Take Me Out To The ATM

With every opening day the argument renews about whether it’s worth paying to see baseball in person, given the mortgage-inducing price for even a routine game. My at-home competition, like many American households, is a 50” high-definition TV, clean bathroom that has no line, and reasonably-priced concessions.

Working from home affords a few advantages, including avoiding daily torture on New York City’s public transit and not bumping into millennials who can’t look up from their phones. But last April featured $15 upper deck seats for a matinee Yankees game and no boss to notice my empty desk. Alighting from the subway and walking towards the ticket booth, the crowd and I passed by a full anti-terror squad in body armor and fingers wrapped around the trigger guards of their long guns. This probably meant: a) the visiting Twins represented an otherwise unknown threat to national security, or b) ISIS was looking to trade for some middle relief.

Ticket obtained without gunfire, the next adventure was simply trying to enter the stadium. Anticipating herds, barricades were arranged in a strangely familiar way. It was the back and forth lines of cattle pens, and instead of hamburger my Amex was about to go to slaughter. Navigating the back and forth of this impromptu 5K race course, we all ended up at…the magnetometers. Alas, my TSA Pre-Check is only good at the airport and my fellow fans didn’t seem to understand the do’s and don’ts of permitted goods. If fairness, the prohibited items list barely fit the largest Kinkos banner size.

After navigating this not-so-quite fan-friendly entrance, it was up to the top deck and a baseball game. Lunch al fresco would be a beer, hot dog, and pretzel. $26 later and my meal in hand, I was ready for what the announcer proclaimed would be my “fan experience at Yankee Stadium.” Apparently this meant providing my own entertainment or otherwise telling me, like a studio audience, when to “GET EXCITED.” A pair of townhouse-sized hands clapped on the scoreboard in not-rhythm to the sound system. Even worse, for all the money flying around, the hands only had three fingers and a thumb each. Other agitation included a “Kiss Cam,” “Fan Meter” and other minor-league entertainments between innings (or just between pitches, given the pace of this game).

Looking around, I spotted blocks of brightly-colored shirts scattered around. Naturally this meant middle school students on a field trip, which begged the question of the educational value of their outing. Then again, the kids were probably safer here than in their actual school and they could work on a math and biology problems. The number of fingers on a hand would be a good start.

If all of this carnival seemed designed to distract, it was working as planned. The actual competition on the field consisted of two errors by the home team, not one but two plays overturned on replay, and the visitors had already scratched out a few runs. Two hours on and only in the fifth inning, it became decision time: make a break for it or stay to what could be a very bitter end. But there’s a saying in baseball, “You see something new every time.” In this case the Yanks were getting no-hit by just one pitcher. This was in contrast to the Astros game I attended where the Yanks were no-hit with a combination of five pitchers. I was in and then also out $21 for a final beer and peanuts.

And then the game happened. The Yanks scored but then left men on base. The innings started to move by more quickly, and suddenly we were in the bottom of the ninth, another run in and a man on base. Gary Sanchez strode up to the plate and BAM! Home run! The players went crazy and the fans left deliriously happy.

Worth the price, you ask? It’s a tough call, even for this “budget” afternoon. But today I’m just focused on two words: “Play Ball!”

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Today’s Answer Is In The Form Of A…

Like a panning shot from Lawrence of Arabia, sands now consume my neighborhood. No, grocery stores have not closed, so I’m not in a “food desert,” and public transit (kind of) works, avoiding a “transportation desert.” But the past few weeks have marked a different type of climate change—I live in a Question of the Day desert.

For those unfamiliar with the Question OTD, it is an “icebreaking” ritual that introduces a group strangers to each other before some main event. You may have gone through this “community bonding” during a corporate retreat or other team building exercise; for me it comes at the beginning of my CrossFit class. Assembled before the coach we say our name, how long we have been working out, and our response to the Question OTD.

Over time, the casual listener starts to learn a few things. Lacking the tether of a downtown desk I attend later morning or midday classes, which invites a broad range of folks with equally odd schedules. More importantly my head tends to be tethered to my pillow at 5:30 in the morning while the young masters of the universe are throwing around their barbells. Through many an answer to the Question OTD, I’ve found out this motley group has two emergency room doctors, a ward of nurses, and a couple of chiropractors-basically an in-house hospital for my inevitable injuries. Beyond professional recognition, with every passing class there’s an increased familiarity amongst us, with news about weddings, births, and personal best lifts softly filtering through.

