It was a doozer, as the late Johnny Most might've put it, had it been played on the hardwood at the Boston Garden, but this happened at Nats Park. Local nine surprised the sprinkled assemblage of onlookers--the only even mainly populated sections were the high-priced seats.Yes, trailing 5-1 at the 7th inning stretch, they put together five runs to take a perilous 6-5 lead.
And it almost worked--until the visiting Padres were down to their last out, top of the 9th, and then, disaster, out of the park, 8-6, and a deflated Natpack--actually the cheerleaders bearing those-named shirts were a paltry two at the stretch break--folded. I started to recall the palmy days at the Polo Grounds in '62 when the question was how many ways the Mets could find to lose.
These guys--none of whom were in the lineup last season--now make it more interesting yet frustrating: they have shown they can put together 5-run rallies but still figure out a way to blow it. By the ninth, the starter, Irwin, had been long gone. He seemed most notable for his lack of control, or else someone forgot to turn on the "Don't Walk" flashing light. The bullpen had performed well recently but someone put in a guy labeled the closer--this worthy was neither Lee Smith nor Mariano Rivera.
A perfect day for ball--4:05 start and sun but still a whiff of wind just often enough to feel comfortable. Even stopped grumbling about the increasing infelicities of attending a game at Nats Park (probably the same all over the majors with the rising focus on making everything work easier for management and more and more annoying and time-wasting for fans).
Make the mistake, if you're carrying a handbag, of bringing it. You end up outside a row of tiny lockers way around the side of the outside of the park, struggling to focus on a QR code to download a program and enter your credit card digit by digit while your hear the lineups being announced and the anthem resounding inside. Last year I figured out how to download my tickets--God forbid you want to print them out--no can do.
Remember when a vendor would come by with a tank full of hot water out of which he tonged a hot dog which may not have been gourmet but which was hot, with mustard swabbed on it? Now, you fight your way to the concourse to pick up a dog or a sausage--either guaranteed to be cold by the time you get it to your seat. Oh: it costs close to a ten-spot (or a Hamilton, as an ancient vaudeville comic had it).
Probably should have gone for a half-smoke at the Ben's Chili Bowl outlet; suspect even that wouldn't haven't hit the spot, but maybe it wouldn't have been sitting on the rack as all the offerings at the other stands were. You can rarely get a soda in the seats but there's a guy who will flip a miniature vodka or bourbon into a cup of lemonade. End of screed.
Celebrated 53 years wed with a visit to the Avalon where the main screen featured Are you there, God? It's me, Margaret, a cinematic rendering of Judy Blume's classic preteen story, which, no, I didn't read when growing up, not because I was a guy, but because by 1970 or later, when it appeared, I had already graduated law school.
The picture was nicely done. The women for obvious reasons are the principal characters; well-played by Rachel McAdams (Mom), Abby Ryder Fortson (title character), and Kathy Bates (Grandma 1). Everyone else fit into their places. Found it sobering to see Mia Dillon as the second grandma. Saw her only 42 years ago on Broadway in 1981 in Beth Henley's play, Crimes of the Heart. She played the youngest of the three sisters who were the leads with Lizbeth MacKay and Mary Beth Hurt. J. Smith-Cameron later made her debut in Mia Dillon's role, and Holly Hunter made hers replacing Mary Beth Hurt.
Usually coming-of-age pictures, involving preteen girls or boys, make me cringe. This adaptation of Blume's novel was excellent, however; very few cringe-worthy moments and some good laughs, too. As it happened, the only cringe moments for me were the depiction of Jewish synagogue ("temple") scenes. Probably it's because I find these embarrassing, unlike the Black church scene and the Catholic confession scene. I did start thinking that a couple who entered a mixed (religion) marriage in the late '60s-early '70s would not have seemed as naive about religion, especially when the mother's parents cut her off entirely.
I did get a chuckle, however, when the parents kept reiterating that they were not raising their daughter with a religion, preferring that she choose one or none when she became an adult, that Margaret kept offering personal entreaties to the God of her persuasion.
The one aspect of the pic that struck me to raise a question was whether this "nice" New Jersey suburb in the '70s was quite as racially integrated as Hollywood would have you believe. Coulda been, shoulda been -- but probably not.
