game and Celebrity Softball Game would've been unbearable in the summer sun. The lack of a roof at Detroit's Comerica Park has me less excited about the possibility of attending next year's All-Star festivities in the Motor City. But, if the opportunity presents itself again, I think I'll manage. Seriously, having this gig year in and year out is almost enough to keep me at this magazine indefinitely. Almost. We'll see what comes along in the next year.

Laura and David were a big part of the enjoyment. We went to college together -- Laura in my class, her husband David a few years behind us -- and so getting together again is seamless. They picked me up at the airport and drove me to the Hyatt Regency through a driving rainstorm. When they dropped me off to check in and regroup before we all went to dinner together, Laura's last words to me were, "Let me know if you see anyone famous!" I was staying at the media hotel, which meant the chances were decent of spotting at least the sports celebrities of ESPN.

Immediately upon entering the hotel, I spotted a tall, lanky figure walking toward me. Kenny Mayne. As my eyes adjusted to the light inside and I recognized him, my first thought was, "Oh! Someone I know! I should head over and say hello." But another part of my brain realized what was happening and said, "Hang on a second there, buddy. You know this guy from TV. He doesn't know you from a stalker." So in the end, I apparently ended up staring at him as if in awe, and Kenny caught on. "Hey," he said as we passed. "Hey there," I replied, continuing on to the front desk. I turned around and saw another man approach him and say, "Are you Kenny Mayne."

Laura, David and I went to dinner at a Tex-Mex dive in the suburbs, then on to the icehouse -- a bar with garage doors in the wall to make it an open-air patio bar in nicer weather, an enclosed and packed pub in less-than-ideal conditions. Houston boasts that it is 600 square miles, but as Laura pointed out, the city has something like six separate downtown areas. With all that open space in Texas, the city just sprawled. You can drive 10 or 15 minutes from downtown -- and from here on out, "downtown" refers to the section of the city where I stayed, less than a mile from Minute Maid Park -- and the condos and apartments and houses are telling you you're in the suburbs, but the zip codes will tell you you're still in Houston. It's like if Boston claimed Concord as part of the city, or Seattle annexed Redmond.

After the icehouse, they dropped me off at the Hilton Americas, where the celebrities for the softball game were staying as well as much of the employees of Major League Baseball, I assumed. Across the street was the Four Seasons, where the players would stay beginning Sunday night, and joined to the Hilton on the other side by a skybridge over the road was the George R. Brown Convention Center, where the All-Star FanFest was held. And down the street sat Minute Maid Park.

Inside one of the Hilton restaurants was the first party of the weekend. I walked in early and roamed the empty establishment and secured myself a seat at the bar. It's hard doing these events by yourself when everyone else has someone to talk to. I'm not good at starting up a conversation with a complete stranger, so I settled in at an end of the bar near the piano player and a photo booth that was set up for people to have their picture taken against a backdrop that made it look like they were snatching a home run from an outfielder. They really should have had Tony Tarasco of the Orioles as the outfielder, allowing all the people having their picture taken to play the role of Jeffrey Maier, the Yankee fan who gave Derek Jeter a home run in the playoffs a few years back.

I sat at the bar and drank Budweisers until Laura and David joined me from the work function they had to attend. By then I was well on my way to inebriation, and I pointed out the famous faces I'd seen already: former Red Sox outfielder Fred Lynn, actor Matthew Modine and former Mariner second baseman and current ESPN analyst Harold Reynolds. Shortly after Laura and David arrived, Miss USA Shandi Fennesey strutted in, and Laura insisted on having her husband and friend pose for a picture with her. We were finally convinced. (There are a lot of photos for me to go through -- eight rolls taken on my SLR and 40-something on the digital point-and-shoot -- so I hope to get those up on the site soon.) Jimmy Kimmel and Sarah Silverman made an appearance just after midnight, after the party had been extended to 1 a.m., but they quickly went to the back where it was less crowded and we held firmly to our seats at the bar.

When they drove me back to my hotel, I asked if they wanted to come in for a drink at the bar, so we grabbed ourselves a spot at the bar literally in the lobby: It's right in the center, recessed down a few steps. There was not a waking moment in my 10th floor room when, if I went to the bathroom near the door or walked into or out of my room, that I did not hear the murmur from people in the lobby. It was always hopping.

The pint at the Hyatt bar was my 10th or 11th beer of the night, I figured out the next morning. It had me quite hung over and I found myself unable to eat until 3 p.m. on Sunday.