A new coach recently started with the most vanilla of questions, “What is your favorite flavor of ice cream.” Clearly he wasn’t from New York, as the more relevant question might be, “Where’s the best bagel; what bar has the cheapest happy hour; or, ever practiced box jumps over a subway turnstile?” Another coach loves to ask about the ultimate desert disc dilemma—‘N Sync or Backstreet Boys. At the end of every December she asks for our New Year’s resolution. Mine is the perpetual quest to drop ten pounds, hers is the perpetual quest to “be in a relationship next year.” I resist the temptation to suggest more Frank Sinatra and less boy band.

While adhering to the general rules about polite dinner conversation (no sex, politics, or religion), occasionally things go the wrong way. A slightly frenetic coach loves obscure TV and cultural references, which is fine unless you grew up, like some participants, in Croatia. This creates a bonding opportunity when the rest of us nod appreciatively and search our Slavic dictionaries to translate “We didn’t watch Punky Bewster either, but apparently that’s all coach did growing up.”

So what went wrong? Recently I noticed our classes started with a simple hello and straight into warmups. When asked, the coach explained that the Question OTD was eliminated, “to increase the fluidity of the exercise experience.” I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds more like instructions to hurry up at the airport urinal because the boarding gate door is about to close. More importantly, I’m losing crucial information. Come Super Bowl time, the Question OTD invariably revolves about who will win the game, thus letting me know which Patriots fan to “accidentally” clock with a kettlebell. If I twist an ankle and ask for assistance, could I mistake the woman next me for a medical professional when she is, in fact, an angry feminist civil rights lawyer? Her fluid right hook might be the only indicator I was wrong.

And so the oasis of this little gift is gone: pop culture references are wilted; hope of knowing the best breakfast bite a mere mirage. But since you asked, my name is Alexander, I’ve been working out at CrossFit since 2013, and coffee Häagen Dazs. By the pint. 

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

On the College Waterfront

One of my favorite Sopranos story lines involved Christopher Moltisanti not doing something. Naturally Christopher was involved in a scam, in this case a boiler room pump and dump stock market racket. But that not doing something was taking the Series 7 securities exam. During the test scene, a decidedly Asian-American replied “here” when the proctor called Christopher’s decidedly Italian-American name. The proctor didn’t even blink. I felt for Christopher, as years ago I had taken (and passed all by myself) the Series 7. As an added irony, back then you had to walk by a Federal prison, downtown New York’s Metropolitan Correctional Center, on the way to the nearby test center. Credit the Feds for their not-so-subtle hint/humor.

This all came to mind with the news of high-end bribery and deception in applying to elite colleges. Sure enough, there were allegations of proxies taking the SAT’s instead of the actual students. In one case it is alleged that a student (through their parents’ money) arranged to have a proctor correct mistakes on their bubble sheet. More amazingly, it seems you can pay to have your own private classroom with an individual proctor. And then there are the stories of Photoshopped pictures “proving” the athletic prowess of various candidates

My last college application went into the mail in December, 1982. I get that the world has changed, college admissions is a wild and chaotic place, and elite colleges (and some upper-end public universities) now have a completely different rule book (one that seems unwritten, to the frustration of almost everyone). But flat-out bribing sports coaches and corrupting standardized tests seems extreme—quite literally mob tactics.

Now my own high school experience was definitely not Middle America average. I went to a New England prep school, the kind with lots of red brick buildings and tasteful amounts of ivy covering the walls. There were plenty of kids around with surnames that matched those on the buildings, buildings (and family fortunes) that had been around since the War—that is between the Civil War and WWI. The story went around that in the generation previous to mine two school officials would get together for their annual meeting to figure out who would go to Harvard and Radcliffe. This wasn’t to advise the students, it was to advise the two schools. Applying wasn’t a formality, but not the significant factor back then. And while the final results between “the list” and admission may not have been a perfect match, back then you wanted your name on that list.

By my time the Mr. Chips admissions culture had passed, but certainly not the influence of a name. But not always. A woman a year or two ahead of me had the name of at least one building on Harvard’s campus. A very large building. She was whip smart, great grades, varsity athlete, campus leader, etc., etc. It didn’t occur to anybody that she wouldn’t be headed to Cambridge, that is until she didn’t get in. I think she consoled herself at Princeton or Dartmouth for the next four years. 

