Mariners won. Good stuff. Drove up, had lunch with Brad at some meditational veggie joint and then cruised back downtown to the game.

It was nice to sit outside, getting wrapped up in the game, in a big ballpark.

A good time was had by all.

I think I may have already told this tale on here, but, can’t remember just now, so, fuck it, here goes:

When I was 10 or 11, Dad took me to a Tiger’s game with my Uncle Tom and my cousins. At the time, I was fierce third base player, and those Tigers were on their way to a triumphant World Series victory. I remember wearing my mitt and my hat and my jersey to that old Briggs stadium. And of course, I was excited to catch a foul ball. Every kid is, right? We were walking up the big green stairs, finding our seats and dad looked down and said, “I’ll get you a ball.”

It was “Polish-American” night.

So the innings are going by, and no balls are coming even close to us. But dad is still holding out. “I’ll get you a ball, I’ll get you a ball.”

It’s the 8th inning, late in the game. Cleveland’s Ron Hassey is up to bat. Lance Parrish is catching. He tips one foul off the Detroit dugout, it pops up and comes down just beneath the upper deck, towards our area.

Dad dives a row or two ahead of us and purportedly, “ripped the ball out of some guy’s hands” in the heat of the catch and then pulls himself back up to us, steadies himself and then hands me the ball.

Dad had this to say about the sad sack who tried to steal the ball outta his hands, “I guess he was a doctor. He was telling us about it all night long. Y’know, one of these guys who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”

The story goes, that even in that chaotic flashpoint moment, that he didn’t spill his beer.

He closed out the inquiry with this philosophical snippet regarding his famed catch, “I was shit-faced, but, hey, I produced.”

My dad did this. He produced. For me. Thank you.

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Gary ain’t afraid of no salmon.

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I’ll always be a fan of Mr. Fotheringham.

And Mr. Britt, too.