This rare exception aside, my recent high school reunion reminded me that on the whole, hard work was the best asset for applicants. A group of my classmates were walking around together on campus and it dawned on me that they all had gone to Harvard. And looking at them, they all deserved it. Each had the top grades in high school; each had natural intellectual gifts that they maximized; each earned their spot. They were now leaders in their various professions; one even ended up with an Olympic medal. My own Harvard quest was probably best summarized in the movie Risky Business when Princeton’s admissions officer declares Joel Goodsen’s record as “Good, but not really Ivy League.” And that would be fair.

We aren’t going to solve the college admissions fairness debate here, and no doubt the moneyed will always have advantages for SAT tutors, legacy pedigrees, and donating a dorm just before junior’s application. But the sad part of this story is that the kids weren’t even trying, weren’t even pretending to play the game. They (and their parents) were making an offer that everyone should have refused.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

State of the Beer Union

Going through The Wall Street Journal last week there was yet another article about national discord, attempts at reconciliation, and ultimately failure to cooperate. Shockingly, it had nothing to do with the circus in Washington, D.C. or North Korean diplomacy. Rather, the American beer industry is acting out like children or Members of Congress, whomever you feel is less mature.

This particular article dealt with the US beer industry (or at least the American subsidiaries of multi-national conglomerates) and its attempts to stem the decline of beer consumption in this country. The idea was to come up with a catchy phrase along the lines of the dairy and meat industries and their successful “Got Milk?”, “Beef, it’s not just for dinner anymore.”, and “Spinach, not just Popeye’s crack.” campaigns. All was rolling along in communal marketing harmony until the good folks at Bud Light declared war. Using the sets and costumes from Monty Python’s Holy Grail, their recent ads featured medieval marauders attacking all those who used corn syrup in their brews. Dilly, dilly cried the competition, and like Nancy Pelosi and her weird hand clapping behind the President, everyone went back to hating each other, no closer to a common ad line.

All of this begs the bigger question: to paraphrase the voiceover of the movie Casino, “How did they managed to screw up paradise?”

Paradise in this realm would be my mid-80’s collegiate years. For a weekend party, the fraternity would have five or six kegs of Miller delivered. The beer would go for $25 a keg or so, plus deposit and tap rental. In corporate-speak, this offered a “great value proposition.” Inexplicably, local favorite Old Style went for a few bucks more. As it was Old Style, the words “great” or “value” were never applied. Neither were the words “tasty” or “drinkable” for that matter. Heineken was nearly 40 dollars a keg, so we only bought that for rush week to impress potential pledges. I really enjoyed rush week. 

And what did the beer makers have to fear back then? Wine coolers? Like you remember that Bartles & Jaymes actually had a “y” in its name. Blender drinks? Sure for two hours of TGIF cocktails, but not for an all-night party. Wine? Wait, there was wine back then? You mean the stuff people who had jobs could afford and knew how to order? Besides, what was the fun in chugging a Merlot?

Fast forward to today’s low-suds drinking environment. We live in a land where the wine is explained to us with pictures and phrases on the labels. Gin, vodka, and even bourbon come in more flavors than Halloween candy. There’s something called spiked seltzer. Line up drinks from a kid’s birthday party and a 20-something’s cocktail mixer, and you’d be hard-pressed to see any difference—and a sippy cup isn’t necessarily the giveaway.

Maybe the solution is some first-person research. A stone’s throw away from my apartment (well two throws and an infield relay if you play for the Mets) is a bar called Five Mile Stone. From the outside one always sees a busy scene of smiling young customers enjoying their “food and fare.” Easing onto a bar stool, one picks up a “beer menu” with descriptions about a “hoppy nose,” “organic barley,” and other verbiage usually reserved for Whole Foods shoppers. A bartender approaches in his youthful armor of jeans, plaid shirt, suspenders, and a beard so full it could stop a battle ax. The overall effect resembles a beer wookiee. He asks me what I want to drink, and I look around nervously, desperately searching for something vaguely familiar. But no, all the taps have weird animals on them in every color and in seemingly extra-terrestrial shapes. And then it hits me—beer isn’t an American staple anymore, it’s the bar scene from Star Wars.

Help me Obi-Wan, I just wanted a Bud Light.

© 2019 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved